Mess. {Warning:graphic imagery}

{{{Please note of imagery at the end of this blog post may not be suitable for all readers }}}

Its coming on Christmas

Cutting down trees

Putting up reindeer 

Singing songs of joy and peace

I wish I had a river, I could skate away on. 

                                                              {River: JoniMitchell}

My fingertips are hot. 

Hot with hurt and anger and sadness. 

I am trying to write something that will express my thoughts for my little Rowan, on the upcoming of his second birthday. 

But I'm fidgety, fumbly, numbly. 

I pick the saddest song in my music repitoir and put it on repeat and allow the tears to flow and the fingers to type. Because I need to get it out, get it off, get through it somehow. The remembrance of my dear son who was stolen back to heaven by God, the moments in time where we watched our firstborn fight to survive, where we left him on the cold table in the hospital. 

These horrific memories haunt me. 

I beg daily, oh soul, where is your solace?

I want to say that I have been such a prime example of how to cling to God in times of trouble. I want to be recognized as a woman of faith who doesn't let the enemy grab her foothold in the firmness of Christ's love. 

But I can't. 

I have cursed God. I have hated him. I have cried in anger, no... rage to him. I have hardened my heart to him. I have slapped his face, spat at him in disgust, turned my back and given him my ice cold heart and said, "here, look what you have done." 

But as slowly and softly as the snow falls. 

As quiet as the baby in the bassinet sleeps. 

Softly like the rain weeps. 

Whispers like the secret told...

He has been faithful. 

Two years ago at this time, I was begging to die. We returned to our silent home after Rowan had passed and I would lay in my bed, aching to be a mother..... my body needing to be a mother, and would ask God to kill me. To let me fall asleep and never wake up. To help me be brave and take all the pills, to drive just a little bit too fast and not use my breaks. 

But he wouldn't let me. 

He made me walk through the valley. 

He watched as I walked over the broken glass of mourning

He bandaged my feet and carried me when I couldn't walk anymore. 

He took the rage and anger and softened me...

Soft like the skin of my Rowan

Soft like the hair of my Julian

He made me pliable again so that I could stand broken, and healed all in one. 

And he will, and can do the same for you. 

He takes the worst and makes the best

He leads through hell, to bring to glory

I just want Rowans life to not be in vain. I want God to use Rowan to the fullest so that HIS glory is seen, and the hardest of hards, softened. 

My dear Rowan. 

I am so sorry. 

Please know, please please know

You are cherished, loved, needed and remembered. 

And to you reader, be softened to the workings of a God whose plan is to make the best out of your mess. He wants to make the rock, refined. 

-Amen- 

                                    Rowan Lawrence Swaan {July 1, 2011-July8, 2011}