Berries, tears, and broken crayons

I am frequently asked how Ryan is doing. I am frequently asked how the boys are doing. I am also frequently asked how I'm doing. I'm struggling more and more with how to answer that question. There is no short, concise response. The daily struggles are venturing more into the unspeakables. And our daily struggles don't just include our own losses. They include the continued losses of dear friends that have faithfully walked with us. These past few years, death has been all too close to our family and too close to families we love. Responses to these questions require so much thought, more thought than I have time to give. I haven't yet caught my breath and it's difficult to be wholly truthful.

Since the new year I've been on a cleaning, purging, organizing, and painting frenzy. Meetings haven't stopped. Ministry commitments continue. All the windows on the north side of my house are being replaced in less than a month. That means all blinds and curtains need to come down. My carpets are getting professionally cleaned for the first time since we moved into the house four years ago...two twin tornadoes, one hairy dog, and one rabbit later. Gross. I know. Flooring in my half bath and garage entry are soon to be ripped up and replaced. You know why? Because the laminate wood has bowed so badly from all the times the boys flooded the toilet by making a water slide for their toys. Also gross. You know you're a parent when a drain snake is your best friend. With all of Ryan's disability paperwork, this is the time of year that I gather what's necessary and organize everything for taxes. This is all a staggering reminder that life keeps moving even when I don't want to.

This evening, after looking at my to do list, it was time to address the dungeon I call the basement. I needed to set up a station for paperwork. The boys were calm and watching a show, and Ryan was eating a late dinner. I observed that it was safe for me to go downstairs and get a start on this massive chore. An hour later, I came up to this.

A berry freakin' feast. 

The boys made a pillow fort and a coloring station with their crayons. Nothing that unusual. But then they got a taste for the finer things in life and took all the newly purchased berries out of the fridge, poured them out of their containers, made a buffet style pile of them on my couch, and ate them while they watched their show. Pretty sure they live fancier than I do. And yes, they apologized and helped me clean up.

By the way, to any moms out there reading this, can you at least give my children a round of applause for selecting such a healthy snack? I mean c'mon!

You know what the most daunting thing was upon seeing this mess of fruit on my couch? My husband was right there and he didn't see the problem. It didn't cross his mind to stop them or to tell them to clean it up. This is a small example of what occurs in our house every day. These are the more and more frequent instances that Ryan's mental gaps stare me in the face. It doesn't make me mad. More than anything, the feeling that I'm losing him and his incredible mind becomes too real to bear. It breaks my heart. Not only are we living with these voidsof all sizes, he is living with these voids too. He may no longer be reliable, but every day I so desperately want and allow myself to need him, as would any wife.

Brain cancer has been this broken thing in our family, but it has brought so much beauty and depth into our lives. This weight sits on my chest, this ache for him that I hope never goes away because, if it did, my heart would be stone. My life is also full of the imagination and adventure of two beautiful five year olds. I have so much to be thankful for. But when these two realities collide and outwardly manifest into one big mess like this, it just sucks. The answer to your question? This is how we are doing: covered in berries, broken crayons, and tears.

Tomorrow is the four year anniversary of Ryan's second craniotomy and almost the eight year anniversary of his first. At this exact time four years ago we were laying in bed wondering what the next day would bring. We didn't know what man would be on the other side to greet us. As much as we try not to, this cancer has become the marker in which we gauge time and identify other incidents in our lives. It's hard to believe that this has been a part of our marriage since its beginning. Life since then is a lot more of the same and, yet, so vastly different.  There is a mountain between what God has promised and what we are living. And here we are still living in it and somehow surviving in spite of it. We are still standing, still laughing, still crying, still loving. Eight years and counting and all I can see are the answered prayers and fulfilled promises. Only God can do that. He is faithful, friends. He's always, always, always faithful.

Copyright 2018 ->Renee Sunberg