The past two weeks have been tough.
The past week has been miserable.
Any time I got with Daddy was between crying babies, injured toddlers, and relationship crises.
In other words, none.
I only made it to mass once last week.
My friend lost her brand new job.
I lost my favorite rosary.
My friends yell at me for my crises of faith, but apparently the unwritten rule is that I can’t yell at them when they have one. Or call them out for acting childish.
I should know better and stop being judgmental.
I’ve stopped trying to walk. I’ve decided not to pull up anymore or try to toddle. I’m not even going to crawl. Every time I do, somebody gets mad at me.
I stopped playing with my toys when I got home after mass. Daddy sat me on the floor to play, and I just cried.
Brother tried to get me to hold His hands and stand up, and I cried and pushed Him away.
Mama tried to pick me up and I wouldn’t let her.
Everything is wrong right now. Nothing fixes it. Pleading, praying, begging, trying. It’s futile.
Maybe I’m getting sick.
Brother bathed me in forgiveness, dressed me in grace, swaddled me in love, and wrapped me up in blessing. Daddy rocked me.
I cried the whole time.
Daddy put me to bed, thinking I didn’t feel well. “Maybe tomorrow will be better,” He said solemnly.
Brother seems upset. I thought I heard Daddy crying.
Maybe I’m getting really sick.
I have lost hope.