Boundless

It's an ordinary day.  As ordinary as can be under extraordinary circumstances.  A Tuesday full of scrambled eggs and toast, board books and ball poppers, dirty dishes and clean laundry, medication and meetings, and thank goodness, naptime.  An unstructured structure that living within the confines of dying creates.

Days like this feel all at once too big and not nearly big enough.  I find myself unable to restrict my mind, thinking about a little girl and God and everything in between.  About whether it's possible to feel disappointed out of proportion.  About words like orphan and widow and about what you call a parent who's lost a child.  Other than sad.  About patches of blue covering the sky and blades of green shooting through the dirt and about how sometimes it all just feels like false advertising.  About the unpredictability and unfamiliarity, bundled together and coated in fear, and about how much time we have left.  About how ironic it may seem that looking at her can feel like glimpsing perfection.  About how she has stretched our capacity to love.  

It was never conditional or fixed, but it has never felt so big.

JEB