Sun crests on the soap bubbles in the sink, filling them with light before chubby fingers clap them into particles that set and settle on the floor like dust. The baby giggles and pats down a spherical cluster of wayward bubbles on his sister’s head. I sweep the sun dust off her hair. As fingers move, I notice the strands are getting darker. Golden hairs grow in place of baby white wisps. The soft curls frame her face like wildflower embers. She is changing. Growing. Becoming.
Emmarie is three and a half. She is passion tucked into the sunlight. Bright. Illuminating. A little shy, finding comfort in the passing clouds when she needs it. Right now, today, with head squished to Davey’s baby head, laughing, she is all vibrance. She is glowing, and he is following, lit by her love.
Baby squeals and claps and I want to capture this afternoon; capture love in a kitchen sink in the fading summer sun and print it on my heart. It is beauty. It is hard to find these days now that Clara has passed, and I want to hold it close.
It’s been two years. Two years since we last held Clara. The angry smoke from the recoiling wildfires runs to fill space in my heart. Dark, bitter flames churn in the wind of my thoughts, threatening to claim land, to claim life. The battle wages and I pray that I would be like Elisha’s attendant and see—see that I am surrounded by God’s army, by horses and chariots of fire, and know that those who are with us are more than those who are against us (2 Kings 6). I pray that I would see God in the middle of days that feel like sure defeat. Days where I want to surrender to the mind-numbing anger. Days where burning my heart into charcoal is easier than feeling the pain.
Still, I can’t shake the thought that the path is through the pain. It’s always been through the pain. Jesus Christ on the cross, dying so that we might have life. Pain. Then life.
How do I see with God-eyes?
Shriek squeals take me back to the kitchen sink. “Mama! Davey’s eating soap!” The baby looks up and grins, claps thick hands and dives down for more translucent bubbles, his afternoon snack. I laugh. Emmarie pleads with me to stop him, wanting to salvage the remaining bubbles.
I pause. Are these God-eyes? Retinas that see Emmarie, Davey and the space where Clara should be as beauty? I’m not sure. I ask to see God’s army with the eyes of my heart; to believe in their presence. I ask the Lord to open my eyes fully so that I may see.
I look back at the sink. I see just two heads here on earth. One with shoots of baby hair sticking up straight and fuzzy. The other with a soap-matted mess of golden curls. In between them (or would it be next them, I wonder?), is still an empty space. Clara’s space. A tear slips from my eye, joining the others in the sink. Water and tears whirl into new bubbles, child’s play.
Emmarie looks up and catches the trailing moment. “Mommy, are you happy or sad?” She’s been asking this question more lately. I’m not sure what to make of it. For now, I tell her I just miss Clara, with a reassuring smile.
“Me too,” she says, brow furrowed. Pausing for what must be hours in toddlerland, she looks around, and then up at me. “Mommy, you know what? After a long, long time, we will go to heaven and see her.” She smiles and resumes bubble popping, satisfied with her answer.
I fold her words into my heart. The reminder, manna.
I look back at the sink, at bubbles and laughter forming the foundation of sibling memories. Nothing changes in the physical. The pain still sears, cutting bone and marrow. The reality of Clara’s death is just as it was one minute ago. But inside, where the pulse beats and synapses fire and the war wages on, everything pivots. I see, at least for this moment, that the battle belongs to the Lord.
“Now the attendant of the man of God had risen early and gone out, behold, an army with horses and chariots was circling the city. And his servant said to him, “Alas, my master! What shall we do?” So he answered. “Do not fear, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them.” Then Elisha prayed and said, “O Lord, I pray, open his eyes that he may see.” And the Lord opened the servant’s eyes and he saw; and behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha. | 2 Kings 6: 15-17
The Wonderfully Made Life 