
In one of the most traumatic days we’ve ever had in mortality, on Wednesday, Jacob and I spent hours driving as quickly and safely as possible to get to our Annie. And then several more hours, on the side of the road with search and rescue and the sheriff’s department, waiting for the National Guard to bring our girl and her friends to us by helicopter, after being pulled from a river in the middle of nowhere. All with the heart shattering news that one of their close friends had lost his life on that trip—through absolutely no fault of his own or anyone with him.
I’m nowhere near in a place to process everything that happened, especially as all I seem to be doing for hours on end is praying for Scott’s family and for our Savior to be near them. I feel absolutely desperate for all of our prayers to make a difference. The only thing I do know right how (and it is tangled up with so much guilt and paralyzing grief, I don’t even have words) is the deepest of gratitude and undeserving miracles can coexist alongside a heartache and trauma so deep, it's unimaginable.
After the lights were off last night, and we laid in our beds, in a hotel room in the middle of nowhere, with our girl in the bed next to us, I was sure I would fall asleep quickly. I was exhausted beyond description.
But my mind and heart wouldn’t let me. Every detail of what happened to those friends on the river, as well as what Scott’s mom, dad and sister were going through, just circled around and around and around. A cycle I was powerless to stop.
And suddenly, without even realizing I was doing it, I decided to play a silly little game with myself, that I do on a regular basis, when I have a hard time falling asleep. I go through each letter of the alphabet, naming something in our home with me that starts with that letter. And the tradition of it calms my mind and I’m asleep before I know it.
“I think I’ll do that with our little hotel room, I thought to myself,” without actually thinking.
“Okay so A.”
“Oh wait.”
“Annie.”
And I laid in the dark and sobbed.
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