Sometimes the only thing that soothes a broken heart is a late night kitchen dance party.
It's always been this way. When I was a teenage girl and I babysat Abby and her sisters, we would turn the music up super loud and go crazy for a good half hour. The girls laughed and I knew that I was sparking something in them that ignited their spirit.
It's been a long time since I've seen Abby really laugh. After she lost the twins there has been an inevitable change in her and when I look in her eyes I can't help but feel a sadness for her that is so deep it haunts me.
But then suddenly, the music started playing and as I started taking photos I realized that she was really laughing. Truly letting herself enjoy this moment with our kids...
There is something about music and laughter and dancing that helps me understand why we were created. We were created to feel pain and understand despair and yet to revel in the extreme magnitude of unspoken joy. We were created to let ourselves feel the rhythm of something greater than words and to express it in movement.
And it's healing.
Yesterday I stood in Rachel's house in the middle of my run and danced wildly in front of Harper for several minutes. Rache laughed and said, "You aren't even doing this for her. You love it."
And I do. I love it.
For those few moments I can act crazy, let loose and be free.
It's all about the healing.
My kids aren't going to remember these long summer days where their mom was so sad she couldn't eat. They aren't going to remember the weeks that I didn't put on make up or that my face changed from vibrant and young to worn and tired in a matter of months.
They are going to remember late night kitchen dances full of laughter and friends.
Abby's kids aren't going to remember how their mommy slipped away emotionally for awhile after she grew twin babies in her tummy and had to bury them before they had a chance at life. They aren't going to remember the dark things she said or the pain that she felt.
They are going to remember her loud laugh and her zest for life...
even if it's only in the orange kitchen with the comfort of me beside her.
Harper isn't going to remember the days the way that her mom will remember them. Rachel will remember the struggle of money, feeling alone and trying desperately to be a mommy and daddy.
Harper will remember singing loudly and dancing crazily in this house of madness.
My kids see Abby laughing. They laugh with her.
Harper sees me dancing. She dances with me.
Abby's kids watch Rache sing out in random song and they go about their playing.
We are all intertwined in this web of cruel realities and yet we purpose ourselves to turn the music up as far as it will go and let loose.
If only for a moment, we embrace the wildest movements we can, shake our bodies fiercely and sing until we cry sometimes.
But in it--there is healing.
And in it, there is life.
And I am so glad that for this orange kitchen. These constant friends. These wild and difficult children. And loud loud music.
These days bring healing to my soul.