Magic Out Of Madness

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. It was supposed to be my last Mother's Day without a child. I should be three weeks away from welcoming my own little one into the world.

But I'm not. Not anymore.

Instead I'm crying on the bathroom floor. The same bathroom floor that stood firm while I shakily confirmed all those positive tests. The same floor that supported my knees while I fought my early rounds of morning sickness. Then the same floor that caught me as I crumpled with the realization that all we'd planned for and all we'd prayed for was falling apart.

Grief is a journey that doesn't have a finish line. At least, not one I'll reach in this lifetime. This I already know.

I sent an email to someone in my life last night whose debut novel is being released this week. It's an incredible true story about loss and trauma and strength and transformation and I told her she was making magic out of madness. And I want to do that too.

So I'm thinking of all the magic I made during these past nine months. I sang and danced and laughed in 23 different performances for countless children and their families. Met too many incredible people through those productions to even count. I recorded twelve stories on our library's Story Line for children all over the country to listen to, and read dozens more during Story Time. I spent countless hours writing and rewriting and revising and editing thousands of words to get my manuscript ready to query. I took four plane rides, saw a West End show, played hide and seek in an English castle, and introduced my family to my British best friend (seeing him for only the second time in real life). I climbed a cliff in the Cheddar Gorge and jumped in a scary cave to make sure it was safe for my Dad and brothers. And just yesterday I had more fun than should have been allowed at an audition I told myself I was too scared to go to.

A lot of these things wouldn't have happened if my pregnancy had continued. Some would have, sure, but they would have looked very different. My last nine months have held so many tears, but I've been caught and supported by more than just this bathroom floor. I've been held up by friends and coworkers and directors and brothers and cousins and parents and aunts and patrons and audience members and castmates and pets and a husband. And a Lord and Savior who held me close. So while my womb might feel lonely tonight, I am not.

Tonight, when I'm all cried out, I'll use this same bathroom floor to push myself up, dust myself off, and get ready to make more magic out of the madness.