Where I am at.

There once was a little girl who played a complicated piece on her violin for a large audience.

The movement was sad and sweet and played with eerie precision, especially for someone so young.

As she finished and the applause thundered through the concert hall, a man in the audience leaned over to his wife and said, “Imagine how much more beautifully she’ll play once she’s had her heart broken.”

I read this story a long time ago, and it stayed with me.

Fact is, I don't like pain.

I don't seek it out or ask the Lord for trials.

Someone told me they specifically prayed that the Lord would allow them to take a portion of our burden.

I found that so beautiful; I could cry just thinking about the sacrifice.

My mom and I were re-hashing her birth today, as we often do. I love turning over key moments and lingering there for a while.

I can remember so much about that day- her first little cry that I waited so long to hear, the resident saying "She is opening her eyes and kicking, Jamie", Josh spelling out her name for the nurse to put on her name card, them tipping her face toward mine and seeing her scrunched up little nose all ticked off that she was born too soon.

Heaven on earth, folks.

Collectively, I felt our community exhale a sigh of relief.

She was here. She could breathe. She would live.

But everything about that pregnancy had been so awful, I had difficulty relaxing.

I felt like, at any minute, the other shoe was going to drop.

Talking to other moms that have been through a very difficult experience, I think the "Ok, I went through this once, Lord, but please don't ask me to do it again" thought is pretty common.

Someone recently asked me if I ever think back to what was happening last year at this time.

I replied that yes, unfortunately, I have the memory of an elephant.

I remember too much-things like laying awake until 3 am, rubbing my belly and talking to a baby I was suffocating. Sitting on the crinkly paper at the OB/GYN as he took every last morsel of hope away. Watching the kids circle through the revolving hospital door, wondering if I was going to leave with her memories in a box.

If there is anything I really struggle with lately, it is fear.

As exciting as it is to think about taking Tessa out and about, there is a huge part of me that is afraid. Like if I can keep her in this little bubble of our house, somehow she will be protected from harm.

I see my faulty logic. My head knows that God has her life under control and doesn't need my help. I was reading through my "I Still Have Hope" blog book the other night and someone had written that God doesn't all the sudden peek over the balcony and go "Holy cow! How did that happen?"

Fear is sneaky, though. It hits at the strangest of times, when I am least prepared for it.

Please don't misunderstand- God has been so incredibly faithful to us. We were carried through the valley. Prayed for, loved on. I can boldly testify that He is good. Before her life, I was proficient at pretending everything was fine. Vulnerability was difficult and I can see the beautiful music that was played through sharing months of sorrow.

The witnessing that would have never taken place without Tessa's story.

But try as I might, I cannot forget the pain and easily push aside the fear that comes with it.

I wish I could wrap this up neat and tidy.

I really do.

These are my wanderings as March creeps into April, when one year ago our world fell apart.

I read this verse today and it seemed so perfect:

He will have no fear of bad news; his heart is steadfast, trusting in the LORD. Psalm 112:7