Postpartum Repression (Part 2)

My last post joked about expectations I have of myself and my tendency to have some very rose-colored glasses when looking back at my baby-having experiences. These expectations haven't fit well with the unavoidable fact that for the past three-ish months, I have been a wreck. Like, if I gave into every urge to just curl up and weep, I would need to schedule the rest of my life around them. It didn't make sense to me. I was happy and content with life, with my sweet kids, with my great husband, with his exciting new job. Life holds great promise for us - for me, and yet I seem to be stuck in the place of hyper-sensitivity to the pain around me. What the heck? I used to have it under control, but now I hear a story about a broken marriage and I'm ready to sob. We pass the homeless in the city and I'm overwhelmed with a sadness and empathy that I physically feel. I sit in church and that pastor-man is talking right to me and about me. I don't know if the truly lovely people of CCC Yorkville are ready for a full on ugly-cry from Jenni, so I (mostly) keep it together.

This week, I realized it's getting worse. I was riding a carousel with my four-year-old. We were the only ones on the ride who weren't from a local school. Looking around, I could see that every other child was handicapped in some way and had a teacher holding them. There was one boy, probably seven years old, and I could hardly stop from staring at him. His head was laid back on his aide's shoulder, his face was upturned as the carousel spun around and around, and he was smiling with complete delight. He was precious. He was someone's baby, and as I looked from my healthy, happy boy to the special needs boy whose momma had a lifetime of hard work ahead of her, it was all I could do not to bawl. I dabbed at my tears and murmured something about allergies (not a lie, I promise).

For weeks I had been just attributing my teary state to some late-onset post pregnancy hormones, but then I came across some journaling I did over the summer. There was a recurring prayer I wrote that went something like "Break my heart for what breaks Yours."  

Oh.

I had been praying that for a few months, and somehow I was completely unprepared for God to answer, "Okay." So now I find myself in a place of wondering what to do next. The frost of indifference around my heart has thawed some, and I'm wondering where to go from here. A few years back, my husband got to meet a 9/11 survivor named Jerry Molnar. Jerry has a crazy story. His circumstances would have derailed the faith of most people; but his encouraging words to us are, "God doesn't waste pain." I'm confident the same is true for sadness and heartsickness. I don't want this season to be wasted, but for this to be a time when I understand God's big, big love a little bit better and I get to be a part in acting it out. 

So, I guess the moral of this story is be careful what you pray for - you just might get it.

Also, I would like some waterproof mascara for Christmas, please.