Finally took my Christmas tree down last night. My house looked particularly beautiful for Christmas this year, and I've been reluctant to let it go. Plus, I've had all that not-panicking to do.
Wrapping Evan's "Baby's first Christmas" music-box ball, I sniffle. The baby should be 7 months old next Christmas. When I get these things out again, will it be for a joyous celebration? Or will I be trying to get through terrible sadness because the mother has taken the baby and run to her parents, five hours away. Will next year's tree be surrounded by bright packages for a beloved grandchild? Or will we be in the center of a firestorm because Evan and his girlfriend are not capable of raising a child or no longer together?
I stare at my distorted reflection in the big glass belly of a Christopher Radko Santa and wish for a crystal ball. Michelle told me this baby girl is a brave soul. I pray that's true. With everything in me, I pray that she is brave and resourceful and resilient. I pray that she understands the path she's chosen more than I do. I pray to be wrong about the impossibility of the situation.
In this dark night, I pray.