Lately, we've been going on bike rides. Between 3 and 5 rides a week. Family bike rides became a family favorite a few summers ago when we would go nearly every afternoon. The night before Kenton was diagnosed, we were on a bike ride and Kenton couldn't keep up. What we learned later is that the leukemia cells were so prevalent in his blood that there was no room for the red blood cells. Red blood cells are what give your body energy. I've told the story of that last bike ride before. It's a painful story to remember, yet each time I do, instead of beating myself up, I try to use it as a reminder to be a little more patient, a little more understanding, a little more loving.
Tonight I'm sitting here at home, McKayslin is in bed, Luke is at a coach's meeting (McKayslin is going to play soccer again - Kenton is surely cheering loudly from Heaven for her! But even more so, he's likely cheering loudly that his little sister is going to play softball this summer also!). Throughout the day, the past few days, in fact, I've been kind of lost in a fog. Lost in a place that doesn't make sense.
Spring is (nearly) here in the valley. And with spring comes kids on bikes and in backyards and running in and out of houses. We're in a place where that doesn't come easy any more. McKayslin doesn't have her big brother to entertain her, tease her, help her, protect her. We don't hear the slamming of the door a thousand times a day as they run in and out of the house. We don't hear them giggling at their newest made up game. We don't hear the squealing as they jump on the trampoline together. Or see the sidewalks covered in chalk art.
This place doesn't make sense. This place hurts. And it's lonely. And it's hard.
We're in a place where silence is frequent. Where time is filled with movies instead of games and laughter. We're in a place that we have yet to begin to understand. A place where as hard as we try, it just doesn't make sense.
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