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Applesauce Is Soup

When the sun rises tomorrow I'll wake up in my bed.


Nestled comfortably with my weighted blankets, favorite purple chair, and quiet.


My room will be empty except for my belongings, plants, and array of wall art.


I'll walk through my house clumsily, because I'm not graceful when it comes to putting one foot in front of the other.


And for a brief moment it will all come flooding back to me.


The memory of waking up in a room with tubes, machines, and nurses coming in and out.


Hearing the hushed tones and whispers of my parents talking to doctors, everyone's voice carrying relief.


I'll remember the stitches, staples, and bandages.


And once the movie of what took place 2 years ago has ended I'll start the next scene.


The scene where the purity of laughter has returned to the group chats.


The scene where hope and joy commingled

to create a backdrop so unique it's color can't be named.


The scene where I go about my day with no fears or inhibitions.


The scene that has me honoring my donor and the grief their family must carry.


I will cling to each scene understanding the fragility and sanctity of the present.


I carry the weight and tension of this miracle in every fiber of my being.


From the roots of my curly hair to the soles of my manicured feet.


There is no script for what will unfold in all the scenes to come.


But, I can confidently say that love, community, the faithfulness of God, and freedom will be recurring characters.


Thank you for joining me on this journey.


For showing compassion and kindness on days when gentleness was needed.


For showing up and loving me on the darkest of days.


For creating space for me to exist while walking in the unknown.


For the encouragement and words of hope on the side of recovery.


Tomorrow I'll wake up with humility that Jesus left the 99 to save me in so many ways.






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