Saying no.

**originally written June 5
HERE
Ironically enough, this applies to life---once again.**

No is a harsh word.

As I was curled up in a ball, tears pooling onto Chris' shirt, I almost couldn't breath. As I wept, I declared, "The only thing I have ever wanted was to be a mother; to have more children. This is all I've ever wanted. I don't want to say no anymore..."

It felt suffocating.

We have been on a strict voyage to find the babies that are promised for our family alone. I always assumed that it would be those babies alone, that would make it down the pathway leading into our humble abode, guarded by my ever tender heart. I forgot to conceive that Heavenly Father is the master architect of my bizarre, blessed world.

Stretch and molding is most certainly uncomfortable.

My body is best at following the Lords agenda of "Teach Taylor". Where it has failed me in the past, I am convinced it is His greatest tool in chipping away at me, making me the master piece that He so desires. As I fight, and pull, trying to simply "BE", my mind tries to battle, declaring what would be "better". Somehow, "better" usually ends up being synonymous with "easier"; while the Heavens seem to think "better" means a completely different direction.

So, commence the stretching and molding.

Only once I think, "Oh ya. I'm not the Master in command here," am I able to really and truly become the image of perfection, the Lord so badly is striving to have me become; yet, here I am, only a fraction of what I hope to some day amount to.

So, as I am filled with hope, wonderment, joy! "This could be it! I want this to be it!"Heavenly Father continues to intervene, and kindly, only sometimes abruptly, directs me down a different path. While my hope is sometimes dissected, with shreds being left at the fork in the road, I try to always bring some along with me on the journey. What is left, is shaped, stretched, altered.

Each loss, has been just that: a loss. I have mourned accordingly.

Then brushed my hands off, and moved, sometimes staggering injured, sometimes leaping enthusiastically, forward.

Upward an onward.

At this point in the game, I feel like I am bases loaded, already past three strikes, but have been given an extra chance because, hey, I'm the new kid. So, I stand tall, keeping my eye on the ball. As I stretch my arms for the big swing, with all of my heart and soul absorbed by the bat, I swing.

I miss.

I look around to see if anyone noticed, hoping, praying, that I have just one more chance. Because, gosh, I know I can hit the ball. I've done it before. I've just been on a bad run lately, is all. And while I stand here, looking foolish to the on-lookers, this situation has felt like sitting in a bath full of ice cubes. I can not ignore the pain.

But then why say no? Why not just say yes?

Ha. Oh yes. Exactly.

Why not just hit the damn ball? Why not make it a home run?

I simply can.not.get.the.two.to.collide.

As I battle with what I really want, and what the Lord really wants for me. right. now. my head spins. My heart hurts. My hands shake. My soul shudders.

I wonder if I will ever get the chance to bat again. I wonder if I will be kicked out of the game. I want this. This is what I want. This is perfect. Ideal, even! I want this. This is what I want.

And then the ever-so-present whisper that seems like a booming voice within my head, continues to reassure me: This is not my plan. Wait for it. Wait for it...

That is when I curl up into a ball, sobbing into my best friends shoulder. Because, while being told no is hard, accepting no, is a whole new ball game.

After the shuddering subsides I can breath.

I'm going to hit a home run.