Ted and I spent the rest of that day in a stunned fog, telling only a few family members our news and laughing at their disbelieving reactions. We went to bed thoroughly drained from the wide-ranging emotions of the day, and I slept hard until a vivid nightmare jerked me from my slumber at 4am sharp. Although I have never been a journal-keeper, I felt compelled to get up and record what I had just dreamed. Here's what I wrote:
This morning I woke up from a nightmare. I was in a break room at work, where several women were heating up lunch. We were on the second floor, and I could see the street outside. All of a sudden, the room started shaking violently up and down and side to side. The quake lasted for a long time, and I was shouting out, "Jesus, help us! God, help us!" Outside, the road split open, and I was terrified for Ted and my parents. Then the quake ended, and everything was fine. When I woke up, it occurred to me that this is the first time I've understood the meaning of a dream. I've had an earthquake in my life, and all I can do is cry out to God.
A year later, the earthquake has passed, but the aftershocks continue in every part of our lives. The doctors told us that having and raising quads (even healthy ones like ours turned out to be) would be the hardest thing we'd ever done—physically, financially, emotionally—and they were right. It's impossible to grasp just how difficult it is until you've done it, and no one will ever understand what it's like (except for the other quad moms and dads out there). When the strain starts to get to me, and I feel like life will never feel normal again, it helps to go back and read what I wrote that night. The upheaval is temporary, and everything is going to be okay. In the meantime, all I can do is cry out to God.
The Lord is near to all who call upon Him, to all who call upon Him in truth.