Saturday, December 22, 2012


With every "first", there is some degree of pushing.  And after the push, comes the crash...  Today was one of those days.  I have a beautiful post written about the gift of faith, but I feel compelled to share the lower parts of this journey as well as the high... I want to be an expression of love, life, and faith, but in the context of real human weakness and sorrowful loss.

Since I awakened this morning to the sound of Alea's footprints coming toward me, every moment, every movement, ever breath, has been lived with great difficulty, as though heavy bags of concrete were strapped to my shoulders... my insides weighted down with raw, cold despair.

It is in this context that I become aware of the anger, roaring steadily beneath my surface.  I have read of anger, even rage, as a necessary part of grief, but often wonder about it. I don't often acknowledge my anger and when I do, I do not understand where it comes from or what I am feeling?  It isn't blame or anger towards God, or anything rational... just rage.

My friend Jody gave me a book called Lament for a Son, by Nicholas Wolterstorff.  In it he writes, It's the neverness that is so painful.  Never again to be here with us..."  He says, he might have been able to live with a month, a year, five years... But not this forever.

I think it is this neverness that ignites my anger.  When the girls are fussy, tantrums are rampant, no one is listening or cooperating... When my days are long and lonely, less people around to keep me busy...  When people say things and mean well, but it still hurts...

It's the neverness, the finality of sudden death, the total inability to have any say or control in the matter.  There was no opportunity to pray, no chance for bargaining with God, no goodbyes or farewells... Just over.  Forever.  A forever as big as eternity...

I will never again see Lynn's face as he comes around the corner, home from work, with the girls running to greet him.  Never again will I feel his arms come around from behind me when I'm doing dishes at the sink.  Never again will I answer the phone and hear his voice, Hi Babe! Never again will I feel his presence, exuding passion, energy, and life, or his tenderness as he reaches over and touches my face in the car.  It's the way he leaned back just so when satisfied after a good meal.  The way he oddly hiked up his pant legs in the summer when he was hot instead of changing into shorts.  The way he played music at our piano with two eager daughters climbing all over him.  The way he sparkled when he talked about his favorite composers or what concert he was doing next...

Neverness.  It's cold, and yet it burns... cold burning* Nicholas wrote.  Only in grief, in neverness, does that make any sense.

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