scary, stubborn hope

I am starting to get a little nervous when I make grand public proclamations of hope, because it always seems to be after those moments that something earth-shattering happens.

Thanks to Facebook Memories, I can now see that exactly one day before my dad suddenly fell into a diabetic coma and was rushed to the emergency room where he took his last breath, I wrote this on my status: “My cup runneth over.”

wp-1467665127939.jpgI don’t know what to do with that. Part of me can’t help but feel really, really bitter. Another part of me wonders if it’s some strange prophecy of hope. That even in the midst of all this sorrow, my cup can still runneth over, right? I’ve certainly noticed blessings, of course. And I have seen a wild new life grow from such tragic death that I never would have seen otherwise. But isn’t it also just a kick in the gut?

It’s so strange now because I don’t feel I have the faith I used to proclaim. I don’t know exactly what I believe anymore. I don’t know what to make of that statement. But I breathe, and I sit, and I try to still myself, to connect with my Creator, to keep my eye on the center.

Last week, I wrote a blog post over at Grey Havens YA, part of that new life I was talking about. I wrote about Gandalf’s quote in The Fellowship of the Ring when Frodo laments of his burden and wishes all the darkness had never happened. Gandalf says, “So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. … All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.” It’s a wonderful thought, as most Tolkien quotes are. I wrote about how even in the midst of dark times, I have chosen to do something that brings light to the world. Those young adults blow me away every time and make me so glad that I chose to spend my time with them, that I could turn the shadows of my past into something beautiful.

A few days after that proclamation of hope, a new shadow swept in: I suddenly learned that I inherited polycystic kidney disease from my mother. It means that I have cysts on my kidneys that may eventually stop them from functioning properly. Some people have this disease all their lives and never notice a problem. Others have to be on dialysis or get a transplant. I don’t know what it’ll look like for me, so I’m hesitant to say much. I don’t even know what stage it’s at yet or if there’s something worse on my left kidney. I have more tests and appointments to find out, and it’s all quite unnerving. There’s a problem in my body that I don’t even feel, and that I did nothing to cause, and that I can’t do anything to change…

wp-1467665105059.jpgWhile I still don’t know what to do about my 2013 proclamation that “my cup runneth over,” I do know that I want to hold on to Gandalf’s advice, to decide what to do with the time that is given to me. I don’t know what that time may look like going forward. It may be full off appointments and medication and drastic diet changes, but I hope that it will also be full of laughter, love, and work that makes a difference.

Today has been given to me, all the time of my life has been a gift. I cherish it. I try not to worry about how many more I’ll get or if those days will be good or bad; it’s about what I do with the time, and I can make it good. I want to believe that I am strong, and that I can endure, and hopefully that I can see the glory reflected backwards at journey’s end.

I hope that this hope doesn’t come back to bite me. I’ve got to believe in the light somehow, some way, and I’ve got to write about it for my own sake. I have to put the positive thoughts in writing, otherwise they’ll just slip out of my brain. I hope I can return to this when I’m feeling dark and not let it turn me bitter. Let light guide me… <3

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on numbness and rekindling

wpid-20150803_154444.jpgI walked another Labyrinth today. I’ve written about Labyrinth walks before, and I know it’s a symbol symbol that doesn’t need much explaining, but I wanted to write about labyrinths again.

Lately my faith has felt… dead. This morning I realized how afraid I was that perhaps this faith that’s spurred me on my whole life has slowly and quietly gotten up in the middle of the night and left me. No big eruptions, no violent severings, just one whispered, final end. Gone. What if I didn’t even notice, and now it’s lost and I can’t get it back?

I took out my journal and I wrote two words: Lord, rekindle.

I finished Kathy Escobar’s Faith Shift today, and I think I may still be more in what she calls the “Unraveling” phase than I am ready to begin the “Rebuilding” phase. The last chapter of the book says, “That you are even bothering to read this book is a sign that your faith is most definitely not dead. It’s glorious that you are wrestling with cultivating a freer faith despite the costs.” I really hope that’s true. I need that to be true.

Which brings me back to the Labyrinth. The most comforting aspect of a labyrinth walk to me is how the winding path brings me so far away from the center that I feel like I’ll never make it. It’s comforting to me because it’s a false fear– I can see the path ahead and I know I will always make it to the center. No matter how far away I get, the path will always lead me back.

Another symbol I noticed in my walk today was how jarring some of the twists and turns were in the labyrinth. At times, I felt I was being jerked back and forth; I could hardly get my bearings before the path turned again, and I honestly felt a little dizzy. It felt pretty close to the path my life has followed recently.

I also noticed that there were times when the path brought me very close to the center before it shifted and went back out again. At those moments, I could have easily stepped over the stones to cheat my way to the center, but I had to trust that the winding path was the better one.

All of this sounds really nice, but the tough thing is truly believing it and letting it sink in and encourage me.

Escobar says the best thing to do when you’re struggling through a faith shift is to focus on “what works,” what brings you life, revives you, whatever leads you closer to the divine, even if it’s not what it used to be. Right now, for me, those things are investing in my love relationship, working with Grey Havens YA, walking labyrinths, sitting outside, watching the sky, reading (especially poetry), taking in plays and movies that make me think, playing with art and music and words whenever I can, baking bread, practicing yoga, laughing with my nieces… It’s not church right now. It’s not the Bible. But Escobar writes, “We must keep bridging the divide between the sacred and the secular and respect that God is always present – revealing, challenging, reminding, healing, inspiring, convicting, and loving. Instead of seeing things as spiritual only if they have a Bible verse, God, or Jesus attached to them, we can notice God’s Spirit moving in our hearts through nature, music, people, work, and play.”

Lord, rekindle.

When the night rolls on, and I can’t sleep for fear of an empty soul, I turn to the words of Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
I whirl, and I follow the Sun.
From “The Dreamer”
And all’s well that ends well,
Whirl, and follow the Sun!

Skits of My Past and The Road I’m On

wpid-img_20150312_2137172.jpg.jpegI don’t know if this is still a thing, but when I was in high school youth group, musical skits were all the rage. Think of a live-action music video to a popular “secular” song with a story that illustrates the Gospel, something the speaker could use as a jumping off point for the night’s talk.

I’m actually really grateful that I came across an art form like this in those tumultuous years of grieving, moving, starting over, and figuring out high school all at the same time. I don’t remember the first one I saw, but the first one that really spoke to me was a skit written by a senior named Julia Owens set to Frou Frou’s “Let Go.” This was not too long after Garden State had come out, and I already knew and loved the song. I had just started going to a new church and thought I’d check out skit practice. I got to watch them practice this one over and over again, and I loved every moment of it: A boy scribbles in a notebook, too focused on “writing his tragedy” to notice the vibrant girl in front of him who laughs at life and dances with joy. She tries to get him to “let go,” but he won’t. It starts to rain (we actually had a bubble machine, it was pretty awesome), and the girl lifts her face to the clouds but the boy grumbles and hides under cover. There’s a scene where the boy stands center stage with his notebook and passersby each rush past him in a chaotic frenzy and rip out pages of his story. The girl tries to help him, the boy keeps pushing her away… Eventually, he decides on his own to “let go” and sit in the rain, he even opens his mouth to catch it on his tongue. It was one of the most moving stories I’d ever seen, and I said to my freshman self, I can write stories like that.

I’d been making up music videos in my head ever since I was a little kid (back when MTV was actually Music Television). I loved setting story to lyric and music. I would choreograph them in my bedroom and listen to the songs over and over again. I think the first one I consciously created for the purpose of sharing Gospel hope in high school was set to Coldplay’s “Fix You,” and I based it on myself and how I felt “broken” without my mother. The skit was about people carrying around photographs that each represented something broken in their life (relationships severed by death, hearts broken, etc) and finally realizing that they couldn’t fix themselves, but instead had to let go of the darkness and walk into the Light. It’s still probably the most personal one I wrote, and I should think about it more often.

I couldn’t do anything until I was a senior, and I pushed for the storytelling skits to make a comeback. Finally, I got to do it, and I felt like I had found my niche. I did the “Fix You” skit. I redid the “Let Go” skit that had inspired me so much. My favorite skit, however, the one that I think touched the most people, and the one that still gets me today is the one I wrote to Coldplay’s “White Shadows.” Like the seeds that fall amongst the thorns/weeds in the Parable of the Sower, this skit follows a boy who starts out at home with God and his people, full of light, then the pressures of life pull him away (literally, in an assembly-line reminiscent of Across the Universe‘s “I Want You” scene). I had the help of one of my choreographer friends, and my cast executed the moves to perfection. There was also light-dark symbolism: His colorful clothing gets covered in grey and he falls in line with the robotic movements of the rest of the people living in the darkness. He’s tossed about by the crowd and tangled in grey, but when he’s finally left alone, he falls to his knees, lost. A light shines on him, and he looks up. Slowly, he rises and throws himself into the arms of Christ, the colorful people surround him in hug, the song ends and the lights fade.

I was really good at this. That’s why it’s hard for me now in the midst of my unraveling to hear a song come on my shuffle by 3 Doors Down and think about the unfinished skits in my head. You see, just like how my youth pastor had once set a musical to all Coldplay songs, I had started devising my own musical to 3 Doors Down. I think I chose them because they were the musicians behind the first ever skit I managed to get performed at my church, “Away From the Sun.” I honestly can’t remember all the details to this one, but I remember it involved a boy (I always thought that boys were a good choice because girls tended to be empathic to the skit regardless of who’s playing the lead, and boys find it easier to see themselves in another boy. This is a viewpoint that I find problematic for a number of reasons now, in my twenties, but it seemed worked okay at the time). Anyway, the boy was again dealing with peer pressure, and I used the most after-school special topic of them all: alcohol use. He was lost in the “party world,” and I remember there was a devil character who kept tying black strings around his arms and legs… I think there was a moment where the strings came off/ were cut off and the light blinded the devil, but I can’t really remember. I know though that it was another story of the pressures of life pulling someone into darkness, but at the end Light always won out.

I think my story-lines say a lot about my age at the time of writing and my worldview that encompassed only high school. I hope they were beautiful and moving, but sometimes I fear they were a bit contrived. I really was sincere when I wrote them, though, and I really believed in the power of the Light.

That’s why, again, it’s hard for me to listen to 3 Doors Down’s “The Road I’m On.” I had started making up skits to a few of the band’s songs that I had on my ipod– yes, I even had one written for “Kryptonite,” and no it didn’t involve Superman. It was great, but I could never really think of one for “The Road I’m On” except as a transitionary song between a dark skit and a light one. I thought it was an okay song, but there was no hope in it, just solidarity–what was I supposed to do with that?

I listen to it now and it hits me, hard. Those other songs were my high-school life. “The Road I’m On” is the song I’m living now, and I don’t have an ending for it. I’m not any closer to finding a good ending for it than I was six years ago.

She said life’s a lot to think about sometimes, when you’re living in between the lines … He said life’s so hard to move in sometimes, when it feels like I’m towing the line, and no one even cares to ask me why I feel this way.

Much like how I didn’t understand Bono’s “still looking” notion in high school, I didn’t understand living between the lines either. That wasn’t something that made sense to me. You either stumble in darkness or you thrive in the light; grey strangles you. I remember this was even part of the youth pastor’s Coldplay musical, a theme that the people on the fence had to choose where to belong and where to stand.

He said life’s a lot to think about sometimes, when you keep it all between the lines of everything I want and I want to find, one of these days.
What you thought was real in life has somehow steered you wrong. Now you just keep driving, trying to find out where you belong…

That’s me.

I know you feel helpless now and I know you feel alone,
That’s the same road, that same road that I am on.

That’s the song’s only comfort: Life is hard. Seeing it shatter is devastating. Grey is everywhere, and I don’t know where the road will lead, but I’m right there with you.

That’s all I can have right now. It’s not a drastic transformation, it’s not a chain-breaking, darkness fleeing, light encompassing, grey suddenly flooding with color story right now. (It’s not somebody who’s seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.) Right now, it’s a long silver stretch of road that often leaves me feeling helpless and alone. And maybe I am driving towards the light, but it seems too far off and dim to be coming any time soon, though I hope it’s really there, I hope I’ll find it again someday.

wpid-20150415_175804.jpgRachel Held Evans writes in Searching for Sunday: “Scripture doesn’t speak of people who found God. Scripture speaks of people who walked with God. This is a keep-moving, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, who-knows-what’s-next deal, and you never exactly arrive.”

Maybe now “I’ve found myself so far down, away from the sun,” but it’s not from anything as concrete as what I used in my skit, black ropes and beer bottles… It’s something else, and the way to “fix it” isn’t as simple as I thought in my old skits. It’s powerful, yes, and divine, and hopefully possible, but certainly not quick and simple. I turn to another song:

Somewhere in this darkness, there’s a light that I can’t find.
Maybe it’s too far away, or maybe I’m just blind.
Maybe I’m just blind.
So hold me when I’m here, right me when I’m wrong
Hold me when I’m scared, and love me when I’m gone.

Hold me, Light. Love me, even when I’m gone.

Still Haven’t Found…

I used to think U2’s “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” was a great song, but also a sad one.

wpid-20150207_172018.jpgI believe in the kingdom come
When all the colors will bleed into one, bleed into one
But yes I’m still running.
You broke the bonds and You loosed the chains
Carried the cross of my shame, of my shame
You know I believe it
But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

I used to hear that and think, “No, see, Bono, that was it. You found it. Right there.” I would think about how sad it was that those words weren’t enough for Bono, that he still felt lost and searching even though he believed in Jesus. How could he still feel the need to search for anything else? What, exactly, is he looking for that Jesus can’t satisfy?

Now that I’m reaching my mid-twenties, roaming in search of community, home, and still reeling from the loss of my last surviving parent, I think I’m starting to see where he’s coming from, that lifelong search…

The song hits me in a new way, and tears stream down my face as I try to drive home. I believe it, Jesus, you know I believe it, but I still feel lost and confused. I believed it, but where has it led me? Where am I going? I’m seeing as through a mirror darkly. I want more, but I don’t know what that more is. I want TRUTH, but I’m terrified of finding out I’ve been lied to… I’m afraid of everything I’ve built around me since the age of 5 unraveling and falling to pieces.

C.S. Lewis says God has to knock down our house of cards just so we can finally see that it was a house of cards after all. But then what’s left?

Someone once spoke to me in prayer three years ago about a vision of myself wrapped tightly in bandages and cloth that were slowly being unraveled so that I could see…

I know it was also Bono who said, “For all that ‘I was lost, I am found,’ it is probably more accurate to say, ‘I was really lost. I’m a little less so at the moment.’ And then a little less and a little less again. That to me is the spiritual life. The slow reworking and rebooting the computer at regular intervals, reading the small print of the service manual. It has slowly rebuilt me in a better image. It has taken years, though, and it is not over yet.”

Am I “rebooting?” Where am I going?

I’m almost finished with my reread of the Harry Potter series and I don’t know where to go next. It has been such a comfort to me, a way for me to escape, to remember, to believe in love, and to work through my emotions. I’m afraid. I’m finding it hard to pick up my Bible anymore, and I’ve let the mirror collect dust so that now the Image I see dimly is even hazier and darker than before. I don’t know where to turn.

I’m cynical and I’m tired. Some days I’m afraid to even look into the mirror, and then I’m afraid I’ve gone too long without doing so… How do I begin to go back again? How do I clean off the dust? How do I accept that it’ll never be truly clear? I hope I’m not too far gone.

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Let there be Light, and let it warm my bones.

thoughts on enduring.

wpid-20140829_152842.jpgI don’t want to write this.

I don’t want to write about how I left work today because I felt too wrapped in semi-conscious grief to function.

I don’t want to write about how it’s been sixteen months, and I suddenly now feel as raw and broken as I did sixteen months ago.

I think Fall is triggering something. Last Fall was pretty bad, and even though circumstances have changed and I have happier things in my life, I still have this one overarching sorrowful thing that screams inside my head.

This can’t be happening. I have to be able to function. I have a good job. I have love in my life. I get to spend time with my family. How can I still get lost in the darkness?

I don’t want to write about it because I’m afraid it will suck me back into the vortex.

If I write about how much I miss them, about all the other losses that come with it, I’m afraid I’ll go down a spiral that I can’t climb back up. But I’ve been told I need to focus on it, allow the grief to wash over me, and it will—it’ll wash over me and pass. That’s what they say anyway, but it doesn’t feel like it’s passing.

Today, I had tears stuck in my eyes. They were literally stuck at the edge of my vision, making it unable to focus on anything else, blurring my sight and fracturing it with rainbow colors. And they wouldn’t go away.

They’ve gone now. If I write about it, I’m afraid they’ll come back. If I don’t write about it, I’m afraid they’ll come back tomorrow at the most inconvenient moment.

Even in tears you can see a rainbow…. Is that supposed to mean something? Even the dying leaves are beautiful…

I know, I know, I wrote a lot about Autumn last year. I can’t help it, it’s a bit of an obsession. It’s the one time of year where the Earth joins us in our dying, where we find joy in the dying.

I can’t escape this poetry. Maybe that’s what’s triggering the “relapse” of grief, I don’t know.
Maybe it also has to do with the upcoming holidays. The first round was terrible, and I know the second won’t be much easier.

Recently I saw a play based on The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion’s memoir which I’ve quoted here before. In the play, the actor playing Didion talked about geology… about the lessons of science. The earth is in a state of constant change, but it always continues.

Today I wrote on my arm: “Endures.”  I do that sometimes when I need a reminder to get me through the day. Endures. His love endures forever. God endures forever. I endure, here, in this moment. Despite it all, I have endured. I will endure. He holds me close. A dying star leaves behind the perfect conditions for new ones to glow. Life finds a way.

when He is risen, but death still hurts.

Last year on Easter, I went to a sunrise service, had breakfast with friends, and then went to pick up my dad from the airport. We shared Easter dinner together with my aunt’s side of the family, and then I got to spend about a week with my dad before he flew back to Colorado. That was the last time I got to see him.

Last year, I had Easter dinner with my dad. This year, he is not here. How do I celebrate that death has no power, no sting, when its power overwhelms me and its sting still hurts?

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Christ’s tomb is empty, but my dad’s urn is still full. What does it mean?
“Today you will be with me in paradise,” Christ said to the thief who hung dying beside him. Not, “In the last days,” but “Today.” What does it mean?

“What you sow does not come to life unless it dies.” 1 Corinthians 15:36. NIV. Or, “Every time you plant seed, you sow something that does not come to life [germinating, springing up, growing] unless it dies first.” -AMP.

On the night before He hung on the cross, Jesus told His disciples, “Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.”

Where is that joy? Why does it feel like death has swallowed it up — when in reality, death is the one that is swallowed up, destroyed, rendered powerless?

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The very day before my dad died, before I even knew it was coming, I went to church and listened to a sermon on Nehemiah 8. I wrote verse 10 in my journal: “Do not grieve, for the joy of the LORD is your strength.” I continued writing, “What does that mean, God? Teach us, lead us. The joy of the LORD is your strength.”

I am looking for the joy of the LORD today. I found Him in the stillness of the early morning hours, in the dark sky, in the foggy mists, in the creeping dawn. I found joy at first light, as the world turned golden orange and the water sang.

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Then the day came on, the sun rose rapidly in the sky, the stillness turned to busyness, and the cool mists burned away in the stifling heat… And now it is dusk. The sun has gone down again, and I am still not any closer to understanding Christ, His death, His sacrifice; His resurrection, His victory. I am drawn to Him, to the dawn. I need His hope, but I don’t understand it.

What does Resurrection mean today? For me? For the orphan? For the widow?

It is easy to sing of Christ’s victory, “He rose and conquered the grave, He conquered the grave.” It’s easy, when death seems far away, when you haven’t yet felt its sting, or when that sting has faded to a dull memory. Today, though, it hurts. Today, I sing, “He conquered the grave” not with a shout of triumph, but with a cry of desperation. It has to be true. He has to be risen. Death is defeated, it has to be, or what else can I do?

This sorrow will not pass, but perhaps joy can mingle with it… perhaps “pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.” I am looking for the eucastastrophe.

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Re: With Time

My last blog post was a bit messy. I put it out there because I’ve been telling myself that I want my writings to be real, to be raw and honest like Lewis’ A Grief Observed and the various psalms of King David that included anger and despair as well as wild hope.

Maybe that’s puffing myself up too much– I mean, let’s be honest, I also do it for that tiny bit of attention, because sometimes I just want to scream to someone, anyone, that I’m still not doing well… and for that I am sorry. However, I have noticed that whenever I get this stuff off my chest by posting here, I feel a little better, a little relieved.

Thursday, after I published “With time…” I felt like I could actually turn to God and seek Him, see His goodness, after I’d gotten all that despair out of my head and into the words I published here. Perhaps that was how David was able to write songs of such joy alongside songs of such sorrow and anger.

I confess, I’ve sometimes been a bit of a brute beast lately, but God is patient and gracious with me, and He won’t let me go. The “Asaph” psalmist knew what that was like, the feelings of grief and bitterness, and still the overwhelming comfort of God’s everlasting presence.

I’m no Lewis, no king of Israel, no ancient songwriter, but in a way we are all just like them. They were human too, and I would like to write as they did. I know I’m not the only one out there who has gone through/who is going through something like this, and I want to be a voice. That’s part of the reason why I’m keeping up (or trying to keep up) this blog, especially during this mourning season. I want to be a voice for those struggling with such loss, a voice that says, “I’ve despaired. I’ve been angry. I’ve lost. Yet in such darkness, I’ve tried to cling to hope, but sometimes I really didn’t want to, and oftentimes I failed.”

God is the Rock, and He is what I keep coming back to, no matter what happens. I can’t stop going back to the notion that I need Him to be such a rock. He is the constant one, the one to count on in all this chaos.

I feel like I am living a terrifying, exhausting roller coaster. I can write posts like Thursday’s, full of darkness, and then two days later I can churn out posts like this, words with a sense of burden’s loosed and hope rekindled, and yet in the back of my mind I fear that the darkness will lurch forward again and take over tomorrow…

Yet, I still have the Rock, don’t I? And each day I can come closer to knowing this love that surpasses knowledge. That’s what I want my story to be. Thank you for reading.

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“With time…”

wpid-IMG_20140113_151942.jpgI can’t stop feeling frightened all the time.

Aren’t things supposed to be getting “better” with time? It feels as though they are getting worse...

I feel obliged to mention that yesterday, January 29th, marked eleven years since my mom passed. I didn’t really think about it much. I was sick all day and the days leading up to it, and we didn’t really talk about it much… It was kind of an odd contrast to years past, I suppose. Any other year, I would be feeling guilty for not paying more attention to it, for not realizing it, for not being a better daughter… Or I would be feeling tense the entire week before, worrying about my dad and what I could say to him.

But I don’t have to worry about my dad now. He has no pain anymore. He is in the midst of peace and paradise. And I am here, not sure anymore how to handle the passage of time.

Time is passing too quickly. I know I’ve probably said that before, but the feeling is still there. The anxiety, the fear. And sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe. I find it hard to go to work. Each week when the schedule comes out (two days before the work-week starts), I have a minor panic attack because my hours are different every time and and it feels like I can’t catch a break and can’t I just have one thing to count on in this chaos?

But I do have one thing, I have a home, and I can count on my family being there… Though sometimes it feels like everyone is moving on without me, leaving me behind, isolated in my basement room, and what am I do to?

Tell myself it’s not true, that’s what I can do. I’m ashamed of these thoughts. We are all in this together, we just process in different ways, and we’re all trying to help each other. But oh my goodness, how I really wish I didn’t have to be an adult right now. I want someone to take care of me, to notice I’m hurting, to hold me, and to tell me that it’s okay.

I want my dad to send me a cheesy Valentines gift like he always used to, even when I was twenty-two. But at least I don’t have to worry about him being in pain anymore, and that is a peaceful thought indeed.

I read somewhere recently that God wants us to require Him as a vital necessity (because He is). Is that what this is? I need You vitally right now, God. Come to us like rain, Your love as certain as the dawn.

Seven months later

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My hair is longer now, longer than he’d last seen it. It’s cold and snowy now, it was warm and rainy when I last spoke to him. Now, it seems, we just take his absence as ‘normal’ and carry on with our lives… but life without him still terrifies me.

From C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed:

“For me at any rate the programme is plain. I will turn to her as often as possible in gladness. I will even salute her with a laugh. The less I mourn her the nearer I seem to her.

An admirable programme. Unfortunately it can’t be carried out. Tonight all the hells of young grief have opened again; the mad words, the bitter resentment, the fluttering in the stomach, the nightmare unreality, the wallowed-in-tears. For in grief nothing ‘stays put.’ One keeps emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?

But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often–will it be for always?– how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, ‘I never realized my loss till this moment’? The same leg is cut off time after time. The first plunge of the knife into the flesh is felt again and again.”

slow autumn breaths

I’m sitting here, watching my nieces play together. Each time they cuddle with me or give me a hug or smile at my entrance, it’s like my world gets just a little bit better.

I drive West, and I see the mountains in the distance, shadowy giants guarding snowcapped strongholds, the sun illuminating only pieces here and there, clouds covering, clouds breaking… And I feel, just a little bit, like I could be okay.

This could be okay.
There is majesty here, beauty that I can fall into every day.

And then I move, I go to work, surrounded by new people, and I wrestle with this new term: orphan. Is that what I am now? It hurts to go to a place every day and interact with countless people who have no idea that I’m thinking about all this. Something fundamental has changed about who I am, and nobody here in Colorado knows it. I don’t think I’m looking for pity, I am simply looking for someone out there to recognize what is going on inside me and to offer me their acknowledgement, a hand to keep me going…

I don’t know how to find it. Instead of running to the One I know is there, reaching, holding… I search for comfort in stories and fantasies and all I want to do is escape this term, escape this state of being, escape this new way of living, of living without. I get so lost, and sometimes it still feels like I’m drowning.

So I step outside, I breathe in this autumn air, and I try to let the Majesty take me.
I can’t do this any other way.