I created this blog – From My Heart to Yours – a couple of years ago as a tool of self-expression and to get the myriad of words out of my head and onto paper – or keyboard as the case may be. I have never hesitated on the topic or regretted posting any of them. It’s doubtful that I offend anyone since I direct any and all criticism, growth, mishaps, or challenges at myself. Always. I choose truth in transparency, seeking always to bring glory to God in the midst. His strength in my weakness and failures.
So I’m not certain what the difference is in this one. Why the hesitation. Maybe because it’s so intensely personal… like you are reading my journal… like I am exposed. Maybe because it isn’t uplifting or has no real ‘take-away’… but it is real and transparent. About grief. I read it to a handful of ‘safe’ folks who are on their own grief journey… and they encouraged me to share it. So, here you have it.
The rudeness of grief…
Grief is rude. Period. It is no respecter of persons, timing, or convenience. It is stubborn and firm in its resolve to invade. It does not back away and will not be ignored. Like a cold or the flu, it must be allowed to run its course, leaving you still alive but in a weakened state. It does not exit quickly, nor does it promise to stay away. On the contrary, you can count on it returning, maybe not soon and maybe not with the same vengeance… but it will definitely rear its ugly head again.
And you have no option but to allow it and maybe – over time – learn to embrace it as another step in the healing process… a little more scar tissue over the gaping, bleeding wound. The wound that threatens to consume you… the one that is only quiet for a few seconds a day… in those wee hours of the morning when you aren’t fully awake. When the birds are just beginning to sing and the sun is peeking through the curtains. And then you realize that it wasn’t just a bad dream after all. That you really did just bury your daughter and that you really aren’t going to see her again this side of heaven. And that you aren’t going to kiss her freckled cheeks or hear her ask, “What can I get you, Mama? More tea?”
And you feel the sucker punch to your gut once more and you cry… or not. Maybe you just feel sick. Maybe you don’t feel anything. Maybe you just do the next thing… the next right thing, whatever that is. Make the bed. Make a pie. Make an apology.
And you say with a sigh that life is hard and sometimes we cry, but that tears aren’t terminal. You have learned that. You’ve also learned that finding your feet on the floor each morning means that you survived another day. And you look at the calendar and somehow weeks and months have passed without your permission and, sometimes, even your awareness. And you realize that the valleys aren’t quite as deep or as close together. And for this day, you don’t have to remind yourself to breathe. And looking at photos isn’t quite as painful. And happy conversations with silly memories flow a little more easily.
And you realize that death is a part of life. And that… some day, all will be well. And that no matter what… God is still good. Period.