I am overwhelmed, grieving, anxious, forgetful, exhausted, and feeling like I'm coming down with something. I am facing a loss I can't begin to understand. I'm walking through it, but I'm not getting anywhere. It is on my mind every minute of every day, yet it still doesn't seem to ring true. It can't really be true. She can't really be gone, not like that. Not in this tragic, ugly way with no warning. Not when she was vivacious and healthy. Not when she was the glue that held our family together. Not before I had a child for her to hold. Not before she knitted the most exquisite baby blanket ever made. Not before our next Broadway date. Not before our next double date. Not before the next hand of cards.
Black words on a white screen usually have a very powerful effect on me. Writing something down makes it real to me. But I have lost one of my best friends, and it still doesn't always feel real. My mama has lost her mama, and I can't fix that. My friend is gone, and I can't fix that either. The present seems to be about survival. Getting through daily life. Making it through work. Trying to keep it together enough to remember everything. Trying not to oversleep when that is one of the most powerful effects depression has on me. It's a shutting down. Sometimes it's a numbness; sometimes it's a paralyzing, all-encompassing sense of despair. It's dreading tomorrow no matter what it holds. It's lacking the energy to lift your head from the pillow and carry on. Recurring Major Depressive Disorder. Difficult to explain to someone who has never dealt with it. Compounded by trauma and grief. As I start to get through the major season of grieving for my anchor, I lose my friend. I am asking the Lord to take away the images of that night. She wouldn't want to be remembered that way. I have to choose to remember her beauty and her grace. Not...not the way she looked then. I have to wrap up in her coat and breathe in the scent of her clean laundry and remember how good she always smelled. I have to remember to get my sheets right out of the dryer and try to fold them right, even though my linen closet will never look as perfect as when she put everything away for me. I have to knit, and I have to keep getting better on my own, because she isn't here to teach me anymore. Knitting helped us with worrying, so I have to keep knitting. I don't really want to play cards or set foot in a theatre. Those things don't feel right without her. I know she would want me to, though. Someday, my children will know her through me. Grammy's little LAM is feeling a little like a lost sheep.
Losing my anchor forced me to realize I had peace from THE Anchor. I don't know yet what losing this friend will show me. It's so different. The grief is so different. I feel so isolated in it. Walled off. Alone. Almost afraid to let people close to it. And so busy holding it in to try to keep my life together that I don't have time to really take a breath and feel the weight of it. Then when I do feel the weight of it, it is crushing.
If one thing remains, it's trust. I trust my Heavenly Father enough to know this loss is not without purpose. Nor, as a friend reminded me, is it the end of the story. This life is but a vapor, and I will enjoy an eternity of card-playing and knitting and music with her. I will be wrapped up in my Papaw's arms again. I will put my head on his right shoulder. And I will bow before the King of Kings.
Tonight, I went back to the church for Agape Kids as I have for the past several weeks: on a wing and a prayer. I am not feeling well; blame Evansville's completely insane weather. And when feeling sick is added to a stressful week with a side of grief, I tend to worry I'll find myself...flailing. I did a bit of that, but the Lord was so gracious to let me really see the beauty in the evening: kids squirming up to sit beside me; preschoolers busting a move to some crazy songs; sponsors who are patient in my weakness. I am a children's pastor who gets to be surrounded by volunteers who encourage me and build me up. They allow me to be my honest self, and in return I think they know they can be the same with me. That is also my privilege. Great volunteers are difficult to find, but ones who double as friends are a rare treasure. And these precious children? They humble me and bring me joy and show me the face of the Father. If you're having a bad day, I highly recommend sitting within earshot of a two-year-old (who can't say his "L's" yet) singing at the top of his lungs, "Your love never fails; it never gives up; it never runs out on me."
You will believe it. When I hear the sweetest little voices flinging praises to Heaven, I believe it in every fiber of my being. I believe His love won't fail me. I believe He won't waste my tears. I believe one day, I will spend eternity on a New Earth reunited with the family I have lost. I believe He is working all things to my good. (Romans 8:38-39). No matter how painful the present circumstances, no matter how long the wait, no matter how little sense it makes to me, His plan is perfect. I see only in part what He sees in full. I will put one foot in front of the other. I will fight against the depression when it would be easier to give way to its death grip. I won't fail to see the beauty in a sunny day. I will giggle with my kids. And I will grieve for my Grammy. Grief is nothing like I thought it would be when I was young. I thought my life would just stop, too. Sometimes I think that's the most difficult part of grief--the fact that life doesn't stop. It doesn't give me time to hole up and figure out how to go on with this gaping hole in my heart. The world keeps turning, expecting me to keep up as I buckle under the new weight on my shoulders. Sometimes I really wish those black armbands were still worn. Maybe not full-on Downton Abbey mourning clothes, but the armbands, yes. Maybe I'll just make a sandwich board. I guess that's what makes me so grateful for the people who take care of me and see the hurt behind the Sunday smile and forgive me when I fall short. If you are one of those people, thank you for making His grace so evident. I pray you are blessed beyond measure for the love you pour out.
One Thing Remains
Black words on a white screen usually have a very powerful effect on me. Writing something down makes it real to me. But I have lost one of my best friends, and it still doesn't always feel real. My mama has lost her mama, and I can't fix that. My friend is gone, and I can't fix that either. The present seems to be about survival. Getting through daily life. Making it through work. Trying to keep it together enough to remember everything. Trying not to oversleep when that is one of the most powerful effects depression has on me. It's a shutting down. Sometimes it's a numbness; sometimes it's a paralyzing, all-encompassing sense of despair. It's dreading tomorrow no matter what it holds. It's lacking the energy to lift your head from the pillow and carry on. Recurring Major Depressive Disorder. Difficult to explain to someone who has never dealt with it. Compounded by trauma and grief. As I start to get through the major season of grieving for my anchor, I lose my friend. I am asking the Lord to take away the images of that night. She wouldn't want to be remembered that way. I have to choose to remember her beauty and her grace. Not...not the way she looked then. I have to wrap up in her coat and breathe in the scent of her clean laundry and remember how good she always smelled. I have to remember to get my sheets right out of the dryer and try to fold them right, even though my linen closet will never look as perfect as when she put everything away for me. I have to knit, and I have to keep getting better on my own, because she isn't here to teach me anymore. Knitting helped us with worrying, so I have to keep knitting. I don't really want to play cards or set foot in a theatre. Those things don't feel right without her. I know she would want me to, though. Someday, my children will know her through me. Grammy's little LAM is feeling a little like a lost sheep.
Losing my anchor forced me to realize I had peace from THE Anchor. I don't know yet what losing this friend will show me. It's so different. The grief is so different. I feel so isolated in it. Walled off. Alone. Almost afraid to let people close to it. And so busy holding it in to try to keep my life together that I don't have time to really take a breath and feel the weight of it. Then when I do feel the weight of it, it is crushing.
If one thing remains, it's trust. I trust my Heavenly Father enough to know this loss is not without purpose. Nor, as a friend reminded me, is it the end of the story. This life is but a vapor, and I will enjoy an eternity of card-playing and knitting and music with her. I will be wrapped up in my Papaw's arms again. I will put my head on his right shoulder. And I will bow before the King of Kings. Tonight, I went back to the church for Agape Kids as I have for the past several weeks: on a wing and a prayer. I am not feeling well; blame Evansville's completely insane weather. And when feeling sick is added to a stressful week with a side of grief, I tend to worry I'll find myself...flailing. I did a bit of that, but the Lord was so gracious to let me really see the beauty in the evening: kids squirming up to sit beside me; preschoolers busting a move to some crazy songs; sponsors who are patient in my weakness. I am a children's pastor who gets to be surrounded by volunteers who encourage me and build me up. They allow me to be my honest self, and in return I think they know they can be the same with me. That is also my privilege. Great volunteers are difficult to find, but ones who double as friends are a rare treasure. And these precious children? They humble me and bring me joy and show me the face of the Father. If you're having a bad day, I highly recommend sitting within earshot of a two-year-old (who can't say his "L's" yet) singing at the top of his lungs, "Your love never fails; it never gives up; it never runs out on me."
You will believe it. When I hear the sweetest little voices flinging praises to Heaven, I believe it in every fiber of my being. I believe His love won't fail me. I believe He won't waste my tears. I believe one day, I will spend eternity on a New Earth reunited with the family I have lost. I believe He is working all things to my good. (Romans 8:38-39). No matter how painful the present circumstances, no matter how long the wait, no matter how little sense it makes to me, His plan is perfect. I see only in part what He sees in full. I will put one foot in front of the other. I will fight against the depression when it would be easier to give way to its death grip. I won't fail to see the beauty in a sunny day. I will giggle with my kids. And I will grieve for my Grammy. Grief is nothing like I thought it would be when I was young. I thought my life would just stop, too. Sometimes I think that's the most difficult part of grief--the fact that life doesn't stop. It doesn't give me time to hole up and figure out how to go on with this gaping hole in my heart. The world keeps turning, expecting me to keep up as I buckle under the new weight on my shoulders. Sometimes I really wish those black armbands were still worn. Maybe not full-on Downton Abbey mourning clothes, but the armbands, yes. Maybe I'll just make a sandwich board. I guess that's what makes me so grateful for the people who take care of me and see the hurt behind the Sunday smile and forgive me when I fall short. If you are one of those people, thank you for making His grace so evident. I pray you are blessed beyond measure for the love you pour out.
One Thing Remains
Comments
Aunt Danie