John 11:35 – If the GIVER of hope wept at the loss of a loved, let us not be ashamed to do so as well.
This was written for those who’ve just been delivered the death blow. The knee-buckling news. I’m beyond this stage of grief at the moment, but my heart is heavy for those who are here, in the place where the only sensation is hurt.
Everything ventured
Nothing gained
Only darkness
Only pain
The hurt place is where
I’m all alone
I just can’t do this
On my own
I can’t be happy
I can’t be brave
Bury me with you
In the grave
My tears will flood
The earth and then
You’ll rise back up
And walk again
When morning comes
You’re still not here
I’ve never felt
This much …
They flew so low, it was almost as if they were inviting us to reach up and touch their soft, feathery underbellies. (image from: mackerrow.zenfolio.com)
Three weeks ago today, I was sitting comfortably in my bed, deeply engrossed in a James Lee Burke novel. A bit unusual since I’d lost my normally voracious appetite for reading. My father had loaned me the book, one that I was initially eager to enjoy as we’d read nearly every one of his novels together. But for some reason, I kept picking at the book a few pages at a time, never completely diving in. Until that night. One particular passage touched me in a profound way, and I dog-eared the page to show my dad. That’s what we did, he and I. Our own little book club. But I …
I’ve always been a daddy’s girl.
Imagine one end of a string tied securely around your heart and the other end tied to your loved one miles away. You’re connected. Now imagine what happens when your loved one’s spirit suddenly, without warning, leaves their body. That’s what happened in the first morning hour of Oct. 16, when I was jolted awake simultaneously by the sound of my parent’s address coming through the emergency pager my volunteer firefighter husband keeps in our bedroom, and a parent’s sudden death.
As I sprang awake, I gripped at my chest. My heart was gone. Following that trail to where my loved one’s soul flew, far in the heavens above. But they let go, sending my broken, bloody heart back to earth, where I waited with held breath for it to return. THUMP! It …
Even when I jump on that long, dark train, and take it for a night ride, I know there’s hope in the morning.
More than once this past week, I’ve run into people I either didn’t know, or didn’t know well, who told me they follow my blog. With my recent posts about losing our baby and the aftermath, I’ve drawn quite a bit of attention. And overall, I think it’s a great thing. Why? Because it’s helped other women open up and share their stories. Links have been passed between husband and wife, niece and aunt, mother and daughter, almost always with the encouragement to “Read this. Her story is so inspiring.” Inspiring. Is that what I’m trying to be? Well, it’s better than the alternative, I suppose. It …
Two sisters dancing. One momma smiling.
Brown Eyed Girl pulsed from the band shell while my two little blue and green eyed girls spun around the dance floor with their daddy. As darkness descended on my hometown, swirling, patterned lights bounced off the towering trees above the concrete slab in front of the stage. I sat on a bench, just 10 feet from the action, mesmerized and peaceful just taking it all in. I relaxed my shoulders, and set the half-eaten plate of funnel cake down beside me. I smiled, as a tear threatened to find its way to my eye. I felt the beat throb and bounce and jump, letting it pass through my body, the rhythm settling in my belly, that full yet empty space where our lost …
When it comes to preparing us for the moment of tragedy’s impact, the movies really do us a disservice. Foreshadowing, strategic camera angles and carefully orchestrated suspenseful music lead you to a logical conclusion. Something bad is about to happen.
But it doesn’t happen that way in real life. In real life, the room is quiet, the view is singular, the fluorescent lights blare overhead, and the moment of impact comes softly through an ultrasound tech’s whispered, “I’m sorry.” There was no foreshadowing in the plot, no indication that a sudden and life-altering blow would be delivered. Our baby was gone. Slipped away some time ago. No heartbeat. No movement. The sorrow is silent.
I’m still wrapping my mind around what happened yesterday. A happy, belly-bulging mother-to-be entered the OB’s office for a routine exam, and a …