Tsunami

I keep thinking about how utterly painful life would feel right now if Dad were still here and I could not visit him. I cannot imagine what it must feel like for those no longer able to visit their loved ones. I cannot imagine what it must be like for those living with dementia and no longer having that familiar face or touch.

Then, I think about what we would have done if Dad had passed away in the midst of all this. The inability to gather as a family to mourn and plan a funeral would be excruciating. My heart breaks to think about those having to deal with this exact issue.

I’m thinking of all these scenarios happening for others and my heart breaks. Yet, I’ve used it to keep from the personal heartbreak I continue to feel. Life still feels utterly painful because Dad is not here. Maybe the distraction has been good, the pain lessened for a little while. Yet, it wasn’t by anything that brought joy. Just more fear and anxieties and what-if’s; sometimes I wonder when God will replace with these things with joy.

Some days it just hits like a tsunami. Today is one of those days. I took for granted the solitude I had to weep and sometimes wail and just plain grieve losing Dad. At the same time, I've loathed that solitude and tried to fill it because it's just too hard. Now, I'm circling back to wanting that solitude again. Because here we are with another wrench in the plans and all my kids are home ALL. THE. TIME. But, the last thing I want to throw my kids' way is an out-of-sorts mother when their world has become out-of-sorts. On the other side of that, I think shouldn’t they see? Because isn’t this life?

"A reminder about grief: it isn’t linear, doesn’t honor the calendar or the clock or the weather, doesn’t obey the laws of logic or effort. It’s unpredictable. And sneaky.And it lives right alongside joy & hope & good work, & sometimes it’s so quiet you think it’s gone, & then out of nowhere it knocks the wind out of you on a Sunday morning or a Thursday afternoon.And sometimes it feels tender, like sadness, but other times it feels enormous & powerful, like rage or fire……some days a very tiny, brave corner of your heart will burn with the faith that it is, someday, going to be okay...& then other days your chest feels like it’s been blown open by explosives, a ragged open wound." (Shauna Niequist)

Something I wrote after the first of the year crept into my mind today. Little did I know that less than a month after writing it, what I feared most would come to pass. Then, beyond that more loss, more change, and more uncertainty.

Some of us may be entering this year with trepidation and that can be hard in the midst of all the upbeat "I resolve to do this" and "this will be the year". I enter this year with fear; as though I'm walking on a dark path, unsure of what's lurking behind the trees. Fear that I will experience a heartbreak even worse than what I've been living the past 4 years. To deny this fear would be to deny my humanity. To deny this fear would be to deny the reality that is the disease of dementia. To deny this fear is to deny the reality for all of us mere mortals.

I read it now and I can recall the heaviness I felt beginning back even before the new year, as though I knew things were changing. I sensed that regardless of how much change and heartbreak had happened over the previous couple of years, life was not going to be the same. And now isn’t that true for us all? We’re walking on, what can feel like, this dark path and we’re not sure what’s lurking beyond the next day let alone the next hour it seems. Don’t get me wrong, most days I still have the resolve to press on in hope; to believe that God is the God of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

But, in the midst of all of this craziness I did what I always do and vow not to do the next time and that is hold my breath and power through. Sometimes that’s necessary and right to survive. However, sometimes we have to release that breath and feel the power of that tsunami crash against us. Trust me, it’s so hard and it’s painful and right now it requires making space even when you feel there is no space left.

In the post I referenced earlier, I had forgotten the quote I included at the end; it bears repeating below. Make the space, do the hard, release the breath, feel the pain. Because when you do it will make space for you to remember….

"He lived and then he died and then He lives again so that we might have life, not just forever with him, but life on this real day, in this real room, in the midst of our real pain and our real joy. So no matter how bad things get, no matter how heavy the sorrow, life will continue to move and hope is always an option" (Emily P. Freeman)

Peace my friends, peace.