A sadness creeps over me as I watch the accomplishments and family events occurring in my friends lives, a loss of future experiences for me, as I ponder moments of my son’s absence.The emotional toll of watching his friends getting married and having children.
The little moments that remind me of him. In the midst of this I am more aware of the moments that we no longer have but treasure the moments we did.
It is an emotional roller coaster and I never know how I am going to feel in the next moment even though it has been over a year.
As a mother, I wish, I had been with him that one last time.
Even in his last moments, alone, I am comforted by the fact that God WAS there with him.In the midst of all this I am painfully aware to “guard my heart from negative invasions” that cause me to question God’s love,
to question His sovereignty.
My perception of life has changed. What was important in the past doesn’t mean as much.
Scriptures and history remind me that I am an immigrant here on earth. That status remains the same. My journey has been long and sometimes perilous, but rich and rewarding. I am just passing through.
“We are here for only a moment, visitors and strangers in the land as our ancestors were before us. Our days on earth are like a passing shadow, gone so soon without a trace.”
I Chronicles 29:15 LL
One of my most treasured memories with my son was a walk on the Donner Memorial State Park Nature Trail. Little did we both know that it would be one of the last.
It was a quiet, serene, pleasant walk and I enjoyed it very much. We paused on the bridge to watch the flowing water, trout and schools of minnows and marveled at all the green around. I captured a moment of him in his usual, pensive, observant stance and snapped a picture.
He in turn captured one of me as we turned to walk up the thin trail, lined with various signs of God’s creation.
My thoughts turned to how pleasant the surroundings to that of the Donner Party of whom many died in such a place in pursuit of their dreams to journey west.
They were just passing through too.
My immigration status: Just passing through.
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FROM THE DEPTHS OF INTERNET CONTENT I FOUND THIS. AUTHOR ANONY.
ReplyDelete"
I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not.
I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents...
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. But I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.
Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too.
If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks."