Armed In Grief and Never Alone

I gaped into a wilderness of change, of what was expected and wasn’t there. It was void of the rhythm that defined my life that stopped as suddenly as Bob’s heart. 

I stepped into that vast plane with another that had just lost a father. Another whose grief was as loudly expressed as my shock was silent. I stepped close to her. Our arms circled each other. How would we ever . . . 

 Yet, we have.

I have crossed that wilderness to the other side with my daughter Abby, then 19. The train we rode was grief, most often in different cars but driven by the same engine. It is a gift of time, a place set apart in hearts to hurt. A place to cry and sob, wail and, yes, scream into the silence. Also, to be still and, surprisingly, laugh at simple ironies and automatically look forward to coffee to start the day. Small pleasures built into life let us know that we are still alive, albeit in slow motion.

I have lost things I held dear that defined me and outlined my expectations. Death is probably the most difficult in its permanence. It can’t be changed over time. The only thing to change is me.

When the Lord takes away what I’m not ready to relinquish, He moves in very close. He senses my loss and pain intimately, and He knows exactly what I want and what I need. Sometimes they are the same, sometimes not. I could not have Bob back.