Transparent here in this safe place with you, sharing from where I've been at these past few days. (An afternoon writing a journal. Words from a book. Lyrics from a song. )
It began with why-in-the-world have I been so anxious, upset, edgy these past few days. No circumstance changes, no other reasons why suddenly "it" all hit.
But something was... different.
It's simmering down for the moment, but for some long hours, it's been consuming.
I am so mad and I have become mean and irritable to those nearby.
And I haven't been able to answer phone calls
And I can't even listen to voicemails.
Or make plans.
Or think too far about the future.
I have just longed and ached to be alone.
It is settling in right now, that I am angry.
Results? Resenting any intrusions into my quiet, safe bubble.
I am so mad and weary of this sense of being incomplete.
We will never be a complete family unit here in my lifetime. Never "all together."
First, adding one more to our family of 6 was unreal, ridiculous sounding. We had been a solid 6. Thrust into 7.
But, then that one extra was taken away.
And I/we are left incomplete.
And unsettled.
I cannot bear this feeling of undone and can't be complete: ALL.
I am so angry, so mad.
Unsettled and not able to breathe that breath of peace, of all being right and well.
Why, God? Being a light to others, being real. Is that why? Is that the reason and the meaning?
I am so anxious and uptight and cannot settle down, this side of heaven. Someone is missing.
From our immediate family and from our extended family.
We can never be all together.
And it makes me crazy inside.
These family pictures are as complete as it gets.
(My side, with everyone including 2 unborn babies growing.
N's side, the most recent of the group we could gather.)
Beautiful families, beautiful individuals.
But there can never be a picture with the one only N and I have laid eyes on.
Frames of my family: The 6 of us.
And then Noah.
Us at the gravesite is the only one we'll have, and Noah is hidden in that precious box.
Imperfect picture, but this is our treasure:
Working on a project with names of family members:
to include his name or not?
I hate that this is even A Thing to think about.
Not simple anymore.
Are we 7 or 6?
We are most definitely 6, yes. That is what's reality.
But we were 7.
"Supposed to be."
How is this beared by others who have seen/known, and then have lost.
How is that incompleteness ever reconciled?
Does it ease up, without ignoring it, being calloused to it?
I hadn't felt the anger deep until now.
Stages, yes, I know. This one is kicking me down low.
And I am sorry, loved ones, for how I am handling this (NOT handling this).
I need your support, yet I can only (visibly) receive it in certain ways, I don't know why.
I wish, I wish... That this ache would be able to be pushed aside. That I could ignore it and move on by, find a way around it. This void in my heart, spirit, my ideal of togetherness, concept of completeness.
Trying not to believe/follow temptations that are trying to get me so far down.
And yet this unsettledness of my spirit is weighing me and wearing me down to core anger and fumes.
Loss and grief isn't unique to me, that's for #$!@ sure.
How is this worked through? Time passing? Or does it always ache.
Does the mad go away, somewhat? My loved ones need that in me..."
There.
I can't give in and give up and be okay with this, what all I wrote, the other day...
And so I'm talking, some. To just a few.
(Thank you, my precious Mom, my husband, you ladies who have been in my path, or across the miles.)
And reading a book mailed to me:
(Thank you, L.)
"I was walking blindly into a new season, a place that didn't line up with my plans and dreams for the coming year. A place that I never would have chosen, never wished or asked for. But God's promise to Abraham spoke to me. God wasn't promising me ease. He wasn't promising that things would go as planned. He wasn't promising me a world without trouble, without heartbreak along the way. He was promising me HIMSELF.
God with us. Our very great reward.
The angel had said of Mary, 'Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill His promises to her.' And this blessings isn't always what we think- the happy ending we wanted and the desires of our hearts fulfilled. Blessed is she who believes His promises. This blessing is different from blessing as the world sees it. It isn't an easy life or one of success. Blessing is that we find ourselves in a place that God has yet to explain, may never explain, a place or a life that doesn't line up with what we had in mind, He gives us promise like He gave to Abraham. It is the promise of Emmanuel, God with us. He will be here with us, our reward."
(Katie Davis Majors, "Daring to Hope" pages 22-23)
And listening to, reading the words of a song shared with me:
(Thank you, T.)
"Oh, my soul: Oh, how you worry. Oh, how you're weary, from fearing you lost control.
This was the one thing, you didn't see coming, and no one would blame you, though
If you cried in private, If you tried to hide it away, so no one knows, no one will see, if you stop believing.
Oh, my soul: You are not alone.
There's a place where fear has to face the God you know.
One more day, He will make a way. Let Him show you how, you can lay this down.
'Cause you're not alone.
Here and now, you can be honest.
I won't try to promise that someday it all works out, 'cause this is the valley.
And even now, He is breathing on your dry bones.
And there will be dancing, there will be beauty where beauty was ash and stone. This much I know.
I'm not strong enough, I can't take anymore (You can lay it down, you can lay it down)
And my shipwrecked faith will never get me to shore (You can lay it down, you can lay it down)
Can He find me here? Can He keep me from going under?
Oh, my soul: You're not alone.
There's a place where fear has to face the God you know. One more day, He will make a way, let Him show you how, you can lay this down, 'cause you're not alone.
Oh, my soul, you're not alone."
(John Mark Hall / Bernie Herms, "Oh My Soul")
And I hurriedly cleared out my closet floor.
Where there is an open space, to sit on that tan carpet, where I can close the door, and have my "war room" back. Praying, thinking, reading, thinking.
There are promises everywhere I look.
And realities of how grief goes on.
So I'll keep walking.
...Until that next place that surprises me with its intensity to my heart.
A hug and a prayer for any of you out there who are where I'm at.
And grace and love to you who have walked this path ahead of me.
Blessings, dear ones.
Elizabeth
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