If you’ve ever had major surgery you know that the outside looks whole way before the inside is healed.
That’s how it is with grief–those of us who have lost a child appear to be strong–we have to be, because life doesn’t stop.
Not even for burying a child.
No matter how tightly I strap on my armor, grief sends arrows through the tiniest unprotected chink and pierces my heart.
There is no defense against the sound, the smell, the wayward memory that sends me back in time to when Dominic was alive and with me. And once there, to drag myself forward to today—where he is neither—is torture.
Sometimes the process can be a matter of seconds, the only evidence a blank stare or a single tear. Other times the memories and the forceful return to the here and now unleashes a flood from my eyes and ends my usefulness for that day.
Either way, it’s exhausting.
I think that might be one of the most surprising aspects of grief for me. When it strikes hard (as it still does sometimes) it robs me of energy and the desire to do anything.
I am a “get-it-done” kind of person. But there’s no way to get grief “done”. It works itself out in its own time and in its own way.
I can position my mind and my heart to heal by focusing on the promises of God in Scripture. But I cannot hurry along the healing.
And healing, when it comes, will always be incomplete this side of heaven.
Please don’t mistake the fact that I can stand straight and look strong as proof that I am recovered.
I am often frightened and sometimes I want to hide.
But vulnerable and wounded, I remain until God calls me home.
“In His feathers He shall deliver you and under His wings you shall have refuge; His truth shall surround you as a supply of armor.”