I remember thinking in the early days, weeks and months of this journey that healing was impossible.
The wound was too great, too deep and too devastating to allow for that.
No amount of work or help or wishful thinking could undo the damage.
But I was wrong.
Little by little the shattered pieces of my heart began to reassemble themselves into a very fragile, not-quite-the-same, semblance of the old shape.
When life knocks me around (as it still does quite often) a bit falls off here and there and I have to begin again to put my heart back together.
It’s not simple.
It’s not a straight line.
It’s not a once and done thing.
But it’s possible.
This time of year all the package handlers are busy dropping off the bounty of online shoppers’ purchases to millions of doorsteps around the world.
It’s a wonder that most of it arrives on time and in good condition.
I suspect though, that you, like me, have gotten one or two boxes over the years that arrived dinged and damaged, battered and broken.
While it can be a real hassle to get the product replaced, it’s usually only a matter of time before a brand new “whatever” arrives.
People aren’t so easily mended, though.
And I think we forget that.
People are more fragile than they appear. Words are more piercing than we realize. We should add in an extra notch of kindness and gentleness whenever we can.
I have friends that take more care with their smartphone than with their spouse or children or parents.
Things can be replaced. People can’t.
Mass produced consumer goods-no matter how expensive or treasured-are worthless compared to a heart.
In an age where clicks and phone calls make it possible to fix so many things, they are rarely helpful in fixing relationships.
“Special Handling Required!” should be plastered across every human’s forehead.
People are irreplaceable, fragile, beautiful gifts.
More valuable than anything we could ever buy. ❤
I’ve spent the past two days fighting anxiety and panic.
Breath caught mid-throat, chest pounding, sobs threatening, head throbbing-just like that first day 47 months ago.
A series of events broke down the defense I’ve carefully constructed that helps me make it through most days without tears.
I did pretty good.
I managed a family dinner, church and a covered dish luncheon with no one any the wiser.
Underneath it all I was barely hanging on.
I love that my words give expression to my feelings, thoughts and experience and also help others give expression to theirs. But sometimes I’m afraid that the people closest to me think that because I can write about it, I must be a bit beyond it-detached, clinical, untouched.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I feel every. single. thing.
My heart hurts like every other bereaved parent. My brain struggles to comprehend the reality of my son’s death and a lifetime without his earthly companionship. I fight for my faith. I cry out to God. I feel lonely, misunderstood, abandoned, frightened, and so, so sad.
I am fragile.
Like moth’s wings.
The slightest touch threatens to undo me.