Getting back up
Have you ever fallen down and been so overcome with pain that every fiber in your being said "I just can't move?" I had this happen one time after watching fireworks on the 4th of July in McCall. The streets were crazy and dark as we tried to scurry back to our car. My foot caught the edge of the curb and I rolled my ankle. In an instant I was laid out flat and wide in the middle of the street, in the dark. As I lay there trying to tell my body to pick myself up, nothing would move, there was overwhelming pain coming from all directions and my body would not move no matter how hard my brain would tell it to. Within moments my husband was by my side lifting me off the ground and out of the street.
I feel that way today. The fall has been more of a gradual slow motion fall as I've pushed through the holidays and set aside the nagging longing in my heart for the one thing I cannot have, the person who picked me off the street that day and carried me to safety.
You know the memory feature on Facebook? Well I tried to turn it off and it's still happening. Beautiful memories of days past that when they creep in to my day just serve to remind me of all that has been lost. Today's memory was me posting a picture of the Christmas tree and saying how I wasn't ready to take it down because that would signal the end of family gatherings and kids returning to school. Well today, I commissioned my daughter to take it down for me. What a dramatically different reaction to a Christmas tree just two short years later. How is it possible that just two years ago our house was so full even as Brian's life was hanging in the balance. Perhaps I knew it was his last Christmas and that's why I didn't want to let go that year. This year I just want to whisk it away. Sort of like, "phew, we did it, we did Christmas one more time without dad". And we did well! We had a wonderful day and enjoyed a beautiful time just being together, but the void was inescapable.
I am tired, exhausted, spent. Pain comes from all directions as I walk through my grief and face my absolute inability to be both mother and father or even be the mother I once was, as I watch the shadow of void in my children's eyes and stand by others in their grief and others fighting the ferocious cancer battle. It leaves a fierce longing and hope for a brighter day outside the confines of time and space. And I wonder just how long this life marathon is that I will have to run. If I knew, perhaps I could pace myself a little better. And it occurs to me that focusing on the end of the race keeps me from living in the middle. So the challenge is to live fully in the middle of the race wounded. And then I wonder who will pick me up this day? I'm counting on Jesus to take me by the hand and gently pick me up at the right time. But for now, I'm feeling the pain from every direction imaginable, and I guess there are those days too, where you feel it and sob it out, and trust the Lover of your Soul will pick you up and place your feet on the ground once more and teach you to live fully in the middle of the race, bloodied and wounded, and more beautiful than before.
I feel that way today. The fall has been more of a gradual slow motion fall as I've pushed through the holidays and set aside the nagging longing in my heart for the one thing I cannot have, the person who picked me off the street that day and carried me to safety.
You know the memory feature on Facebook? Well I tried to turn it off and it's still happening. Beautiful memories of days past that when they creep in to my day just serve to remind me of all that has been lost. Today's memory was me posting a picture of the Christmas tree and saying how I wasn't ready to take it down because that would signal the end of family gatherings and kids returning to school. Well today, I commissioned my daughter to take it down for me. What a dramatically different reaction to a Christmas tree just two short years later. How is it possible that just two years ago our house was so full even as Brian's life was hanging in the balance. Perhaps I knew it was his last Christmas and that's why I didn't want to let go that year. This year I just want to whisk it away. Sort of like, "phew, we did it, we did Christmas one more time without dad". And we did well! We had a wonderful day and enjoyed a beautiful time just being together, but the void was inescapable.
I am tired, exhausted, spent. Pain comes from all directions as I walk through my grief and face my absolute inability to be both mother and father or even be the mother I once was, as I watch the shadow of void in my children's eyes and stand by others in their grief and others fighting the ferocious cancer battle. It leaves a fierce longing and hope for a brighter day outside the confines of time and space. And I wonder just how long this life marathon is that I will have to run. If I knew, perhaps I could pace myself a little better. And it occurs to me that focusing on the end of the race keeps me from living in the middle. So the challenge is to live fully in the middle of the race wounded. And then I wonder who will pick me up this day? I'm counting on Jesus to take me by the hand and gently pick me up at the right time. But for now, I'm feeling the pain from every direction imaginable, and I guess there are those days too, where you feel it and sob it out, and trust the Lover of your Soul will pick you up and place your feet on the ground once more and teach you to live fully in the middle of the race, bloodied and wounded, and more beautiful than before.
And somewhere when we feel we will never be lifted and the pain will endure "forever", there is the sweet reminder, not necessarily rescue, Jesus brings in a personal way that says, "I haven't forgotten you and I see you. I am standing by you NOW". For me today, it happened twice, in two separate guilt-ridden exhausted moments of being half the mom I used to be let alone dad too... someone in front of me at McDonalds and Chik-fil-A paid for my meal...really? twice in one day? when I was feeling stressed, guilty and out of control? Jesus said in a curious way, "I have you and am taking care of you." Hold on for the personal touch. It is coming.
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