Sometimes in the dark stillness, I can feel my heart beating fast, remembering. And how can it be that the remembering hurts so much?
I am finding that memories can heal, but they also bruise. Some days I am drawn to remember like a moth to flame–no matter that my wings begin to wilt as I draw nearer. I look at pictures, and there are never enough of them or enough of her in them. I sort through her things–a note saved from her daddy, a pressed flower, a ticket stub. And they seem so inadequate. As useless as my words to describe her life.
Not enough. A constant ache that feels like there is not enough.
I suppose that is where grief takes us. To a place where there is not enough of her and the knowing that we will not get more. No more pictures, no more phone calls, no more sweet reunions. No more of her in this life where we thought she would walk beside us, where we thought there would always be more.
New layers of sorrow uncovered every day.
Severe storms are heading into our area this afternoon. You can smell rain and some fear in the air. There is no predicting them–who they will impact or what they will damage. There is just this waiting. And for those who have been touched before, fear.
I can feel this vulnerability now. As if my storms have taught me that I need to be afraid. But fear is not a good predictor of outcome. Fear only keeps you from moving forward, and it stifles the gift of joy.
Better, far, to remember safety. To remember all the times you have been spared. To remember the fiercest storm with the perspective of experience.
I am always surprised by the joy that reaches me. A joy that springs up from the deepest place and catches me even here. And isn’t that the paradox of the Christian life? We are called to rest and a cross. Called to joy and to suffering. Called to healing and to pain, to peace and a battle.
And a season for all of it.
So I will mourn in this season of mourning. I will cry with the sadness of missing my girl, and I will always feel the ache of not enough.
But I will remember that He was there in the storm. I will remember His words and His promises. I will remember Him lifting my head and the deep joy untouched by sorrow. I will cling to eternity in my heart, the hope of it and the realization of it. I will not let fear cripple me.
I will remember the Creator of the storms.
I will remember that in this world of not enough, He is.
He is enough.
But You, O LORD, are a shield about me, My glory, and the One who lifts my head. Psalm 3:3
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance. Ecclesiastes 3:1, 2, 4
5 thoughts on “A time to mourn”
Praying for you everyday! Thank-you for sharing even when it hurts! Love you!
Thank you for your continued ministry through this blog. We need Truth! Truth about the season of mourning, the dark stillness, the constant ache, the “not enough” and daily sorrow, the severe storms, the vulnerability, the waiting, the memories of safety, the perspective of experience, the joy that surprises, the longing for eternity and for the Shepherd Himself, His words and His promises, His sustaining… Thank you for opening your heart and ministering to us truths that we desperately need to learn to live…
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Praying for your family. Thank you for sharing the journey.
Thanks for sharing. I am upholding you in prayer!
We are praying for you all daily!!
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