It’s sudden and surprising. As I drive around the winding road, it catches me off guard. My thoughts stray from my normal; family, children, laundry, husband. When it hits me, the wind is knocked out of me. I cannot breathe.
The memories come flooding back. His wispy hair. His sparkling eyes. His laugh. The tears fill my eyes as I remember the five-forever years it’s been. The five-years we had. The lifetime of memories buried deep within me.
Sometimes the sacred parts of my heart are shared. Sometimes it’s more than I can bear. And I don’t want to face it. I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to share the memories or his sweet smile. I don’t want to hear the laughter, because it hurts so much. And it’s difficult to talk about him. It’s difficult to share these deepest parts of grief. This deep five-year grief is somehow sacred. It’s bringing parts of me to surface that I thought I’d buried good. Days are long and dark and sometimes difficult to function normal. But years. The years have gone by in the blink of an eye. Somewhere in these five years I’ve learned this grief dance well. The circle of longing and pain and surrender and joy.
Choosing joy. Yes, choose joy. Somehow within this grief dance, within the mourning there is joy.
And there’s guilt here, too. Within the sacred grief dance, there is guilt. Mother’s guilt? Survivor’s guilt? Guilt because of the blessings I’m surrounded with. When others have not, I have much. My husband and other children. And hope. I have hope. I have a warm home on cold nights. A gentle breeze on hot summer days. I have food, fresh and canned. I have clean water and clothes to choose from. I have books and head-knowledge to cope. I have time to grieve. Oh the gift and curse of time. I have days to wander and renew my spirit. I have truth sitting in the form of a precious book. I have the Holy Spirit living within me. I have a Creator, a Saviour, a blessed Redeemer.