Six months. Today, we celebrate six months of life. It’s your little brother’s half birthday. As I type this, he’s cuddled close to me, sucking on his pacifier, while his softie is nestled into his neck and lullabies lull him to sleep. It’s beautiful. But it stings. It’s bittersweet... I’m overcome with love for him and the joy he brings me to the point that I’m overwhelmed and brought to tears. His breaths fall heavily on my arm, while you remained so still. His little life, in my arms, because your life slipped through my hands. Death literally passed through me, so a new life could be planted. Could grow. Could resurrect from the darkness and bring to fruition a redemption I had not thought possible. There’s so much guilt. But there’s so much love. And grief, it still remains.Read More
Healing has been a process of surrendering, remembering, and waiting. It has been allowing the emotions and the memories to surface. It has been going through the pain and not stuffing it away. It has been allowing the gaping wounds to be exposed to the light. It has been counseling, and writing, and graveside visits. It has been nights of endless tears and crying to the point of vomiting and being unable to breathe. It has been going through your memory box and looking at your pictures. Meeting others in their suffering and talking about real and hard things. It has been allowing others to love me and admitting that I can’t do it all. It has been an attempt to trust, and getting let down—but trying again anyway. It has been acknowledging my pain, giving it a name, and being okay with who I am now. It has been accepting what life after loss looks like, moving one step forward, one day at a time. And it has also been taking steps backward. It has been losing relationships, losing friends, and letting go of the expectations I place on myself and others.
Healing has been allowing the old wound to touch this new wound. It has been waiting in joyful hope.
And healing will come because you existed.
Healing will come, because of you.
My healing baby.Read More
Every night, before bed, I would look at her picture on the mantle. Trace my thumb over the rosary beads made from her funeral flowers. And beg for it to all be different.Read More
Today my grief is a longing. A dull ache that never goes away, stealing my breath and causing me to feel like I can’t breathe. Today my grief is finding beauty. The Eucharist. A smile. A glimpse of joy. A warm fall morning. The flowers at your grave. Standing near you as the sun warms my skin, and the birds sing, reminding me of our silent retreat together. Today my grief is feeling you in my heart, always. Knowing that wherever I go, you are always near. And I feel it so deeply. Today my grief is choosing. Choosing to take another step forward. Choosing to be present. Choosing to remember. Choosing to let God soften the edges of my heart. Today my grief is real and tangible. I am aware of its presence. But I invite it in. I do not hide from it or run away. Today, I step back, and I allow it to take its place in my life.Read More