I can sit at a soccer game cheering for Levi, travel to Disney World and enjoy it all has to offer, make exciting plans to "move on" (whatever that looks like), deal with big grown-up things that are hard and have nothing to do with my grief. I can function as normal, but the grief is always there, just below the surface.
I really hoped it would have fled by now. Some days it's the loss of a baby and the loss of a dream of what could have been. Some days it's the burn of betrayal mixed with the dream of justice, or even revenge. Some days it's the sting of infertility that hurts as freshly as the first time I read a "not pregnant" on a stick.
And for all the pain, there is just as much hope.
But I'm so weary of waiting and hoping and pressing forward. Some days I want to scream - "GUYS I CAN'T DO THIS. DID YOU FORGET WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?"
And then I remember that something happened to all of us. Not with Addison - but life in general. We all have those circumstances where we think, "Holy crap, I can't believe what I have endured, I can't believe this is my reality," and we want to wear the badge of grief like a sandwich board sign reading, "Be gentle with me. I can't handle this today." Maybe that would actually be helpful.
If nothing else, I hope this stage of sadness gives me empathy. Teaches me to be more gentle with the unknown battles that others are fighting.
|Photo credit: Via|
There have been many times in the past year where I find myself reciting this (it's probably the only significant passage of scripture I can actually say without looking):
Rejoice in the Lord always, I will say it again, REJOICE.
Let your gentleness be evident to all - the Lord is near.
Do not be anxions about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition,
with thanksgiving, present your requests to God
And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding
will guard your heart and mind in Christ Jesus
I know how much tenderness I need; I bet others need it too.