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Friday, April 22, 2016

Let Your Gentleness Be Evident To All

Grief is a strange strange thing.

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

Philippians 4:4-7

I know how much tenderness I need; I bet others need it too.

1 comment:

  1. Some days I want to scream - "GUYS I CAN'T DO THIS. DID YOU FORGET WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?"

    It's been nearly a year since my husband was diagnosed with cancer and I STILL have those days. You just keep going, and eventually you learn how to act "normal" again, and sometimes you actually forget that this terrible thing happened, but it comes back. It always does. And then there are days like you describe, where it's lurking just under the surface and feels like it's tearing you to pieces.

    The only good thing that's really come out of his diagnosis is that I do, absolutely, find it easier to be kind to those around me. Making small talk with strangers. Helping someone with their bags. Holding the door. Sometimes I don't know whether I'm doing it for them or for myself, to remind myself that there is still goodness out there, that I can still be that goodness for others even if sometimes I can't be kind to myself.

    I think when awful things happen to us, we make a choice, whether we're aware of it or not. We choose let it turn us into bitter, angry people, or we choose to smile and be good to others. Remember, "darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that."

    I'm glad you've made the choice to be the light for others.

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