I have been writing this post on my head for about three days. I think about this all the time, but mostly in quiet moments in the car (50-minute commute, not a friend to the distracted brain). Even as I write it, I’m not sure if it should be posted or if I should just type it to get it out of my head and delete it. Even in my head, it doesn’t make much sense, and I’m confident it won’t come out the way I intend. That frustrates me, so I tend to write and delete a lot when it comes to the serious stuff. Witty banter? Potty pictures of Baby Girl? Much easier for me than this. I call it sarcasm as a defense mechanism. Handy, but not always real.
I am still grieving for my friend. I hesitate to say even that, because my next immediate thought is this: …and a mother is grieving for her daughter, a sister is grieving for her only sibling, a husband is grieving for his wife, and a little boy will someday grieve for the mother he didn’t get to meet. I’ve always thought of friendship as such a strong concept, but it pretty much pales in comparison to all that. Not that loss is any kind of a competition; it just feels strange and somehow wrong to talk about my grief when what others have lost is so much greater.
It is so painful to see my friend hurting and be able to do nothing meaningful about it. I am hurting for the pain and confusion that a precious baby boy will someday feel when he learns how much his mother loved him, but that she didn’t get the opportunity to raise him. I am hurting for a husband who is trying to grieve in the tiny in-between moments crammed between 3 am feedings and a full-time job. I am hurting for the adults that will need all the wisdom they can muster to help that little boy understand when he’s ready to learn about his mother. I am hurting that my faith doesn’t seem to be strong enough to handle something like this. If I can be really honest, I am pretty much in the same place I was when Kathy died five months ago. I am shocked, angry, bitter, and disappointed. I can laugh and tell funny stories and love on baby Micah with abandon, but all that gross emotion is right below the surface. I am not able to say with any conviction that it was God’s will, that God will be glorified through this, that God will take care of Kathy’s family. I believe it (way, way, way deep down), but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud–because I still don’t. get. it. My brain refuses to understand, and a part of my heart is still very hard. I am thankful for good and honest friends who are able to admit they are feeling some of these same things–because I feel like I’m not progressing very well with it. A gurgling baby boy is a good distraction, I must say. I’m lucky enough to get to see him pretty often.
Raw grief is messy and real. It makes me uncomfortable. It makes me terrified of saying something offensive or hurtful (I tend to put my foot in my mouth, even in the best of times), and I’m also afraid of hanging back and not helping when I’m needed because I’m trying to be polite and respectful (again, not something that comes naturally to me). I will admit that most of the time I have no idea where that line between supportive and intrusive is. It probably changes from day to day, I imagine. Unfortunately, my default is to do nothing (not a very good strategy–that helps no one and just buries the hurt). I am constantly reminded that this kind of grief is both overwhelmingly public and excruciatingly private. None us can really “get it.” In some ways, I think what should be private is made public (because people far and wide know details, etc.), and what should be acceptable and public (the simple fact that it hurts and will for a long time) is sometimes swept under the rug and not discussed.
I am learning that all kinds of things can bond people. Some of my closest relationships have come from the best of times, but the worst of times are just as bonding. I guess you just have to dive in and do the best you can. I am newly and painfully aware that I am not guaranteed forever, especially with my husband and daughter. That is a paralyzing, awful, sobering truth. The thought makes my mouth go dry and my heart pound. It gives me a lump in my throat and a weight in my chest that takes a long time to go away.
See? I still haven’t said what I’m trying to say. I just hope it makes sense to those to read it. File this under “work in progress.”
In order to relieve the tension (and keep you actually reading this blog), frosting-covered 2-year-old birthday photos and witty captions to come, I promise.
