So, I wanted to write about the good days.
I want to write about the sun so bright it shocks me out of my pain and about the magic in holding my son's hand.
I want to write about my husband, with his stillness in this storm. My husband who has lips so like hers that when I look at them I die a little inside.
I want to write about the sunsets, and the long walks and about how my life is altered, but how I am going on. How I am living for today. I want to write about how it is getting better every day. About how God is carrying me through this. How my faith has been strengthened and how I am telling the truth when I speak of the joy in holding her for a few short moments. She was a joy.
I began this as an almost sarcastic list of all of the lies that swirl around my head. All of the points where I feel sorry for myself, and I lament my loss. I began this in order to tell you that there really are no good days in this post-Beatrix world. That there is no happiness, and that faith, for the time being, is slowly creeping out the window,
But I got stuck at that last little bit.
My God- that God who caused this thing to happen to my child. The God who gave her this- who gave me this. That God. In all of everything that I have been thinking and doing. In all of what I have emoted and kept quietly within me, I have never once doubted the existence of God. I have never once thought, there is no God who could do such an enormous thing to me. Who could snatch away what was mine, after only letting me hold it for a short, sweet moment.
I have been angry. Oh so very angry. There is no room sometimes for anything else but the anger.
But anger is not disbelief.
I have called out, and not felt Him near me. While “Footprints” is a lovely poem, and a sweet sentiment, there are times when I have felt so removed from Him. My grief has been like some wide chasm. I have been left panting for relief. He has not been walking, carrying my burden easily through the sand.
But distance is not disbelief.
I have allowed myself to sink. To sink so slowly that the quicksand which is grief feels like a hot bath. So warm, so inviting. I sink in and I just want to go further. Let the liquid cover my head, suffocating me. Let it leave me breathless. Sand filling my mouth- how tempting to let this be my end. Loosened in that feeling of total abandon.
But sinking and hiding are not disbelief.
I would like to give some smart remark to fix this in my mind. Some way through this where I come out sounding like one of those women who get beauty from ashes. I would like to avoid being seen as the raging maniac that I’ve become. I would like to be packaged up in a neat box, with wrapping and a bow. I can fit in the Christian grieving mom spot. I can fit in the “I know the Lord is working a great plan in me” spot.
I’m tired of pretending that it’s the spot I’m in.
But being tired of being faithful is not disbelief.
The good days consist of being able to put one foot in front of the other. The good days consist of being able to laugh with my child without imagining him playing with a younger sister who never made it home. The good days consist of understanding, somewhere in my fuddled mind that life does go on. That happiness is never going to be complete here. That serenity is a quality I may never again possess….. that joy has to be sought out. It hides. Most people don’t realize that.
In between those moments that take my breath away with their fragility, I rage and argue and bargain with God. I question Him. The good days consist of acknowledging that while I argue with and rage at a God who takes children from their mother’s arms, so did Moses argue. Jacob wrestled. Jonah disobeyed. Mary questioned.
I am in good company.