“So, how are you?” Worst. question. ever. Here I am, 5 months after. Just....after. And each day it isn’t difficult to find a reason to smile. Phoebe is learning to read and her funny mistakes keep us all cracking up. Sam finds joy in scaring us all, leaping out from behind doors or in closets and shouting, “Surprise!” Gwen, Aidah and Lydia are caught up in the throes of teens and tweens. Downloading music, creating new outfits with old clothes, discussing boys and makeup. These are the days I have dreaded. The days where the hours go by and Pierre’s name isn’t mentioned. The weeks where the days go by and Pierre’s name doesn’t fall from our lips. In the days following Pierre’s death, I thought frequently in the midst of the heartache that my emotions were backwards. There was a sad sweetness to the pain I was living in. I was dreaded the time when the pain wasn’t so sharp, when it softened to a dull ache. I was right to dread it. The dull ache is far more excruciating. Those times when I am suddenly aware that Pierre is never going to wrap his arms around my neck or give me kisses again, have shifted to a constant realization. My home, so loud with the happy screams of 5 children, is silent without Pierre’s happy little crow of delight, his constant repetition of “twinkle twinkle little star”. My floors, so filthy with mud from the feet of my little springtime rejoicers, are clean without the Honey Nut Cheerios stashed in odd places or the pediasure spilled in a puddle. And my ears, so full of the laughter of my children telling me jokes, learning to read and babbling about boys and clothes, are deaf without Pierre’s whispers of love and giggles of pure joy. A few weeks before Pierre’s death, the band at church played a song I had never heard before. I’m sure it’s familiar to everyone else, but to me it wasn’t. It begins with “You call me out upon the waters, the great unknown where feet may fail.” That day, with a fussy Pierre in my arms, I rocked him and listened to the lyrics, unaware of the deep waters I would be called to walk through in just a few days. “I will call upon your name, and keep my eyes above the waves.” I sat in tears, asking God for wisdom for another situation, the most painful I had walked through, begging for the strength to just keep going. Pierre sat up in my arms and rubbed his face against mine. “Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander, and my faith will be made stronger in the presence of my Savior” Pierre grasped my cheeks with his hands and formed my lips into a kiss for me to plant on his forehead. Now, here, having been called out upon those waters I prayed would never rise, farther than my feet could have ever taken me, I find the water mostly over my head. Occasionally a wave lifts me high enough to glimpse the shore I’m being carried towards. Pierre, with his arms stretched high above his head, hands clapping vigorously, his lusty yell greeting me. Welcoming me home. And this is where I realize my faith, or the lack thereof. For 38 years, I’ve been taught to look eagerly toward Heaven, to long so desperately to be with the One who gave his life for me, that I yearn for Him to come quickly, to take me Home, where I will forever worship Him and bask in his glory. And for almost all of those 38 years, I have dreaded death. I have feared the pain of it, ached with the knowledge that some day, even if I’m 101 years old, I will have to stop breathing. I don’t want separation from the ones I love the most. I want to lay outside in the field, feel the wind blowing around me, watch the spring green leaves against an amazing blue sky. I want to feel the kisses of my children, let go of their hands and cheer loudly as they take new steps. I have always been thankful that God made all of this and sometimes, when alone and in that field, have thought, “For such a time as this,” as though He made all this loveliness for me and me alone to enjoy and relish. I feel that close to Him, that much His child. Except for not wanting to actually leave this place and be where He is even more real. But now, I beg for that time to come soon. I no longer fear the pain or agony of any death, no matter how long, how drawn out, if at the end I have Pierre there with me. Heresy. I know it is. Why does the love of my child entice me to places that the love of Christ could not? A very very dear family member said once that when we get to Heaven we are going to be surprised that it’s not all about us. We are going to walk down those streets and see our spouse from here on earth and say, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” That it will be a distant memory. And when I thought of that this last week, I threw up. Literally, vomited all over my floor as I rushed to get...anywhere else. This is where I fail the most, where the riptide in those ocean waves pulls me so far down that I drown in my grief. Embarrassed to one day stand before my God and say, “I didn’t want to be here, but for Pierre.” I hope that’s when grace will really find me, will show its true colors. I hope that when it’s all said and done, He will just look at me and laugh with a bit of a “Silly girl, do you understand now?” in his tone, followed by “Welcome home.” That He remembers his Son weeping for the grief of those He loved, overcome with sorrow for them. So, how am I? Keeping my eyes open in hopes that one day, at the bottom of those waves, I will look up and see the face of Jesus. Listening for that still small voice to reassure me that even in the midst of my doubt, He is embracing me. Choosing joy every day, in the hopes that one day it will overtake my heart again. It is my only hope.
Posted on: Fri, 21 Mar 2014 16:45:15 +0000
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