Tweet "Blame is a vicious card to play, and like guilt, generates useless emotions. But nonetheless, blame rears its head when there is no plausible reason to attribute to devastating loss. Blame robs you of objectivity and assigns fault where there is none. Anything, anything at all could have and would have changed that fateful day. The fingers were pointed everywhere, and none gave us the reasons we so needed to hear. When you lose your child, there is no reason good enough for their death." - Maria Malin, author of When You Just Can't Say Good-bye, Don't
As a grieving mother, I have purposely chosen how I would like to move forward in my healing. Understand, it is not the way you might grieve, or you, or you, or you. In fact, everyone grieves in such a personally, uniquely intimate way that I do not expect anyone to have ever before grieved the way I have, nor do I expect anyone to grieve this same way in the future.
I have chosen to see joy and light and goodness. I choose to fill up on faith and love and forgiveness. Blame has no place in my process. I do not wish to allow anger, rage, pessimism, guilt, shame, or any other negative thought to seep into my heart; to take root and spread like a disease throughout my soul.
I know that life guarantees but two things: a start and an end. What we don't know is how long the interval in between is. Some people get one hundred years in between their start and finish. Others just sixty-seven. Some thirty-eight. Still, some only get eleven. Some four. Some only weeks, some mere hours. And some, some are only remembered by the blood veins shared with their full-of-hope mamas. Their in between start and ending the cruelest of all.
I am sitting in my in between... and I know all too well that the final scene is never revealed until it is too late and it's just over. It is up to me to choose what I do in my in between. And you know what? You, reading this right now? Yeah, you're in your in between, too.
So, what do we do?
Crawl under the covers and hate? Blame the unfairness of life? Curse the meager food and the unmatched furniture and squint-glare at the Richard Cory's that walk about town, assuming we know how perfect their in between is and hating how our imperfect in between eats away at the bones that hold our hearts and souls in place? Waiting until bones become dust and hearts and souls lay broken along the streets we walk? Empty, angry people unaware that we've wasted our in betweens.
Or do we search for the goodness? Wake up and thank the good Lord for hot, steamy water and a bright, yellow towel. Watch just a moment longer the little boy splashing in puddles wearing hand-me-down rain boots. Spread butter on bread, drink cold milk from Grandma's mason jar, and know that this in between is pretty alright in the grand scheme of things.
This is my in between. I could fall to the floor, blame the unfairness of it all, thereby blocking out all the beautiful music that surrounds me, or I could dance.
And so, I choose, to learn to dance in the In Between.