Tweet I walk around the corner, glance to the right, flip the channel, check my newsfeed, and get stabbed in the heart. My eyes bleed tears that burn my cheeks. Throat clamped shut I cannot breathe, cannot speak, cannot understand how the gangly, awkward teen with the thick purple plastic framed glasses who just wanted to grow up able to walk tall through the day has morphed into a Mother Who Has Lost.
It takes me by surprise each and every time. I feel like a fool. How can my hurt be so acute, so crippling, and yet I find myself checking through the doorway to see if her Sunday School class has let out. I stop myself short before reminding Matt that he should make sure her bike tires are pumped full of air. I foolishly suggest something I know she would love. And each time it hits me: she is not here.
My soul is not mine.
At least, it doesn't feel like mine, doesn't fit like mine. I once took a sweatshirt that wasn't mine home from a college party. I could never wear it because each time I put it on I knew it didn't rightfully belong to me. I wasn't meant to wear it; it wasn't mine. I try to fight, arms flailing, back arching, head ducking -- and yet someone insists this wounded soul is mine to wear. I don't want it. Take it back! TAKE IT BACK!
I struggle with normalcy... or what others perceive as normal because I don't think complaining about overcooked steak deserves anger and rage and I don't think the middle finger deserves to be flipped because someone didn't realize it was their turn at a four way stop and I don't think people of power show be purposefully demeaning to others. Instead I only want to walk in the sun and attempt to plant purple calla lilies and leave sliced apples for squirrels and laugh too loud at the wit others share. I want to paint my bedroom bright and I want flowers to replace my grass. I want music to accompany the wind and good food to be found in great abundance. I think if I try super hard to paint my world light that light will flow to others around me and once I'm surrounded by light and love then I will never hurt again.
Except I will.
Because that's what grief is. The reminder that she is never coming home. And sometimes that reminder comes at church during a song about blessings and sometimes that reminder comes as I'm folding laundry because she would always come and sit with me. Sometimes that reminder comes when I try to picture a vacation and sometimes that reminder comes when I turn out the light. It happens when I'm grocery shopping and cleaning the bathroom and walking into the library and backing out of the driveway and painting my fingernails and watching the Brewer's play and flipping through a magazine and waiting for a table at a restaurant... my soul whispers, "she is not here."
And it'll be that way every single day until God calls me home.