Weary and Wary

The loss of my daughter in February thrust me into the ring of grief; the holidays brought on a new round and frankly left me bloodied, breathless, and at times facedown desperately wanting to tap out. 

Thanksgiving came like a hook from my left leaving me stunned and a little surprised at its intensity. As I was rubbing my jaw and wiping my tears Abigail's early December birthday hit me like a powerful cross punch dizzying and sending me staggering to the corner of the ring until Christmas. I limped into Christmas with a swollen lip and black eyes to meet an uppercut blow to the abdomen which knocked the breath out of me for days. There was a brief time-out for my boys' later December birthday to which I showed up conscious but with a heart bloodied and bruised. No sooner than it was over I was thrust back into the jab of illness with an added kick of New Years which swept my feet from beneath me. 

The whole time all I could do was lie there in this breathless, numb, yet also excruciatingly painful state amid all the "merry Christmases" and "happy new years"- none of which came from my mouth and all of which I cringed to hear. I could write pages about the pain of those days and the sorrow of entering a year without my little girl, but alas, I will only tell you of the heavy sigh of relief when all was packed away and January showed up. Although, with it comes a weariness and wariness. I'm weary from all this particular fight demanded of me physically, spiritually, and emotionally. I'm also wary of our looming February. There's nothing between here and there except my older daughter's birthday, which she also sees approaching with the clouds of an anniversary we never wanted rolling in on its heels. 

It's rushing at me, and I won't pretend there's not a part of me that isn't afraid of that fight. I'm broken, battered, and bruised, yet being wheeled into a February I don't want. A February representing one full year of being thrust into this exhaustive "sport" (or torture if you will) called grief against my will. I realize all this likely sounds gloomy, even perhaps attention seeking, or wallowing in the role of victim. Those are not my intentions at all, but these are my feelings. 

My God whom I love, and I know loves me, allows some extremely hard and painful fights. Christmas day marked ten months I've been reconciling this fact in the back corners of my brain. Even in this I know his name, and I have trusted and will continue to trust in him. He has never forsaken those (myself included) who seek him. I am confident he does indeed see my sorrow and grief and is not unmoved by such. My God hears the desires and guttural groans of my shattered heart. He listens. He encourages. He enters the ring of grief, picks me up, shields me from the final mortal blow- taking it himself- and tends my wounds while reminding me of my blessed future of ultimate rest from all grief. He staunches the flow of my bloody heart with the application of his Word. 

He acknowledges the fights will indeed leave scars as he tends my wounds with scars of his own. As the scars on his resurrected body bear witness to his ultimate love, submission to the Father, and to his promises kept I realize I am not opposed to one day walking New Earth with scars of my own which testify to his love, compassion, and goodness in the most painful of times. 

I am not convinced "perfected resurrected bodies" means bodies without scars or memories of the battles from whence they came. Perhaps our lens will be wider and these scars will cease to trigger pain and instead be reminders of  promises kept and signage pointing to the One upon Heaven's throne. 

"Those who know your name will trust in you, for you Lord have never forsaken those who seek you. But you O God, do see troubles and grief; you hear O Lord, the desire of the afflicted, you encourage them, and you listen to their cry." Psalm 9:10; 10:14,17