Tired of Hard Things

Recently I fell apart over a broken pressure washer. To the outside observer I was going crazy. Yet, as any of us in grief know, it wasn’t just about this broken pressure washer or even my son’s error in using it.

What the outside observer, and even my son, did not know was that before I ever got out of bed that morning, I awoke longing for Abigail. It’s not as though there are days I awaken and have to remind myself she is dead, but some days hit heavier than others. My heart and body both intensely ached for her. I allowed myself the moments to think upon the many overnight interruptions when she would come crawling into bed with me, knowing full well allowing my mind to go there would undoubtedly affect my entire day. I dwelt upon how she wouldn’t be satisfied simply cuddling beside me.  No, she had to lay completely on top of me, blanketing me with her body as her head of soft hair rested on my chest. She would sleep upon me as a mirror image. I also painfully recalled how I would wake up stiff, sleep deprived, and complaining to my husband. Oh, what I would give to awaken in such a way again if it meant I could feel her sweet, warm, soft body upon mine again. 

It’s never just about the pressure washer. 

I forced myself out of bed, eyes already bloodshot and teary. I started my Bible Study only to pick up in Mark 5 where a desperate father, Jairus, is begging the Lord to come heal his daughter. My meditations on that passage are an entirely separate writing, but Jairus’ story had a different ending than mine. And while Jesus restored life to his little girl by saying, “little girl, get up,” I imagine similar words were spoken as he reached toward Abigail that day and invited her to walk into his arms instead of mine.

More tears and puffy eyes all before my other three ever awaken. 

It’s never just about the pressure washer. 

Next, my third-born awakens and tries to snuggle the cat, who used to patiently allow Abigail to snuggle, but since her death has become a bit miffed by such. My sweet child sighed, gave up the cat, burrowed into my side and said, “I miss snuggling with Abigail”. 

“Me too, sweet girl, me too.” We talk about how it’s not only our hearts that ache for her, but our bodies as well. There’s now an emptiness to both. She snuggles under my arm and proceeds to tell me what she wants for breakfast. 

It’s never just about the pressure washer. 

Grief is the constant uninvited companion, even when dealing with the mundane tasks such as a broken pressure washer. 

After the pressure washer incident, I went to my son to be sure he knew, it wasn’t just about the pressure washer, nor his actions. I sat on his bed; one arm draped around his ten-year-old shoulders that have borne a weightier sorrow than many adults. I told him I was tired of hard things. Hard things seem so much harder in the shadow of the hardest thing I’ve (we’ve) ever been forced to endure. The logical part of my brain kicks in to argue that these so called “hard things” are nothing at all compared to the death of my child. But death isn’t logical; it isn’t polite. Grief didn’t ask my permission before taking up residence in my heart, my home, my family  

It wasn’t him. It wasn’t the pressure washer. It was so much more. I sat with sadness while sorrow blanketed me instead of my youngest daughter, and I cried. “I’m tired of hard things.”

Grief. 

It’s never just about the pressure washer.