Slowly, the memories are starting to come back. The good ones, that is. It has been difficult to remember anything beyond the days before my husband's death, and the months leading up to it when he was no longer engaged in life, no longer the man I knew. It had happened so slowly and gradually, and had I been so buried in the stress of parenting two children with attachment issues.
It is hard, yet good, to remember the things I have lost. It is like a sign of progress that I can remember times of laughter, and especially the times of companionable silence when we met in the midst of day to day chores and shared a look, a touch or a moment of togetherness. It didn't have to be complicated and special. Everyday special is good enough. And now, I miss it so much.
I feel that loss so keenly, thinking of the connection, the friendship, the protection and the tenderness that is now gone from my life. I have myself all wrapped up tightly, trying to keep my heart guarded, trying not to allow myself to unravel. It feels like it could happen again and again, but now there is less grace for that emotion than there was last year when it was all so fresh.
Even for myself, I want to rush through this second stage of recovery and get to the "good part" where I am ready to face my life and build something new from the pieces that are left. It can often feel like there is nothing, but there are remnants that will set as foundation stones for what comes next.
I listened to a sermon from Bill Johnson today (pastor at Bethel Church, Redding, California) about Ephesians (sit, walk, stand). There were so many things that I wrote down, but I was particularly impacted by three words he had studied in the original Greek and which led in to the ideas he was presenting.
Waiting and patience: two terms that have often been presented to me by well-meaning friends to exhort me to continue on in hope. How do we interpret those words? I think of passively sitting without complaint, with acceptance of whatever life brings. I fight that in my heart. I have waited for years for many things - marriage, children - and have never been one to sit quietly with my hands folded. My heart and mind race, struggle and even rage against the expectation to trust the Lord without any further argument.
But the original Greek implies something different: positioning oneself to be where God is going, where He is at work. Patience is actively, expectantly going into the place where God is. Waiting is more like lying in wait, setting up an ambush.
This all reminded me of Simeon, who waited in the temple to see the Messiah. Eight days after his birth, Mary and Joseph brought Jesus to that very same temple, and Simeon (and Anna, who presumably walked a similar path) was there to see the baby for himself. He positioned himself to be in the path of the Lord. THAT is waiting. THAT is patience. THAT kind of thing I can live with.
So here I am, in wait. I need to be active or I will go crazy. I need to contend, to fight for some of the inheritance God has for me. Some things may have been plundered by the enemy, but he will not have it all. The battle has already been won. And, deep within these memories that have been floating through my brain, lie aspects of my personality that must be incorporated and built upon.
This time of grief is a time of waiting or holding. I must let the process run its course until it has completely come full circle and acceptance has begun to manifest in my heart. There is much that I must accept without ever really understanding. I cannot understand everything about my husband's death. I cannot fully understand the reasons for the loss of my daughter.
The presence of the Lord continues to be the balm to my soul. I cannot do this without Him. I cannot even comprehend this without Him. His presence will show me who I am now and who He is creating me to be. My mind must be renewed constantly so I can sit down instead of pushing myself to do everything.
At the same time, there are things for which I must contend and claim.
1 Timothy 6:12 Fight the good fight of the faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called when you made your good confession in the presence of many witnesses.
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