So, I’m going to share this. But I’m putting this big caution at the beginning because I remember when my emotions were too frail and I was too oppressed by anxiety to read stuff like this. I know I would have appreciated the warning, so I’m giving one to you, dear. If you’re feeling like fear or anxiety is crippling you, just have the self-control and emotional self-care to not continue reading. It’s ok. I know what those days are like and friend, social media is really not a safe place for you to be in that condition. I’ve been there. Try hanging out in Psalm 103 or Psalm 84 instead. I’ll meet you there.
For the rest of you, my life isn’t a tv drama, though it feels like it. (Just please don’t treat it as such.) I’m sharing this with you because, well, either I’m losing my mind, or I believe there’s power in writing down and sharing our own psalms of lament. If you keep reading and desire to enter in with me, know you’re on holy ground. So sit by me in that posture. My whole life, I’ve learned it’s a sacred gift to “Grieve with those who grieve and rejoice with those who rejoice.” I invite you to grieve with me in the following. And let’s hope that the promise holds true… that someday, these sorrows that last for the night will turn into joy some fine morning.
What a prelude for such a short poem! But, here goes:
But somehow, I will anyway:
Tomorrow will mark two full months since I told the Colonel, “No, sir! He’s sleeping.”
Two months since I laid hands on his cold body in a bag.
Two months since they sang “It is well with my soul.”
Tomorrow will also be my birthday, and the gift I want most is his presence.
I’m now surrounded by half-packed moving boxes because I halfway don’t ever want to leave the last place his hands prayed over and anointed or the last living room we danced in as a family or the last door he walked through to come home to me after work.
The grace of shock is wearing off tonight, and I just don’t think I can bear the full weight of tomorrow. But somehow, I will anyway.
I wail, and I wail, and I struggle to breathe, much like the day I was born. I came out blue and (I imagine) with a cord around my neck too, and it feels like nothing has changed.
But I’ll get my coloring back, I’ll gasp, and I’ll have no idea how I’m going to face a new day.
But somehow, I will anyway.
(And you can too.)