all day long I go about mourning.
My back is filled with searing pain;
there is no health in my body.
I am feeble and utterly crushed;
I groan in anguish of heart.
All my longings lie open before you,
my sighing is not hidden from
My heart pounds, my strength
even the light has gone from my
I wait for you, O Lord;
you will answer, O Lord my God.....
For I am about to fall,
and my pain is ever with me.....
O LORD, do not forsake me,
be not far from me, O my God.
Come quickly to help me,
O Lord my Savior.
That particular section of the Psalms, written by my favorite historical figure, King David, pretty much sums up what I feel most days. I didn't include every verse in that passage, as it is written with regard to David's enemies, but what he says is all me right now. I so get him. He seems to so get me. One day, we will rejoice together that all of our earthly failings are no more.
The picture above is my go to position when I am in severe agony. It is ironic that I took that same position, crumpled up in pain, when I was in labor with Brandon, but waiting to bring a beautiful, new life into this world, and when I found out that same beautiful life had left this world. When I got to the hospital, I was already in hard labor, dilated to 8cm and in pain that left me unable to form many words, just simply scream out, O God, and cover my face. I remember the nurses, literally, having to pry my fingers away from my face, in an attempt to get me to focus. I don't remember most of what I said, in the moments after I found out my son had died, but I remember saying, "OH MY GOD," and unable to do anything, at one point, but assume my position and sob. I have covered my face like that every one of the last 33 days, the agony just as David describes. I can almost feel God calling me to pry the fingers away, to lean into Him and not try to rely on myself. It is so hard. Right now I have trouble talking to him, I mean really talking to him. He is gracious and lets me bring the fingers back to my face a little while longer.
Grief is such a personal experience that I find myself surprised when I see one of my own quotes, said by someone else. In a book I'm reading about a pastor and his wife who lost their 18 year old son, he says, "We were not suicidal, but we did not want to live." He states it so succinctly and I think I used those exact words in grief group. It is the strangest place to be. To be caught in the middle of I do not want to live and I cannot take my own life, I have to live, is agonizing.
My sweet daughter voiced the feelings that I think all three of us (my husband, included) share. She said, "I don't want to go anywhere, do anything, be anywhere, talk to anyone, hug anyone." She aches in a way that none of her friends can understand. Her world...our world...is so different, so new and so profoundly sad, we don't get how to live in it. It's so hard just to see how other people look at us now. We are different, our lives are ridiculously wrong, people hurt for us and it hurts to have to be those people.
In my head, I know there is much to live for, life is out there for the living, surely there are many enjoyable things in life, but my broken heart cannot even begin to understand how that could be possible, how it could ever be all right to do such a thing. I still just cannot believe that there is life going on around me that does not have my boy in it. I want him back so badly and I