Patience to Endure

Tag: christian grief

  • Bed Rails

    Bed Rails

    Grief has a way of wrecking everything—including priorities. Apathy sneaks in just behind her. Nothing seems important.

    How can it be when you are gone?

    This morning Grandma said,

    Do I look like I care what the floor looks like?

    Sweet boy, the floors are not as clean as when you were here. Grandma kept them immaculate because she worried to no end about you crawling. She took her mission to keep you safe and clean seriously. We all did everything we could to protect you from outside harm—we couldn’t stop what happened inside. I am so sorry.

    When you did not come home with me from the hospital, sweet boy, my soul went to sleep.

    I hope one day I might crawl.

    I was so proud when you remembered how to crawl after losing the ability to walk for a while. Nothing ever stopped you. When no one was immediately available to help, you would gently slide out of your chair or off your bed and crawl.

    If you were in the bedroom and someone came to visit, as soon as you heard their voice, you would crawl to the kitchen. You reached the people you loved by any means necessary.

    That, sweet boy, is the tenacity I need.

    On the harder days—most days—I wonder if my story ends with me stuck in bed.

    I hear the people I love in the next room. Everything in me wants to slide off the bed and crawl to them.

    Grief has the bed rails high.

    But God will lower them—in His time.

    My soul is in deep anguish.
    How long, Lord, how long? Psalm 6:3

    Only He is more powerful than she is.

    Sometimes, Grief is louder. She is overbearing and chaotic, but I am hearing God’s whispers again, sweet boy.

    The final say is not hers.

    Bed rails restrict—but they also provide safety. Every night after you fell asleep, sweet boy, I would lift them up to keep you from falling out of bed. Then I would kiss your head and tell you,

    You’re my whole world.

    Every single night.

    My bed rails are not permanently fixed. For now, they keep me safe so I don’t fall while my soul is sleeping. Grief is strong but God can make even her work toward good.

    I am not ready, but I will become.

    Perhaps soon, I will slide out of the bed.

    I will crawl—and nothing will stop me from reaching Him—and those who love me.

    Sweet boy, you taught me and you taught me well.

  • A Whisper from Heaven

    A Whisper from Heaven

    Sweet boy, I drove one our favorite routes today.

    The road has taken some damage over the years. So have I. The view, however, was ever the same.

    Grandma and Aunt Dolly went to see a friend from church play at the Batesville Market. It isn’t the kind of place we would have taken you. The building is old and not accessible. I had to carry Aunt Dolly’s walker up a few stairs and then help guide her as she climbed.

    It felt good to care for someone, even slightly, the way I did for you.

    After leaving them settled, I went straight instead of turning around to get home. You loved our drives—especially that stretch of road. We would listen to music and on nights like this we would have rolled down the windows. I can still see you—mouth open smile and eyes squinting—as the wind hit your face. You would shake your head, flap your arms, and bounce with delight.

    The road is long and winding with majestic mountain views. There are historic homes, gigantic mansions, and farmland with cows and horses. It is quintessential Virginia.

    I sobbed.

    Please God, give me something, anything.

    Relieve this pain even a little.

    Give me peace. Let me know You are here and I am not alone. A sign.

    Anything?

    He was the best part of me, my whole world, and you took Him. Why? Why would you do that to me?

    I am here. Your daughter. Your child is alone and hurt and scared. Won’t you do anything at all to help me?

    Please God. Please.

    Sometimes He calms the storm. 
    Sometimes He calms the child.

    Sometimes He does nothing.

    Or so it feels.

    Grief has revealed a depth of my soul I never knew existed—where tears and agony are abundant. Or perhaps she found the now empty place where you once were and settled right in.

    When God took you back, sweet boy, your heart became infected with bacteria. It spread everywhere.

    When God made me stay, my heart became infected with Grief. She invades everything.

    At the end of the drive, I dried my tears and ended my lamentation with:

    I am holding on to You anyway.

    I was surprised Grandma and Aunt Dolly wanted to stay the entire time. It tickled my heart to envision two ladies in their eighties hanging out listening to jazz on a Friday night.

    When I left a couple of hours later to pick up them up, I stood at the car and looked up at the beautiful spring sky. This time of year, every part of creation announces the new season—even the stars.

    Okay, God. I am asking again for a sign. Would You show me a shooting star? At least let me know I am not alone.

    Sweet boy, wouldn’t you know one appeared as soon as I finished asking?

    It wasn’t particularly spectacular in brightness or length—just a whisper and had I not been looking at that exact spot in the sky I might have missed it.

    The feeling might not last, but it came and that matters.

    It is a lifeline I can grab when the abyss comes—and it assuredly does.

    I miss you, sweet boy, more than I ever knew a heart could.

    At this point, living captive by Grief for eight weeks, I will take promises yet to be.

    For the first time I thought—

    just maybe,

    I am going to be all right.