Grief
Five years ago on this day I gathered with friends and family to celebrate the life of my dear friend Emmie. She went to Heaven just days before on Oct 21, 2008. I remember that day so clearly – getting the call, rushing to the ER, hearing the news literally as I walked in the door, and then holding her still warm hand and feeling peace because I knew she was with Jesus.
Five years later after saying goodbye to my friend, I had to say goodbye to my children for what felt like the millionth time – another trip of sweet hugs and laughs but without the joy of them accompanying us home. With every trip, my heart gets fuller yet more broken. Goodbyes are just hard. And although I said goodbye to them differently than I said goodbye to Emmie, I know the same Jesus holds them all while I can’t be with them.
Grief has a way of sometimes staying locked up in the body. Every year on Oct 21, I feel the heaviness. My sons will tell you they feel sick and tired on Jan 12 - the anniversary of the Haiti earthquake. It’s amazing what our bodies go through and how they hold the burden of what they have suffered. I have been fighting health problems for several months now. I can hardly catch my breath sometimes when I walk up my stairs at home. This baffles me, because I’ve always been so healthy and in shape. I realized this week after saying goodbye to my boys and seeing them off to school, I had to climb the same flight of stairs from their orphanage back up to the car to go to the airport - the same routine with every goodbye. And every time I climb those stairs I am bawling my eyes out and can hardly take the next step. It was important for me to make this connection. Stairs now remind my body of this long journey and the heaviness of goodbye. My body is tired – of goodbyes, of climbing those same stairs over and over, of keeping my head held high with hope. And knowing this piece helps me honor my body and show it compassion. For it has not failed me. It is just loaded with sorrow. And as I honor my grief, I also invite hope. I hope for strength for the next step. There will always be another “hello.” One day I’ll see Emmie again in Heaven. One day I’ll bring my sons home. One sweet day. So I climb another step and grow stronger. I take a deep breath and remind myself that sorrow does not last forever.
