Carried by the body of Christ

I try to write. I try to put into words what this grief is like, but there are no words. There is no strength. There is no hope. There are no prayers. There is nothing but weakness, disbelief, and deep, abiding sorrow. There is anger. Confusion. Feelings of betrayal, distrust. This does not feel like love. There is no comfort. I want to sleep, to somehow escape this nightmare, yet sleep does not come easily or quickly. When it does, it is fraught with nightmares of losing my mother, only to wake and remember that my nightmare is, indeed, my reality.

And the crushing weight of grief rolls over me upon the rise of consciousness. Daily, the tsunami of grief rushes in. And I? I fear I will not survive this. I fear I do not have the strength to rebuild again. I am afraid I am not up to the task. Indeed, if I am honest, I don’t desire to fight my way back to life and joy again. I just want to curl up, shut the world out, and lie in bed, to sleep and not wake up again this side of heaven.

See, I’ve been down this road before. I know what it’s like. I know the truth now, that this grief will never end, that I will live the rest of my life here assimilating this loss with the temporary, fleeting joys of this earth. I know the energy and diligence it takes to find my way back. And I simply don’t want to.

When my son died, I wholly believed that healing would happen. I naively believed that healing meant the hurt would eventually go away. But now I know better. I now know that grief never ends. To be sure, it gets better, yes. It softens, fades. The wound does heal. But it leaves a terrible scar, a scar that will always bear witness of great loss.

I want to believe. I want to be encouraging and offer hope to those watching. But I have nothing. No strength. No energy. No desire or will. I used everything I had to fight my way back after my son died. I can’t do this again. I preached to myself the first time around, but I don’t have the breath to utter words of truth this time. It seemed so easy last time to say as Job, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.” But this time? Why isn’t it coming so easily this time? Why? Why? Why?

I need all the prayer I can get, my friends. I know there is a spiritual battle going on, and I fear I am going to lose the fight. This afternoon, however, I had a sweet friend pray for me, cry with me, sit beside me. She reminded me of TRUTH that I could not remind myself of. My soul lies in the dust of this loss, and all I can do is listen. I wait for truth to wash over me. I lie like the paralytic beside the pool of Bethesda. (John 5) I cannot crawl to the place of healing. I needed the water of the word (Eph. 5:26) to wash over me, and I was encouraged and comforted by my friend’s prayers.

What a gift, a blessing, and a comfort it is to know that my family and I are being prayed for. We are, indeed, being carried by the body of Christ. I’ve witnessed it since the first day of my mother’s loss. God’s mercy, His goodness, has been shown in many ways these past 14 days. I see the tenderness and care He has provided through so many people. I am incredibly thankful for each and every one of you. Soon, I will tell you of the many “God Nods” I’ve experienced and share of the multiple ways in which my heavenly Father has expressed His compassion to me and my family. But for now, I ask that you continue to pray for me, for us, for my extended family…especially my step-dad, my uncle (my mother’s only sibling), and my five siblings.

Your prayers mean more than you’ll ever know.

Held by Him,

Angie

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