I wanted to bust His Chops. I really did. I was no Job.
“Why on Your Green Earth would you put me through the eye of the needle AGAIN?”
God was silent. But when I turned around Bob was gone.
I was alone in a world where it seemed I would have to do everything myself. I would have no one lying next to me in bed at night. Would have no Christmas gifts from him under the tree. It was pretty frickin’ sad.
I didn’t turn against God. I began to work very, very hard. There was lots to do. Clean the basement. Sell his tools and car. Give his clothes away.
I cried but I learned from my daughter’s death that a deep, deep loss did not have to find me going off the deep end. I could float. And so I floated through many a long wintry day. I floated through Easter and summer and long hours of solitude.
And then I began to write. And I wrote and wrote and wrote. And the more I wrote, the more I could float.
Float above the question “Why?” Float above the slow ticking of the clock. And float above the knowledge that my life would never be the same.
I am a survivor. Don’t approach me with your theories of how God works. I know how He works. In mysterious ways.
Don’t offer me any plastic sympathy; I am stronger than that.
Just be there in your own authentic way.
However that manifests.
Let the complications go.
Let the words go.
Be silent and look within your very own heart.
I did and one day I understood that we are all on our way home.
From birth we have been going home. Some just stick around longer than others.