Today I am overwhelmed with guilt. Those who love me remind me mercilessly that guilt is just Satan talking. Today, the volume exceeds "talking." Vibrating bumping bass volume pulling up next to me at a stop light car shaking, screamo hard core heavy metal kind of loud talking is what ole Lucifer is pulling on me today.By the grace of God, it looks like we will close on the sale of one house and the purchase of another all next week. And so I pack - some more. Today it was removing the pillows, slowly peeling back the camo comforter, untucking sheets, and burying face into the boy smell that still lingers there. His room empty of all signs of him. Boxing up the last part of his days, saying goodbye to so many goodnight hugs, snuggles, and tucking ins, his bed covers all gone, mattress naked and devoid of the clothes which wrapped him all up and my heart breaking all over again.
The balloon filled. That's what counselor Maria calls it...a grief balloon. Filling, it stretches dangerously close to explosion, and that's when I write. Letter by letter, sentence by sentence, the grief is expelled from the balloon, saving me from a pop. But I didn't quite make it to a keyboard in time today. I sat on the top step of the upstairs that will no longer be mine and I popped. The guilt is strangling. Lead weights entangling my feet dragging me under a sea so dark I can't see my hands in front of my face.
God, I'm so sorry. I'm just so sorry. I'm so sorry, son. How did it come to this? What of the many mistakes that I've made caused this? Did you know how much I loved you? We loved you? Did I tell you enough? Did I hug you enough? What happened? What did I do wrong? You seemed happy, enjoying fishing, lacrosse, your friends, working at Super Friday. How could my baby be in such a place, and I be so blind to not see it? How, God? How did this happen? I don't understand and how can I keep going when nothing is safe or sure or secure? Nothing. Is that the faith journey? Step by step without even the certainty that there will be path underfoot? To just keep going?
And please, although I know you mean well and are trying to do what you think is right unto the Lord, please don't tell me that my son is in heaven and better than ever. I know that, and I don't care. Knowing a cast brings healing doesn't cast the pain of the break away. Knowing Zach is in heaven doesn't stitch up a heart. It doesn't help yet. It may never help. Faith - I know he's there, and I will see him again. Reality - it doesn't erase the pain even a little.
Most times, I feel better after I write it all down which is why I do it. The balloon deflates just enough, and then some more, and then I can breathe again. And I realized this week that it isn't just the writing. It is the prayers that come about as a result of the writing. That the balloon deflates as the prayers go up - soul helium, lifting me into His arms. He hears. He acts on what He hears. That He would even listen - now that is something. I don't even understand faith, but I know I have it.I'm sure about the things I can't see. And I know He'll give me the eternal things I hope for. But even that bandaid isn't big enough - yet.
Thank you for praying and for all the butterflies. They come quickly on the hardest days. He acts on what He hears. I have faith.
No comments:
Post a Comment