N ow has accelerated through another day, another week, and
E very moment I thought I had left has evaporated into yesterdays
W ith unfinished to-do lists and unmet obligations.
Y et with this new beginning, I take a fresh look and a fresh breath, which reframe what
E ach new year can be—a chance to forgive, to forget, to dream big again, but to
A ccept my limitations in the context of what is possible. With
R enewed hope and a prayerful heart, I face what can be in this New Year.
I woke suddenly in the wee hours, the dark hours. Was it the weird dream I was having? Maybe. But aside from that, I immediately was aware that I had passed the anniversary of my first child’s death and had not remembered.
That was what kept me awake.
I stopped hearing the heartbeat with my stethoscope on Nov. 18, ’74. The doctor confirmed my full-term child was dead on the 18th, and I gave birth to her on the 19th. Every year at this time, whether I say anything or not, the loss rises up. And though time has healed the rawness of the wound, the grief has always been there.
But not this year.
The loss of Noelle colored my whole life. It framed my internal dialogue with God about what is just and right, and what is love in His eternal economy. I wrote a lot of songs. I wrote a lot of poetry. And I journaled the highs and lows of grappling with loss and disappointment. I processed a lifetime of questions. I railed and returned to the knee time and time again, knowing that He was there to meet me in my anguish and questioning.
Though it hurt to turn the grief over and over in my mind and art, the reality of it, in a strange way, is what gave me hope. There was the expectation that something so horrible would be made right at the end of all things. All the hard things would not be for nothing.
Pain and hope link arms, and it is what keeps you pressing on. It kept me pressing on.
To stop feeling the pain is to forget. And to forget is to become numb.
If I forget, I don’t care.
If I don’t care, I lose hope that things will ever be right.
The steady drip drip of loss joins the stream of all the other pains in my heart and in this world, and it would flow on and on unabated, swallowing up all the cries of us, the anonymous, if not for the glimpse of promise. I must believe that even if I stop feeling, His promise is stronger than my exhausted unbelief.
“Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief.” ~~Mark 9:24
Lord, of the faithless, the weary wanderer, though I am apt to complain more than praise, don’t let me stop feeling the pain that reassures me I am connected and hoping for your kingdom to come. Be near me in the silence of my heart; speak love to me. Help me to not stop caring.
A candle to push back the darkness, but the tricky thing is
that as light comes it burns,
burns the imperfections away–ashes left behind.
Can I not have the illumination without the pain?
If I could have light without burning,
I could, but
fire doesn’t work that way.
To my mind
to my black heart
Light of the world, come.