Random Grief

I have had a very arduous week  filled with necessary business meetings with insurance companies, doctors, Boy Scout troop leaders, Social Security personnel, financial planners, and more. I have grieved for him greatly this week.  The heaviness of all of the meetings and discussing all of the issues is much harder than it appears.  Any time I have to discuss the business matters, the accident, insurance, etc., my insides begin to burn.  It starts in the pit of my stomach then radiates up to my ears.  I cannot put into words the emotions I am feeling during those times.  It takes several to say it all... lonely, exposed, somewhat fearful, insecure, scared... like a child lost at an amusement park.  It can make me feel small.  I had so many friends lifting me up in prayer this week and God answered the prayers by allowing me to take one thing at a time and each meeting was not as bad as I had anticipated them to be.  Oh, I still cried plenty of tears and felt some weight, but it felt bearable.  I feel like my grieving was random this week.  I could not put my finger one thing, but I just felt the grief everywhere.  Everywhere I turned, there it was.  I was inside Walgreen's yesterday picking up some medicine for Julia and the pharmacist asked if I had a new insurance card because the one they had on file did not work.  I told her yes, and pulled out my new one.  She asked if there were other people insured that she could go ahead and make the changes on the computer.  I told her yes, my three children.  She wrote down their names with the last one being Michael Anthony Jr.  Noticing the Jr.,  she asked if their father was insured on this card as well.  I said, "No. He passed away. It was in his name but was changed over to mine." I had to answer her so quickly, then, after I said it, I felt like I had just experienced a blind sided tackle.  Here came the body heat.  The tears rose up and filled my eyes.  I was suddenly searching for my pack of tissues in my purse to catch the tears that were already streaming down.

Each morning, as I dressed for the day and anticipated the meetings of the day, I missed his strength.  We anchored one another.  I felt the weight of carrying out these responsibilities without him. I cried while I was getting ready.  When I can't pin point the feelings I am having, I cry more.  This week, I just missed Michael and needed him all across the board.  Random grief.  The book I am reading now, not often lately, is Wendell Berry's, Hannah Coulter.  I picked it up recently and the page that I "happened" to be held this very profound thought.  I feel it is very appropriate to me this week.  Hannah has been telling her life story, catching up the reader to her present life.  She has gone back to tell the story of losing her husband in the war while living with her in-laws....
 
"I began to know my story then.  Like everybody's, it was going to be the story of living in the absence of the dead.  What is the thread that holds it all together?  Grief, I thought for awhile.  And grief is there sure enough, just about all the way through.  From the time I was a girl, I have never been far from it.  But grief is not a force and has no power to hold.  You only bear it.  Love is what carries you, for it is always there, even in the dark, or most in the dark, but shining out at times like gold stitches in a piece of embroidery.  Sometimes too I can see that love is a great room with a lot of doors, where we are invited to knock and come in.  Though it contains all the world, the sun, moon, and stars, it is so small as to be also in our hearts.  It is in the hearts of those who choose to come in.  Some do not come in.  Some may stay out forever.  Some come in together and leave separately.  Some come in and stay, until they die, and after."

Love is carrying me.  Michael's love and the love of those that remain.  We walked into that great room together.  What a beautiful room it was. Our love shines out like the golden stitches.  These lovely thoughts help me turn my random grief to a focused love of a lifetime.