Written Without Tears

There is a beauty in watching a sunrise, spending the day in good labor, running errands and meeting with friends, rejoicing that the grandfather clock in the dining room is sounding again, enjoying the brilliant sunset, a hockey game, then sitting in quiet with candlelight, thinking through the events of the day. Or a life.

There was a beautiful sunrise on the day Brent died. In fact, there have been many beautiful sunrises. But on that day it seems, as I look back upon it now, God was letting me know even before I knew he was gone, that Brent had arrived safely home.

In my reflection tonight, as I watch the hockey game, I think of how much he would've enjoyed this. There must be shinny hockey in heaven. I hear his laugh, as if he were here. And I miss him.

My life since he has gone has been busier but quiet. Just as many chores, but only one person to do them. Sad moments slowly give way to less sad moments and those to almost happy moments. It is still a tug of war, especially when others share their stories. Or when I hear a man say how much he loves his wife. Or when a wife complains about her husband.

There's no making sense of this. I mourn many things in our marriage but we had joy, too. I mourn everything about his death. It has altered my landscape like an amputation. A part of me is gone and I must learn, am learning, how to function without, in my not-quite-whole being.

I like to believe I would be so much different now. And would have then, if I had only known. I like to believe, but it's not given to us to know what might have been, nor what will be. I can only choose how I will be in the present. This moment.

This moment is sacred. The sunrise tomorrow will be beautiful. God's mercies will be new again. Jesus, the Man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, He is my life. The Spirit is the Comforter. There is peace in acceptance.

How long will healing take?

As long as it takes.

And that's okay.