Her Absence

 "Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything."  

C. S. Lewis  "A Grief Observed"

 

This is what has marked the past 51 years.

Her absence.

To have been so young has meant only one memory.

To have lived the last 51 years without her, has meant the presence of her absence.

She is spread over everything.

Each year I hold this day in my hands, turning it over, reflecting on that drive down a country road which changed everything.  I marvel that I still play the "if only", the "why?"  These thoughts don't linger long, but they are there.  She was so horribly stolen from my emerging life, how can I not wonder?  I do not wish a different life, only that she could be part of what is.

Time does heal.

Grief work is "rewarded".

Revisiting trauma creates freedom.

AND

this is not how it was supposed to be.

Life is rich and plentiful

AND

there is an empty space that will never be filled

 

I have grown and changed and raised my own beloved children.  A daughter-in-law graces my life.   A grandson has captured a piece of my heart.  My husband makes me feel enormously blessed.   I live with other losses and know places of contentment.  Life is generously purposeful.

AND still her absence remains.

My mother
is forever a part of me because

I was a part of her.

O my Adonai

In contemplative circles, a breath prayer is characterized by a few words which can be expressed as naturally as one breathes.  Most recently, "O my Adonai" has become a well worn prayer for me.  Adonai, a Hebrew name for God expresses His Lordship...."Lord of everything".

Oh how I need to be reminded and challenged and comforted by this beautiful truth.

O my Adonai,  Lord of my tumultuous emotions...the constant upheaval of joy and sadness that marks my days.

O my Adonai, my Lord of ever-flowing grace which frees my from the guilt of the brokenness in my life.

O my Adonai, Lord of these lengthening shadows of Lent and conqueror of evil and death, my Risen Lord!

O my Adonai, Lord of all my relationships, the deep, soul-filling ones and the painful one estranged.

O my Adonai, Lord of time and the days and months which have passed since she's been home.

O my Adonai, Lord of the one who still fills my days with his love and is ever willing to grow with me.

O my Adonai, Lord of my 14 month-old giver of wonder and laughter, delight...my bliss

O my Adonai, Lord of these two...one from my womb, who both live out purpose with serenity.

O my Adonai, Lord of celebrations and "dismantling" and moving forward...somehow

O my Adonai, Lord of the seasons of life and seasons of the year and this welcome promise of springtime. 

O my Adonai, how I need you now, like I did five minutes ago and yesterday, and will tonight and tomorrow and...

O my Adonai, how I love you.

Embracing Joy and Sorrow

 This prayer on "Embracing Joy and Sorrow", was recently shared with me by one of my sisters.  It has been so timely and has been providing me with somewhat of a template to sift through a myriad of emotions.

 

Do not be distant, O Lord,

lest I find this burden of loss too heavy,

and shrink from the necessary experience of my grief.

 

Do not be distant,

O Lord, lest I become so mired in yesterday’s hurts, 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

that I miss entirely

the living gifts this day might hold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let me neither ignore my pain,

pretending all is okay when it isn’t,

nor coddle and magnify my pain,

so that I dull my capacity

to experience all that remains good in this life.

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For joy that denies sorrow 

is neither hard-won,

nor true, nor eternal.

It is not real joy at all.

And sorrow that refuses to make space

for the return of joy and hope,

in the end becomes nothing more than a temple

for the worship of my own woundedness.

 

So, give me strength, O God,

to feel this grief deeply,

never to hide my heart from it. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And give me also hope enough

to remain open to surprising encounters with joy,

as one on a woodland path might stumble suddenly

into dapplings of golden light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amidst the pain that lades these days,

give me courage,

O Lord; courage to live them fully,

to love and to allow myself to be loved,

to remember, grieve, and honor what was, 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

to live with thanksgiving in what is, 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and to invest in the hope of what will be. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Be at work gilding these long heartbreaks 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

with the advent of new joys,

good friendships,

true fellowships, unexpected delights. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remind me again and again of your goodness,

your presence, your promises.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For this is who we are: a people of The Promise—

a people shaped in the image of the God

whose very being generates all joy in the universe,

yet who also weeps and grieves its brokenness.

 

So we, your children,

are also at liberty to lament our losses, 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

even as we simultaneously rejoice

in the hope of their coming restoration. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let me learn now, O Lord,

to do this as naturally as the inhale and exhale

of a single breath:

 

To breathe out sorrow,

to breathe in joy.

 

To breathe out lament,

to breathe in hope.

 

To breathe out pain,

to breathe in comfort.

 

To breathe out sorrow,

to breathe in joy.

 

 

In one hand I grasp the burden of my grief,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

while with the other I reach for

the hope of grief ’s redemption.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And here, between the tension of the two,

between what was and what will be,

in the very is of now,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

let my heart be

surprised by,

shaped by,

warmed by,

remade by,

the same joy that forever wells within

and radiates from your heart, O God. 

Amen.

 

Liturgy  "Embracing Joy and Sorrow"

"Every Moment Holy"

Douglas McKelvey