Yes, it's been a while.
But you see, I've been avoiding certain things, and when I say certain things, I really mean anything grief-related. This past month I've been pretending to myself that I'm just the mom of one really nice four year old who's blessed enough to stay home, craft, bake and preach. (And part of that is true!) I've been pretending that my life is really going well, that I feel great inside, that nothing huge or no one essential is missing.
These days I do my crying in the middle of the night while sleeping, accidentally waking myself up from sobbing. Because I'm not unhappy. In fact, I'm absolutely fine.
So I tell myself.
Again and again.
No really, I'm doing great.
This past year since Vincent died I have done some serious grief work. Up till now I have faced my wounds head-on, dealt with hosts of secondary losses in stride and worked from rage to a somewhat reluctant acceptance. But now that the anniversary of Vincent's passing looms before me, I am pissed. Angry. Mad. Furious. I suppose I should be happy that Vincent had a place to go when he died, that he passed from being in my arms to being in Jesus' presence. I should be glad that one day I'll be reunited with him, that nothing again will ever part us. I should be thankful that at least my marriage is secure, my other child healthy. But no, I'm angry. In the words of the longtime news anchor Howard Beale from the 1976 film Network, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"
Once again, the source of my deepest pain is laid open. And let me tell you, this wound stinks.
But for now I'll ignore it. I'll bury myself in tons of sewing. I may even write a few prayers. But they'll be happy prayers, because I'm fine. Really, why wouldn't I be?
