Wednesday, October 22, 2014


Simply defined, a lament is a passionate expression of grief or sorrow.

Much like this blog.

There was a lot to work through the year after Vincent died.  I couldn't not write about the messy process of grieving, raging, remembering, forgiving.

In the last four years my grief has become less visible, less obviously messy.  I don't randomly burst into tears.  I can rather successfully navigate new circumstances without being overwhelmed.  I seem put together.  Although it may seem to have abated, the truth is I'm grieving more now on the inside. The weight of grief is still there.  It never leaves.  Each day carries with it a sense of loss - I see it in the gap between my youngest and eldest child, when I tell new friends how many children I have (two is the proper answer), when I see toddlers taking first steps with their mom, when I hear my son's name spoken in passing by a stranger.  If you talked to me now, four years later, you might think everything's OK.

But it isn't.

How could it be, after I watched my son die a slow death, shriveling every day as life-giving fluids left his body, his stomach swollen with tumors, mouth parched for water.  Death came too soon, too violently, too wrong.  It was unjust, unfair, untimely and I am undone.

On that note, here's a prayer.

Ironic God,
You who watch over the sparrows,
number the hair on my head
How can you stand by
while people die every day, praying, hoping, bargaining, beseeching.
Where are your ears?
Don't you care?
Can't you heal?
How will you fix this?
What kind of joy makes up for sorrow?
Tell me, I want to know.
Or better yet, show me.

-I'll come up with a more faith-filled litany later but for now this lament is all I have.