Living in a land that chose you

 It's been a month since we entered into a land void of Teresa's physical presence.

That is not to say her spirit is absent, but the finality of death on this side of heaven is tangible.

It is said you move on with time but those words don't resonate with my soul.

There's no moving on- rather life continues as if in circles, like a hypnotist's wheel.

Each day I'm a little further from the loss but still close enough to touch.

And each time, affected, as though at the center again.

The necessary, involuntary act of moving forward looks different for each of those who loved and lost.

My life before the loss of her (as a daughter-in-love, iteration on daughter-in-law taken from Lisa Harper) was propped by her love, excitement to see her grandchildren, and thoughtful birthday and Christmas gifting. She championed me, celebrated me well for any accomplishments I achieved. I got a card from her every year during Nurse's Week. I felt her pride.

However, my life wasn't full of her daily physical presence, touch, voice, essence as it was for Jim.

For him, every breath in the After is touched by her absence.

The pain is different, undefinable, thick, wrapping around every daily task she used to do, now performed by him.

For her daughter, her son... moving forward is marked by the lack of check-ins, an absent partner-in-crime, no more Ancestry updates, and the frequent realizations of how much they were buoyed up in this life by the prayers and love of their mother.

Photo cred: Brent Bremmer

She is gone only in physicality, the bountiful memories shoring up our hurting hearts.

But the memories and the tangible glory she left behind are remniscent of a hummingbird's wings.

There in beauty, but every detail not quite discernable.

Several things have surprised me about the land that chose us...

Lessons, or realizations that were unexpected because life has never required the experience of them:

• The space between loss and funeral is vast, all-consuming with its rocky emotional terrain and tasks, amidst a phenomenal brain fog, tears, and exhaustion.
• Words can be a balm, or feel like sandpaper.
• Never is a friend's intention to rub against the wound, but eventually the griever must laugh or disengage from the pain lest the kind, comforting words begin to feel like salt in a wound. 
• Friends show up in the fog as though sent from God...how did you know I needed that, at that time?
• The most perfectly worded card might end up being part of the funeral because it says so eloquently the words of our grieving, yet hopeful hearts.
• It is indeed a glorious thing to be loved big as Teresa was, and healing to know the one who is gone has left a Jesus-sized hole in everyone they met.
• The bounty of food brought by friends does come in handy :)
• Did I mention the astounding brain fog?

These last weeks it feels like I have been collecting pieces of my fragmented soul, gathered from the most random of spaces, and placing them in a pile before my Savior so he can restore it.

    Pieces strewed about inadvertently, some wearily dropped, others flung far in the chaos and the hard.

The question remains at the front of my mind: what do others do when they lose someone dear and don't have the hope of heaven and the certainty of God's goodness in their souls?
I couldn't walk one step forward without Him.
He restores my soul, the Psalmist says in Psalm 23.
Yes, God, please restore my soul and the souls of those in need.