one day

One day, I promise, I will have pictures of Ansley and Christian again, and talk about our daily life and the funny things Ansley says and how Christian is almost ten months, and how their smiles brighten my days.

But not today. I feel like I can't even talk about such trivial things in the face of such sadness. It takes a lot of willpower for me to get out of this house. Yesterday we ventured to the library. Seems easy enough, doesn't it? But then I hear a song, or I pass a Krystal, or I remember something, and suddenly a trip to the library seems like a monumental task. What would people do if they saw a mom in a library with tears streaming down her face? Ignore her? Talk to her? I don't know - but I didn't want to find out, either. Today we went to gymnastics, and somehow I made it through. But not without thinking that I wanted to yell at least a dozen times "Don't you know my father is dying?? My DAD is dying!! How can you all stand here and laugh and talk like nothing is wrong?" But, of course, I don't.

And then I think how can I be this sad when my Dad is still here? What will happen when he's gone? Some days I'm afraid that this intense, deep sadness will never go away. And then when I think someday it won't hurt this much, I'm afraid because I don't want to forget. What if in five years, I can't remember what my Dad's voice sounded like? What if I can't recall that joke he always used to tell that made us roll our eyes? Or the name of the book he really wanted me to read? How does someone move past all this? What if I can't? What if I don't want to?

I've been frantically, obsessively looking back at videos, trying to see my Dad as he was before all this. I'm mad at myself that I didn't take more videos of him. Would it have been that hard to take the camera off the kids for two seconds? There are some videos, but not too many. I had wanted to have him write letters to Ansley and Christian, to put in scrapbooks for when they are older. But we ran out of time. How did this happen so quickly?

All I can do is continue to breathe. I continue to do the daily things that keep me grounded. I continue to call on God for help, to sustain me, Jonathan, my Mom. Grief is an endless pit that you could drown in, if you wanted to. I suppose some people do.

God, help me to climb out, and look to You, and smile again.

Some friends of my parents, Bill and Janet, sent me some pictures the other day of my Dad they had taken the last time they saw him (in July). She explained that my Dad was demonstrating their new trash can, and they laughed so hard they cried. They made me laugh, too! Dad loved that trash can!

Psalm 23:4 "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me."

Comments

[Joanna]

You are such a light, Megan. In the midst of your sorrow you are a light. a light. a path. a way.

[KELLY JOHNSON]

It is so hard to imagine what you are going through. I think it is impossible to know that kind of sadness without experienceing it. Our hearts continue to go out to you all and we think of you often. Please give our best to your mom and brother too. Let me know if there is anything we can do.

[Jonathan]

It's amazing how everytime I read your blog it seems as if I could have written the exact same words. (if I was as good at writing as you are) Sometimes I think I'm doing really good and then I look at something as simple as the kitchen light that dad helped me install less than a year ago and I break down. You're right, we just have to take it day by day and the Lord will help us with our burdens and sorrows.

Tell the butterfly and caterpillar I'll see them tomorrow.

[amber]

Megan, there is NEVER enough time. There will never be enough photographs, or cards, or videos. However, there are enough memories. There is enough love for you to cherish. There is enough of God; of His love; of His comfort. Your dad has God's love. You have your dad's love. Your dad has the love of your family - he always will. It may never seem enough, but it is. I promise you that you won't forget your dad...his voice, his smile, his jokes, his "ways." I promise.

I am praying for you. "The joy of the Lord is our strength." It's hard to recall what joy is right now. I know. But it will come. You will feel your dad urging you to be joyful, to laugh with your children...his grandchildren. And you will. I am praying for peace in your heart. You have been so honest in your feelings, and there are times I feel as though you're telling my story. God is taking care of you and your family. Trust Him.