For many people, it is difficult to even find the strength to get out of bed after
losing a loved one. For me, the day after my dad passed away, it was all I
wanted to do. Lying in the spot he used to sleep in, I stared at the ceiling in
the darkness for most of the night. My mom and my sister with me, but I
think we could all agree we had never felt more alone. Before attempting
to get any rest I offered a prayer for the three of us, asking God to send His
spirit and start healing our broken hearts.
But despite the calm that swept over my tired body, my mind was quite
restless. I couldn’t close my eyes, couldn’t seem to let that day end. I can’t
even begin to explain the range of emotions and thoughts that encompassed me
that night. But it was the first of many nights like that. I know my mom didn’t
get any sleep that night either. And poor Maddy was able to rest just a little;
I’ll never forget the sound of her crying in her sleep because it broke my heart
and continues to haunt me to hear the manifestation of my baby sister’s pain.
I kept waiting for the sun to rise, to bring an end to the darkness. I
was exhausted, not only physically but mentally and emotionally as well. All I
wanted was to see the light of day and to give up on the endless battle with
myself. Despite my fatigue, I was hoping to start the morning with a walk with
my mom. Generally she walks each day, and whenever I visit I try to join in on
her morning routine. Around six o’clock I was able to finally take a break from
the battle, my body succumbed to the overwhelming exhaustion and for a brief few
hours I escaped the new reality of life. Around eight o’clock I awoke to the
startling sound of the dogs moving about. It was finally morning. Praise the
Lord. I rolled over, climbed out of bed, and looked outside—it was raining. Of
course it was raining. I hung my head in defeat and climbed back in bed—I knew
my mom wouldn’t want to walk in the rain. To my surprise…I was wrong.
It was unusually cold that February morning. The wind had a bite to it that added
to the chill of the rain. Within a few minutes of walking, my sweatshirt was
damp and my hair was matted to my head. Wet drops of rain ran down my face,
falling from my brows, nose and chin to the ground. We moved forward at a fast
pace along the winding paved road; there was never a car in sight. The open lake
was beside us and the bare trees accented the somber nature of our surroundings.
We pushed ahead mainly in silence. Among the conversation that took place that
first morning was a promise we made. We promised to look out for one another, to
keep our family accountable for our actions. It is easy to fall into destructive
patterns of behavior, to lose faith, to give up on oneself. But it takes
perseverance to remain accountable and to swear off the destructive patterns. We
promised to cope in positive ways—to focus our energy on therapeutic means of
expression—exercise, prayer, fellowship, art, you name it. For my mom, walking
is her therapy—her chance-to escape everything, clear her mind, and focus only
on the thoughts she chooses. For me, it will likely be writing. I’ve had a
difficult time expressing myself lately for many reasons, but putting my pen to
paper releases every thought, every emotion that has been bottling up in my
brain. My mom and I made this promise not only for ourselves, but because we
knew the survival of our family depended on it.
As we got closer to our house that morning I decided that I wasn’t quite
ready to go back home. I parted ways with my mom and ventured over to the park.
As soon as my foot hit the sidewalk I broke out into a run. And as soon as I
began running the rain began pouring down. By this point my clothes were
drenched. It didn’t matter. I kept running. No music. No distractions. I’d never
felt more alive. I continued for as long as I possibly could because I didn’t
want to lose that feeling. It was exhilarating. It was the saddest I’d ever been
in my life, but I was alive. I decided I was running for my dad, for the
memories, for his legacy. I was running partly because I could. I felt closer to
him. I felt like my dad was holding one hand and Jesus was holding the other.
That’s the only way I can really describe that morning, because, how else would
I have been able to get through it? Honestly, I’m still amazed I could even get
out of bed that day. But I had God on my side, so I know I shouldn’t be so
surprised. Each day I am reminded that despite the greatest tragedy, my life is
worth living. And each day he finds a way to remind me that everything will be
okay, to place my trust in God.