HOPE GROWS
I never imagined a day I wouldn’t weep to the point of exhaustion. For two years after my son passed away, I wept like a child in my closet and in my secret places. Sometimes I couldn’t contain myself and I would cry even in public places. But I wept. Every single day, I wept. “Will grief ever end? I am so tired from sorrow. When will relief come?” I thought to myself in moments of deep despair.
I have come to learn an immutable truth: grief will last so long as love lasts. The moment I stop loving will be the moment I stop hurting. But that will never happen – for I love little Mitch, even to infinity. So, I accept that sorrow will be my companion the remainder of my mortal life. There is no escaping it. I will not run from grief … instead I will try to learn from it.
“Somehow, after passing through veils of sorrow and the shadows of death, there is light on the other side.”
So far, grief has taught me to enjoy the moment, for we will never have now again. Grief has turned my life upside down, but right-side up – for my priorities are so very different. It has taught me to love more deeply and witness first-hand the supernal doctrine of mourning with those that mourn. I have experienced the healing powers of empathy from others and seen the destructive effects when there is none. Grief, while hellish and painful, has been a tender teacher – and for that I am grateful.
I have found the process of writing out my sorrows, in my journal and here on Mitchell’s Journey, a helpful tool in my grief journey. I’m sure on some level it has helped release building pressure that might otherwise have become bottled up grief. But I have discovered more in writing that just releasing emotional pressure. It has helped me learn and process the things I hold most dear to my heart. Author Joseph Joubert once observed, “Writing is closer to thinking than speaking.” I believe he is right. Writing down my thoughts has helped me sort through my sorrows, to provide context and meaning to suffering, and to see with my spiritual eyes.
This is what it looks like when I write. A blank sheet of paper and a photo. I never write without asking my Father in prayer, “What am I to learn from this? I’m listening.” From there I go on a journey back in time to these moments I hold sacred and dear to me. My memories are vivid and almost tangible … both a blessing and a curse for a heart that longs to love as it once did. I always cry when I write. Sometimes I weep. On occasion, I weep deeper than deep. But somehow, after passing through veils of sorrow and the shadows of death, there is light on the other side. I hear my Father’s voice, however quietly, and I know we’re not alone. I then thank my Father for teaching me something my weary heart needed to know.
Hearing my loving Father’s voice teach my broken soul, no matter how undeserving I may feel at times, gives me hope that perhaps tomorrow, or someday, things may not be so heavy as they seem today. Already I see a difference from yesterday. And with each step toward healing my hope grows. Even now I look at my tender, yet healing heart and hope grows.