Sunday, October 16, 2011

We moved here....

sixteen months after your death. To a place that was supposed to become our home. To a place where no one knew you. To a place where no one remembers you on the days that hurt the most. To a place that has more often felt like not home.

I guess the easy answer for not feeling home here is because you are not with us. Every meal holds an empty chair, in my mind. Every basket of laundry holds an absence of your clothes, in my mind. Every laugh around the table holds the silence of you not laughing, in my mind.

It's always the mind that goes first. But wherever we land this side of heaven, the emptiness and the silence and the absence will be our memory. Not theirs. In some way I feel immensely selfish about that. All my memories of you are just that--my memories. But sometimes it would be sweet, bittersweet, to hear someone else, just one, wax on about you and let me simply relish the sound.

It would not fill the gap. It would not heal the hurt. It would not, ever, never, replace the loss. But shared grief does remind you that this is not the way it should be. Shared grief is the reaching out of a hand to grasp the hand that otherwise remains empty. Shared grief is the acknowledgement that you were then and you are now.

Today is your day of celebration with the One who never forgets either you or me. That's exactly where I will rest today. Until I get to the real Home and rest is the activity of my eternity. Until then, James.


  1. Wishing I could wax on about James and make you smile at the recounting of the memories.

    Meanwhile, we trust and rest and wait.

  2. I haven't got memories. But I've got love from across the miles. Sending it to you as you rest.

  3. Indeed shared grief is a most valuable gift. Thank you! I pray that one day I will grow into the role as beautifully as you have, so I can better lavish on you my friend. From one broken down house to another, this isn't the way it should be. I love you, your stories and pictures of James and the heart God has crafted in you through the privilege and wound of being his mother. I hope we are neighbors on the streets of gold, so we can also share awe of the glorious restoration.

  4. So thankful for the hope we have in Christ. I grieve your loss with you, friend, and like Rosemary wish I could wax on in sweet remembrance. Oh, for the day our faith is sight! Even so, come, Lord Jesus!