I should be in bed.
My contacts are drying to my eyeballs and there is a dull ache crawling up between my shoulder blades and settling in sadistically at the base of my skull.
Such a day it has been. Full of Important Things and Schedules. People and Conversations of Great Importance.
Yet still I am compelled to write… Something. To try to quantify or express some of this whirling dervish of thoughts, feelings and perspectives that flit just beyond the range of expression while wreaking havoc on my sense of calm and well-being.
It’s not only the New Year that draws out a pervasive sense of introspection. That’s just a part of how I process life. Is it possible it is only the momentous-ness of the holidays? The memories of days filled with so many other voices that their absence echoes in this wide open space I find myself?
Now that the anger has faded and the crushing sadness has mostly abated I am left with a most exquisite sense of loss.
I see faces in pictures and I wonder if I ever truly knew these people. And if I didn’t? How else have I been wrong? In judgment and determinations? In character assessments and alliances?
I must constantly remind myself that it is not wrong to love. Even if the object of your devotion and dedication is not worth the treasure or treats you with disdain. Surely there is an empathy we can experience with our Messiah when we find ourselves in those circumstances.
Wouldn’t you agree? A microscopic pinch of fellowship in His suffering as He pours out His love on an undeserving, ungrateful and mutinous people?
It seems foolish and haphazard to miss something that ultimately played an enormous part in intense personal and public destruction?
It doesn’t seem… right. Somehow.
There was such a sense of belonging. Of integration. Of conjoined purpose. Perhaps that is what I miss most.Y
Yes. This is some of what whispers and lurks when I get quiet enough to see it. And underlying it all is confusion. A msperception of G-d’s timing. An undercurrent of indignation that they continue while we sit on the sidelines.
I’m tired of looking over my shoulder every time I go to certain stores. Of feeling the need to check “the perimeter” before settling into certain coffee shops. Of knowing there are still people I care about that I must keep at arms length to both protect this shaky sense of well-being and to prevent them from the contamination of affiliation with me and mine.
I’m tired of reminding my children to walk in forgiveness and asking them to pray for the family they left behind. The aunts/uncles/grandparent types they were so fond of. These precious people they poured their lives into.
I’m tired of knowing there is an entire group of people who professed love and fellowship to us and yet, in a heartbeat, chose to believe horrific things about my husband. When he only loved them. Prayed for them. Served them quietly. Fasted, wept and fought for them.
I get it when it relates to me. I’m not easy to love. I’m spectacular in small doses. More than that? You either love me or you can’t stand me.
Which is fair.
I feel the same way about myself.
I think I am beginning to realize this whole experience will not be something I can compartmentalize and put “behind” me. For better or worse it is now a part of me. It is most evident in the fiery red edges of a newly forged and not fully realized definition of who I am becoming.
I don’t entirely hate it. I don’t entirely recognize it. I am not quite comfortable in this metamorphosis. I may never be.
There is a pain just beyond the reach of my understanding that lurks and twinges and spasms.
Is it really there?
Or is it simply the remnants of a spiritual hurricane gradually working itself out in my unconscious and unsettled heart?
If only it didn’t feel quite so real.