Raw

After a wonderful, happy, fulfilling spring break week vacationing in Arizona I have hit the wall. Thank you dear friends for loving me and our children and imparting your goodness to us again.

These last days the pain of Jake's death has been fresh and overwhelming and raw. It will have been a year since he died on Sunday.

The pain has been so intense.

If I am really honest I must say that I feel his loss all the time. It is ever present, all encompassing and never ending. But somehow the pain, the level of ache and hurt and heartache ebbs and flows.  At times I can get busy and consumed and for moments the pain seemingly goes away.

But it really doesn't go away. I just get distracted and do not feel it as intensely.

Work is a good antidote for me and I am a good worker.

I wake up in the morning until the end of the day driving myself to do and to complete and to take care of life even when I don't always feel like it. And in the last year I have had loads and loads of work to do with settling Jake's affairs, moving to a new state and setting up life for our kids.

If I am really honest I can see that I have often used work to mask my pain. I am using it to keep me distracted.

I wish I could say that things get better after a year.

I cannot.

I don't think that is true.

I can say that you do get familiar with the pain after a year and it is not so foreign and intrusive and unfamiliar.

In fact, rather than your enemy the pain becomes your partner and you don't fight so much against it but rather feel resigned to its companionship. 365 days of sleeping alone, crying alone, and aching alone do that for you. The pain that was once a new feeling, unknown and unexplored is now a trusted companion and the feelings and thoughts it brings have taken up residence.

During the years of Jake's illness I thought I would be prepared for what his death would feel like. I thought I would know what to expect. I thought I had a sense of how it would be.

I was totally wrong.

In true Jake fashion, lyrics from a song that comes to mind to relay this experience state, "Hello darkenss (insert sadness, sorrow, grief) my old friend, I've come to talk with you again."
 -Sound of Silence

I am still mourning Jake's death and will be forever grateful to those who have, who are and who will continue to "mourn with {me} who mourns."

A dear friend sent me a message last month that was so helpful and states,

"Irrespective of age, we mourn for those loved and lost. Mourning is one of the deepest expressions of pure love. It is a natural response in complete accord with divine commandment: Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die. (Doctrine and Covenants 42:45) Moreover, we can't fully appreciate joyful reunions later without tearful separations now. The only way to take sorrow out of death is to take love out of life."

And I love Jake with my whole heart.

A scene from the movie "The Princess Bride" has been running through my mind. The masked man is speaking to the girl about the death of her true love Wesley and she states passionately "I died that day" upon finding out the news of her beloved's death.

I can relate.

I died the day Jake died too.

This past year I have had many occasions where I've been startlingly awakened to the reality that I am still alive.

I breathe, I eat, I move. I am still living but somehow I have forgotten how to live. Yes, I do what needs to be done and on the surface seem to be doing well but inside am broken and aching and empty and it is hard to find great meaning beyond sustaining daily life.

So, as Jake and I learned to do together throughout his illness I continue to do alone: Live one day at a time.

Our children are my greatest blessing in living for the day. I do what I do for them and I am grateful they need me to do it.

So I get up each morning.

Find my daily bread.

Turn my heart to the Savior.

Stay with Him. Just stay with Him.

Jesus still sends the help that I need. It is not always what I want, but if I am really honest I must admit that it is enough. His grace is personal, intentional and so very merciful.

I'll end with the lyrics to a song that I've listened to over and over these last months which remains my hope for the future. It is called "Sometime We'll Understand" (click to hear) and was written and composed by Rob Gardner.

Not now, but in the coming years, 
It may not be when we demand, 
We’ll read the meaning of our tears, 
And there, sometime, we’ll understand 

Why what we long for most of all 
Eludes our open, pleading hand; 
Why ever silence meets our call, 
Somewhere, sometime, we’ll understand. 

So trust in God through all thy days; 
Fear not, for He doth hold thy hand; 
Though dark thy way, still sing and praise, 
Sometime, sometime we’ll understand. 

Sometime, we’ll fall on bended knee, 
And feel there, graven on His hand 
Sometime with tearless eyes we’ll see 
What, here, we could not understand. 

So trust in God through all thy days; 
Fear not, for He doth hold thy hand; 
Though dark thy way, still sing and praise, 
Sometime, sometime we’ll understand.