The Narrow Road

 

             My thoughts roam to the outside.  The new song of a persistent whippoorwill distracts me.  I keep thinking of my friends who have lost children - wondering how they are doing.  One just crossed two years, one is crossing one year tomorrow. And now I read about a family making the hard decision to pull the life support from their young son who was just having a final swim for the summer - in water where a deadly parasite waited to kill and destroy.  And their journey of grief will begin it's long search for survival. The cycle of grief starts today for them.

Isn’t it amazing how hearts do somehow survive?  We experience a great loss in our lives, wondering how we will make it through the crisis, and then we are six months along. The scar is healing on the surface, but it is deep and still aches, and we work everyday to rehabilitate ourselves, we “get away” to places that are meant to refresh and restore, but our hearts can barely keep the pace, wondering if we will ever find our way.  The road to recovery is narrow and often crowded out by the hustle and bustle of filling up each minute with life. 

Here’s a perfect example. We drove to a beach where we took our children for many years.  The roads have all changed to make way for progress.  Beach mansions have risen up in the aftermath of hurricanes and sleepy fishing villages have become palm-tree lined boulevards.  Our friends said, “Come on, we are taking you to a place you would never find on your own.”  As he turned off of the busy main road onto an unidentifiable shell- gravel lane, I wondered why I would even want to find it, but I trusted him.  And once we walked  around the corner, past the kitchen/trailer where several drowsy cats were sunning, then I understood what they wanted us to see.  A gray-weathered dock with a few tattered, faded umbrellas provided a setting of natural beauty.  Tucked away in the inlet, an old fishing camp was the backdrop for forgotten docks, now claimed by the pelicans.  I wanted to paint it-capture it somehow.  It was like Wordsworth’s words, “And then my heart with pleasure fills” as we were content just to look at the water, watch the pelicans, and wonder at the charm of it all.  It was as though the bridge to civilization was blocked from our view, and somehow time  allowed this little spot to exist for the sheer beauty, simplicity, and restorative qualities it bestowed.  It was a reminder of the way things were meant to be.

I love to be taken to a surprise place – a place that I would not find on my own, often a narrow road.  And I love the fact that our friends thought we, too, would love it.  Henri Nouwen in his book “Show Me the Way” returns again and again to that road we seek on our faith journey, finding our way to the cross.  He sends us to the passage in Matthew where Jesus tells his disciples that the “gate is small and the road narrow that leads to life." But even though it is small and narrow, everyone is invited to turn down that road. It is also a reminder how easy it is to overlook or miss the narrow road – the little, often overlooked path that takes one to a surprise place, filled with peace and calm, beauty and promise.

 

In the personal search for survival, there is a road on which we can be guided. There is a road that is often overgrown and crowded with the distractions of the day. But there is a road - a road to recovery.

 

 

 

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Remembering The Birthday Of The One You Grieve

Today is her birthday. Today she would be 32 years old. Today we would do something fun to celebrate. I have already received a few calls and texts from those who loved her. The morning devotionals have reflected meaning to my soul and strengthened me. Healed me. Encouraged me.

And I want to encourage you along this grief journey. My daughter died five years ago. Every year, while seeming long and short at the same time, have collectively provided healing power. Time heals our pain and fortifies us with the knowledge that we are in fact, still breathing, still functioning to some degree, still eating and sleeping with the full knowledge that our loved one is gone from this life. Gone from our touch, gone from enjoying birthday cake, gone from daily sharing of this life.

I came to this realization profoudly these last few months. My son married a beautiful young woman last week and we have celebrated and rejoiced with the full awareness of an absent daughter and sister. I don't think there was ever a tear of sorrow remembering her. Our youngest daughter proposed a lovely toast to the bride and groom and she acknowledged - out loud - that yes, she had lost her sister five years ago, but with this marriage, she affirmed the new addition of a new sister - and not just one, but the two sisters of the bride as well. My daughter's bravery of standing in front of 50 people and acknowledging what many had on their hearts was just another affirmation of the healing power of time. Our minister once said to give your problems and pain a name and once you do that, you will be able to deal with your hurt. I am so grateful my daughter had the courage to do what I could have never done. Well said, Blair.

Where are you in your grief journey? Where are you in your sorrow and suffering? My friend just crossed over the two-year anniversary of her son. Still so fresh. Still so hard to believe. Another friend just lost his wife. Five months. He says he is trying to stay busy but finds himself utterly distracted most of the time. So normal for grief.  And today my friends are weeping over fresh loss of a mother, grandmother, and friend. The husband has thanked God for giving them sever years to enjoy marriages and grandchildren.

I know after five years that gratitude is a powerful medicine for grieving a loss.  I, too, am grateful I had 27 (short) years with Megan. I am grateful we loved each other and cherished our years together. And today, on her birthday I am grateful I can prepare a birthday dinner and light candles on a birthday cake.  And those around the table will celebrate life and love and friendship, right there along with loss and pain and grief. 

It is how we move through and find our way. And God's presence is the light for our path.