• 21Dec

    12-20-08
    I woke this morning to the sound of the computer. I wandered bleary eyed out into the living room to find Benjamin hard at his Civilization game (a game his father taught him) and oblivious to the rest of the world. I whispered something about it being awfully early and he just smiled and waved at me. I stumbled back to bed figuring he’d be just fine. Then the memories rolled in. I remember Dan telling me of the many Saturday mornings he woke up early (5 or 6) to watch a cartoon before heading back to bed. I remember him staying awake for hours playing on his computer after everyone else had gone to sleep. I remember waking up at 2 am, noticing that he was still missing and getting up to find him still locked in some life or death struggle with a machine that failed to remind him of the time.
    So as I crawled back into bed this morning I rolled over to look at his side and grumbled about Benjamin being “his kid”. Then I noticed again that his side of the bed was empty and realized that he wasn’t just out playing with his computer, or off to work already, . . and the pain washed over me all over again. Why isn’t he here to chuckle at my joke and cuddle me back to sleep? Why isn’t he here to see his children grow up? Why was I left behind? How do I make it through another day? And I find myself blindly clutching a pillow, a blanket, anything; trying to find some solace in the “feel” of something substantial, trying to get a grasp on the life that is still revolving around me, trying to find something that will bring me back to the present, the here and now.
    Not all days start like that, for which I am grateful. But I do often find myself struggling to bring myself back to reality, back to the way normal people view the day. Even a conversation with a stranger in the parking lot will remind me of just how much my perspective has been saturated by the loss of Dan. I miss him so.

  • 21Dec

    Can they see the pain that haunts my eyes? Can they hear my heart breaking in two? Do they have any idea just how close to tears I am on any given occasion? Are they feeling the same thing and I’m just so lost in my own grief and self that I can’t see beyond my own pain? How many people that I meet on the street, in the store, driving by, delivering the mail . . how many of them are suffering, too? How often have I smiled at someone without looking into their eyes, and have failed to notice that their world is breaking up around them. How often have I said lightly “Have a nice day!” and never noticed just how difficult that could be?

    The pain is there, permeating everything; every thought, every word, every action. “How can they not see?” I wonder. And then I struggle to recall the innocence of the distant past. Even my children often seem oblivious to the pain that is drowning me. They are so matter of fact in their conversations about Daddy. “Daddy is dead” they might say, and then move on to “I like lots of green in my pictures”. No correlation, no tears, . . sometimes they toss out memories and sometimes they note that they miss their Daddy, but life moves on and they just don’t seem to realize the hole, the loss that they are enduring. In some ways I envy them the simplicity. Jesus tells us to come to Him as little children . . bring Him the hurt, the pain, the loss and leave it there. Continue on with life . . . oh, but the past still haunts me so.