Unexpected Comfort
Guest post by Kit Tosello
FYI: When you’re a mom and you have a personal crisis, the world doesn’t stop.
You try to keep the balls in the air. You wash dishes and drive kids to school and say, "Have a great day, honey!" But your arms feel extra heavy and each word you speak takes deliberate effort.
And then there’s the hole. I discovered that grieving was like a dark gaping hole in the ground, luring me to its edge, daring me to confront my deepest hurts.
I had watched as my Mom gracefully shed her broken earthly body, and danced into heaven three days before last Christmas. It was a divinely beautiful, spiritually affirming moment.
So I looked up, beyond the ceiling of the yellow-painted hospital room and whispered, "Congratulations," and then I looked back at her delicate face – my mother’s face – for the very last time.
Then I collapsed into my twenty-year-old daughter’s arms. "I’m so afraid," I whispered.
"Of what?" she asked softly.
"Of tomorrow," I sobbed. "And the next day, and the day after. Of life without her."
During Alice Wisler’s online course, I found that writing kept me away from the pit. It exposed the monsters under my bed for what they were: fears and insecurities that lost their power when exposed to the light.
I’m sad today. My once-bouncey blonde cherub, who melted his Grandma’s heart when he curled up sweetly next to her while she napped, graduates from high school next Friday. I can’t hear Mom’s voice saying how proud she is of him. But I can scrawl my disappointment here on this page, before God, and find unexpected comfort.
About the writer:
Kit's blog, The High Desert Home Companion, is a "Kitchen Designer's take on life in Central Oregon." Visit her blog and read more.
No comments:
Post a Comment