Grief Sucks

This is my 11th attempt to sit down and write this blog over the last several years. I don't know if I'll make it to the end this time or if I will walk away from it like I have the last ten times and try again another day. I've not written in three years, and that's mostly because this story has been stuck in my throat, and I can't say anything else until it pours out of me. I just don't know if I have what it takes to tell it. Not the way it deserves, at least. 

Faith, grace, and mercy are core fundamentals of our faith. The funny thing about each is that they can take on new meanings depending on what trial you are facing at the moment. I've walked some long, hard roads in my 42 years of life, but nothing prepared me for this one. 

Grief sucks. That might actually make it as the title of this blog post if I ever finish it. I've wrestled in my spirit more times than I would like to admit lately. Grief becomes etched into our DNA once we walk through it. It takes on all kinds of forms, with anger seeming to linger the longest. I've been angry for a while now. But it's faith, grace, and mercy that brings me back. 

When you're angry, faith is all you have. It isn't merely what you believe in, but it's the thing that keeps you from sinking into unbelief and the only thing that brings you an ounce of peace. It becomes the thing you absolutely can't live without.

 Grace isn't always something that you extend to others - sometimes, you need to extend it to yourself. The day she died, I sat on my front porch for four hours thinking about all the missed opportunities I let slip by because life was so busy, and I thought we had more time. Even though a day didn't go by without speaking, I wondered if she knew how much I loved her. I wonder if she truly knew what her friendship meant to me. I wondered if she even knew I was there towards the end, holding her hand and making her silent promises. 

Mercy. I don't know if I can even unpack this one. Praying for mercy as you watch someone you love suffer is hard. I'm just going to leave that one to sit right there, or I will walk away from this again.

Over the last several years, I've needed her here. Badly needed her here. We could have done this teenager thing together because, let me tell you, it's tough. Instead of wiping each other's tears and being each other's support system, I've sat at her grave and poured my heart out alone. And I've been so mad about it. But even still, I know what faith looks like. She taught me. She walked through one of the hardest things a wife and mother can, and still, her faith knew no boundaries. You had to experience it to fully understand. From the moment of her diagnosis to her death, she only ever exuded faith. Not tears. Not pity. Not sadness. Not dread. Not anger. That's all the things I would have exuded in her shoes. All she ever did was comfort others with a smile on her face and talk about the goodness of God. One of the last things she said to me was, "What would I ever do without you." Now, I am living life without her, and I know the heartache that phrase holds.  

Seeing our kids love each other as deeply as we did brings me a level of peace that I can't possibly explain. It's what she would have dreamed of, too. We always hoped they would be best friends. There isn't anything that those two boys wouldn't do for one another.

I don't know if this blog will ever see the light of day or if it will remain hidden in the depths of my heart. I don't even know if it has a definite point other than that I miss her. Today, I'm thankful for the lessons in faith, grace, and mercy that she taught me at a time when she didn't have to but chose to. She is everything I aspire to be—my sweet Noel.