This is a part of something I was sent by a Vicar. I thanked
him for taking time out but asked him how he finds so much faith when good
people get hurt so badly and bad people seem to get away with the agony? I
today can’t breathe properly. I’m burning inside. I still feel like my bones
and organs are smashed. Down my left side, it’s as though a cricket bat is
inside of me. It is a foreign being and doesn’t fit. It’s hurting as it’s too
big. The handle is pushing right through my heart. The bottom of the bat is
digging down into the left side of my stomach. When I breathe I have a cramp.
My joints are aching. Why put me through this, My Husband has just left for
work. He took back a full bag of his dog food. A dog in training in the office
eats that make of food. Just stupid things like that. Carrying his dog food for the last time. Not
yet I have been able to remove her huge square plastic food box from our house
to the garage. I should empty what’s in as not much and wash it and put it
away. I can’t an yet each time I go to feed my little Waggatail, I see it. I just
want to feed our Suki. Just one more time please?
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first
wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating
around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was,
and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the
wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe
it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating.
For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere downs the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too.
If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere downs the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too.
If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
“Lucky? Scars? No, nonononononono please this isn’t luck.
But the words are very true about the waves. Trouble is, if you can’t swim, how
do you cope? How does anyone keep the faith? How? If a huge fist in front of
you keeps punching your face, would you go back for more?
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