The Wilderness, sunsets, and cookbooks

I wrote the following on November 28th:

"People have thanked me for being brave enough to tell the story I have been telling. It hasn't been hard so far... Mostly just a relief to put the words on paper. It is cathartic. It's starting to get scary and I feel like I could graceful bow out and no one would think twice. I did just bury my child and the ground around him and my heart is frozen now. I think maybe it would be better to wait until the spring comes to talk about the bitterness of winter. It is much scarier to talk about this while it is happening because I don't know how it will end. I don't know the twists and turns ahead... It isn't a book with fictitious characters... It isn't a documentary on Netflix... It is live coverage. 

I keep thinking... Do you want to know the real story? I'll tell you the real story...

And then the real story gets harder and deeper and darker... And I think... 

Do you REALLY want to know the real story? I'll tell you the real story... and then it gets even harder and deeper and darker...it gets deeper and darker than I could have imagined... And I have a good imagination...

I think I should never tell anyone, but then I feel a little better for a minute and I do. 

Maybe you don't want to know... Maybe I don't want to know.... But I already know... Maybe I don't want to say because it will scare you... Maybe I don't want to say it because it will scare me.

I have to wonder if this is really brave or is it just stupid?"

I look back and think: What an amateur, but how prophetic at the same time.  I intended to tell the story while its happening?  Some stories can be told in the moment; some can't and some shouldn't... I guess that's the way I feel now.  

And here I go with the analogies....I just can't help myself:

Grief is like a wilderness.  It looks scary and treacherous when you are still close to a beautiful green field.  The farther you get from that place of safety the scarier it gets.  I am farther from that green field.  The time surrounding Eli's birth was that green field.  It was so scary but I had so much faith.  My faith outweighed my fear.  I didn't recognize how lush it was until now.....now that the field is out of my sight and the new, greener field that still lies ahead of me isn't anywhere to be seen.  Sometimes God will show me very short snapshots of the place, but I can't see the details in the picture.  I can't see how far ahead it is.  I'm not totally sure if it even exists.  Someone else gives me snapshots of a barren wasteland.  I think both places exist and it seems simple enough to choose the field over the dump.  Things always feel simpler when you can see. You can't see very well in the wilderness.  People who have never been in my wilderness tell me that there is a green pasture ahead, but sometimes their words fall hallow on my aching heart and almost insult my journey.  But there are other people who tell me that there is a greener pasture ahead.  Prophets and apostles tell me.  God himself tells me.  I would like to say that I have perfect faith in this.  That my heart is calmed and filled with resolve, but that's not always the case.  But, I have to say that I BELIEVE that it is true.  I want it to be true.  My fear and faith are at constant odds and, although my faith wins on many days, it doesn't win on all days.

It is much like the going down of the sun.  The light fades and fades until there is blackness. You can still see the moon and stars on a clear night.... not every night it clear, mind you.....but you long for the sun.  You believe it will come up because it always does, but some nights are a lot longer than others.  Nights in the winter seem to go on and on and on.

And here is another of my many analogies: 

I believe grief is much like an eclipse; God being the sun and we are the earth....and the thing that comes between you and God is really your grief.  You are just too overcome to see what you saw before. I am overcome with sorrow and pain, but also have doubts.  I believe God is there, but sometimes my grief blocks the light.  It is hard to see clearly.  It is hard to have clarity about anything.  You grope around in the darkness hoping and believing the light will come.  I don't pretend to say that there is no light, but the light isn't as forthcoming as I would like.  It isn't a comfortable place to be. 

I read things I used to write and I think, "How naive."  I have never thought of myself as a naive person.  I didn't have that luxury, for the most part.  My faith was built between me and God and really no one else.  I never relied on someone else's faith and God blessed me with the development of my own at a young age.  But, I was quite naive in many things.  Maybe ignorant is a better word.  I have had my eyes opened to MANY things.  It is painful education.  It is not like reading a textbook and understand the theory things.  It is a much more useful and penetrating than that.  It is like reading a cookbook versus actually cooking a meal.  You can say you know how to make Beef Wellington by reading about it, but try getting out your pan and butcher knife.  Then you really learn something.  Then you get dirty and burned and maybe cut up a little.   Then you get an education and some real skills.  The recipe for Beef Wellington is a lot more straightforward than the directions (or lack of direction) I feel at times.  Sometimes the only way to know something is "wrong" is by trying it out and when you are grieving, people tell me that nothing is "wrong."  Well, that's vague.  At least when you make a recipe there are actual steps to follow.  

For a long time, I felt the need to tell people my story.  I don't know why.  That is unlike me.  I felt the need to help people understand grief....at least from my perspective.  Now I feel like it really makes no difference.  No matter what you say, some people innately understand  and others don't, but it feels like no one REALLY knows and no one can REALLY help you.  They can stand at the imaginary finish line of the race you are running.  They have never run your race, so when they tell you that you will make it and to keep going, the words just fall to the ground like a stone because sometimes you need more than encouragement.  Sometimes you need someone to carry you.  You are too busted up to go on and you need someone with more strength than you. Only one person can do that.  I know that.  I just want you to know that it is a beautiful truth, but a terrible feeling to get to that point.  It sounds simple to get to that point. It isn't.