You yourself have recorded my wandering. Put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book? Psalm 56:8

The past few months have left me with many thoughts but few words. I’ve been tired but sleepless. Full but empty. Content but restless. I’ve had prayers and gratitude in my heart and tears in my eyes. I’ve had music on my mind but no words to sing past the ever present lump in my throat.

One moment I want to do it all and the next I want to crawl under the covers and hide from the world. That’s grief. It starts and stops. Ebbs and flows. It goes from consuming days down to moments and there are triggers that can catch you by surprise.

Time never fails to march on, but while it does loss still sits heavily on your mind. So recent, fresh, raw, and life just happens, it can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like everyone has forgotten your loss except for you, and that’s a lonely feeling.

Time does heal though and being in the presence of people can feel good but also like a charade. It can be like putting on a mask and hiding from your feelings. Then you realize that sometimes you have to fake it until you make it, so the grief doesn’t consume you. You can get lost in grief but you don’t want to lose yourself in it.

The first time I experienced loss, I heard grief compared to waves in the ocean. The best way to handle grief is to ride the waves. If you fight against them, you’ll drown.

I knew grief was coming and I didn’t want any part of it. I tried to ignore, fight it, push it aside, bury it, laugh it off… But when the day came, when grief arrived, like an unwelcome visitor, I needed to open the door and let it in. It’s the only way to begin the hard work of healing. So I did and there was beauty in it.

The beauty in it was the pause. While the rest of the world went on, mine stopped for a moment as I absorbed the gravity and the meaning of this loss and this pause. I took it in. I took in the need for quiet and space. I took in the tears and the memories. I took in the downtime. I basked in walks that went on and on. I breathed in every lyric of every song coming through my headphones. I appreciated every sunrise and sunset and thanked God for answered prayers. I’m still the same, but I’m changed too, looking at this world and this life a little differently now. Slower, quieter, a bit more intentional. I don’t rush through my walks. I bring my breakfast out on the deck. I listen more carefully and I’m trying to be more fully present and love more deeply. I stop and watch the waves rolling into the shore, knowing that I’m in the presence of my creator, that he holds me close, collects my tears in a bottle, hears my prayers, makes no mistakes, and is good all the time.