Grief is a funny thing, ain't it? It slams you unexpectedly, and then when you think it's going to consume you, it recedes, leaving you with those inexplicable moments of peace. But just when you think you've come to terms with it, WHAM! It's back with a vengeance.
I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm still struggling to cope with our loss of Tim. And I'm not using that plural pronoun lightly. He was our Tim. The outpouring of emotion since the Christmas Eve accident has been a testimony to what he meant to so many. Because of the way he befriended all of us, I have a feeling I'm not alone in my inability to harness my sadness.
I know he's in a better place; I know he's at peace. But I miss my friend, my buddy. I miss his texts, his banter. And it's not just me. We all talk about him often. It's too easy for our family to recall those afternoons spent house hunting, or the evenings when we'd sit at our kitchen table, filling out paperwork. I can see him so clearly: backpack, visor, sunglasses, that big ol' smile.
And then there's the sound booth. That booth used to be my haven, but for the last five weeks, it's been the place where I feel Tim's absence most profoundly. That was the last place I saw him, where I had my last conversation with him. That's where we giggled about things that shouldn't have been funny (because nothing's funnier than something that's not supposed to make you laugh, ESPECIALLY during church!). It's also where we shared Kleenex (because that boy could tear up during a prayer in no time flat, and if he started getting weepy, I was a goner).
Now I'm really going through the tissue because the tears just keep coming.
Facebook, the network that helped us grieve in those shock-ridden days immediately after his death, has turned cruel, too. I missed a lot of work while I was sick last month, so I spent more than a little time on FB. I kept getting variations of this:
"Catch up." "Reconnect." "Share the latest news." REALLY, Facebook?
At Facebook's suggestion, I did send Tim a message not too long ago, and in that note, I said some things that had been weighing on me in the days since his funeral. It felt good, and it gave me some closure. But I never wanted closure.
Maybe that's it. It's too hard to let go, to say goodbye. Someone once told me that when you grieve intensely, those emotions are a witness to the impact of the lost relationship. And what a relationship it was. I keep waiting for the pain to dull a little, for the tears to subside. I'm thankful to have shared memories with friends, to have laughed over our "Tim stories," but I'm weary from the sorrow.
And I know that people I love are missing Tim infinitely more than I can begin to imagine.
Tonight, I'm claiming this from 2 Corinthians 1:
3Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, 4who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.
How awesome is that? My Father is the God of all comfort!
Dear Lord, thank you for Tim and for what he means to all of us. Father, we need your comfort! Please give Amy the peace only you can provide. And please, Lord, help us all to feel your loving arms guiding us as we face each day. Blessed be your name. Amen.