Iceberg

When Peter and I were stationed in Germany, there were a number of times that we were able to visit the Alps. In fact, my favorite story to tell was the particular visit we had where for the small sum of  about  $6.50, we could take a carriage ride up the mountain. How romantic! Did I mention I was 7 months pregnant and the size of a small beached whale? (I'm being kind here.) But my dear,sweet husband opted for the "more scenic" approach of walking up the mountain... with his 7 month pregnant wife... up the mountain... with his PREGNANT WIFE. You get the picture. But I'm not bitter. Moving on...

The Alps were breathtaking. Truly a remarkable creation of our Lord. I felt as if I had stepped into the sound of music and envisioning that I was Maria, I wanted to sing from the peaks, swinging my arms around and around. 

I read recently that grief is like a mountain turned upside down. The higher your love abides, the lower your depths of sorrow. 

My love for Molly was like the Himalayas. You could not see it's end. It just kept rising. It was vast and enormous. Powerful and overwhelming. She was my child and I felt like I had no end to my love for her. And I still don't.  

Now the mountain is turned upside down. 

Like an iceberg, you only see the cap of my pain. But underneath the waters, there is a massive enormity that really knows no end.

Where does it stop? What is it's depth? 

The only answer we know is to the question, where is it? It is here. And it is staying.

Some days we feel like we have just scratched the surface. Then others, something hits and we see into the water. The mass underneath is terrifying to say the least. 

I miss the mountain. I know that my love for Molly is still as tall and grand. My affections for her will never shrink or diminish. But right now, we are like the Titanic. Just crashing into this iceberg of grief and at times, drowning in it. 

But...

"In my distress I called upon the LORD, and cried unto my God: he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him, even into his ears." ~ Ps. 18:6"

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help." ~Ps. 121:1

The love of God, which is the largest of scale mountains, will be my help. His love is so high and so deep I still can't understand it. I can't grasp the immensity of  love He has for me. And it's because of that I will not drown next to this iceberg of grief. 

The waters are deep and the ends are not seen, but neither are the heights of the mountains. I pray we keep our eyes up. 

Silence

Psalm 13:1-3~ " How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? forever? how long wilt though hide thy face from me? How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily?...Consider and hear me, O LORD my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death."

Silence can be deafening. Silence can almost seem louder than a multitude of noises around you. For it's in the silence that you have to actually hear. Hear what? Hear pain. Hear hurt. Hear loneliness. Hear loss. 

I've been feeling this silence from God for weeks now. I read daily, seeking what He has for me. A desperate scramble, almost, to find a nugget to get me through the day. I pray, I talk to God and pour out my heart. I tell Him how much this ache keeps getting worse when I though it would get better. I tell Him that I only wish to have Molly back for a moment. To hug her. To tell her how much I love her and how incredibly proud I am of the person she is. To whisper to her in her in ear all the little things I love about her and know I will never find in another person again. 

My response from God has been silence. 

What I have to hold on to is past conversations with Him. Past promises He has given. Past strengths He has granted to carry me through. 

I know that I have not been abandoned for His Word says He will NEVER leave me or forsake me. 

So where is He? Why isn't He speaking? 

I don't have an answer. 

I do know that in times past, when I decided to be silent and just listen, God has revealed something amazing to me. Perhaps I am on the brink of something incredible. Perhaps the Mighty Creator, who graciously loves me and has carried this far, is not done with me and wants to share more. 

It's just that the silence is so painful. It's so hard. And I just don't like it. 

But I suppose nothing worth waiting for is really that easy. So I will keep going. Keep listening. Waiting quietly for that still small voice. 

Reboot

I am surrounded by computer nerds. That's right, I said computer NERDS. I say that in the spirit of knowing that nerds rule the world. Peter went to college for computer engineering, as did my brother, Jason. My dear friend, Rebekah, a self proclaimed nerd, knows more about RAM and GIGS and who knows what else. She could run circles around me with all her computer babble. 

So it's safe to say that if I ever have a computer issue, I am covered. 

But the one thing that I DO know about computers is that when things are just not working or they are working VERY slow, a reboot can do wonders. A restart seems to shut down all the things that are making the computer work slow and corrects the problem. 

Life at times needs a reboot. And that is just where I am. My brain, emotions, and heart were all crashing. I even could hear "WARNING! WARNING! OVERLOAD!" ringing in my head. 

I have never been a crier. I prefer not to cry in public and even at home, it has always been a rare occurrence. But these days, the tears flow fast and furious. Like the Sunday I sat in Sunday school and cried through the entire lesson. Or when we were standing in line ordering dinner and Peter had to say it was for four. Even simply driving by myself brings on the waterworks. 

I've heard people say that crying actually shows your strength because you are willing to let out your emotion. But I say, in my case, it doesn't feel like strength because I am not CHOOSING to cry. It just happens. It's as natural as passing gas after a cheesy meal. No control. (Molly would have been proud that I just put that in. ;)

Some days, I just need a reboot. I know our bodies naturally do that when we go to bed. But I feel that my reboot needs to involve pulling out the plug, blowing in the outlet, counting to five and trying again. 

The lesson that I am learning is that this thing called grief is going to take much longer than expected. Not that I will ever be done grieving. I know I will never, ever be done. But I mean these raw, open wounds will take longer to close up and begin to scar at a much later date. And you know what, I am beginning to be OK with that. 

I will continue to reboot when necessary, but unlike my laptop, I can't make this better with the click of a bottom. The real answer, time....

So, if you see me crying in the grocery store or walking down the sidwalk, don't ignore me. But please don't pity me. Just acknowledge me and know you did the right thing. And if you add in a joke involving bathroom humor, you might make it much better. :) Again, Molly would have loved it.