Lament

     It's been a month. I held Papa's hand and watched him take his last breath one month ago.

He's dead.

It feels like it's been so much longer than a month. The ache has made time slow down and sometimes even stop. But time doesn't slow down or stop, though, does it? No, time keeps moving forward. Life keeps going and I must go on. 


No one told me that intense grief feels so physical. My body is actually in pain. If the panic attack is bad enough, I writhe. My only comfort is in the Lord. I know that He is weeping with me. I know He is watching me in love, trying to bring my soul comfort. But nothing stops the pain. This isn't a sinful sorrow; something caused by some horrible sin I've fallen into. This is an agony that demands to be felt. 

It's also in this time you are faced with the reality of what you believe. It's nice to say that there is a place for us after death that the G-d of the universe has prepared and it's beautiful and there's no pain or suffering or tears. It's nice to believe the bible. But right now, I'm faced with eternity as a reality. Either everything I have believed is true or it's not and I will never see papa again. I honestly believe in the Gospel of Jesus Christ now more than ever. I also believe in G-d's mercy now more than ever. There's a line in a My Epic song that papa loved that says, "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His faithful ones." I believe that.

But believing that doesn't stop the pain. It gives me hope to continue when all I want to do is throw in the towel. These are the reasons why I got out of bed this morning. 

All morning I've been thinking of the insanity of grief. When papa was dying, when I was watching him struggle more and more to breathe, when he stopped eating and drinking; I felt peace. I knew that what was coming was so much better for him. I knew that deliverance was near. The moment he died, the insanity set in. In his last few days and even hours, papa saw Paradise. He saw loved ones that had gone on before. He talked with angels. The day before he died I saw him look at someone that wasn't there and say, "I can't go yet, they won't let me go." In the moment I said, "No, papa. Go. It's okay. Go with them." And now, if I could, I would go back and look at the Heavenly Being he was seeing and say, "Take me, too! Please!" I know papa needed for me to be okay. He needed me to tell him it was okay for him to go. He needed that from all of us. But I didn't mean it. I so very much did not mean it. I want my papa back. 

I think the thing that brings me the most agony is thinking of how he looked in his casket. Thinking about the arms that held me, the beautiful blue eyes that pierced my soul, the feet I rubbed, all the details and wrinkles on his face, the body that I bathed for the past six months; is now in the ground. I'm not mourning for him. I'm mourning for me. I'm not angry because he went too soon, although it feels that way. He lived almost 83 wonderful years! He had a beautiful life. It was so full. I'm mourning because I am a teeny human that does not have eternal sight. 

There are constant reminders everywhere. I still live in his house. When I have been gone all day I come home and still expect him to be there in his chair asking me to sit down and watch the news with him. Oh G-d, the news. He recorded every newscast he could find and he would watch all of them every night. I haven't seen the news in a month. Walking past his room is difficult even though the door is shut. I can't go in there. Trash day is now hard to remember because I don't have him there to tell me a hundred times on Sunday night to make sure I "get the garbage up" only to wake up Monday morning to "did you get the garbage out?". He had no appetite so the last few months he really only drank Ensure to keep him healthy. Just a week or so before he died I got ten huge cases of it. He hardly made a dent. Every time I walk past the ensure my heart breaks. The fireplace where he had a fire going even in the summer. We used to argue with him because it was so hot in the house and he wouldn't turn it off. Now that he's gone we've kept the fire going. His last load of laundry is sitting in the laundry room. "Hee Haw" and gospel shows are still being recorded on the tv. It's so painful to see all of his things exactly where he left them, but I can't move it yet. It's only been a month. It's still papa's house. 

There's one part of me that feels like, "this has been the longest month of my life and it's agonizing." but another part says, "okay. I made it through a month. I can keep going."

This has been the loneliest month of my life.

I am angry.
I am hurt.
I am in pain.
I am mourning.
I am grieving.

This is my lament.

It's been one month since my hero died.