6 months

I've been thinking about blogging for awhile and have had many blog-worthy moments, but have yet to touch the keys toward this end. Until today. Today marks 6 months since mom has died, and in about a week, I will be closer to 30 than I am to 29, as if I needed more reason to freak out and break down.

I've certainly had my moments. Two days ago I had an afternoon when I thought I would burst into tears at any moment, but I didn't. I've recently purchased a Simon and Garfunkel album that constantly reminds me of mom (more on that later). And yet, there have been moments of beauty, reconnecting with an old friend over an Angels baseball game and laughing the entire time, literally. Sometimes I take myself far too seriously, and it was good not to for an evening. The first weekend in April, I helped to plan and execute a conference to help young adults deal with their issues. Ironically, I taught a workshop on how to not become completely self-absorbed while you go through hard stuff.

So this week, I heard a friend say, "Work hard at what comes easy." Writing comes easily for me, as does expressing my emotions and expounding on ideas, so I've decided (at least until this little kick ends) to return to blogging.

I've been reminded of a book I read last year called, "Lament for a Son," written by a professor of theological philosophy or philosophical theology at Yale Divinity School. Given to me by a friend, it expressed in words some of the very things I was feeling. I bought a bunch of copies, and I don't even have one currently, because I've given them all away. It's just that universal and just that good. The author, Nicholas Wolterstorff, composes these one- or two-page vignettes that serve as reflections on different aspects of grieving the death of his 25-year-old son.

From page 13:
We took him too much for granted. Perhaps we all take each other too much for granted. The routines of life distract us; our own pursuits make us oblivious; our anxieties and sorrows unmindful. The beauties of the familiar go unremarked. We do not treasure each other enough.

He was a gift to us for 25 years. When the gift was finally snatched away, I realized how great it was. Then I could not tell him. An outpouring of letters arrived, many expressing appreciation for Eric. They all made me weep again: each word of praise a stab of loss.

How can I be thankful, in his gone-ness, for what he was? I find I am. But the pain of the no more outweighs the gratitude of the once was. Will it always be so?

I didn't know how much I loved him until he was gone.

Is love like that?