fierce joy

The past twenty-four hours have been so hard. I've lived the last ten minutes of Greg's life over and over in my head, staring at the ceiling all night long as I fought back the panic that threatened to overwhelm me when I turned out my light. But there's something utterly strange about this community I live in. I seem to be among people who have forgotten that our world is broken beyond recognition. Or, at the very least, if they do realize, they've chosen to live as though it were whole.

You see, grace has been poured into my spirit from every source imaginable. In the moments after Greg flew last night, there were a hundred things a nurse needed to do; I've done them all so many times before. But I was given the gift of being able to stay with Marion as long as she needed me while so many loving hands swaddled Greg and wrote out the death certificate and cleaned up his stuff and got Marion's bags packed for her. Hugs and sad looks and pats on the back and genuine, sincere questions about the state of my heart have bombarded me from every side. We have cried and laughed and prayed together, and I can't help getting excited for heaven. If this is 'a foretaste of glory divine,' Christ can't come back fast enough.


In the midst of it all, there's another, wild note in my soul; spilling out past the raw hurt is a kind of pure, fierce joy. I realized at some point as I sat there and sobbed for Marion's broken heart and my own that the pain I'm feeling is a privilege. I grew up in a country where I was safe, secure, loved. I've never known war (not really), and I've never watched my life fall to pieces in front of me. I have no idea what it truly means to hurt. Marion does. Every member of her family does. Grampa said it last night, his words halting and small. We have all lost someone. Every time, there is someone who can die.

I count it a joy that my heart feels like it's been shattered. It means that it's still soft, and it means that my life has been blessed. I must live the rest of my days in the light of that blessing.