Thursday, December 29, 2011
Today was really hard.
It doesn't seem like it should have been as hard as it was, though, because there were some really lovely things about today, too. I got to hang out with two friends who encourage me to talk openly and at length about my grief and pain and anger and doubt and faith and everything. I am unspeakably grateful for being given this listening, and for these and our other friends.
But even though the visits were good -- great, even -- the hurt bled in around the good. I left one friend and suddenly, driving to see the other friend, waves of horror and anger overwhelmed me. And then, a breath later, tears, beads of pain crashing down my face.
It terrifies me, how quickly I can switch from feeling fine to feeling halfway dead.
I keep thinking the grief will bottom out, that it will reach a certain point and not get worse. That has not happened yet. I'm not sure if it will.
I really miss Eve. This week I have missed her more than I ever have since she died. Maybe it's because now I have our hospital photos and can't look forward to anything else new regarding my baby girl. These are the first and last photos that will ever be taken of her. Nothing else is coming. The reality is starting to sink in, and it hurts. It hurts more than words allow.
Yesterday I sang along to worship songs in the car as I drove to pick up my husband from work. One particular song came on, and I remembered that a friend's little boy sings along when it plays on the radio. In a moment's time I plunged from joyful worship into dizzying pain as I realized that I will never hear Eve singing. I will never get to stand shoulder to shoulder with her in church and sing love songs to our God. Not on this side of Heaven, at least, and who can say for sure what Heaven is like anyway?
I want to praise God with my daughter. I want to watch her grow up into a woman that lets the One pursue her, and pursues Him in return. I want her. And I don't want her later, in Heaven, although that's better than nothing. I want her here, now. The rest of my days were supposed to be seasoned with her presence. Instead, her absence is more raw and glaring every day.
I hate this.