“If I’m going to tell this story, I’m going to tell the truth.” This has been my promise from day one.
I write this with permission and knowledge of my family, close friends, therapist, and psychiatrist – all those who keep closest eye on me, check in with me every day, and would take extreme action if necessary.
Sometimes I have not wanted to live anymore.
Were it not for my two children, who deserve to have one living parent to love them, watch them soar on the swings, kiss them good night, pack their school lunches, and belong to them every single day of forever, I may have been on the next train out.
This path threatens hopelessness.
Thank you for your thoughts about heaven. Thank you for reminding me of what you know, of the promise we have, of the truth I can rest in.
I just really don’t want to hear it.
Frankly, I’m insanely jealous. To read a book about heaven is to look at a travel brochure of a place Robb gets to be, where he is without me, where I cannot go anytime soon.
The promise is complete and waiting, but I really don’t see much point on meditating on it, thinking and imagining. It only makes this whole business of the every day seem harder, longer.
This season of ‘the already’ and ‘the not yet’ is not easy to hold in my hands.
Very recently, I heard someone say, “Not one of us is going to meet Jesus and say, ‘Is this all you’ve got?'” It’s going to be worth it, I am promised. And when I’m there, I will know its indescribable beauty and the reason for this unspeakable hurt.
A dear friend whispered into my darkness.
“I know you feel hopeless. I know you do. And I think that’s because you can’t have a glimpse of what is waiting for you – still, here, now – in this life. If you give up before you get to see how it ends, you’ll miss out. I think one day you’ll say, ‘Oh, I could have missed this, these young men of mine, the beauty of their lives, these decades of new love with this man who became my husband, my life’s partner.’ Don’t give up yet. That’s would be like walking away on Christmas Eve, never knowing what Christmas morning holds for you.”
So I will live this day.
And then one more.
And then one more.
Until one day I can stop counting them.