Sawdust and Wood Shavings

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caveat:  this is not a happy post.  Don’t feel obligated to read it, despite the fact that I felt obligated to write it.

It’s been 9 weeks since my son’s death.  I hoped, despite all warning to the contrary, it would be a matter of bouncing back.  No.  I still have a hole in my heart.

During the day when I find myself busy with friends, working my business, dealing with kiddos…I’m good.  It feels like he’s at work.  These activities never included him, so I carry on as if nothing changed.  Yet every evening I listen for his truck.  My head knows things my heart finds irreconcilable.  That rumble never shoots past our house and down the drive to his.  And never will.

Walking down to their house and entering his shop, the wood shavings from his projects no longer litter the floor.  Friends carefully stowed his tools away.  Very few of his things remain in view, yet the house he built bears his fingerprints from the shop to the third floor attic.  And I see him in his wife and children, reciting his favorite sayings and hanging onto his memory for all they’re worth.  These shavings just aren’t the same thing as being able to see him, talk to him, hug him one last time.

Somehow, being a believer makes it harder.  I believe in a loving God.  I know He is a God of purpose and all is meant for good.  Yet in the midst of unbearable sorrow that knowledge brings me no comfort.  Sundays are the hardest.  I unlock the door of my heart in worship and I am undone.

I know anger is a part of the process, yet I feel no anger, so have I not begun to heal?  Such a worrisome thought.  I had more time with my son than many a mother who gets to enjoy a full lifespan…what a blessing!  Yet I never got to say goodbye.  I wasn’t done mothering.  The hole in my heart feels like a gaping wound and perhaps it always will.

It’s Sunday night.  Time to lock things up for the week.  Time to carry on.  Sawdust litters the floor of my heart, Alma John, and I miss you!  I look up at the chair where you plopped down to chat with me several times a week, and you’re not there.  How I wish you were.  Just too much sawdust.


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