The cemetery unlocks me. Maybe it’s because I’m alone there, and alone in such an open space. There are trees, there is earth, there is sky.
Sometimes in a moment of anguish in a day, I imagine throwing myself on the ground or collapsing into the next friend I see or walking into Gordon’s office, falling to the floor, and sobbing into the leather chair I normally sit in. But those fantasies never come true. I just dream them. The circumstances never line up in the moment I need them to.
But when I go to the cemetery, no matter how possessed I am walking up to Chris’s grave, I am inevitably cracked open. The Anguish, like a spirit, is released.
I went the other morning, the anniversary of Chris’s death. I laid my body on the leaf-strewn sod. There’s something about lying on the earth, especially when it’s cold. I know his body is close, in that pine box. It’s gruesome to imagine, because a year has passed, and after just an hour last year I could see his thirsty skin starting to shrivel in at his temple. Even still it’s a comfort; being on the earth, pressed against it, there’s nearness.
I didn’t have an agenda that morning. Just to be there. But how quickly a particular anguish I hadn’t yet addressed rushed up and through and out of me in surges of accusation. I sobbed into my crossed arms, “What is your plan??!” I raised myself up onto my elbows and screamed: “Do you even HAVE A FUCKING PLAN???” My thin snot made webs between my face and my arms and the leaves on the ground.
What I was saying in that moment was this: For your love, God, will my children have a father? Will my children have a father. Will they.
The truth is that we could not have a better group of men in our lives, each nurturing, each grounding us in particular and beautiful ways. Each providing physical touch and physical strength and spiritual presence. Thanks be to God. But Chris—Jesse’s, Ruthie’s, Andrew’s, and Mary’s father—will always be greater than the sum of these parts. Will my children ever again have a father. Just theirs. For them. And I. Don’t. Know.
The Lord has stolen much from us. He has done it. If he’s allowed it, he’s done it. How will he reimburse what he has taken? Only he knows. Only he knows. I sure as hell don’t. But somehow I still believe there’s more for us—whatever that may look like, however it might unfold, whatever it might entail—a more that I can’t imagine. Somehow, at least consistently enough, I still trust.
The lawn mowing crew showed up. It’s a big, tricky job at a cemetery, I imagine, whipping around all those stones. I stood up and walked back to my car, dry leaves hanging on my green, woolen sweater.
“Sometimes in a moment of anguish in a day, I imagine throwing myself on the ground or collapsing into the next friend I see or walking into Gordon’s office, falling to the floor, and sobbing into the leather chair I normally sit in. But those fantasies never come true. I just dream them. The circumstances never line up in the moment I need them to.”
Dear Sarah, I remember this feeling, these kind of imaginings so much—this desire to be able to be undone in the presence of another and feel the support of someone or something else. I am grateful you were given this opportunity for release. I am grateful for your honesty in this space, and I hope that in it you know your pain is witnessed and you are held in the hearts of those who love you. I am sure there are days you feel utterly alone, that no matter how many people try to fill the cavern of Chris’s absence they just can’t. With all my heart I wish we could. I am pleading for you, reminding God of his promise to be near to the broken hearted and save the crushed in spirit and asking him to somehow bring beauty out of these devastating ashes. I love you, Sarah
So real…I’m sure Chris would be grateful for the lament. Only wishing it never needed to happen.
Thank you for sharing. Thinking of and praying for you often. May the Lord continue to sustain you and show you His mercy at moments it is hardest to see.
I love you. I love your babies. You are always in my prayers.
I have been thinking of you and of Chris and of your family a lot, especially lately. And I’m praying for you. All the time. And I really do trust that God uses these things for good. Somehow. And I don’t know how. But I’ve held on to this when I didn’t know the answer in my life and I’m holding on to it for you. I don’t have the words to make any of this better, but I love you. And I’ll keep praying for you and for your children. I hope that God will comfort your heart.
Thank you for the ‘unlock’ description. I have wondered why I go to the cemetery.
Friends say “you know that person is not there” but like you I have a need to go.
Your loss is much greater than mine. Your love was so great, the pain is so great.
The Dance, Your post reminds us all to keep praying for your sweet family.
Hi Sarah. I haven’t checked this blog since the summer, but I’m glad I checked today. On the second darkest day of the year. I don’t have much to say but just want to let you that I stopped by to witness your blog entry, your grief. I *wish* I could reach out to you in some more tangible way. I’m glad that you’re imploring God with your real questions. May He astonish you with his real answers.
Had you on my mind and came to the site – and this fresh entry was posted. Carrying you, carrying you, carrying you…your broken heart, your little ones, your honest questions. I’m grateful you had space to let down last week, alone, even if anguish is what poured out. Your grief makes complete sense, even in the upside-down reality you’re living, and I’m glad you’re not feeling a duty to sanitize it, friend. Jesus weeps with you at the utter and cruel loss of Chris on this side of Heaven. This quote (from Marilyn, a Wheaton roommate of mine – actually from when I first met you in the Michigan/Crescent apartments!) came to mind so I thought I’d share in case it’s a nudge from the Holy Spirit: “”The most earnest desires of our hearts rise to Him like sweet incense because they reflect the hearts He made and died for. Soul photographs. May you climb up into Him and find a refuge-place today.”
Love you and will be praying for you today especially, friend.