There’s been a cloud hanging over our house, a terrible grey thickness that has been here but not visible, felt but not talked of much. Even here, even now, I don’t know how to talk about this present grief, don’t know how much of someone else’s story to share. And it’s not just their story- it’s our story, too. Any time we decide to walk together through life, our stories become each other’s, don’t they?
A great loss. That’s what we have felt. An aching, unfair, unholy great loss. That’s how it feels right now.
Yesterday morning I wandered the house, staring at piles to sort, things to carry out to the garage, toys to de-clutter. It seemed so silly and yet so hard and altogether impossible to just pick something to do and do it. So I started laundry and baked muffins instead.
These new days of summer catch me off guard a bit. The sun rises before me in the morning, a feeling I resent as I’ve grown to love the dark morning hours. Our days feel funny without the routine of school. The house is warm. The kids smell salty. Everyone always needs a bath. And I can’t shake this feeling that I’m supposed to love summer but I don’t. I never really have.
I’m wandering a bit, weaving slow windy paths in my writing questions and in my life rhythms and in the small thoughts that take up big space. I don’t know why I assume my life will move ahead in increasing order, as if my own soul is immune to entropy. But instead it circles back and falls apart and fills up and empties out so quickly I’m left breathless and sore.
But what do I know. I know I’m loved. I know this too shall pass. I know that stillness does not always mean emptiness, that grief is not without good, that heartache can yield goodness in the end.
And so here we are, in the morning, choosing to step into today, though the days past have not been so kind. There’s a cool breeze blowing through the office window and I’m reminded that my hope is not in the goodness of life, but in the goodness of God.
And so I seek, hope, ask, wonder, and bring.
In the morning.