It's not the first time I've had a panic attack since September 12th. It probably won't be the last.
She looked at me with her brow furrowed, concern wrinkled her forehead. She quickly lowered her gaze as she concentrated on filling out the paperwork in front her. Conviction gripped my spirit for the curt way I had spoken to her. She was only trying to help. I couldn't understand why her well intentioned suggestion grated on me so. But it did. And I snapped back the sarcastic response so quickly I imagined her head ducked a little to dodge my words. I wasn't hateful, but I was on edge and rude.
It's not the first time I've had a moment of inexplicable anger since September 12th. It probably won't be the last.
The acrid scent of burnt rubber, trees, and plastic filled my nostrils. Ash drifted down on my head like snow. But, unlike snow, it wasn't clean. It was filthy. The remnants of precious pictures, belongings, blankets, books, and memories reduced to rubble and wafting on the wind. Hot tears spilled out and down my cheeks. They started as silent witnesses to the devastation, and became gut wrenching and heart stopping sobs that seemed to well up from the very depths of my soul. I began to become more aware of the term "sackcloth and ashes" is so appropriate for mourning. I wish we could still do it and not be consigned to a mental asylum. The ancients... they knew how to mourn well.
It's not the first time I've had a moment of gut twisting sobs since September 12th. It probably won't be the last.
Broken spirits are an odd thing. One moment they seem whole and repaired. The next, shattered again. One moment, praise bubbles out of the depths, pure and unadulterated, the next, grief pours out and the wail of devastation erupts like Pompeii of old. Pouring out in angry streams, salty rivers of tears, and painful questions.
The thing is, if you read my Facebook posts, you may or may not know how I'm doing. It's one thing to post a praise in the midst of a "whole" moment in this process. It's another to restrain from posting the anguish and guilt one feels when they are mourning STUFF when the PC thing to do is to say, "It's just stuff. It can be replaced." Which is TRUE and RIGHT. People can't be replaced, of course not. Of course we are grateful for each other and for the fact we are alive. But that stuff was OUR stuff. The things we are mourning aren't the replaceable items. They are the items that are the memory markers. The tools held by a father in the early 1900's that built the legacy of our family. They are the stuffed animals that comforted in the midst of a turbulent season of night terrors. They are the memorabilia that jogged our memories of era's long gone. Family bibles with statistics written in shaky penmanship. Quilts pieced together with prayers for those that the material would warm. Its the jewelry box, lovingly hewn by hand, that held the priceless rings that are worth little in gold, but are worth much in the memories of the heart. It is that "stuff" that we mourn. The tangible building blocks of family. Hand cut, each nail a prayer, every plank a stalwart binding together of our spirits.
The foundation was one that has stood the test of time and age. The house that Love built. THAT is the stuff of mourning.
More days than not, I am ok. My "Hidden Valley Homeless" quips are beginning to wear on those that have heard them a thousand times now. Most of the time, I am quieted from my anger by the sheer measure of joy that is in this house, this temporary oasis in our desert of wandering. The tears, while they may still creep out from under my eyelids, mostly come late at night as I think about the unknowns, or the little things that once made our house a home. There is a stillness and calm that settles, that can be confused for numbness, but is really just a supernatural trust that God has us held. But please don't think that because I choose to praise Him, that I post Blessed Be The Name of the Lord, that there aren't moments of questioning Him and pleading with Him to let this season pass quickly. You see, trust and mourning are not exclusive. One can still trust in the goodness of God while mourning what He has allowed to be taken. In fact, one could argue that authentic trust in God and in His goodness is especially authentic in the face of loss.
Since authenticity is at the core of my heart's desire for every relationship I have, including with those that may read this, here is an authentic personal truth. I am in mourning. But in the midst of the ashes, in the desolation and destruction that surrounds everything I once found secure and safe, I now know this. God truly IS good... ALL THE TIME. In seasons of gladness... HE IS GOOD. In seasons of abundance..... HE IS GOOD. In seasons of darkness..... HE IS GOOD. In the fire....HE IS GOOD. And in the mourning.... HE IS GOOD. I think sometimes we expect Him to REMOVE our ashes in order for the beauty He promises to be revealed. I think sometimes He expects us to remove OUR expectation and allow Him to reveal the beauty that can be found in the midst of ashes... just as those Samaritans Purse volunteers found my husbands class ring... sifting, searching, finding... the pure gold remains. The crown of thorns ring that emerged, charred yes, but able to be cleaned and restored.
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