Where I Am Finding Solace

I feel old grief winding its way quietly, almost imperceptibly, across my chest. I snap at others, impatient, judgmental, say things I don’t mean. My sharpness signals to me that my soul is wounded. I move throughout my home, tidying, hurrying, trying to out-run the pain that simmers right below my breath.

The tears break through the busy. I am overtaken by loss, some so old that I wondered how could it even be. I am not sure how to even name all that I feel, and I realize how much I want to make sense of it all so that I can have some control again. Unnamed pain is unbearable vulnerability. 

I read a poem, excerpts of books, find words from much older, wiser women who nurture me now even in their earthly absence. Their generous care in offering their thought, their beauty, tends my sadness. Women continue mothering others even when they are gone.

I water the plants, indoors and out. Caring for a living thing brings me hope, and cultivating beauty makes me feel alive. Beauty and grief need each other, and I welcome their friendship into my day.

I take a walk. Creation offers herself to me without reserve, blowing warmth and tenderness across my swollen cheeks. My tears seem to be welcomed here; no bird, no insect, no tree is embarrassed by my pain. The movement releases the tension I have been holding and I let go.

I listen to music. I remember how Sara Groves put words to my longings, my questions, my heart for the Lord, and I listen and allow her to be my voice while I ride the neighborhood in my aged red golf cart with my loyal little dog. My tears find a kind companion with her lyrics.

I sit. My energy for activity is muted. I cannot face the dishes, the laundry, the finances. I allow myself the luxury of solitude while sending my boys to the pool. I give myself compassion and permission to be, to sit with Jesus, to be loved. This is the hardest act of my spirituality. Please let me perform, please, prove because sitting without doing leaves me undone. Am I loved right here, right now? Yes. Keep sitting with it.

I write and then I nap. I type out these words, needing to get something out of my swirling mind and soul. I recognize the gift of margin in my life in this season that I once craved and resented in others. I desire to use the margin creatively and not consumptively; this is a daily battle. My body is weary from tears. I allow myself to end my words, and relax into my bed, covered in quilts, fans blowing. He will tend me while I sleep. He will be my Solace.