Tuesday, I discovered again how important having space and time to grieve is when the world tips over.
We want to rush and feel better. Any better. The fella and I – still solid friends (as wearisome and clichéd as that may sound) – parted to make space for grief to do its work in healing. This has been the first week of a lifetime to be thankful for the heart-full remembering and remind myself to keep pressing into an unknown future; to look for signposts or a wardrobe leading into a wood.
Wednesday, I made three lists: goals for Now, One Year, and Two Years. “Find a Way to go to Grad School: Community Development,” was included as were “cook twice a week”, “read all my books” (moving this to the 2-year plan), and “take class.” Also added: “read Bible in a year” to follow-through on a promise I made in January. I felt then and feel now it is a matter of intelligent integrity to give the source one more shot before I either completely walk away from faith or shuffle toward the pew at the back of the room.
Sunday I found my densest Bible and began-not where it makes theological sense in John or Psalms. Nope, Genesis. I wasn’t expecting much except to satisfy my commitment. Five comments brought me to tears in that first chapter of that first book of 66, “And evening passed and morning came…”
Each time the storied world was rocked or amended, these words noted the transition.
A cataclysmic rending of sky and earth ends…And evening passed and morning came. Waters pushed over by heaving land…And evening passed and morning came. The landscape of the sphere radically changed and forever altered…And evening passed and morning came. Dust was stirred and a mud-man made. Breath breathed into the nostrils and evening passed and morning came.
The night ends and then comes morning.
I know I am not alone in remembering times when the promise of morning was no comfort. But this reminder of a new start following an ending…or death, this brings comfort to me now. It is a scientific certainty (for the next collection of years at least): night will end and morning follow. It’s happened so far each trip around the sun since this dirt clod spewed forth into its spinning orbit.
And evening passed and morning came…
along with an intelligent man’s story of seeking help and wayfinding only to wearily regroup and start again
and another friend’s long grief-mixed with frustration and a surprised, “I’d say that the path is definitely revealing itself…”
has me thinking.
With ZERO idea what to do next, but the very next thing, and no traveling companion or confidant as I have come to know, I will let the night wash over me and wait until morning comes.
With no expectation
or wishful thinking;
always looking for the path to reveal itself.
In this I experience equal measures of pain and peace in this forward-going life.
Derring do and a sunrise ahead.