Grief is a permanent tattoo I didn’t choose. Like Florida
muck fires in summer, the flames of grief aren’t always seen, but the stench
and smoke from the underground compost burning is ever present.
Muck fires are ignited by lightning strikes. The powerful force of nature reaches depths instantaneously. My grief, like the muck, ignited when my dad died. It still smolders as I navigate life without his voice and his tangible love.
Nothing feels right. Not work. Not workouts. Not special moments. My feet feel weighted in the sludge. Grief has left me exposed like freshly pruned crepe myrtle trees when all I want is to be shielded by a thicket of intertwined vines.
I cry when the tears come to own my grief. The tears are a balm that soothe the ache.
I listen when people try to comfort me and comment, “He died well.” “Wasn’t it great that we all got to say goodbye?” “Weren’t you lucky to have such a great relationship with your dad?” “You were blessed to have time with him at the end.” Even when the words aren’t exactly what I need to hear, I know people say them with the best of intentions.
But he’s still dead. All the lovely sentiments won’t bring
him back or soothe the ache in my heart.
Nonetheless, the grace in their words is not lost on me. It’s their way of letting me know that one day I will breathe again. That God still sees me and holds me even when I can’t see or feel him. That one day a heavy rain will finally put out the muck fire of my grief.
God made me to be resilient. God gives me grace to keep walking in the sludge. No one has found the perfect remedy to unlock what is next, but I know there is a next. I can feel it and there are hints that I may even want it.
The path of grief is the only way to get there. So I’ll put on my wellies and keep walking one day at a time until God lights up my next path.
Life’s a journey. Pay Attention.
