Goodbyes leave a hole. And the deeper the love is, the deeper the hole is. She watched as the daughter struggled to hold back the tears that came through body wracking sobs. She has loved and been loved so deeply.
‘I’m just so tired of it all, I don’t want to say anymore goodbyes. It’s too hard.’
‘Don’t hold them back, just let those tears flow,’ she said as she gathered that precious girl into her arms. The daughter doesn’t quite fit as she did, she’s all grown up, long slim limbs. Still, she feels right in her arms and she wishes she could take that weight of grief and struggle and make it go away.
She can’t make it go away, but she can be there, in that hole with her.
There’s no use denying the hole is there, there is no stepping around it, no covering it over as if it doesn’t exist. It’s there. And if you sit in it and feel it’s walls and how deep it is, it threatens to absorb you into its emptiness.
‘You know,’ she says softly into that hurting heart, ‘I’m finding that there is something that seems to fill that hole, that feeling of empty.’
The sobs subside. The daughter listens.
‘Gratefulness.’
‘When you feel that emptiness, fill it up with thoughts of gratitude for times you’ve had together, special moments that you remember. That gratefulness swells and grows in that hole you’re in and lifts you up and out again.’
This daughter is the remembrance expert. Gather around a table with her and the memories, the stories pour forth. She is amazing. And oh how she needs her, they need each other, to share those memories, to keep them alive. Together in the deep and dark and together they’ll rise on the fullness of gratefulness, arms outstretched to the One who gives, who takes away, and whose name is to be praised and lifted high.
The fulness of grate is something truly great!
Beautifully put, Alison. I do enjoy and appreciate your heart-felt offerings.
This one today reminds me of the story of the father of a young missionary who was killed by Indians in South America after devoting his life to them and stepping out in faith. The father could not come to terms with why God would have allowed that to happen when his son was risking his life for the gospel. He knew that that was exactly what the Father Himself had done, but still…… the pain was there and he could not accept God’s will. After a couple of years of depression and spiritual rebellion, a friend suggested that it might help if he sat down and wrote a list of the things this father could actually give thanks for. Sceptically, but at his wits’ end, he did just that. He started with simple things – that his dead son had loved the Lord and was now in a good place with his saviour, that the boy had loved his family and had always been adored by them, such good relationships, that they were all enjoying good health, etc etc and as the list grew his tears started to flow… In all those bitter months and years he had not really grieved. Now he could – and did. After filling several foolscap pages with things he felt grateful for, he noticed that his anger had melted away, the bitterness was gone and he was beginning to lean on God for his strength again……
A few months later he and his wife felt the need to go to the place where their son had been murdered and when they finally found the village in the jungle they were led to the actual grave of their son. What was their amazement to read the words on the grave ‘Gracia Deo’ – Thanks be to God!’ The converted, now Christian, Indians understood that the missionary had come to teach them that they had a saviour – and for that they gave God thanks.
Isn’t that such a beautiful story Maureen! Thanks so much for sharing! That fullness of gratefulness lifted that father right out of his dark place. Thanks be to God!
Beautiful words al- and the story above 💕💕💕💕
Thanks my dear! So very grateful!