It’s been 15 years today.
I remember playing on the playground and seeing the smoke rise in the
distance. I remember being picked up
mid-day from school with my brother and feeling confused about the stray from
routine. I remember seeing an endless
line of emergency vehicles. I remember
seeing what was left of my house smoking in a pile of ashes. I remember people telling me my brother and
Gram had only gone on a walk and they would be back shortly. I remember the pain in my stomach when I
realized they were never coming home. I
remember someone cradling me as I cried and felt as though I was dying on the
inside. I remember the sound of my Dad’s
cry hurt me the most. I remember the
feeling of despair, wondering if the pain would ever cease. I remember my mom not being able to be awake
without crying. I remember the days that
passed wondering if life would ever be normal again. I remember the funeral with two caskets. I remember being grateful I had turned back
that morning to give Gram a kiss goodbye.
I remember people being so generous, yet not knowing how to respond to
the depth of our grief. I remember
thinking if God wasn’t real I would quit, right then and there. I remember locking my heart away in a box and
living in a shallow state of numbness for fear my wounded heart would bleed to
death if not kept safe.
I have forgotten most of the next 8 years.
I remember the time I first decided to share my story again. I remember peering into that box and feeling
a wave of grief hit me like a tsunami, like an infected wound being
re-opened. I remember wondering what I
had done, yet relieved I could breathe normally again. I remember the years that followed, slowing
opening the box, but always being sure not to open it too far as I still feared
bleeding to death. What I didn’t realize
is that it is impossible to fully live with your heart in a box. Without outside connection there is no blood flow,
no life-giving support. I thought the
box would keep me safe, when in reality, it was slowly killing me. I remember finally realizing that in order to
heal, I had to bleed. From this point
on, the bleeding seemed a bit more tolerable because I could now see the
benefit. I remember times of distinct
healing taking place in the midst of intense bleeding. I remember the day God began to replace the
darkness with light, when blood began to flow again. I remember the day God showed me how much He
had cried with my family. I remember the
day God told me it was never His intention to have an empty chair at the dinner
table. I remember the day I no longer
felt the deep pain of despair. I
remember the first time I got to hold someone after losing a loved one and
realized this is what it’s about. I
remember the first time I forgave myself for putting my heart in a box and the
freedom that came with relief. I
remember the first time I felt gratitude for the tragedy because I saw the
intimacy with my Creator it had produced.
I like to think I open my box a bit more each day, and every
day there is less and less bleeding. The
wound will live as an eternal reminder of my story, my journey. To be honest, I wouldn’t trade my story for a
second, knowing there is nothing greater than the intimacy and trust produced
from walking through dark places, only to realize the light was walking next to
you the whole time.
