dark places.

I wrote this a couple days ago.

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.