Sunday, March 30, 2014
Grief really doesn't pick favorites. He holds no contests. Pain is real and tears are wet. When you are in the moment of despair. When the oxygen pulls at your heart, between heavy sobs, and the pressure is so great that you think that... just maybe... it might actually break. Split. Into two jagged fragments... still beating. But never the same. That grief is something that we all share. That pain. That shattering sob. And we don't unite in it. We judge in it. We harbor it. And we lock ourselves away, in that dark spot. Where the pain actually feels good in an addictive kind of way. Grief comes in all kinds of ways. He looks different every time. He parades around loudly, shouting from the pinnacle of disaster. Sometimes, he slides in through the back door and hides in corners where nobody knows he is there... except for you. He comes clothed in panic, shame, despair, regret, and anger. He whispers the things we can't say out loud. Grief isn't wrong. But I think, if we stay there. If we choose to live there. He can become a thief of the life that he just ransacked.