Finite Space

Old Faithful. 

The Covered Wagon. 

Ol' Girl. 

Our Grand Caravan has many names, because she has held so many jobs through the years. 

She was a transport for family, friends, strangers, and acquaintances. 

She has been a moving van, garbage truck, construction delivery, camping bed, adventure carriage, rescue vehicle, recycling bin, veterinary kennel, cycle transit, and a mud-racing pod.

When we needed to carry lots of people, that was the ride of choice.

You could fit a lot of little people in that one!

It had so much space.

But if we needed to move mattresses across county lines, or perhaps bring home lumber for repairs, that was another story. We couldn't fit everything in even if we put the seat backs down, or drove two vehicles.

There wasn't enough space to carry anything that big.

Something had to go.

So we took out all the unnecessary seats.

We had to get down to bare essentials. 

 That's how it felt when we lost Nathanael.

There simply isn't enough space for anything else.

 That is how we are with our grief.

We have to let go of all the unessential things, just to be able to take another step.

In the very beginning, you even have to be reminded to take a drink of water. I remember so clearly, the crowd of people in our living room, even though I couldn't tell you who actually was there, someone handed me more Kleenex and gave me a glass of water. Except, I never did take a drink of it. I remember being thirsty, but I didn't have the capacity to remember the glass in my hand. Until I spilled it on myself. I couldn't figure out what to do about it.

When the people were all gone, (and that happens way too quickly) I shut down.

I couldn't listen to music, I shut all the shades. 

My entire being was full of mind-crushing grief. 

That is all I could carry.

There wasn't any room for sound or light or anything else. It all hurt too much.  

Even God was too much. I had no room for sappy sayings, or trite promises.

Deep down, I still believed everything I ever knew before.

But I had no room to carry any of it.

So when the words "Be Still" came to my mind, I clung desperately to them. It was a very small phrase, but with those two words, I was being held.

 I was being carried when I could no longer carry another thing.

The Infinite caring for the finite. 

I can say I "am better", if that means I can find the water. I can function with the shades open and the music playing once more. That doesn't make it hurt any less.

I am learning to walk again. But I now remember which arms to run to, when the load still becomes too heavy to bear.

 

Sue Leerhoff  Brick by Brick