Candles Tell a Story
After the initial days of loss so much of what you do only happens by routine, totally unaware of anything surrounding you except the gaping hole left staring you in the face. The shock has settled deeper in your soul and you may remember to drink if you are thirsty, you may try to peck at the food placed before you, and you may crawl into bed because you must get up again tomorrow. You try to resume a semblance of life. How it affects you may be so different than other members of your family, or anyone you know who has been where you are now.
The way we react, respond, and who we become has so many variables.
Some seem to find their way quickly into a different sort of who they used to be.
Others may have numerous reasons for not being able to pick up the pieces as gallantly.
But we all still grieve.
It's the only thing there is left.
Grief blooms from the flowerbed of love.
When the blossom of that dear heart has been cut, it transforms into the noble form of grief.
"It's all the love you want to give but cannot"
This was one of the first quotes I saw after we lost Nathanael.
I thought I knew what it meant, but now as time passes this remains.
Every loved one who dies, compounds the losses:
Grief and love, hand in hand, melting together as one candle blends with the next, until the pool is undistinguishable.
How many times the candle is lit, slowly changes it's appearance, all the while lighting the room with it's dim warmth.
The pool of wax blending as one, warming the room even more.
The resulting debris a pile of unsightly slop which is no fun to clean from tablecloths or anything thing else for that matter.
Hence the large platter protecting my table.
Several deaths, or any number of tragedies, illnesses, setbacks, losses, and downfalls can compound your grief until it becomes a steamrolled jumble of emotions.
It's ok to blow out the candle once in awhile to let it settle. Let it return to it's previous state.
It's ok to let your grief down for a moment to make room for more love, to learn to live again.
Of course it's going to be a different sort of candle than before all this came across your path, but it can still accomplish the same goal as a perfect, shiny, new candle.
They all bring light to this darkened world.
In those early days after our loss, I lit a single candle every day. It physically hurt at night to blow out that candle so bravely lighting the corner of our shattered world. Then I eventually only lit it on Saturday evenings. Oh how I hated the weekends. Still, five years later, it brings a pang of unequaled sorrow to remember what day it is for a fleeting moment, if I choose to light a candle in the winter and it also happens to be a Saturday. Yet other days, I consciously pick up the special vase reserved for important milestones of bygone days, and with a bittersweet pride beaming in the corners of my broken heart, I strike a match and relight the shining emblem of love.
For my grief was born of love, and each day I choose to keep the embers burning in loving memory of a boy who lived and laughed and loved.
My son will be always remembered as the man who brought light to a darkened world.
And because I know what love is, I am ever so grateful to the Light of the World for bringing Love to a world so cold.
If you, too, know what love is, and your love has blended with grief -
May we together carry "This Little Light of Mine".
Stories from the journey of life
written by: Sue Leerhoff
Brick by Brick
Comments
Post a Comment