Writing It Out

I will write today. I’ve been telling myself this all day. I will write. Whether merely some thoughts extracted from brain to page, or a post to share, or a little story – it doesn’t matter. I only care if I write.

There are parts of me that feel incapable of engaging with the world. They are inclined to hibernate while my efforts and attention are needed where the wounds need healing. I understand the nature of that need well enough to give those parts of me some grace. I’m complacent over the bowing out to backstage for now. Except with this. Writing can’t go.

Today marks two weeks since my sister died.

It took me ten minutes of staring at the space around me before I could write that sentence. I’m not sure how, but it makes it more real than before I wrote it down there. It doesn’t need to feel any more real.

Knowing it’s coming, barring a genuine hand-of-God miracle, did not leave me prepared for the loss. The expectancy only took away the element of surprise, not any of the pain. It felt… feels… far worse than I’d even told myself it would.

*The message from my brother, minutes afterward, letting me know she’d passed.

*Crying into the phone while my husband drove home, then crying in his arms.

*Telling my children and holding them through tears. Watching them watch me in concern.

*The surreal phone calls, emails, and texts about funeral details.

*The changes in my prayers, from begging for Cheryl’s healing to requesting strength and comfort for the rest of us.

*That first hug from a sibling two days later.

*Gathering with my sisters to arrange photo displays. Looking into Cheryl’s face through the years and milestones of the past.

*Writing a eulogy and sobbing through a different part each time I practiced aloud.

*The visitation, with its combined acceptance and avoidance of whichever moment will be the last of looking upon my sister face to face.

*The funeral, which managed an almost equal balance of sadness and beauty.

*The burial, which shook me and stripped away any lingering surreality.

Each was a brick to solidify the reality of Cheryl being gone.

On Tuesday the 18th, Cheryl told her doctor and her husband that she was finished with treatment. She signed the papers for hospice care in her home.

On Wednesday, my family visited her. We sat beside her bed, hugged her, held her hand, and conversed as much as we could. Sentences formed slowly as her eyes drifted shut between words, but we talked. I wish I could package up that visit in a vacuum to preserve without any faded or forgotten bits.

On Friday the 21st, with family gathered around her bed, she released her last breath and went to Jesus.

Tuesday evening, after receiving the update that she’d begun hospice care, I went for a run through my town. The sunset that evening was beautiful. Soft, pink sky with orange-streaked wisps of clouds. I remember feeling so angry about it. I was angry that, with all the awfulness of that day, the world dared to be beautiful. I was angry with myself for still noticing that beauty. It did not seem right. It took until near the end of my run, when I stopped beside the river in town to reconsider things. I leaned against a tree, cried, and realized how right it was after all.

Cheryl never stopped seeing God’s hand in this world. She saw reasons for joy and gratitude. His love, generosity, and care remained true and detectable to her. Even in the lowest times, when she felt distance between her and God, the awareness of his presence in this world did not leave her.

Right now, I’m most aware of pain. I see it in people’s faces. I wince at casual harshness from one to another. I wonder what this or that person is keeping to themselves behind an unaffected expression and ordinary words. I read between the lines of guarded social media posts. Then there are the unguarded ones, exposing their wounds and admitting their pain, and I’m reduced to tears once again.

For several months now, I’ve had a terribly hard time singing along to any songs. It doesn’t seem to matter what the song may be. There is something about the enlivening that comes from singing aloud. It cracks through my precarious grip every single time. A week before Cheryl died, I heard one I hadn’t heard before: MercyMe’s “Even If.”

God, when you choose to leave mountains unmovable, oh give me the strength to be able to sing, ‘It is well with my soul.’

MercyMe, “Even If”

This song has stayed with me through these days. I plan to sing along sometime soon.