My heart hurts.
Last week I drove by a motorcyclist who wore a protective jacket similar to John's and, before I could steel my heart against it, memories flooded into my mind. Days when I waved him off to work or off to an elder's meeting, hours we rode together on his bike, stickers we put on our helmets, the day I finally agreed to let him get a motorcycle.
John had an elder's meeting the morning he was killed. That's why he rode his bike, because it was one of the few times he could on a usual basis, and he loved it so much. I had skipped church because I had a broken heart. Our first IUI treatment cycle had failed, and my heart hurt. I didn't want to have to face everyone yet, I didn't want to have to break the news to everyone yet. So, I stayed home, in a completely and terribly mundane way.
We talked right before he got on his bike to head home...I told him I wanted to go shopping for some inconsequential thing at Target when he got home, and he was happy to oblige. And we said goodbye the same way we always said goodbye since the day he brought his motorcycle home...
"Be safe."
"Always."
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
Be safe...I said it every single day...Be safe.
My heart hurts.
There is a special kind of trauma that exists when you go searching for your husband, knowing that he might be dead, but praying that he isn't. And there is a lack of finality when the law enforcement officers don't allow you to see his body as you plead for answers, kneeling on the side of a road just 7 minutes away from the home you bought together to raise a family in.
I am glad that I didn't see his body, but it also haunts my dreams. Because I imagine what he looked like that day, and what his motorcycle jacket looked like...before the funeral home disposed of it as "soiled/stained/ruined clothing". Because I also remember receiving his belt back and realizing that it was covered in his blood...and my heart hurt.
I can hear the sirens, I can see the flashing lights of all the ambulances, firetrucks, local police SUVs, sheriff cars, and state trooper vehicles, I can smell the oil spilled across the road, I can taste the bitterness that filled my mouth, I can feel the deputy's uniform under my clenched fingers and the rocks that dug into my knees...
My heart hurts.
That's what happens when your husband is killed...your heart hurts.
Sometimes there are no words that can change or shape that kind of hurt. Some days you have to just embrace it all, allowing yourself to remember every moment, and simply embrace it for what it is.
My heart hurts.
But, it does not always hurt.
And it will not always hurt.
My life has always been so much more than all the hurt that I have endured.
Because the Holy Spirit makes a difference...even in all that hurt.
I am a mother and a daughter and a sister and an aunt and a friend.
And I know what I need to do next for all of them...
Be safe.
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