I Fell Apart...

I wasn't prepared for the death of my son...but I was far less prepared for the death of my husband. And, to be honest, I fell apart. 

I was lost and lonely and so very broken. I couldn't hold myself together and I allowed every broken part of myself to fall away. I gave myself permission to be broken, to be lost, to sit in the ashes, and to just grieve the greatest loss of my life. 

But I only allowed myself a certain amount of time. I didn't want to wallow. I didn't want drown in my grief. I didn't want to be that broken for longer than absolutely necessary. 

I fell apart...and then I told myself that I couldn't be apart any longer. 

So I made very intentional efforts to heal and to process and to grieve productively. Is that even a real thing? I don't know, but convinced myself that it was, and I proceeded as such. 

I'm not gonna say that those things didn't help. Because they did...so very much. I'm a firm believer that we develop the culture around our grief and that we are not slaves to our grief or emotions. And a lot of the hard work I did in my grief enabled me to heal to a point that I was able to adopt my daughter. If I had not made an effort, I would have been too broken to bring her into my life and to help her heal. 

But, I think that I am a little more broken than I give myself credit for. And I am a little more apart than I remember. 

The closest people to my heart seem to be continually reminding me:

"You're allowed to need a break."

"It makes sense that this hurts this much."

"No one said that you had to hold it together all the time."

I fell apart...time and time again...and I felt so very much like a failure...time and time again. 

I don't believe we are slaves to our grief or emotions...but tell that to a person in the midst of a panic attack in the corner of a strange bathroom while on vacation. Grief and emotions matter. I've always known that, always proclaimed that, but sometimes...sometimes I really wish they didn't.

I fell apart, and I'm still not all back together yet. And I hate that, I really do. 

I'm just trying my very best, which I know isn't good enough. Simply because I’m a sinner who knows what she’s capable of. Which is nothing even close to the best…because that can only be accomplished by Jesus Christ. So I'm just sitting in the ashes and trying to breathe in and breath out...in and out.

This is one of the hardest seasons I've had since John first died. I'm attempting all the things to find comfort and peace and healing, but I just feel like nothing is gaining traction. Everyone has great suggestions and loving prayers, and I am just sitting in the sharing of them.

I'm stepping back from so many things that have somehow filled my schedule. I'm clearing out my house because it all just feels like too much. Too much stuff, too much clutter, too much of things that just don't even matter anymore. I’m letting go of everything that I can during this season.

Because I fell apart when John died...

I am simply allowing myself to be apart for now.

But, as I think about the hard things in my life that I am walking through...I am reminded of the seasons of suffering that God brought about in the lives of the people He loved in order to accomplish His great works.

The years of slavery, the women of infertility, the fear of discovery, the broken marriages, the betrayals, the garden of Gethsemane, the bloody cross, the full tomb...

I am consistently praying that this cup might pass from me...but I am willing to walk this Via Dolorosa...this way of suffering...

Even if all I ever understand of it is that He asked me to walk it...even though I fell apart.

For what is the hope of the Gospel if not the ever-present reminder that the Via Dolorosa brought us all into the perfect righteousness of God after we fell apart?