On grieving...

No one ever warned me about how far reaching grief can be- how it stretches out, makes itself at home, slowly seeping into every corner of your life until you're consumed with it. And then? Then there's nowhere to hide; nowhere to go to escape it.

It was there this morning when I opened my closet to pull out a sweater, and her clothing still filled all of the shelves that we used to share.

It was there on Saturday when I spent 4 hours helping put yarn braids and fresh beads in the hair of this sassy little girl, and realized that Paige never got to see her with even the "beans" in her hair.

Grief was there on Dad's birthday when he opened his new grandpa sweater- the one that would've eventually gotten stolen and taken to Boone, just like all of his others, because Paige liked to curl up in them when it was cold outside. But now she's not here to "borrow" them. 

It's there every time I drive past Rich Fork, wondering if I will ever be able to walk into the sanctuary on a Sunday morning ever again without sobbing. 

Grief is in the eyes of all the girls Paige mentored, the ones who saw her as an older sister. 

It's there every time I see her red car in the driveway, and my heart skips a beat for a split second. 

It's there every time I spend time with this sweet boy, and I'm blindsided with the thought that he will never remember her. 

But, then again, neither will she...

And she won't either...

It's there every time I get on Facebook and click over to her page, knowing that people are still writing and posting pictures, proving I'm not the only one struggling to move forward.

It's in the texts exchanged between friends late at night and in the earliest hours of the morning because neither of us can fall asleep.

Grief was there when I set the table for 6, and then quickly pulled the extra plate from the table, hoping no one else noticed. It was there when I realized "all of us" wasn't really "all of us" anymore.

Grief is in my faded Chucks, the old letters I saved, the movies we watched, the laughs we shared, and our songs on the radio.

And grief is here, even now, as I sit in the room we always shared, begging for sleep to take me.

But I already know.. grief will be there, too.

He is holy. I am not.

Most days, I'm stuck in the in-between, somewhere between my head and my heart, hanging in the balance.

I try to cling to the things I KNOW to be true of Him- that He is love. He is constant. He has a plan. But I'm finding it nearly impossible to align those Truths with my current reality- how can those things possibly coexist with the chaos, uncertainty, and betrayal I feel?

He is holy. I am not. 

I go through some days enraged that it feels like He's not here, that He doesn't care about this mess He's left me in. I stomp my feet, shake my fist at Him. I rant about the injustice of it all, daring Him to challenge me in my anger and my sadness.

I throw my temper tantrum until I am exhausted and empty. Finally, I wipe my eyes, ashamed of my outburst, ashamed of the thoughts that I dared to verbalize. I beg Him not to hold it against me. I plead for Him to see me as the distraught child that I am. I beg Him to comfort me as the Father I know He is.

He is holy. I am not. 

Every once in awhile, I eagerly seek Him. I open my Bible, flip to the passages that always brought me comfort. Familiar handwriting fills the margins, the thoughts and wisdom of a mentor who owned the  Bible before me. But it's not long before the words on the pages all blur together, hot tears spilling from my eyes and down my cheeks. His presence is suffocating. I snap the book shut, willing the tears to stop. I can't confront His presence without also confronting the condition of my heart. Instead, I do everything I can to run- to push Him away, to withdraw from His touch, to turn my back on Him.

He is holy. I am not. 

I don't want to accept His kind of love- His love is dangerous. His love allows pain if it means shaping His child. His love calls into question all of the "what ifs" and the "should have beens" that creep into my mind day after day. His love refuses to let me hide. I want love on my terms- the kind that feels good. The kind that is comfortable. The kind that brings only good things and laughter and warm fuzzy feelings. But that's not how His love works.

He loves wholly, because He is holy. And I am not.