Lately, I've had kind of a lot going on.
My Grandfather, who helped my mom raise me in light of my father's absence, just died suddenly of an infection. A week before his death, he was out snowblowing and grocery shopping, and I had no idea that the last conversation I had with him would actually be the last. It happened in three days: his gall bladder failed, then his liver, then his kidneys. I was twenty minutes into the seven hour trip home to say goodbye when I got the call: he died.
It's been two weeks and two days, and the memories spiral nonstop. I am a little girl in his lap while the Patriots are on-- peanut in one hand, nutcracker in the other. "Grampa, it's too hard. Can you help me?" We are kneeling in the garden. I want to pick my squash. "Be patient. It's not ready yet. "I am a teenager across the table at Mia Regazza. "No, Grampa, Athanasius wasn't trying to manipulate the Romans with the Nicene Creed."
"Yes, I have read the whole thing, Grampa."
I am in the car coming home to say goodbye. The phone rings. It's my mom, to say that he didn't make it through the night.
When I got home, I saw all of my family. We planned out the services, and they were incredible. The Marines played Taps at the cemetery, and my cousin Josh flew in from the Philippines.
When we got to the church, I was scared I was going to miss them walking the casket in because I got lost trying to find the bathroom, but thankfully, they waited for me.
After the funeral, I came back to school, and everyone had kept studying while I was gone. That was confusing.
Last month, before this all happened, I found out that people I thought really cared about me actually never did. I have since spent a lot of time angry, and believe it or not, death makes it worse, not better.
I went for a run today, because, like all runners, my thoughts spiral smoothest when they are set to a rhythm. I relived, remembered, and raged...
How could these people leave me this way? I would have turned to them for help. I need them to be here for me. How am I supposed to navigate all of this alone?
Grampa, it's too hard. Can you help me?
Oh my gosh... I forgot to write my project. I have to write my project. When did I start crying? I missed my project because Grampa died, and I am crying because Grampa died and I missed my project. He's not going to be there when I go home. Look at my squash, Grampa! It's so big! I want to water it!
Be patient. It's not ready yet.
How dare they hurt me when so many others have? How dare they lie to me? How dare they intimidate me?
No, Grampa! Athanasius wasn't trying to manipulate the Romans! It was all about Arius! Look, it's all in my paper Grampa! You were supposed to read it when I was done. It's overdue now.
Grampa, it's too hard. Can you help me?
I hope God crushes them like they crushed me. They tricked me, but I'll show them.
The phone is ringing, but I don't want to pick it up. I don't want to grieve, I want to be angry. Why can't everyone back off and just let me be angry?
...And then, I hit the icy pavement. Bloody knees, split knuckles, tangled headphones. Huh?
I was flat, stunned, on the white sidewalk of a housing development. Did I actually just fall?
I wiped the snow off my shoulder and checked my hands as I got up. Then I felt the stings. My teeth clenched and my eyes winced as tears pushed from the outer corners.
I actually just fell.
"L'homme fort n'est pas celui qui ne tombe jamais, mais celui qui tombe et sait comment se relever." It came right to my mind, and the tears flooded out. I wouldn't say it "hit me," but it's quite accurate to say that the frigid mercy stopped my fall in its tracks. God did know how I was feeling after all, and he was showing me: my shocked, cold, wounded despair was a visible expression of what I felt on the inside: fallen.
God knows the ice and shock of my pain. He traces every spiralling flurry. He knows how much I sting, and that I am stunned and confused and alone and out of place.
Oft' times He weaveth sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the under side.
My Grandfather, who helped my mom raise me in light of my father's absence, just died suddenly of an infection. A week before his death, he was out snowblowing and grocery shopping, and I had no idea that the last conversation I had with him would actually be the last. It happened in three days: his gall bladder failed, then his liver, then his kidneys. I was twenty minutes into the seven hour trip home to say goodbye when I got the call: he died.
It's been two weeks and two days, and the memories spiral nonstop. I am a little girl in his lap while the Patriots are on-- peanut in one hand, nutcracker in the other. "Grampa, it's too hard. Can you help me?" We are kneeling in the garden. I want to pick my squash. "Be patient. It's not ready yet. "I am a teenager across the table at Mia Regazza. "No, Grampa, Athanasius wasn't trying to manipulate the Romans with the Nicene Creed."
"Yes, I have read the whole thing, Grampa."
I am in the car coming home to say goodbye. The phone rings. It's my mom, to say that he didn't make it through the night.
When I got home, I saw all of my family. We planned out the services, and they were incredible. The Marines played Taps at the cemetery, and my cousin Josh flew in from the Philippines.
When we got to the church, I was scared I was going to miss them walking the casket in because I got lost trying to find the bathroom, but thankfully, they waited for me.
After the funeral, I came back to school, and everyone had kept studying while I was gone. That was confusing.
Last month, before this all happened, I found out that people I thought really cared about me actually never did. I have since spent a lot of time angry, and believe it or not, death makes it worse, not better.
I went for a run today, because, like all runners, my thoughts spiral smoothest when they are set to a rhythm. I relived, remembered, and raged...
How could these people leave me this way? I would have turned to them for help. I need them to be here for me. How am I supposed to navigate all of this alone?
Grampa, it's too hard. Can you help me?
Oh my gosh... I forgot to write my project. I have to write my project. When did I start crying? I missed my project because Grampa died, and I am crying because Grampa died and I missed my project. He's not going to be there when I go home. Look at my squash, Grampa! It's so big! I want to water it!
Be patient. It's not ready yet.
How dare they hurt me when so many others have? How dare they lie to me? How dare they intimidate me?
No, Grampa! Athanasius wasn't trying to manipulate the Romans! It was all about Arius! Look, it's all in my paper Grampa! You were supposed to read it when I was done. It's overdue now.
Grampa, it's too hard. Can you help me?
I hope God crushes them like they crushed me. They tricked me, but I'll show them.
The phone is ringing, but I don't want to pick it up. I don't want to grieve, I want to be angry. Why can't everyone back off and just let me be angry?
...And then, I hit the icy pavement. Bloody knees, split knuckles, tangled headphones. Huh?
I was flat, stunned, on the white sidewalk of a housing development. Did I actually just fall?
I wiped the snow off my shoulder and checked my hands as I got up. Then I felt the stings. My teeth clenched and my eyes winced as tears pushed from the outer corners.
I actually just fell.
"L'homme fort n'est pas celui qui ne tombe jamais, mais celui qui tombe et sait comment se relever." It came right to my mind, and the tears flooded out. I wouldn't say it "hit me," but it's quite accurate to say that the frigid mercy stopped my fall in its tracks. God did know how I was feeling after all, and he was showing me: my shocked, cold, wounded despair was a visible expression of what I felt on the inside: fallen.
God knows the ice and shock of my pain. He traces every spiralling flurry. He knows how much I sting, and that I am stunned and confused and alone and out of place.
Oft' times He weaveth sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the under side.