I’ve been struggling with what to write today. One minute I am happily thinking of Caleb’s first birthday and then wham-o, I picture Mike in his last hours. What a contrast. I feel pretty numb.
For me, the days before a significant anniversary are much harder than the actual day. If you asked, I could give you the details of the last week of Mike’s life. They have been playing over and over in my mind. It is not the day he took his last breath that is most difficult for me. It is remembering the days leading up to that moment that cause sleepless nights. The day Mike passed to Heaven brought with it some relief – relief because he was no longer suffering, relief because he knew where he was going, and relief because we are confident that we will be together again one day. Mike said several times that he was not afraid for himself, but knew that this was going to be hard on us. He even went so far as to say that it was harder on us than him. I am not so sure about that. We are running a marathon; he ran a sprint. Each is challenging in its own way, and can take you to your breaking point. But he was right in the fact that yes, this is hard. So very hard. And this week the fog has settled in thickly, making it hard to see clearly and to know where I am heading. Sometimes I want to move faster, but we all know that going faster in the fog does not make things clear up. In fact, it puts you at greater risk.
So I do my best to slow down. To take care, be intentional in my actions, be aware, and know that this fog is temporary even though I may have to sit in it for a short while. And that is OK. Clearer moments are coming. I never know when, but I will keep looking and I can be thankful that they exist even when I can’t see them.
So we don’t look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever. 2 Corinthians 4:18.