Waves of Grief

Waves of Grief

As each moment passes by, the grief comes in waves, like those of when we have gone to the beach.  Some lightly brush against your ankles, while others nearly wipe you off your feet.  

During the day, when to-do lists and care taking of my son take place, little waves ripple in.  I might have tears in my eyes or a shaky voice.  Sometimes I appear to be okay, but I am pushing the waves back in those moments.  Usually the waves are strongest when I am faced with yet another decision that I would have discussed with my husband, when I am alone, or in the darkness of my home at night; when I feel the absence of my husband as I try to sleep.  Wayne was a night person and would often talk to me to help me sleep, and now the TV poorly serves that purpose.  I find my pillow tear-stained and wet, my head aches, my stomach in a ball of knots, until I eventually fall asleep.

I know that you may be grieving too.  Your memories of Wayne are different than mine, but I can't help but feel that my memories of Wayne are all-encompassing of whom I am, and are much different than yours, deeper reaching into my heart and mind.  Your journey through grieving will be different, as it should be.

I have known Wayne since 1995, when we met in college and started dating that Fall.  We spent all of our time in between classes together, and then we married the summer we graduated.  Our 15th wedding anniversary would have been this summer of 2014.  We have worked in the same places together, worshipped together, and weekends were spent together.  We simply went together as much as we could.  Wayne would call or text me to tell me when he was on his way home from a practice or meeting, even if only 5 minutes away.  He would map out his runs and share them online, so I could know where he was if I needed him.  We would plan our weekly meals out, discuss our finances, plan fun family events, and snuggle on the couch watching favorite shows.

We truly were made for each other; and I believe God placed us together.  Wayne was my confidant, who knew me in intimate ways that no other earthly person could.  He knew what I needed before I needed it, he knew what to say to comfort me in times of stress or anxiety, he knew when my neck needed to be rubbed, he knew everything about me - no secrets.  And now, I do not have that anymore.  

The stores, my workplace, my husband's friends, food, music, venues, hospitals, my home, have memories of Wayne connected to them - they are literally everywhere.  His possessions, dresser, desk drawers, and closet are frozen in time.  I've cried in the phone store because I had to change the service on his phone, and I teared up at the mall when my son ordered his usual soft pretzel.  I carry his death certificate with me because I have to prove to business people that he is gone; I see his handwriting and I brush my fingers over it; I hold his hairbrush in my hands; I cry at praise songs on the radio because they were also sung by Wayne.  

I cry when my son comforts me with a hug and kiss, just like Dadda.  Sometimes I call my son "Wayne" or I talk to Wayne in the house, forgetting he is not right there.  I cry at the thought that my son, instilled with a love of God and Dadda's integrity, will still grow up without his earthly father to guide him.  Wayne was truly a part of me; infused and entwined in such a way that I now feel incomplete.  No other person can provide that for me.

The tears fall and my chest hurts.  This is a lonely journey, for even though you are praying for and walking by my side, this loss is very deep and personal, for I knew him also in ways that you did not.  I miss him and no distraction can take away that feeling of loss; it is now mine to carry; and yet I refuse to forget the honor, and grace, and integrity in the way that Wayne lived his earthly life.  

I am still a mother, and am allowing my child time to grieve and adjust as well, as well as trying to give him normalcy in our daily activities.  I focus my energy on his well-being.  I also need to pray; to mourn; to just be.  

I know this grieving process will take time.  The memories will always be there, but perhaps they will not feel so painful someday.  Many of you will move on, and parts of this journey may become a distant memory to you.  For me, it will forever be in my life story.  I know that I need help, perhaps from someone that does not know Wayne.  I need to share without this person grieving alongside me, causing me to extend comfort, but instead seeing and celebrating the hope and love in Wayne's life, comforting and encouraging me on.  My son will need help too - guidance in holding his Faith, his love of God, and the bond that he and I will always have with Dadda.

I also think that perhaps this pain, this loss, is so that another can have light instilled in him or her.  If so, let it be.  I will carry this burden; which is really carried by God.  This loss is not something to just get over; it is part of my journey.  Perhaps understanding my grief; detaching from things out there and attaching inwardly to Jesus, will help me to heal from the pain, to remember, and to live a life glorifying to God; to allow the waves to come, yet keeping my feet firmly planted.  Hope is there; hope perseveres.

Reflection Verses:

The floods have risen up, O Lord.  The floods have roared like thunder; the floods have lifted their pounding waves.  But mightier than the violent raging of the seas, mightier than the breakers on the shore—the Lord above is mightier than these!(Psalms 93:3-4 NLT)

Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. (Romans 12:15 NIV)

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. (Matthew 5:4 NIV)