Slipped

There was a weightiness today that took me a moment to recognize. I was in the car driving to Target with my girls when I was able to name it; today marks a month since Dad died. In another bittersweet twist, it also happens to be my late Grandma Lois’ birthday.

The icy, slick weather over the past few days seems the perfect metaphor to tie to my grief journey lately. I will be walking along just fine, and then my foot slips on something I didn’t pay enough attention to. Awkward flailing and straining to regain balance, and then, I march onward again, this time with a bit more care. 

As I “slipped” today, my moments of flailing looked like eyes brimming with tears, a jaw clenched against the surge of emotions, and an accidental lead foot on the accelerator of my minivan. I suppressed something of a toddler tantrum that wanted to burst forth at the simple notion that things didn’t go the way I wanted them to. I wanted full physical restoration and 20 more years of sitting beside Dad in the stands, cheering on his grandkids--my kids, nieces, nephews--hearing his terrible jokes and overblown yet heart-deep-honest words of affirmation. For them, yes, but for me, too.

Look at that big brain on Lace!  Oh, geez...

Ugh. 

I eased off the gas once I caught myself going 81 in a 55 and consciously relaxed the tension out of my jaw. Another immature thought: feeling sad is LAME. 

It does feel that way. Not gonna lie. But I know it is inescapable. 

And necessary.

And refining. 

And beautiful. 

A reminder that loving and losing are tangled together in the wild and lovely strands that make up life itself. 

My Aunt Connie called today and shared that she has been praying and thinking of us, that she so dearly desires that these days would be filled with more sunshine than shadows. Such sweet words. And honestly, the days have been.

I know it is my daily choice to lift my eyes and choose the pursuit of the Lord’s perspective. In shadow moments, the choice feels like work, like hard-rendered sacrifice. Still, God’s mercy hasn’t failed; His goodness hasn’t dimmed. There ARE gifts in this. In everything. Always. 

Sometimes gifts don’t look like the things I hope for, when I hope for a smiling face full of sunshine on a mountaintop. Sometimes gifts look like hot tears spilled in the valley with the quiet presence of Jesus drawn so sweetly close. 

Gifts.

In everything.

Always.