Life In Loss

 Autumn-sun skims the tree tops as it begins to set in the evening. There's something about fall here in the North - as the sun-angle changes and the daylight fades, the sky looks bluer and the tree-colors seem deeper. Everything becomes a certain vibrant. All things gold, green, and red form their own kind of pallet as nature paints itself in a special artwork known only to this season. 

I hold my hand up to shade my eyes as sunlight streams through the window and blinds the eyes. I notice my hand glowing from its warming rays, evidence of life still coursing through veins. I'm reminded again of how strange it is that a heart can beat and lungs can breath and yet one can still feel dead. Can feel as though their body is only going through motions, as if one is unable to feel anything anymore. 

For over a year, loss has been major story. Grief has overshadowed everything. On more days than not, I've felt as though my physical presence and my emotional presence never could agree on the same time and place. Distant from anything in the moment, heart has continued to tick but I've wondered if it was possible to ever really live again. After you thought you'd have so much more time...after you thought you'd gotten through the worst...after you thought you'd never have to say goodbye, you did. And now you are trying to find a way to carry on without. 

Staring at light-glow still shining through my hand, I realize that this is proof there's still more ahead. The fact that God awakened me for yet another day, the fact that my heart-beats still continue reminds me that grief, however painful, hasn't had the last word yet. 

Loss, while devastating, can teach a soul how to live. How to love and appreciate more. How to treasure gifts and miracles the world is going too quickly to notice. Especially if it happens to be a frequent visitor, loss can shift the perspective from making life an emergency to making life a legacy. Loss can allow the heart to see and feel in ways it would be callous to otherwise. It is a hidden blessing presented in the ache.

 

Juli Wilson lost her husband last year to suicide. He was a young pastor who had made it his life's mission to bring awareness to mental health issues. His death left her to raise two little sons and figure out what life would look like without Jared. In the months since his death, Juli has dedicated herself to living her grief journey openly, showing others what it means to trust a good God even when what He gives seems to be ugly. In a recent interview, she shared how living with loss has reshaped how she does life, and her words ring true in my soul: 

"The reality of knowing how much of our life really is a vapor has changed how I do everything: I'm able to say no to things that, before, I felt I had to say yes to. I've learned to be disciplined with my time and just focus on the things that matter... Making sure I'm going slowly enough for what matters." 

Going. Slowly. Enough. For. What. Matters.

Somehow, when you've tasted what it's like to have death rip your world apart, when you've experienced that sobering thought that, "they were just here...and now they're gone!" it changes the way you choose to spend your days. To invest your time. To place your thoughts. Going slowly is often all you can do - to savor what time you have left with the ones you love, to look for the ways in which God shows up in the midst of great pain. Fast-paced living is the last thing you ever want to do. You vow never to do so again after you've lived through the suddenness of farewell. 

Loss allows you to come to grips with what really matters. After all, our hearts are each wound with a set number of beats that only God knows. We are each living an unknown number of days, minutes, seconds with which to love and serve one another and make our one life count. When we are met with the reality of that final tick and a goodbye must be said, we are reminded that we can never be sure if we'll ever get a "next time" for anything. 

So life takes on a certain type of urgent. But also a certain type of slow. It's living with intentionality, knowing that tomorrow isn't guaranteed. For us, or for anyone else. Loss can take much from a person, but it can also give much, if they let it. Loss can be a silent motivator to love well and care more in ways you might've dismissed before. Loss can be thing that helps you learn what it means to truly live even as you feel a part of you has died. 

Sun slips below the tree line, slowly fading as have the lives of so many I've had to let go of in recent months. I realize I'm still struggling to say goodbye to the one I loved most. It's always easier to welcome the "hellos" than it is to say farewell. But somehow, I'm slowly grasping that farewell has its place, too. Without the one, I might never appreciate the other. With both, perhaps my life is richer.