A Weight to Carry

I understand Frodo. He had to carry the ring -- his burden to bear -- and over time, the burden became heavier. "It's such a weight to carry," Frodo cried out to Sam, as the ring pressed upon his soul, and threatened to ruin him. But he had to carry on, he had to complete his task. Everything depended on his ability to carry the load. Of course he was never alone, but to shoulder the weight of the ring was his individual contribution to the mission. He had to endure, to outlast the strength of darkness, that tried to overshadow the courage of his Hobbit-heart.

Sometimes I feel like Frodo.

I find that as time goes on, the weight of grief becomes more of a burden. In all honesty, I felt more light and free in the first year after Charles passed away. They say that time heals. The passage of time is very helpful, as moments fade to memories; but it does not remove the weight, or lift the pressure that seems to push against my heart and mind. That pressure grows ever stronger.

Grief sits like a blanket of cold steel, on my soul and body. I think everyone who has ever experienced grief would describe it as "a weight." When you are packing around sorrow, it is like going through life hefting a box of bricks. Sometimes that grief-pressure manifests itself spiritually, sometimes physically: often both.

I have felt both the physical and spiritual effects of sorrow. It ebbs and flows over time, as I continue to adjust to my new reality. The other night I was brought to my knees in agony. I had to retreat to my closet, so I could fully release my tears and sobbing without waking the children. I poured my heart out to my Heavenly Father, and poured my tears out on an available shirt on the ground.

I thought everyone was asleep, and I was safe to unleash the white-water rapids from my eyes.

But I was wrong.

I was still sniffling when I walked out of the closet, and crawled into bed. Sammi could hear me from her room, and she said, "Mom, you are beautiful, and daddy loves you."

More tears.

With time I have learned how to shoulder the grief-weight more gracefully, but it has never left. I do not think the sorrow from losing Charles will ever fully leave in this lifetime. My spiritual skin just grows thicker, and more firm; to protect me from the rawness of my reality that Charles is in another world. But that reality can come and smack me in the heart at unexpected moments, leaving me like a spiritual newborn, crying for my Heavenly Father to scoop me up, and hold me. Only He can look upon my heart, and see my need at every hour of every day, and into the stillness of the lonely night.

He is always there.

In this life we carry scars. They are reminders of the pain we have gone through, and the experiences we have had -- the burdens we carry. I appear "normal" on the outside. Those who see me at the grocery store, or out and about, do not know the load I carry. But my scars are deeply etched in my heart, sometimes throbbing as a painful reminder of what I have seen and experienced. The scars will be with me always. Though I may move forward, I will never forget.

Death. I have seen death. And not just of my husband, but of my hopes and dreams for our future life together. My whole world has been turned upside-down, and what I imagined for the future has all been changed to having a hope for a life so different from what I dreamed. I still dare to hope. I will never stop hoping for a new bright future. I battle with two opposing forces daily: I hurt, and I hope.

There is a loneliness that spreads in my heart like a disease. I am never really alone. I am surrounded by people, and often. But there is something about being without a companion that rips a hole in my heart, and leaves an empty space that craves to be filled. The love of friends, and children, and family... these are all different kinds of love. The love that can exist in marriage is another level of sweetness and romance; I find myself deeply aching without such love in my life.

I have read that it is important to be "whole" before getting married, especially getting remarried after a dramatic event like death or divorce. I agree, to some degree, that being whole is ideal... but who ever really feels like they have arrived at perfection, and are ready to embark in a perfect life, with another perfect person? I have been given counsel to "get myself in order" and I find this very good advice. I am not meant to "make myself perfect."  I am just meant to prepare myself as best I can, to be ready for future relationships. I am doing my best to prepare myself.

For me, part of feeling whole would be filling the hole in my heart with love. I know what love is, I know what a good marriage is, and I miss it. I know it will not be the same as it was with Charles, not just because it would be a different companion, but I am not the same -- not at all. I have changed so much, from all that I have gone through.

The loneliness of life without a companion adds to the weight of sorrow. When things happened that were challenging before, Charles was always there to comfort when he could, or he would at least try. We shared an intimacy of understanding and love that made life's challenges bearable. Now I tackle all things with the moxie in my own heart, and the power that is given from my Heavenly Father. I would wish the closeness to Heaven on everyone, minus the sorrow of grief you must pass through to get there.

Sometimes working things out in my own mind, without a sounding board, can be dizzying. I have to carve out time just to be still and ponder, to receive the revelation I need to make decisions large and small. The message I continue to hear is to be patient, and all things will come together for my good.

I love being patient. It is my favorite.

Who knows what the future holds... it is a mystery to me. I just have to take life one day at a time, and trust in my Heavenly Father that things will work out, as I do what He needs me to do.

I will carry my load... there and back again.