Permission.

I am fragile. I will smile at you, and I will tell everyone--even my husband--that I am fine. Once I'm alone, though, the defenses drop, and I'm face-to-face with the reality that I am so very fragile.
I can act like I can hear your issues; I can quote the Scriptures (but not the references); I can smile and sing, and you wouldn't know the difference.
I am so very fragile.
I keep saying it, because I find myself shocked by the mere admission--much less the REALITY of it. I'm a freakin' mess, and I hate being by myself because that's what I'm faced with. Everything just seems so much scarier when I'm alone...there is genuine anguish that occasionally rises up. Today, I feel like I've been punched in the face.
I'm not bouncing back...and I am still by myself.
God has heard it all today--yes, I know, don't be trite. I'm never TRULY alone. But when there are people in the general vicinity, I don't have permission to verbally get everything out of my system. 9 days out of 10, there's actually not much to vent. God and I converse throughout the day, so He hears it all. On that one day out of 10, though--on that rare day, when being alone is the worst place I could be--the things that God hears me say make me feel awful.
I was raised to follow Jesus. I am from a Godly (realistically Godly) home, I went to a Godly (unrealistically Godly) Christian school, I married a Godly (realistically Godly) guy, and I go to a Godly (realistically/unrealistically Godly) church (we can define that some other time:). I was raised that you follow Jesus no matter what, you accept things as His will, and you don't ask the tough questions.
What happens, though, when life forces you to ask Him the tough questions?
Here's what happens:
He loves you.
I have said things to my Father that I would NEVER let anyone else hear. I sat at a cemetery today, at my daughter's grave, and I said things out loud, that I didn't even realize I was struggling with....not just the things that I'm STILL struggling with, 5 years later, but new questions, new realizations, new frustrations, and that ever-present heartbreak that never really goes away.
"Christianese" tells me that Jesus heals every pain.
I lost my child. I lost a chunk of my heart, and I will NEVER get that back. Does Jesus heal even that? You betcha. Does it leave ridiculous scars? Unless you've been through this, you wouldn't understand. Of course, it leaves scars.
I have a scar on my foot from a surgery I had, 5 years ago. Most of the time, it's fine. You wouldn't notice it if I didn't point it out.
That scar will swell up from time-to-time. It will turn red; it will puff up, and it will make my dress shoes uncomfortable. That's how I feel.
I'm healed through the worst of losing my girl. Occasionally, though, the scars puff up, and I feel like my heart will break right out of my chest. Today, at the cemetery, was one of those times.
Don't give me the church answer--I already know and believe it.
I am acting on my license to grieve.
I have permission to cry.

What I don't have, and I've said it before (as a reminder to myself, more than anything), is permission to stay here. That, as a Christian, we don't get. It's not "sucking it up;" rather, it's going to Jesus for comfort. It's falling into His arms, and knowing that He hears our heart's cry. He knows our sorrows, and He hurts for us. He also picks us upright, and gives us what we need to cry--just a little--and get back into battle.

My heart hurts, and I'm feeling more than just a little broken right now. I attended a visitation last night, for a young firefighter who passed away. He had no idea how much he was loved...I didn't know his parents, but to be in that receiving line, and see that father reach down on occasion and pat his son's chest, cut me to the quick. That's one more set of parents who have to say goodbye. That's one more daddy without a son; one more mother who's heart is broken. By the time we got to where we could shake their hands, I couldn't even speak. There's a certain group of women, myself included, who have lost a child and understand that grief. It's identifiable, and it's an unspeakable club to be a member of. That mother's expression--that look in her eyes--I still see that, on occasion, in the mirror.

I am not the same person that I used to be. I'd like to say that the process changed me for the better, but I'll never know that, will I? I'll be "celebrating" a 5th birthday that isn't, at the end of this month. Every leaf that falls has a tendency to smack me in the face with the reality of what isn't. I don't want to feel like I'm ramping up to October 30th...I don't want to feel like the "Monster At the End of This Book" (I've already been through that phase--that was so 2007). I refuse to make this some dramatic, weepy, cry-on-my-pillow month-long fiasco.

I am fragile, yes.

This will be okay, possibly as soon as David gets home (he always makes me smile, and besides--I don't want him to see me like this). And when he's not here, I'll get creative in my coping mechanisms (today involved my first attempt at homemade bread, making a pot roast, grocery shopping, getting physical therapy...sigh).

Between the visitation last night, and the cemetery this morning, with the first of October looming on the horizon, I'm a mess. Sitting down and blogging it out is helpful, but then I have to deal with the don't-feel-sorry-for-me fears. Whatever.

I am finding strength (yet again--how does this work?!?) in a God that never seems to run out, or turn me away...or tell me to get over it, or preach at me, or treat me like a mutant. It's amazing to me, how He just lets me cry.

He knows I'm fragile, and His Strength is Perfect....
He gives me permission to cry...
He loves me relentlessly, and His arms are always open...