There has been a memorial at our church yesterday that I attended; it was for parents who lost their son unexpectedly. Just like for my dear Aunt M and her late husband, their son died in their home. The parents returned from medical treatment for the father, to find their adopted son dead on the floor. At 42 years old.
At the same time as this service, our son was learning about human relationships and sexuality. After the memorial, our minister shared privately that she expects to officiate at a number of memorials in the coming months. One of those expected deaths will involve the wife of my one of DH's colleagues. I may have told you, they are neighbors as well?
I am one who weeps easily. What we in EA call our powerless statement, powerless over my emotions, has the acronym, POME. Instead, I feel my heart spells it POEM.
I guess I am glad my childhood taught me how to do this dance of tears. I know it heals, even as it hurts.
I was telling a program friend that it is almost impossible to cry, when typing. Well, I seem to have just proven those words wrong.
There is a line in the St. Francis Prayer that comes immediately to mind. "Lord.. where there is despair, let me sow hope." But the honest ground of hope begins when we admit despair.