Lament

to grieve is to find your voice underwater. it is an unwinding road of discovery. one that opens your mouth, your body to an anger, a fear, a dread, an helplessness, a sunken feeling at the bottom of the ocean.

nobody chooses loss. it forces your hand to let go. or burns the hand to spread. there is nothing fair about what leaves you in parts. my mother will sit by my bedside in 2 days. her frame sunken and sad. that's how i instinctively remember her after she passed. the last image mostly becomes the first impression on your heart when you recall what you lost. not her vibrant smile and the road trips and her ebony glow and homely embrace. just a woman robbed of air, sunken and sad, in a grave, by my bedside. and there is nothing fair about what robs you of beautiful memories.

it is what you are becoming that frightens you. today, you looked at the mirror and you see their eyes. you are becoming what you mourn, a constant reminder of what left you. faith was created for moments like this. to make sense of the injustice of loss. yet it cripples your lips to truly lament.

no one should feel ashamed for cussing at heaven. if god is truly innocent, then they will understand your rage. it is not about them. don’t centre god in my grief. they did not lose their parents and friends and even when they came as human, jesus could not bear losing lazarus so he bent the laws for him. who will bend mine? i am standing in front of a tomb. like jesus, i call out in a loud voice. 14 years and 13 years and 2 years later, no resurrection. this is where it hurts the most, your lament won’t move god to a miracle. but this is where you will start again. broken yet in acceptance.