You may have noticed. My words are stuck. They cannot make it from my head to my hands. There is a pile of them at my heart waiting to flow out. They are heavy and sluggish, these words. An incredibly busy season has led directly into a season of grief, where words are few and far between. My head knows them, but my heart will not let them by, so they clog everything and eventually detour to my tear ducts. Liquid prayers, I call them.
The seasons are changing. Time does not stop just because I am not ready. Ahead, right around the corner, more grief waits for me. I can see it as I approach, but I cannot stop moving towards it because time doesn’t stop. Age doesn’t stop.
A generation passes the baton. I do my best to pick it up and carry it, but it is unfamiliar. I am not used to the feel of it and I fear bumbling it or, worse yet, dropping it. And the one I go to for counsel is fading away to a child. Another is gone altogether. This leaves me with an empty place in my soul. It is a process, this grief. A loss, that was quick and one that is not yet a loss. Some which are coming, slowly taking away stability on more than one front.
Brains are so very complex. They manage everything. When they are fading away, change is constant. They drop things I must pick up. I carry my own and that of another, and now another two. It seems quite a heavy load these days. It makes me weary, and I am at the beginning of the journey. Where and when it ends I do not know. The unknown is part of the word blockage. Not seeing. Not knowing where things are going, only that they are…going, and I cannot stop them. Only hold on.
Faith. The essence of things hoped for but not seen. I cannot see. I can only hope and hold on that God knows what is around the corner. He sees the losses that are coming and he knows me well enough to know what I can and cannot carry. His arms are strong enough to carry it all, if I can just figure out how to let him.