(I wrote this post for another blog several months after Papa died.  I’m back-dating it to have it fit sequentially and including it here now due to a conversation I had with a friend this morning.  She recently lost her dad and is struggling with the juggle of trying to grieve while also caring for her little ones, the same struggle I was facing when I wrote this.  This one’s for you, Susan.)

March 21st, 2014

I don’t usually wear my pajamas to the bus stop, but this morning was hectic.  Little M had risen too early at 5AM for a pre-breakfast snack.  And then we went back to sleep… and overslept a wee bit.  So the mad rush of breakfast, morning chores, making of lunches, and scrambling out the door ensued.  With a shoe-tying and sweatshirt vs. coat fiasco thrown in for good measure.  Then we missed the bus.  Just barely.  I’ll blame it on the substitute bus driver actually showing up on time (we usually get a couple minute buffer from the regular bus driver).  There were tears (riding the bus is so much more fun than Mom driving you) and I quickly became paranoid we’d be pulled over or get into an accident en route to school (anything that would require me to get out of the car in my multi-colored snowflake pants, clogs, and bed-head… Oh, dear).  Mid-way to school I realized I’d only partially buckled Little M into his car seat (we were supposed to be driving just to the bus stop, remember), and I had to pull over to fix it.  Of course I did NOT get out of the vehicle (snowflake pants, remember), choosing the higher road of awkwardly contorting my body, butt in the air of the driver’s seat, to secure the said car seat buckles.  Thankfully, we somehow made it to school and back home with no further tears or humiliation.

Ah, if I could just get myself together.  Get up earlier, like I keep telling myself I should.  To exercise, have devotions, some quiet respite before the frantic rush of the day begins.  That would make things so much easier.  Why can’t I just make it happen?

Soon after we returned home from school this morning, I checked my email while C Bear and Little M were being entertained by cartoons.  A moment to breathe.  In the midst of the dozens of got-to-unsubscribe-myself-to-that marketing hype emails, there was a gem from a friend.  A link to a daily devotional.  Just happened to be on grief, titled “Jesus Mourns with You.”  You can find it at Proverbs 31 Ministries here.  As I read it, I found myself crying, relating when the author spoke of the woman in the story and how “the more she pushed her grief down, the more it came out in places she didn’t want it to, and in ways that she didn’t understand or expect.”  I felt like nodding when the author said, “Perhaps today you understand Amber’s pain. You desire to live whole, but you live with untended grief….  In the presence of Jesus, you don’t have to numb it, escape from it or push it down. Your heavenly Father requires none of these. Just as Jesus welcomed Mary, He beckons you to come to a safe place, where your Savior is not afraid of sorrow.”  I took a minute to cry and pray and just be.

Okay, so actually not a minute.  More like 45 seconds.  Because my moment, brief moment, was quickly interrupted with C Bear yelling, “Little M’s pulling cords out of the wall!”  And then I had to figure out how to turn the cable box back on and get the ever-loving “Jake & the Neverland Pirates” episode back in business.

And then it was time for Little M’s nap, and granola-making with C Bear,

and lunch, and shower, and errands, and…..

Let’s just say there wasn’t a whole lotta time to be tending to my sorrow with Jesus.

There are days when I wonder how this grief thing is supposed to work itself out when you’re mothering young kids, when you go non-stop all day and often feel overwhelmed with just getting through the daily.  When life keeps rushing ahead with no slowing down.  And then when you do get that ever-so-slight moment of reprieve, you’re just too tired or numb to work through things, however you’re supposed to do that.  Or kids start pulling cords out of the wall.  Not all days are like this.  Just some.  Some are just plain harder or sadder or crazier than others.

Often in those hard moments, I’ll inwardly look heavenward and ask, “Lord, when does it get easier?”

In the chaos of making dinner tonight, kitchen still a mess from breakfast, lunch;

Child to discipline, consequences to dole out;

Baby in the cabinets, lids and bowls all helter skelter;

Then baby racing, splashing in the dog’s dish, slobbered water all over baby, the floor….

There I was asking again, “Lord, when does it easier?”  That grief always there, under the surface, sometimes brewing closer to the surface, sometimes spilling over in welled-up eyes, short-temper, inner dialogue.  Tonight was one of those nights when just making dinner felt like too much.  Please, would someone hit the pause button and let me have a MOMENT, a moment to process, a moment to mourn?  But as I worked on, stretching, pinching dough, mixing pesto, slicing, sauteing veggies, grating cheese, I was reminded of the blessings in that moment.  Food to prepare, kids to feed, husband working, house to dwell in, even in the mess.  Health.  Faith.  Love.  When willing to step out of my small world of P.J. pants, and too-tight shoelaces, and baby crying, and bandaged boo-boos, when willing to take a moment to gaze into the hardships of the greater world around me, I have to look upward again, this time asking, “Lord, why do I have it so easy?”

For in many ways I do have it easy, I am so blessed.  Truly.  My daily “hardships” are more often than not laughable.  And yet that doesn’t mean in the here-and-now moments it isn’t hard.  Hard with working through emotions and grief as life rolls on.  Maybe I don’t need to “get it together” or get up earlier or just make it happen.  Or even hit the pause button.  Maybe I need to learn to roll with it, to keep rolling with it, to take the gem of an encouraging devotional or even 45 seconds to cry, and count these moments, no matter how small, as God’s gifts; signs of His presence in the midst of life in all it’s crazy, glorious reality.  Because He’s bringing me through each day with His strength, in His way.

Helping dinner get prepared in a mess of a kitchen,

While boys are peaceably entertained,

And sleepy & unhappy baby is sequestered to devices of safe confinement,

And the table is cleared of the day’s activities,

And green pesto pizza is served up to a hungry crew.

He’s even there in the midst of groans and complaints from the little people even before the first bite is taken (“Ewww, gross!,”  “Why did you have to make this kind of pizza?!,” “I don’t like pesto!,”  “It’s too spicy!”).  [I feel it necessary to note that their portion of the pizza was the cheese section, not the zucchini & onion section, for those who may feel I’m inflicting cruel and unusual punishment on my children].

And even when I sigh and wonder why I didn’t just make “normal” pizza to appease the masses, He helps me speak words of encouragement, “No, it’s not spicy,” “Just try it.”

And then in a moment, the hard day becomes a little easier.  A bite is taken.  A smile to replace the frown.  A “this is good!” is actually uttered from the mouths of babes.  And I smile.  And when the day’s “Highs” (good things) & “Lows” (not so good things) are shared by all around the table, I enjoy a moment, this moment, where life slows down, just a bit, around a pan of green pizza.

Later there’s football outdoors to be grateful for while I tackle the kitchen, laughter of three boys in the tub, and Daddy’s nightly made-up bedtime story and then good-night prayers.  For another day with its “highs” & “lows” and 45 seconds to mourn.

I want to be past this hard part of grief.  This messy, unpredictable stage where I can’t quite get a handle on my emotions or get myself as “together” as I’d like.  I heard once in reference to Psalm 23 where it speaks of the valley of the shadow of death, that the thing about shadows is that they move, they don’t stand still.  The shadow of grief and death and all that goes with it isn’t permanent, and I find hope in that knowledge.

Psalm 23:4 reads:

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil, for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”

Jesus knows the sorrow of grief.  He is with me, and anyone who’s walked this similar path, as we walk through this valley.  Through it.  And as I make my way through it, it’s encouraging to know He’s right by my side to comfort me, meet me where I’m at, and help me keep on moving forward.  Even when I’m heading out the door in my snowflake pants.