Wound of Grief.

For most of my life, I have been sheltered from death. I mean sheltered in a real, true way. In the way that I was unable to know the depth of sorrow and pain that such deep loss brings. In a way that held me distant from experiencing death as others experienced it. My great-grandparents died in my teen years, but there is still a distance in their passing.

But this year has been different. This year, the thought of it brings memories flooding back and feelings I can't escape from. It brings all the sights and images to mind, the true intensity of grief, and the bleak stare at times as I aim to see through the fog at hope.

My grandpa died last year. Eighty years old of a heart attack. He drove himself and my grandma to the hospital in the midst of it. I still remember the day exactly. Everything about it, from the phone calls, to walking down the hospital halls in confidence, to feeling a literal tidal wave of emotion nail me against the wall as I came to his waiting room. I can remember crying so uncontrolably that I couldn't get my shoulders to stop heaving. The faces... the hugs... the waiting... the last moments I spent tucked inside his hospital room, just him and me, holding his hand and talking to his so gingerly that I knew sacred space was made.

This past September/October, I lost a student. He was the first person under the age of 80 that I had a relationship with whose body no longer splashes in waves. I will never forget standing in the greeting line, unable to look at the faces of his friends in fear of sharing too much of my own grief, or walking my students to the funeral of their friend. The impact of his life, and his death, walks with me nearly every day still, 2 months later. I can't begin to describe it, nor will I try, simply for confidentiality sake... But even as his teacher, it still hurts me more than I am able to admit.

And today, I lost another man. He's my great-uncle, but holds more significance than that title grants [my grandparents on that side died before I was born, so he lingered a bit in their place.] We used to sing them Christmas caroles, eat Werthers caramels, go to the park, and be covered in their prayers. He and his wife [who is still living] truly capture the title of saint. I mourn for him, though I know it was his time and he is with Jesus.

Still, that dull ache is the reopening of a wound. The wound of grief. I wonder if it ever truly heals... or if life simply canters on... and we are stitched and opened, stitched and opened.

[This posting surrounded with grief mimicks several of my friends, who have lost loved ones one after another. With you my friends, I linger at your side.]