Uprooted in Grief and Fear

I feel the vice grip of fear entangle me this morning as I contemplate writing a blog post, talking myself out of such an endeavor, that God really didn’t nudge me at all.  Justifying my disobedience with the fact I am still horribly grieving most days, and He wouldn’t ask such a thing of me while I am still entirely too down and out.

I am writing after all, so what is the difference whether I keep it private, or post it anyway?  Just a matter of logistics, and maybe a few dedicated followers who actually read my ramblings. Not a big deal.  Or is it?

That, and was I perhaps playing the “victim” card I verbally speak against on almost a daily basis?

“I am not a victim.”

“I am not a victim.”

“I am not a victim.”

The exhilaration of His guidance at the possibility of blogging again had me leaping at His quick response to an inward request for clarity on the inaudible whisper I was certain was from Him in the first place.

I guess I am afraid.

I see a sign post today, laying flat on its back from the storm.  I ponder its uprooting.

I mean really, Harvey has hardly made an impact here, so the fact that it is a casualty, hasn’t weathered the storm at all and is down for the count, has me feeling like if it were a person, she would be playing the victim card herself.

She is too tired to hold up any longer. Too emotional to weather the pain.

“Let someone else alert others of the approaching curve ahead,” she would say if she weren’t an it.

Instead she lay there broken.

It is time to write publicly again. I say this with a bit of trepidation in my fingers as I type the commitment.

Yesterday, as I read a book’s introduction, the author quotes C.S. Lewis on fear and grief:

“No one told me that grief felt so much like fear.”

Yes, I’ve stayed away from this outlet more out of fear than anything else.  Fear of what?  Fear of a subtle shift of writing “to” instead of writing “from”.

It is a slight deviation that keeps me on the shallow end instead of the depths. Wondering if people will read what I write and feel compelled to rescue me from myself.  I get it.  As I read through the first entries of this writing journey post Bill, I see me too near the ledge, feet teetering too close to the edge, close to jumping out of this life, into the after life.

But, I am still standing here today.

Actually I have made it 111 consecutive days of writing, meeting God at the kitchen table with Bible in hand each morning.

Yet I know my writing is beyond my own healing. It is meant for God to be known, especially so in the midst of this inescapable darkness.

I have many moments that blow my mind away of how God is moving in the midst on my behalf.

But, I don’t want to get ahead of myself here.

So, to keep me from compromising, I’ve decided to continue on today privately, but begin to post from former days and move forward from there.

They are choppy at first. Raw.  Difficult. Unedited.

My hope is you glean a glimpse of His Glory in the midst of such darkness.

 

Today I leave you with the initial entry from May 8th:

Sitting outside staring at the last of the blooms from the tree that was planted in honor of the man who died of cancer. No, not my husband, but the former occupant of this residence.

We just made it back today after a whirlwind of memorials in two states, and in exhaustion hit the bed as I stared at a pic of the two of us, and cried myself to a deep sleep.

I feel this thought creep up–would this not have happened had we not moved into this home? I mean, really, the eeriness of the similarities has me wonder. They moved here. He got sick. Died. We moved here. He got sick. Died. What if when it happened, we just moved? Would chemo have worked at that point?

I know.  Josie don’t go there. You are not superstitious. I know.

I’m just heartbroken.

 

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15 thoughts on “Uprooted in Grief and Fear

  1. I am listening, Josie. Not judging, certainly. Not even knowing what to say. Just listening, learning, loving. Keep following God’s lead in sharing your journey. We are listening.

  2. Thank you for your words. They remind me that I am not alone with my own grief. I’m so tired of cancer taking away so many good people that we love with every fiber of our being.

    • Thank you for taking the time to respond. It can feel lonely, but knowing we are not alone definitely makes a difference.

  3. I love your writing. I actually worked with Bill and I got a little sad when I noticed an old voice mail on my cell phone. But I had to listen. All of us that worked with Bill really miss him.

    • Thanks Nancy for sharing. He loved working at HP and all those in the circle of his influence. I too have voicemails I go to when I need to hear his voice. Oh how he is missed.

    • Thank you sweet girl. I appreciate your words and prayers. It is so nice to see your love for your family in pics. Precious.

  4. It’s ironic that I read your piece today. My husband will be gone ten years on Friday. He did not die from cancer but grief is grief. Thank you for sharing yours as I am grappling with mine.

    • Thank you for sharing, yes, grief is grief. I saw a verse the other day that sums it up for me, “love never ends”. Never. Time cannot heal a wound of heartache at the loss of ones we love…Yet, we are here for each other. Understanding another’s hurt is a powerful tool. I hope to connect with you again. Praying for you this Friday.

  5. Hi Josie. I worked with Bill right up until the day he took leave. I will never forget that phone call from him telling me he was terminal. I cover the BP account and still miss Bill every single day. I refuse to remove his email address from my weekly team calls. He was the best at what he did. I am so happy to see you writing again. I adore your blogs. They are real. Thank you for coming back!

    • Hi Lynsie, I’ve had “technical difficulties” with my blog, and just discovered comments from people from awhile ago. It was Bill who understood such things 😦 He loved working with all of you. It was so difficult for him to leave, even after he found out he was terminal, he wanted to make sure everything and everyone he worked with was taken care of in his absence. He left such a hole in his absence. It seems like yesterday, and it seems forever since he’s been gone. Thank you for reaching out!

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