Long days

One thing I've learned this summer ...my kids don't like to spend time writing.  It's been an unusual summer, of course because of Phoebe's absence, but also because I've worked for the first time in many years.  And that has been even more chaotic and disruptive and rather annoying because I've been training ...and training only happens at peak family time.  So to sit and write only increases and irritates the already annoyed.  The truth is too, I want to be with them, its where I should be ...and so my fingers rarely grace the keyboard, but my mind whirs with thoughts and ideas I want to get down, share.  Writing is good for me, it helps me focus, assess, gain perspective ...all good things.  This particular post has taken four days to write, just because of all the demands of this busy household.
I made it through those dark, dark days leading up to the ninth.  Seems as that number approaches each month, I descend even further than before.  I don't understand why it gets deeper and longer, but it does.  I wonder how God can seem so absent during those times.  And even bouncing back, beginning to find my feet, my footsteps gaining momentum, I still wonder where He is, why He seems so remote.  I dont feel like I've recovered from this August date as I have in the past months.  Somethings is looming for me, and I don't know what.  I'm just tired and wrung out for missing, wishing and wanting.  I'm tired of watching her friends lives go on without her.  I'm tired of worrying about my other kids ...and I'm tired of people never really getting it, because they've never been here.  Exhaustion has taken over ...and I am weary from this journey, but there is no rest to be had simply because.  I think about the desolation all the apostles felt when Christ had been laid to rest ...what despair they must have felt.  The only one then who fully trusted and believed all had not been lost was the Blessed Mother ...she had an assurance the story had not ended on the cross, in the closing of the tomb, the rolling of the stone.
Phoebe's death is nothing like the crucifixion of Christ ...I know that.  I hold on to the promise of seeing her again, just like the apostles saw Christ again.  But there is part of me that can't step forward, grab hold and find assurance in His promise.  I hold back because what if I never see her again?  What if to rest in that assurance is to forget her in the present, lose the sense of her smell, her way?  I don't want to forget her ...and there is no sign of that happening. Should she walk through the door now, it would seem natural, there is still a place for her here.  I don't want that to ever go away.  So why do I doubt, why to I scramble to make sense ...why, am I still stunned, the wind knocked from me in those moments that remind me of that nightmare, her death? 
I see a woman today, a casual friend from Mass ...she never knew Phoebe had died. We've exchanged greetings a few times since Phoebe's death, commented how big the kids are getting.  But we've never had a moment for a real exchange, the kids drag us in different directions and off we go ...always, off we go.  I don't know her well, but over the past couple of years we've chatted a bit, shared some details of our lives, our hopes, our faith.  Right off she tells me she will have a Mass offered for Phoebe, and I am grateful.  And then she reminds me to go to the Blessed Mother, tell her everything, even the doubt.  Her mother always told her to go to Our Lady since she was small.  And she tells me she went with every bit of angst and struggle, much she never shared with her own mother, but she brought to Blessed Mother.  This mother of Christ, our advocate, a channel of grace.  I know this, but somehow I needed to hear from her, get the push to go again, on my knees, with everything, my anger, my brokenness, confusion.  A year ago I consecrated myself to the Immaculata, accepted every suffering, sorrow, struggle that would draw me closer to Christ.  I blindly accepted all this, not knowing what was to come.  I speak to Blessed Mother all the time, pray my daily rosary,  but my heart hasn't been there with her.  I've hedged, held back, doubting her care, her love.  I needed that push today, and its as if on this first anniversary of my consecration she gently reminds me through this gentle woman named Mary, that she wants me back ....she's waiting.
Tomorrow, August 15, is the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Mother into Heaven.  It is a holy, holy day.  God's weaving is always quiet, seamless.  I'll try to go back and maybe let her embrace me ...just maybe.

Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her.  May she rest in peace.  Amen