Balm in Gilead
Dear Rachel,
Poe’s raven was wrong, I think. There really is balm in Gilead.
It’s now been almost exactly one year since you were killed. It’s been a long, dark, painful year; I doubt that any of us will ever be the same. We all spent numbed weeks in shock, followed by long months during which we cried almost constantly. (There was a time when I was so used to crying that crying felt normal; not crying brought with it an odd, almost discomfiting, feeling. As if my mind and body had settled into a comfortably acceptable routine of weeping.) I wondered (as I know Lesley did), “Will I ever again not feel sad?”
Those months were followed by months of anger. I raged (and still rage) against the man who did this to you, to us; and against a providence that would allow him to.
But I have found myself feeling happy on occasion. I have laughed. I have joked. I have found (much to my surprise, and with more than a bit of guilt) ways to enjoy my life.
Some of this is, I know, due simply to the passage of time. We are wired to move past our grief; it would be biologically counterproductive not to do so. One is, and must be, predisposed to find ways to move on because not to do so is to enter the realm of madness. (And not everyone makes it: Some are unable to cope. They dive into a bottle or move to a hermitage or end their own lives. Their grief has done more than injure them, it has driven them mad.) Most of us manage to escape that fate, though. Our grief hurts us, even maims us; but it doesn't cripple us, not permanently.
More helpful than the passage of time, though, have been the gentle ministrations of friends and family. I wouldn’t presume to list them all here, but many, many friends and relatives came forward to help when it must have very difficult to do so. We couldn’t have been very good company, especially in the early months. And yet, friends, neighbors, and relatives came through for us. They dropped by. They sent letters and emails. They brought food and flowers and beer. (Early on they even mowed our lawn, picked up our mail, returned library books, and more.) They asked us how we were doing and they really wanted to know; they didn’t turn away when we gave them the real answer, painful as it must have been for them to hear it.
We received—and continue to receive—so many things from so many people. I think it’s because of that, and because of the relationship that Lesley and I have, that we’ve made it this far. It’s hurt a great deal, and it continues to hurt, of course. (This is a club that you cannot un-join. Once you sign on, you’re a member for life.) But things are not as dark as they were.
There is some balm in Gilead, then. Not enough, not by a long shot. But some. More than I would have thought, anyway.
Love,
Dad
Poe’s raven was wrong, I think. There really is balm in Gilead.
It’s now been almost exactly one year since you were killed. It’s been a long, dark, painful year; I doubt that any of us will ever be the same. We all spent numbed weeks in shock, followed by long months during which we cried almost constantly. (There was a time when I was so used to crying that crying felt normal; not crying brought with it an odd, almost discomfiting, feeling. As if my mind and body had settled into a comfortably acceptable routine of weeping.) I wondered (as I know Lesley did), “Will I ever again not feel sad?”
Those months were followed by months of anger. I raged (and still rage) against the man who did this to you, to us; and against a providence that would allow him to.
But I have found myself feeling happy on occasion. I have laughed. I have joked. I have found (much to my surprise, and with more than a bit of guilt) ways to enjoy my life.
Some of this is, I know, due simply to the passage of time. We are wired to move past our grief; it would be biologically counterproductive not to do so. One is, and must be, predisposed to find ways to move on because not to do so is to enter the realm of madness. (And not everyone makes it: Some are unable to cope. They dive into a bottle or move to a hermitage or end their own lives. Their grief has done more than injure them, it has driven them mad.) Most of us manage to escape that fate, though. Our grief hurts us, even maims us; but it doesn't cripple us, not permanently.
More helpful than the passage of time, though, have been the gentle ministrations of friends and family. I wouldn’t presume to list them all here, but many, many friends and relatives came forward to help when it must have very difficult to do so. We couldn’t have been very good company, especially in the early months. And yet, friends, neighbors, and relatives came through for us. They dropped by. They sent letters and emails. They brought food and flowers and beer. (Early on they even mowed our lawn, picked up our mail, returned library books, and more.) They asked us how we were doing and they really wanted to know; they didn’t turn away when we gave them the real answer, painful as it must have been for them to hear it.
We received—and continue to receive—so many things from so many people. I think it’s because of that, and because of the relationship that Lesley and I have, that we’ve made it this far. It’s hurt a great deal, and it continues to hurt, of course. (This is a club that you cannot un-join. Once you sign on, you’re a member for life.) But things are not as dark as they were.
There is some balm in Gilead, then. Not enough, not by a long shot. But some. More than I would have thought, anyway.
Love,
Dad
posted by Rod at 4:18 PM
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