Oh no. Not now. Not today.
I felt that familiar clinching in my throat, that lump that takes hold and catches your breath. It’s as if my emotions had risen from my heart, memories released, and had gotten stuck on their way out. I tried to choke them down, to swallow that hot, unwelcome emotion before it overtook me.
I didn’t want to cry, not on a day of celebration over the conquering of death.
I don’t think my stepdaughter noticed, but she may have. Her and the baby were in the bath together scrubbing away the dirt from a full day of play. She had mentioned the brown tinge the water was taking on as it transferred from their dirty bodies into the awaiting tub of suds. We laughed as we looked at the dingy water, and she mused “A little dirt don’t hurt.”
I agreed and was reminded of a story from my own childhood. I recounted to her a time when as a child I had dug a hole in the backyard and filled it with water from the water hose. I had filled it full, and then had rode my hot wheels tricycle down into the muddy pit over and over. By the end I looked like a mud wrestler. I had trudged to the back door and knocked tentatively, certain that my mom would be furious.
But she wasn’t. When she opened the door she didn’t look fazed. She simply instructed me to take my clothes off and proceeded to hose me down on the back porch steps.
I had never forgotten her grace when I had feared punishment. As I told my story while lathering soap in a dirty baby’s hair I felt a twinge of melancholy. And then she said, “Your mom was so nice. I remember her some from when I was little.” I was awash with a current of several emotions coming over me at once.
It had been the most wonderful day, filled with family time and joy. But she hadn’t been there.
I spoke to her through my turmoil in a voice I barely recognized, thick with grief, “I miss my mommy so much.”
I distantly heard her say, “I know you do,” but by that point I was too focused on not focusing to focus. What I mean is I was intent to not cry for my momma. Not today. But it was taking more will power than I imagined. Grief is like that. So stealthy. Even after a certain time has passed it can sneak up on you suddenly, scraping its cold fingers across your spine, sending a chill of longing bone deep.
I thought of the sermon from this morning. It spoke of conquering death. It spoke of death losing its sting. So how could I possibly feel the emotions that were coming over me?
I knew I was human and deserved a little slack in my emotional upset, but I was conflicted over how much I wanted to weep at that moment. I never really felt better afterwards as I thought I might after a liquid release of grieving pain.
As I thought more on this Savior of mine who broke the curse of death I felt a peace wash over me. Initially I had wanted to push my tears away simply because I didn’t think I could handle the pain, but then I guess they began to dissipate because there simply wasn’t room. It wasn’t as if the pain, the loss, the memories suddenly ceased and became replaced with the desire to turn cartwheels or skip through a field. No, not like that. I just found the overwhelming sadness being softened by the hope my faith infuses in me.
I couldn’t imagine how I would navigate my way through the loss of a loved one without that hope of eternal life. What of people who didn’t have that? Did their grief threaten to overtake them? I couldn’t say. I only knew that without the promise of an eternity with no pain I would be an empty shell in moments like this, and I might not be able to crawl out of my own pit of despair.
He did conquer death didn’t He? I knew that death could take people from this world, but I also knew it ushered them towards eternal life. Grief would still come, and often times when I least expected it, like on a really happy day. But something about that hope my risen Savior built did indeed take away the sting.