Using hurt

There is one thing that I know, that I cling deeply too, in the depths of hurt there are ways to learn how to help others.  If  I can stare at tragedy with eyes that are searching for how God can use the agony, there is comfort to be found. It is almost a way to twist the never ending pain into a focus on something beneficial.

God has taught us much through the last few months. He has shown me what it is like to hurt so much that you can't explain it in words to people.  Yet, He has sent comfort in those desparate times.  I guess what I have learned is ways to reach out to others.  How often do we hear of unspeakable sadness in the lives of people we love, see at church, or know casually?  How often do we feel like we don't know how to help, although we may wish we could.

The other day, I was struck with the simplest of questions. A question that, frankly, I wish we had been asked more often.  I thought, if someone had asked this of my husband or myself, how easily we could have pleaded for help in ways that we so desparately needed it.

"How can I help you?"  Not, a simple, "Let me know if you need anything."  I think this phrase, although, ringing with the truest of intentions, requires the aching soul to be the one to reach out.  That is the last thing a hurting person may be capable of doing.  In contrast, if we merely utter the question, "How can I help you?", we allow them the opportunity to put into words a need. 

Kevin didn't leave me alone unless he had to for the longest time. Why? Becuase when he did, without fail, he would return to me, crying so hard, completely crushed in memories and thoughts of my dear brother.  We had company one weekend, and he went outside and worked for hours.  Unwittingly, he later shared that he had felt that I was "ok", because I was with my friend. He had the freedom to leave me with her, knowing she would be ministering to me in his absence. I had no idea this was how it had been for him. 

If someone would have asked us, "How can I help?"  He may have been able to say, "Please, come keep Tara company.  She needs to visit and share her heart, and I need to carry on our life, until she can again."

A Silent Ache

In the beginning, the ache of a brother gone from this Earth, was overwhelming. It often felt as if it was hard to breathe; like the wind had been knocked out of me.  In the midst of a laugh, or the experience of a new memory, I would suddenly "remember" that Todd was gone and my breath would be gone.  It was constant. As if I was having to learn to breathe all over again, along with learning to live life without him.  There was a constant ache.

Time has provided a bit of a release from that pressure.  It must be a new "stage" of the grieving process.   The ache isn't as sharp, yet it is still always present.  I feel it most in the happiest moments, when I want to call him and tell him what just happened. I feel it also when I anticipate upcoming plans.  I am eager to do something and I want to share that eagerness, often with Todd.  It is hard to not be able to hear his response to thoughts. I find myself looking off to Heaven, sharing my stories, trusting that God is relaying them to him.

The silent ache is the evidence of my deep love for my brother; my longing to share life with him. There is the  reoccuring shock that life from now on won't include him.  I look forward to that day when we are reunited in Heaven.  I know we will be able to catch up then.  Oh, but there will be so much to say.