Simon is learning to drive. This process puts me back in the passenger seat, attempting to predict every thing regarding other drivers, road conditions and an inexperienced driver's reactions. It puts me on edge and I long for the day when all my children are far better drivers than me. So this is the scene. Each time that traffic is slowing unexpectedly or I see the tail lights go red ahead of me, I fear that he's certainly going to run directly into the car ahead of us. In order to stop this from happening or at least save myself and him from harm, I raise my right arm to the arm rest, grip the arm rest and brace for impact, absolutely certain that this small bodily action will keep us from peril. Just for the record, it probably won't.
This time of year has me doing the emotional equivalent of strategic but useless clutching of the armrest alongside my passenger seat. I see everything turn red in front of me and I brace myself once again for anniversaries, holidays, and all the milestones that come with this season.
I was diagnosed with breast cancer on October 24, I had my first chemo on November 17 and Eric died on December 4. Those are the tail lights that I see each year, lighting up and coming toward me. You would like to think that by year five those lights would dim and maybe, just maybe, not light up at all. I'm telling you that you that they still do and likely always will.
In some ways this leaves me in a hard realistic place. Secretly I had held desperately to the idea that at 5 years there would be no more useless gripping of the arm rest. That at 5 years, my life would be uninterrupted or at least less interrupted by grief. I know I've said this before and I'll likely say it forever, but as an eternal optimist and I hoped this would be true.
Five years ago, I had to start over. I had to figure out a new me and, sadly, the old me is never coming back. Not at 5 years, 10 years or any amount of years. I have adjusted to Eric's loss. I spend precious little time wondering what it would be like if he were suddenly dropped into our day to day lives. I'm letting go of the hard work of trying to measure each life decision against what he would have wanted. And yet I've spent so much time trying to uselessly brace myself for the unknown.
On the eve of this December 4, I'm going to try to let go of the armrest. I'm going to think of all the tender ways that my heavenly father has loved me, comforted me and grown me in these last 5 years. We have accomplished things that I never dreamed was possible. And now more than ever I'm certain that He didn't create me to be a passenger grasping for some kind of imagined safety. He didn't create me to live in fear of what's to come. He created me to live fearlessly in Him--even when all the lights turn red. He is all I need to face this year and all the years to come.
To each of you who supports our family--who loves us from near or far, who prays for us regularly, who blesses us with your friendship and offers us a tissue and embrace when the tears fall--thank you, thank you, thank you. You are a gift, and we are grateful and humbled.
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go. Joshua 1:9
