I didn’t see the glass door.
(But it was there. )
So when I walked straight into it, leading with my face, it felt about as you imagine it would.
The good news is that nothing broke, though the bridge of my nose smarted like the dickens. Intially all I could do was stand there, hold my face, and wait. After a while, I gathered what was left of the wits I had, and finished evacuating my nephews and niece as the nice firefighter had asked me to. (Note: their home was not hurt by the nearby blaze, for which everyone is truly thankful.)
Over the next few days, the puffiness on my nose dispersed and the tenderness lessened and the bruise lightened until all that was left of it was this story. To my way of thinking, it’s an apt illustration of how grief can hit you when you least expect it.
Today, for example, I returned from a visit to my parents (who live in Florida). I was unprepared for the intensity of sadness that suddenly came over me as I put my key in the lock. It was like walking into that glass door all over again.
Jack’s still not here. (I know, because I checked.) Walked through every room, felt the tools in his shop, smelled the sawdust, and missed him until I couldn’t see straight.
So tonight I’m waiting for the swelling in my heart to go down and the bruising in it to lighten up. What helps now is what helped then: Realizing that pain, however it throbs, will lessen in time.
Weeping may last for a night,
but joy comes in the morning.
Psalm 30:5
I’ll wait for that.
