The only thing I was (consciously) grieving when I left town was that I’d forgotten my precious. My iPhone, that is. Don’t get me wrong; I relish being disconnected. But with five errands to run on a business day, in a town thirty minutes away? I might’ve been a wee bit panicky. At first.
But.
If I hadn’t forgot my phone, would I, while savoring my veggie bowl, have struck up a conversation with the mentally disabled woman sweeping the cafe floor? If I’m honest, probably not.
Or in Costco, would I have noticed the slow-moving white-haired lady with her spine permanently curled over her walker? Helped offload her six-pack of romaine and her heavy clamshell full of apples? Would her eyes have met mine, would I have internalized her smile? Would my heart have turned to warm peach cobbler and my arms tingled because she reminded me of my mother?
Or would I have been distracted, and missed it?
If my phone had been handy when I returned to the car, would I have had the mental margins to recognize that, indeed, all day long I’d been thinking about Mom. Maybe because her birthday was last week, and this was only the eighth time I’d celebrated it without her. And I missed her something fierce. Maybe because I hadn’t carved out time to move my grieving process another step.
Would I have acknowledged my sadness as I sat through stoplights, sun glaring in my eyes while grains of hail pinged off my hood and others melted and ran down the windshield like tears?
And if I hadn’t recently been reminded how the mourning process has a necessary rhythm, how for good reason grief will continue to seize us . . .
on its own timetable,
whether or not we recognize it,
whether or not we open the floodgates,
. . . would I have given way to it as I did? Or suppressed it, forcing it to morph instead into something unhealthy: anxiety, relational withdrawal, binge-watching Top Chef, a craving for Oreos.
With three stops yet to make, three public appearances, would I have allowed the tide of grief to burble up inside my chest, the lump to fill my throat, the moisture pressing behind my eyes to escape, cleanse, and renew?
Would I have wept? I mean, one doesn’t cry at a time like that, right? One swallows back their sadness and soldiers on. One chooses, instead, a strategic moment when puffy eyes won’t matter–if indeed such a moment happens along.
At least, that’s how I normally operate. Except, it appears, on days when my cell phone isn’t present . . . but I am.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Matthew 5:4
Hallelujah.
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Hi, Kit! I am so glad you found me on Twitter, because that let me find you! What a lovely post. I am so glad I stumbled on your blog, as we obviously think along the same lines! 🙂
Likewise, Catherine! Your timely post on The Gospel Coalition sure resonated! PS, we also share the same first name, spelled with a C … the right way 😉 Thanks for stopping by!
Ah, I’m sorry for your loss–the grieving process can take so. much. time. May the Holy Spirit continue to comfort you when you need comfort! I recently went phoneless for all but about 20 minutes of a week (gasp). The place we took 34 teenagers camping had no cell reception. I think we were all a little happier because of it :).
Oh Anita, I can imagine the faces at first. Bet by the second night, that campfire was a sacred place! Thanks for your encouragement!
Lovely, tender & heartfelt – thank you. God knows when and just how to orchestrate a change of plans, doesn’t he?
Thank you, Mari! Yep, I’m an instrument and he’s a talented conductor!
Beautiful. I use noticed your blog from the 500 group,. The beauty of your words softened my heart to the memory of my mother who passed on to heaven a year and a half ago. The Broken Hallelujah was the song sung at her funeral and it reminded me of her and brought deep thoughts to me, and even some regrets. There’s always someone to love and notice in the course of our day, … only if our focus changes from our cell phones. Thank you for the touching post.
Thanks, Pirkko, for sharing your heart for your mom, and the song association(!)…likely not a coincidence. I believe God uses unique little signs–that only mean something to us–to comfort us in our sadness, letting us know with certainty that he sees. Hugs and healing to you as you carry an ache for your Mom in your heart, until you see her again.