He died anyway, leaving a wife and three young children behind, leaving questions with few answers.
The following morning began the task of helping hold the remaining pieces together and as I readied myself behind the closed door of my bathroom I remember looking in the bathroom mirror at my haggard, sleepless self. All that came to me were simple wishes for the day, small things that I hoped would turn out to be miracles.
Please let this orange shirt give me the strength of two women.
Let this water on my face revive me as if I'd slept all night.
Let this shower wash away sorrows from yesterday, only for a little while.
May the void in me not be filled with regret for what I've done.
Don't let the faces of small children make me cry.
Harden my heart enough to hold it together while leaving me with enough compassion to still be human. Can you, can you?
Please, God, grant me the wisdom to say all the right things today.
That day was spent with the family and fielding questions from helpful members of our community. Droves of them came with food and offers of assistance.
For a while I sat in the sunshine answering questions from two little girls, questions about where Daddy was, where heaven was and the twisted dagger of "Daddy's really not coming back?"
I ached for the lack of proper thing to say and found myself making up stories about heaven and Jesus, stories I don't believe but which the girls began to embrace enthusiastically. I thought if I comforted them long enough it would comfort me in turn. I think it did a little.
Later in the afternoon I made a trip to the Christian bookstore to find the girls a book about death -- or something anyway. It turned out to be a small, cute book about heaven. While there, two women who know the family asked to pray for me and for the family and we stood in the middle of this store holding hands in a circle and I remember thinking how beautiful and eloquent were the lady's words as she prayed. I remember thinking how fervently I wished I could speak that easily, yet never do.
I thought, "what if a miracle happens right now and suddenly I begin to believe in all the things I was taught as a child, began to believe as most people around me do?" I imagined warm yellow light flooding down on me. Is that what it would be like? Would I have the courage to suddenly believe if there were a sign like that? Probably it would just freak me out.
Instead I just tried to focus and allow the words to be what they were -- kind words and wishes for me. Afterward, I felt tired and have felt tired since. Chronic, crushing, powerful fatigue.
At the memorial there was one last tearing away of my composure as the children peered close to their father's picture surrounded by flowers. "Daddy," they signed. I begged desperately to myself not to sob out loud at that image which will stick with me for a long, long time... maybe forever.
But I understand now why people have those memorials -- despite the pain it was nice. Healing. The pain lessens by the day, but still I'm left with the tiredness, the regret, the guilt, the what-ifs. I know I'm not alone in that. We all have our simple wishes.
Please let each day get better and better.
