Thursday, March 29, 2012
It hurts so good (part one)
My neck has been giving me a lot of trouble lately, not sure why. Recently I woke up to shooting pain in my right shoulder, and I literally could not lift my right arm. As you can imagine, this was disturbing, on a number of levels. My shoulder pain was connected to my neck pain, and I was forced by my inability to function, to take action. A friend recommended her brother, a local massage therapist. I have never had a professional massage, and frankly I wasn’t looking forward to it. Let me tell you something, that massage hurt so good!
The concept of “good” pain has been on my mind for the few days since that experience. The Lord has brought to mind many instances where pain has been for my own good. Times when He has grown me up, and challenged me, have sometimes caused me “good” pain. Usually that pain has been emotional. Pain that at the time, I would have chosen to avoid, but that in time, hurt so good.
The 4th anniversary of Crockett’s death is soon approaching, and as has been my practice for the last three years, I continue to repeat the mantra in my mind, that it is only a date. It is only a date, a random number of the calendar year that brings back memories of deep loss, and sweet surrender. It is the marking of one sweet 12 year old's full healing, and the end of his pain forevermore. It was the beginning of my pain in longing to hold him, just one more time.
The initial gut wrenching pain, that caused me to wander the rooms of our home, wondering what to do with myself, is now gone. I no longer remind myself every four hours that it is time to feed him, only to see his empty wheelchair. The boxes of vanilla Pediasure on the front porch are gone, and we live far from the last home that held his memory. I seldom hear his sounds anymore only to realize it was only the wind, or my mind playing tricks on me. My tears no longer set up residence just behind my eyelids, ready to pop at a moments notice. I boldly number my children now without hesitation when asked, and only half the time feel that familiar catch in my throat as I explain just where my third son is. His clothes are packed away. His crib collects dust in the garage. His favorite blanket waits, sealed tight in a box at the top of Michael's closet, because some precious commodities just can’t find new homes. His memory is alive and well, but the pain of our loss is not a raw wound any more. We have created a sort of scab of protection and healing, that will one day be peeled away to reveal fresh new soft skin that will last throughout eternity.
I still have pain though, a frequent reminder of Crockett's birth, and it hurts so good.
to be continued…..