Hurt, but not slain

Here is a thought I have had quite often since losing Chip: I took my first breaths of true happiness in Chip’s embrace some time after my first marriage died, and Chip took his last breaths embraced by my love and with my hand cradling his. This thought and the initial pain of Chip’s passing made me feel physically broken for 7 or so months. I didn’t really care much about anything in plain sight and constantly replayed every moment I had with him in my mind. That initial pain, which felt like a spiritual tearing of the soul, has ended, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of him.

More often than not these days, I don’t have as many thoughts about the devastation of his loss, but have more thoughts regarding my own strength. This past week, the old Scottish saying “I am hurt but I am not slain. I’ll lay me down and bleed awhile, then I’ll raise and fight again” popped into my head several times. For me, this reflects a shift in my self-narrative and I am embracing the shift.

The grief-filled tears don’t flow as frequently any more, as noted by Sam recently when he said “I haven’t seen you break down in so long.” Yet, other tears have taken their place. Sometimes they are tears filled with wonder at how the world can still be so beautiful despite the world not having Chip in it. Sometimes they are tears filled with memories of words he spoke to me, such as when my friend Stephanie texted a picture of a brilliant orange sunrise at Lover’s Point (pictured in this blog), which is near her home on the Pacific coast and across the street from where Chip and I stayed when we attended her wedding in 2014. The picture of the sun brought a waterfall of tears as it made me think of how Chip would say “I just want to bask in your glow” when I would ask him what he wanted to do together on a random day or evening. Lately, the tears stem from kindness and compassion expressed by strangers who prepare and deliver meals to us from an organization called Hope For Grieving Families.

One of the things Hope For Grieving Families does is deliver 2 meals to families for 3 weeks in a row to help ease a bit of pain from their loss, even if their loss was years and years ago (Organization members know all too well that grief never goes away). Last weekend, we received our first two meals when the organization’s director, Sammi, brought us a meal of pork chops, rice and green beans as well as a meal of lemon chicken, broccoli and potatoes. Just now, a woman named Jen, who is driving meals to families today, rang the doorbell to deliver a meal of Peruvian Chicken, chickpea and sweet potato salad and fried plantains and another meal consisting of Salisbury Steak with gravy, mashed potatoes and asparagus.

Jen and I briefly spoke about our losses in the last year (She lost her 15-year old son in a freak construction accident while working at his summer job). We shared our grief along with our tears safely 6-feet away, which felt strange but also like the right thing to do. We couldn’t hug each other or hold each other's hand, but the story-sharing helped release a bit of pain. Jen told me she received her first meals last weekend too, and that it inspired her to deliver meals to others this weekend. Operating on her compassion for others, despite her own loss, she took off to Lovettsville, 40 miles away from our home, to deliver meals to the next family on her list.

Along with the Scottish saying about being hurt but not slain, Jen was the embodiment for me of the following words by Rumi:

Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life’s search for love and wisdom.

May her son’s and Chip's memory be eternal.