Thursday, August 13, 2009

One Year Gone By

Birds in the Hudson
Parts of an old pier in the Hudson River

Yesterday I was remembering one year ago. Learning of the loss of Bridget. I had spent all that summer being simultaneously awed by her faith while furious at her diagnosis - terminal cancer. It wasn't fair and it didn't make sense and I hated it. I couldn't understand it. I still can't.

Yesterday I was remembering August 12th, 2008 specifically, but the events of that entire summer are never far from my mind. Bridget & her family left behind are never far from my mind. There is usually at least one song every Sunday in church that makes me think of her, chokes me up, makes it hard to breathe. I pass people on the street that look (kinda) like her, and that steals my breath for a second, too.

And as I consider how microscopically small my feelings of loss look in comparison to the grief of Bridget's family, I marvel at them - their faith and hope and love which have carried them through this past year without her. I marvel at her husband - whose loss, whose grief, whose pain I can't begin to fathom - who still counts blessings, who can sign emails with "Blessed by God" in spite of it all. I admired Bridget like crazy for the way she died. I admire Steve like crazy for the way he is living.

I stood near the river last night, looking at the piers jutting into the water, looking at Jersey's lights beyond, looking at gravel on the ground and clouds in the sky. And wondering why I get to see these things and Bridget doesn't.

It doesn't make sense. I hate it. I don't understand it.

Of course I do realize that Bridget is currently surrounded by a light so much more immensely beautiful than the nighttime lights of New Jersey. So much more immensely beautiful that I can't comprehend it. I can't understand it.

But the abstract idea of it does help me breathe just a little easier.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Thanks for this.