Old Wounds: New Opportunities

Three years have passed. Like the grass that now covers her grave, time has closed the rift that spanned my countenance. Like the headstone that marks her location, the scars of her absence mark my soul. Yet inside, the healing process continues. 

"This house of flesh is but a prison. Bars of bone are holding my soul. But the doors of clay are gonna burst wide open, when the angels set my spirit free." These words written by Dottie Rambo. You can find the story behind the song, here.

As Lazarus was brought from the tomb, so my shroud covered hopes have emerged. And as the mourners were instrumental in removing his grave clothes, so KK's closest relatives and friends have hastened my unveiling. Even people who knew her not, have provoked the revelation of the depths of my grief.

Mourners from near and far gathered for her wake and funeral. Many were relatives and folks with long-time connections to our family. Some were the parents of the children that she had rocked gently in their days at the center where she had worked. Others were those children, now grown themselves, paying respect to a lady they called "KK". Oh the stories that were shared, their memories that now have become a part of mine. Seeds of healing planted in days just prior to her burial.

Sympathy cards, letters, texts, & phone calls followed. Each with a little bit of balm to apply to my grieving heart. Some simply stated, "you are in my prayers". Others contained scriptures and words of encouragement. Their sentiments soothed me; temporarily. I was grateful but longed for the embrace of someone who had experienced an identical loss. Yet it was difficult for me to share that need with my remaining sister. We spent time with one another, but neither of us could muster a conversation about how deeply we were hurting.

For months after her death, I struggled to keep myself together. I just had too many folks depending on me. The first holidays without her were particularly pressing. I felt that I had to put on my happy face and carry on the family traditions as if the family were fully intact. Doing these things mostly for my nephew, I failed to realize it would take much more than traditions to restore our downtrodden souls.

My patients suffered as well. I found great difficulty in procedures that were previously seamless. Every time an infusion pump would alarm, I would temporarily freeze. When a vital sign limit was breached and the familiar sounds of alert would blare, I would get flushed and light-headed. I would feel faint and need to stop what I was doing and leave the room. My co-workers labeled my behavior as "panic attacks". I refused to believe that it was anxiety, choosing rather to think it was metabolic in some way.

A full physical exam revealed no such problem. My physician prescribed a mild anti-depressive drug. I despise taking medicine and loathed the idea of being on a "happy pill". But I decided I would give it an honest trial. And while I was going to "get happy" anyway, I agreed with my hubby that a vacation could be the best remedy of all. 

To shorten the story, I will tell you this; ten days away from all of my regular stressors, some happy pills, lots of devotional time, and prayer made all the difference. I continued the meds for 3 months, then quietly weaned myself from them. Six months post check-up with the doc, and she agreed with my course of action.

And then the ministry opportunities came from all sorts of places. For a span of 16 months, I was the regularly scheduled Wednesday Bible Study teacher.  Doors opened to minister to fellow employees who were struggling loss, pain, & grief. And through an unsuspected course of events, a letter writing ministry was born. Letters of biblical instruction and encouragement, written to the incarcerated.

The open doors and the grace needed to pass through them, became the Balm of Gilead to my grief-stricken soul. I am truly a living witness of how the all sufficient ONE will supply all the grace needed to heal, restore, revive, and re-direct the life of one of His own.