It’s the morning of Mom’s funeral and I’m lying in bed. I’ve been awake for half an hour, but I don’t want to get up. I was hoping to wake up this morning feeling, if not better, at least stronger after sleep.
Elias came in this morning sad and grouchy. He curled up against my side, insinuated his legs around mine, and stuck his thumb in his mouth. He sighed a big sigh and went back to sleep, comforted to his soul. Is it weird to envy a three-year-old boy?
A man came through the visitation line yesterday, toward the end. He’s a recent widower, and coming back to many of the same people in the same building can’t have been easy for him. I thanked him for coming and told him how much we appreciate it. “I know,” he said, and patted my hand.
If you haven’t been in that position, you maybe can’t quite know. But believe that every kind face and thoughtful act is deeply appreciated. If I haven’t said thank you yet, forgive me.
I can’t put this off any longer. I have to get up and take a shower, and gird up my loins. I am counting on the promise that God heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds. I hope that includes propping them up a bit, too.