His Hands Make Whole
Grief is like an earthquake.
We woke up to what sounded like a jet engine outside our window on a dark morning in late November 2018. I'd never heard a louder roar in my life. Our apartment was rocking from side to side, our bed was rolling, and it sounded like the floor would split open and swallow us in the roaring darkness. David yelled "It's an earthquake!" and protectively threw his body across me and Payson like a human shield.
I held Payson against my racing heart and wondered if this was it. Would the ceiling cave in and bury us alive? Was this how our story ended?
When the earthquake stopped, the adrenaline and the new awareness of our own human fragility and complete powerlessness remained. The destruction the 7.1 magnitude Anchorage earthquake left behind was both incredible and terrifying. At first, it was damage assessment. Everyone asked friends, family, and neighbors if they were okay. Was the water safe to drink? How bad were the roads? Any damage to the house? Any injuries? People either cried or laughed as they retold the story of where they were and what they were doing when the earthquake hit. It was all anyone talked about for days.
For a brief moment, life seemed to be on pause.
Then life slowly went limping back to normal.
But the aftershocks kept coming.
The aftershocks reminded us that we weren't back to normal just yet. The earthquake had really happened, and it could happen again. It was hard to relax. It was hard to sleep. I was scared to death that the next aftershock rattling our apartment was the beginning of another earthquake. I was terrified that maybe this time it wouldn't stop.
Grief is like an earthquake.
When our personal "earthquake" struck and took our baby girl, it tore our hearts rights out of our chest, and forever left a hole in our family. We didn't do anything but weep and cling to each other-- amazed and shocked that we had somehow survived the intensity of the grief that shook everything.
People reached out to us. We cried a lot remembering where we were when it happened and cried when we remembered her. We cried over the generosity and love poured down on us, and we cried at the of the surety of God's hand in our life. We wept at the overwhelming scope of the damage-- but we had each other-- and we had somehow survived the quake. Everyday I woke to another morning surprised that I was still here. David was still here, Payson was still here. Those first few weeks I honestly thought the grief would kill me. I expected my heart to just stop beating. How could it keep going when every beat hurt so bad? It was painful just to be alive.
Everyone expected this and no one expected anything of us. They understood that we had just been hit by a 10.0 magnitude earthquake and that the damage was significant and irreparable.
Two months have passed now since our earthquake.
Sometimes people think that if the earthquake didn't destroy us, that nothing could now. Sometimes they forget about the aftershocks.
"But they are so small compared to the earthquake!" They exclaim. And it's true. They are much smaller. But only those unfortunate enough to be acquainted with grief understand how those tiny aftershocks can erode even the strongest of foundations.
It's like how trees can withstand the strongest winds and the fiercest storms, but fall to the earth when the smallest termites destroy from the inside out. The storm could never reach past the bark.
So it is with the aftershocks that last for days and weeks and months and years.
It feels really stupid to say, but the death of a child is really hard on a marriage. I don't know why and it doesn't make sense, but it is. Those are the daily aftershocks, the jarring bumps and unexpected jolts that constantly remind you that everything has changed and that nothing is the same. You battle the grief, hold it all together, and then at the end of the day there's no patience or time or emotional resources to spend on anything else. You don't want to hurt anymore, but it's like a layer of skin has been removed. You stand daily in new awareness of how weak and sensitive and tender you both are. Relationships have no security now, only fragility. You aren't your best self and often it's your worst self-- your exhausted self, your impatient self, your wounded self-- that emerges in the daily pain of living. Those are the aftershocks that drive you farther and farther apart, when ironically the earthquake brought you closer together.
It's been really, really hard.
Today I went to a friend's house. I wasn't expecting to need her so much.
She surprised me with a gift. She had a friend paint a picture of our family. We didn't have any nice family pictures with the all of us together while Kalea was alive, and she knew how sad I was about that.
I will try my hardest to explain what I felt when I saw that picture.
I have never had any sort of answer or illumination come from anything but words before. But when she held up this picture of my family, it was literally like a live wire straight to my soul.
There I was in the middle of my aftershocks, coping with grief, struggling with loss, and feeling like the very foundation of my marriage was cracking underneath my feet.
And then I see this picture of my family.
I am literally hand in hand with both the Savior and David, forming a human link between my husband and The Divine-- just like David had formed a human shield over Payson and me during the earthquake.
The Savior who I love, and who I trust, is holding my baby girl. I cannot hold her, or touch her, but I can see her in the arms of the Savior, and his hand reaches down to hold mine, reminding me that she is well and that His arms are the only safe place.
David is drawn holding our son.
David who has gotten up with Payson every morning for almost an entire year now so that I could sleep in longer in the mornings after being up at night with our babies. David who has quietly and faithfully carried my burdens and shared the pain and joy of parenting with me. David who trusts my connection to Heaven and who follows me as I as follow the Savior. David who has cared for both Payson and for me when the grief was too much to bear. David who provides for our temporal and practical needs.
And there I am in the middle-- my hands are full holding everything (and everyone) together. The link between earth and Heaven; is that not the most accurate representation of woman?
She is the center of the home-- relied upon to meet everyone's needs. She is the object of the family's orbit. She is the connecter to Heaven.
She holds it all together. She feels the weight of motherhood and parenting stronger than anyone else. She is a co-creater with God as she nurtures and cares for each child. She literally walks hand in hand with the Savior and her husband day by day as she struggles to fill her roles.
She is the mediator-- the midpoint between God and Man-- she is the helpmeet.
She is the mother.
I have never had such an immediate and intensely personal reaction to art before. It was a rare glimpse to see myself as God sees me. It illuminated my soul and gave me peace, comfort, and assurance in my role despite my struggles. It gave me answers I have been seeking.
I share this in a state of wonder and gratitude as I've pondered the message of this picture and the role each figure plays in this painting.
I am convinced that the ultimate healing and the ultimate good comes when we link hands with the Savior and link hands of those around us and follow Him through earthquake and aftershock. It is critical to remember that NO OTHER HANDS can do what His can. Only His hands can heal and restore all the sadness, and unfairness we all experience in life. Even if we all linked hands together, we would never have the power to rise above the tragedies of life, and we would never hold peace for a moment. It is only through our connection with The Divine first that we will ever have peace and healing. No other hands on earth can heal and save ♥️
Our family will never be whole in this life. But in the hands of Christ, our family is complete.
"HIS HANDS MAKE WHOLE." -Job 5:18
