As I watch my nephews and niece and others around them deal with the fresh loss of their mother's departure beyond the veil, I feel those connections. I can understand their pain--at least as we share the common connection of loss. I will never understand exactly what they're going through, even were my mother to die, because I don't have their exact background or emotional constitution. But I can reach out for an embrace, distancing myself from their pain to protect myself from having to dive into my own. I imagine many of us do this. We feel their particular pain through their lens from a safe distance. As the memorial went on, even as they read an essay I wrote of their mother's loss, I clung to this protective barrier. I hate funerals because they always want to drag me back to the whirlpool of my own exposed and naked pain. But I hold back. I keep the distance alive and well.
Then, we come upon the month of her angelversary, and the distance starts to shrink. Nine years feels a lot longer, somehow, than nine marks on the calendar, nine times I've had that scab peeled back as I stare into the bloody pulp, which is all that is left of my heart. And suddenly, I start feeling the connection. The distance means nothing. The differences mean nothing. Yes, our experiences are different, but the addresses of the pain are next door to each other. At these times, it's as if nine years never happened, and it feels like fresh loss again. We can embrace as one, pray for healing as one, as we experience the healing power of understanding and love. The Lord will see us through. He knows where our loved ones are, that they are happy and continue to love us. He will hold them in his love until we can meet them again.
