New Every Morning

I'm writing this at 9:00 on a Wednesday night. Wrapped up in a cozy blanket on my couch, drink at hand, with the cold wind blowing outside, I feel able to sit in my quiet house and think, reflect, pray, even write. I am able to have everyday conversations about trivial matters with my son as he wanders by. In fact, I feel as if I might be OK. Tomorrow's tasks seem surmountable. I make plans for the day. They start, obviously, with getting out of bed, which seems, at the moment, so easy.

 And then I go to bed, and sleep.

Sleep is what I need right now, everyone tells me, and I'm certainly doing enough of it. I know it's good for both my body and soul, and it is a blessed reprieve from consciousness, if I can say it that way. The trouble with sleep is, it comes to an end with the morning. And in the morning, it's a whole new ball game.

On that first terrible day, when I took to my bed for the first time, I explained to Laura why I needed to re-read Option B, the book on resilience that Sheryl Sandberg wrote after the sudden death of her husband. "I don't remember anything she said!" I wailed, sobbing, "Not any of it! I don't know how to be resilient!" And Laura, always wise, said calmly, "She wasn't resilient on Day Zero. You don't have to do that now."

How comforting--what a relief it was--to know that I didn't need to be resilient, didn't need to be strong, didn't need to be able to get up and start again, there on that first day in the heart of my grief. And Laura was right. It's no longer Day Zero. But still, every morning, I wake up to realize my loss in some ways as if it's the first time. I find that whatever gains, whatever strength, I seem to have acquired the day before have disappeared. I am starting again at square one. It's as if I am caught in a bizarre cross between the movies Groundhog Day and 50 First Dates, where each day repeats itself just like the one before, and on each day there is a terrible truth that I must learn. The pain is new every morning, and every morning, it's just as hard to get out of bed as it was the day before.

Some days I don't make it.

In some part of my brain, none of this makes sense. I grow impatient with myself, uncomprehending of what could possibly be so difficult. Always, I have been a person who kept moving in the face of hardship, who fulfilled my responsibilities no matter the obstacle, and this is what I have come to expect from myself. But always in the past, I have faced an enemy who remains known over time, who doesn't change from moment to moment--never one like this that is fresh with each new look, each new thought, each new day.

In the actual movie 50 First Dates, Lucy does start to adjust more quickly every day. It's not that the terrible truth isn't still there to learn, but learning it becomes easier, little by little, and there's room for it to be seen alongside the joy and meaning that is also present in life. Faithful friends tell me that this is how it will be for me also, in some ways--that loss doesn't change, but it somehow gets easier, makes room for other things. That when I'm ready, getting out of bed won't be so hard.

I'm grateful for people around me who understand this better than I do. I'm grateful for those who have assured me that time will heal, even though from my vantage point that time seems far away. I'm grateful for the prayers offered by friends, acquaintances, and even strangers on my behalf. And I'm hopeful that as grief continues to be new every morning, there will be new grace to meet it.

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
(Lamentations 3:22–23 NIV)