I'm not focused enough right now to write a really well-thought out post about grief- but I'm not even sure why I'm waiting until I would be focused enough because I would be waiting for a long time. But I did want to share a few thoughts that came up in a conversation with my friend Jen over Christmas.
I think it's important to remember that even now, while Ian is making significant process, our (at least my) grief hasn't changed. And for others who have suffered and are suffering, you know that it runs too deeply to be easily removed.
Jen asked me how our grief has changed over the past two years. It was a great question and made me stop and think. I described it more of how the feeling of the grief has changed.
When Ian was first in the hospital, grief hand't hit me yet. It was all a whirlwind and instead of grief, I would describe it as intense sadness, confusion and pain. As time went on, and I slowly began to see how much Ian's life had changed, the grief began to grow. And it grew intensely. Constantly slamming me in the face. Never hidden and always there. Everywhere I looked I realized that Ian wasn't there with me.
Time does nothing to grief but make it deeper and more wearying. Two years has not erased any grief. It hasn't made it easier. Time has only made the grief deeper as each day we live one more day without Ian the way he used to be. To re-use one of Steve's illustrations, instead of an intense grief, it now is always lingering, always over our shoulder, always ready to manifest itself.
Ian's progress doesn't change my grief. It encourages me, but it doesn't even touch the grief that I know. Even if Ian were to be healed completely today, I would still grieve for what he has suffered and endured. I would still grieve for what happened to Ian September 30.
There is much to say about grief, but this is it for now. For those who encounter significant suffering in their lives, maybe the grieving never ends, until meeting Jesus.
"Sorrowful yet always rejoicing."