Sunday, December 15, 2013

I wish

I wish...

I wish that I could be a better aunt and not have to avoid all of my nieces' special events, like birthdays and Christmas productions because I can't bear the thought of watching little girls grow up.

I wish that I could be a better sister and not have to avoid visiting my sister in the hospital today because it brings back terrible flashbacks.

I wish I could be vulnerable enough to actually let someone see with their own eyes, the pain that I experience when I'm missing Abby or when I see a sick little girl, or an ambulance driving down the street.

I wish I could let myself cry in front of someone and let them comfort me.

I wish I could be more real and not hide behind jokes when my thoughts go any deeper than the surface and they attach themselves to feelings which scare the hell out of me.  I am terrified of feeling anything.

I wish I were able to enjoy an afternoon alone without feeling completely empty and lost.

I wish I were brave...


  1. Jules,

    I am certain that just writing this was a huge step for you in your quest to find vulnerability in the midst of your grief.

    I know the suffering paradox of wanting to have someone walk with you while at the same time not wanting to let them start talking to you about your pain. It's like being trapped in a cell, and the only way out is by scraping the walls with your raw-bleeding fingers. Nobody can carry you out, and nobody can take the pain away, even though we all want to. And certainly nobody can fully understand what it is that you are going through, although we all certainly wish we could, so that we could love you the way you need to be loved.

    But we are here, praying for you, loving you from our own context and scraping the walls from the other side.

    After experiencing a painful stage of her life, author and scientist Brene Brown decided to return to the faith she had once rejected, because she could not go on without some relief. She explains that she hoped the church would be like an epidural and it would take away her pain, but she found that instead it was a midwife sitting beside her and telling her, it's gonna be hard, it's gonna hurt, but you need to push, and I'll be here.

    We are here as your brothers and sisters, holding your hand and loving you as you are right now... messy, vulnerable, tired... and although we can't take away the pain, we are here to see you through, and to allow you to squeeze as hard as you can, to be quiet if that helps, and to curse if you need to.

    We love you Jules,


  2. Julie, by writing this you are being brave. *hugs and prayers