When She was Four

I never intended for this blog to be about grief. It was more about 'The Big Picture' as it's entitled. As I see it....that is. But that's not how it's turned out. I certainly would never have imagined it being about my own grief, about losing my little girl. No one predicts these things.

As June 6th rolled around, Gretta's supposed to be 4th birthday, I experienced the usual milestone anxieties, depression and coping skills. Like always, I wanted to just crawl into bed for the day or week. Better yet, just not get out of bed at all. As usual, life expects otherwise and you get up and go on. Funny what they say, life goes on....even when you don't want it to.

Gretta's Butterfly Garden has been a huge part of the peace I get on a daily basis. I just decided I need to integrate some evergreen and winter pieces so that the garden doesn't just die off at the end of summer. It seems wrong, somehow to let it die away if it's a living memorial for her. Any ideas for shrubs or plants are welcome. I walk out to the garden at least once a day, rain or shine. Sometimes I just sit on the bench, other times I weed...lately I've been adding plants to it.

The fact that Gretta could have been 4, could have been here with us, could have been talking and becoming her own little person, part of our family, cuts deep. There are moments when I almost see her shadow, her little ghost playing along side the rest of the kids. It seems unreal still, even now.

I have set my mind on things above, not on things on the earth. I await Heaven almost desperately, planning my reunion, but never knowing enough to solidify it. There are days when I do not seek out God because I find Him elusive and redundant. This is a lie of course, but nevertheless, He is evaded in my personal life. Other days, I seek Him alone, solace, peace and comfort that comes only by knowing Him personally. I have found in Him an unfailing friend. One who stands by as I flounder, One who answers when I call, One who is a rock when I am a storm. He plans, I don't. He knows, I question. He comforts, I falter. He accepts me when I am unacceptable.

I still, two years after her death, waiver steadily from sadness to peace. I still weep uncontrollably. I still wish for death and am even jealous of those I know are facing it. I still have days where I can do almost nothing, I still feel like a failure in mothering my remaining children. I still am.

But it is better than it was before. It hurt to breathe a year ago, it hurt to open my eyes, to think, to feel. That intense physical pain is gone most of the time. It returns unexpectedly and in waves. Life goes on.

I still wish and probably always will that instead of all of this, I was talking about all the things she did, does or is doing, when she was four.