I made my first cup of coffee this morning in nearly three months. It was less a desire for coffee and more of a searching for some kind of normalcy, something to make the body that is mine and this life I am living feel a little more familiar. The first time I made it the taste was too weak, so I poured out the decaf with cream and started over. I doubled the scoop, but the second time wasn’t much better. I only drank a few sips.
I still like the smell. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped outside. I wondered again. Perhaps a brief walk in the grass would bring it back, would wake my body up from this feeling of being tired, weak, and under-used. I hoped, down the deck steps to walk barefoot in the violets. The air felt good and I’d forgotten how much I like the spring sounds. I’ve long labeled spring as my least favorite season. It’s not so bad.
My grandpa crossed over from life into life everlasting yesterday morning. Both of my grandpas have died this year. My dad’s dad died toward the end of January at the age of 89. My mom’s dad died at the age of 90. I’ve spent more time with and have more memories of my mom’s parents, but I love both of my grandpas’ forever. I’ve been to New York City two times in my life, and each of those times I went with a grandfather.
The boys and I worked in the school room this morning. The word worked makes it sound a lot more vigorous than it was. I sat on the floor with my garbage bag next to the pile they’d made. Anything that had a place they put in its place. The rest of it I put in the trash. As for the pile of completed workbooks I was saving to look through and find scraps to possibly make year books out of I told them to take them out to the burn pile, except for the copywork and handwriting books. I’ll help if needed, but still remain hands off with school at this point. Homeschool is changing, but into what, I don’t know.
I’m doing okay here, my thoughts just tend to get dark and cloudy at times. Not to use all or nothing thinking, but grief is something that never really seems to ever completely go away down here, like there’s always this sadness attached or around. I’ll feel like I need to wait and write until I’m better, either in thought, feeling, bodily workings, or deed. It reminds me of that meme with the skeleton on the bench. “Rebekah waiting around until she feels completely better.” Just the thought of it makes me laugh, how free they all must feel right now, the saints in the company of Christ and each other.
Seriously, though, I don’t enjoy feeling bad. I’ll wonder to myself, “Am I actually getting better?” Am I really making progress? Am I going to come out of this? I fear at times I waited too long to make changes, that I let things go that needed addressing, and because of that I now suffer, having damaged myself to a place beyond fixing. It all might very well be true. But I’m also needing to realize that my hope in this world is not in my visible or measurable progress. My hope is in Jesus, my Lord and my Savior and lasting redemption.