Sometimes you have one of those days where your brain is frozen and it feels like you're in a thick fog. Today was one of those days. I surfed the internet aimlessly. I didn't accomplish a whole lot of anything. I couldn't focus. I prayed a lot.
Usually the first thing I do after crawling out of bed in the morning is check my email. This morning I received a message from my Dad. It was just a short email, but I stared at my screen and read the two lines over and over, not wanting to believe it was true.
The husband of a couple my parents have come to know quite well over the past year or two died unexpectedly on Sunday morning. I say "unexpectedly" only because his death was a shock to us, but not to his Saviour. He was a big teddy bear of a man who was adored by his wife. I once saw them on an evening when I was wearing no makeup and my hair was nasty after a long day and he said I was pretty. I didn't really believe him, but I'll never forget it.
Today I cried - mostly for the wife and her loss; I have yet to lose a close family member and I can't imagine the pain. We were created for paradise; death is not something we were intended to experience.
I think my tears were also partially shed over the prospect of knowing my family and friends could be taken in a heartbeat as well. Part of me immediately wanted to run back to Canada, as though being near to those I love would keep them with me. The first instinct is to say, "They're all I have!" but I know it's not true. Part of my desire in moving here was to rely on God more fully in the day-to-day living. I wanted to be forced to seek my Saviour in every situation and not rely on the indepenence found in having a secure job, a car, a supportive family, and familiar surroundings. Being hit with the reality of a life being taken in the blink of an eye makes me realize even more fully the importance of ensuring that God is the strength of my life.
2 comments:
Dear Amanda. It's late, 12:45 am. My cousin is asleep upstairs, Rick's niece Christine and my best friend Joan left after dinner, both were with me at the hospital. All the kids are at their Mom's. It's quiet. I can't believe I've just survived 24 hours since this nightmare started. I can't tell you how much it meant to me to read this particular entry in your blog. I've had plenty of phone messages, plenty of emails and each of them made me break down. But not yours. Yours gives me hope. If there is a lesson in Rick's being taken so suddenly I'm sure its that I must learn to take less for granted and to rely more on God myself. I know that isn't going to be easy, I'm used to having that big teddy bear here to rely on. Right now I just have to make it until the Memorial and as I've heard so much today, 1 minute at a time, or if that is too much, then 1/2 a minute. I know without a doubt that your family, individually and collectively, if necessary, will be there to help me to find my way, long after the Memorial is done, after everyone else slowly moves back to the ebb and flow of their everday lives. And, Amanda, just so you know - Rick never said ANYTHING he didn't mean. Lots of Love, Terri
My message may not have made you break down, but I'm sitting here crying as I read yours. Terri, you are loved greatly and I know my family will do everything they can to come alongside you. Just don't be afraid to ask. You know the insanity that often prevails at the Piechnik household and you also know that we'll drop it all to support you. Nice to know Rick really meant it. :-) Keep up with the baby steps. Hold all the hands reaching out to you. Wish I could be there to give you a big hug. Love you so much.
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