By Franchesca Cox
Last weekend we took a little family road trip, and some things just happen in car rides. Who can explain it? Maybe it is the absence of distractions, presence of intimate spacing and of course, time. I love road trips for this reason.
On the way home, I found myself in a full-blown meltdown in conversation with my husband. It wasn’t what he was saying, it’s what I wasn’t saying. It was what I was afraid of admitting. How far I had drifted. How my heart had grown cold, and nobody knew it, not really. I convinced myself since I had found “happy” again, my kids were healthy, and I wasn’t falling apart every week; things were okay. I was okay. But being “okay” can have a thousand different definitions. Grieving people know that best, I think.
I cried because I missed what it felt like to be a new Christian. The joy. That’s what I missed the most. We were talking about one thing, which led to another which led to another and we landed on this bombshell that suddenly made my heart implode. And while this isn’t a family or lifestyle blog, there are some grounding topics that merit being told.
This is one of them. Being so spiritually wounded you forget, and even lose sight of your identity.
That is where I was, and maybe still am to some degree.
God, I’ve missed you. God, I’ve had so many questions unanswered. And God, I’m to the point that most of them don’t even matter any more. But I’m wounded. And a huge chunk of me has grown used to not trusting you, not talking to you, and most of all not even taking into account of your thoughts. What a scary and sad place for a Christian to dwell. Where do I go from here?
I’ve missed believing in miracles, and trusting in something higher, and purer, than anything in this world.
When certain topics came up in the past over a disagreement, my husband worried I was still bitter, and with my whole heart, I could honestly say that was not the case. I’m not angry. I’m not even sad most of the time. I’m not bitter. I convinced myself I was really okay.
But what I never stopped to consider was that the relationship with God (that I claim to believe in and worship) was never reconciled. I’m not sure where to begin. But I think it something to do with not basing what will happen on what has already happened. (i.e. our daughter dying in spite of prayer). My ultimate struggle: faith.
While the joy of being a new Christian was the sweetest place in my life to be, it is also strangely reminiscent of those days surrounding Jenna’s last days here on Earth, and the few days that followed her death. Both those periods in my life were mysteriously (or maybe not so much now that I think about it…) surrounded with a similar atmosphere: Promise. Hope. Clarity. Peace. A stillness that could not be shaken. In new life, and death.
I am so thankful for the cross. I don’t know where I’d be without the hope that it has underlined my entire life with. But I want more. And today, in spite of how I feel or what my past has dictated, I cling to the promise that says, “ask and it shall be given.”
I’ve got nothing to lose.
This post originally appeared on Wildfeathers Wellness. Franchesca Cox is the voice and artist behind Wildfeathers Wellness, an oasis for holistic health and healing after loss. She also hosts online Women’s Heart Healing Workshops for bereaved mothers driven by her passion for creativity and breathing, surviving and thriving in the face of grief. Find her on Facebook and on Instagram.
