The Three-Year Mark

This Saturday will mark three years since I last heard her voice.

Three years since her fingers intermingled with mine.

Three years since she took refuge against my chest.

Three years since I’ve smelled the floral scent of her hair.

Three years since her contagious laugh infected me.

Three years since her smile took my breath.

Three full years, 1,095 days, since she slowly went still in my arms, her final breaths coming out in muted shudders, her skin, scarred and gray-green from years of chemo, dozens of surgeries, and hundreds of sleepless nights, gradually becoming cold against the warmth of my own.

Three years since they removed the IV lines.

Three years since we washed her with a warm cloth, gently banishing the stains of this wretched world one final time.

Three years since my tears splattered onto her lifeless arms.

Three years since I reached up and gingerly closed her eyelids, forever depriving the world of the most magnificent shade of blue I’ve ever seen.

Three years since I watched them roll her away from me, down the hallway and into The Great Beyond.

Three years since she came into the physical presence of God.

Three years since her earthly body, broken and tattered beyond recognition, was redeemed and made new.

Three years since she joined the heavenly chorus, banging the drums like she always told me she would.

Three years since she gained eternity and I lost forever.

To quote Jeff, Kailen’s dad, “It’s been a long three years.”

If there were ever an understatement, that would be it. These three years have been subhuman agony, both torturous and tortuous, the torrents of grief bending and breaking us in every conceivable manner, leaving us windswept contortions of the people we once were. Fragments of a life that once was.

“Time heals all wounds,” they say.

Don’t you believe them. It isn’t true.

Though tragedy can be alchemized into triumph, a life in ashes raised into a new and glorious existence, the pain of loss will never fully go away. So long as our heart beats and breath fills our lungs, the void will remain.

It cannot and should not be denied.

But, all is not lost.

In my new book, The Lazarus Within, I postulate that there are 3 primary sources of healing – time, community, and hope.

TIME, as I said, will not heal your heart. But rather, what you do with your time will heal your heart. To borrow a phrase from someone I interviewed for the book, “Intentionality produces momentum.” Be intentional with your time.

COMMUNITY is the lifeblood of the human spirit. If we are not accompanied in our grief, walked alongside by caring, unassuming hearts, we will not survive this war. Allow people to help you, to love you. And when they do, cherish them. For they are rare and wonderful.

HOPE is the ultimate source of healing, the only source which can stand alone. In the  tear-soaked aftermath of our tragedy, if we choose hope in the face of hopelessness, life in the face of death, we will rise from the ashes of our agony and live again. Our pain becomes the crucible within which we are forged and made new. This is, in fact, the phenomenon I’ve named “The Lazarus Within.” And it exists inside all of us.

So whether it’s been three months, three years, or three decades, I encourage you to never give up. Be intentional, be accompanied, and above all else, be hopeful.

It will be hard. Every single day. Some days will seem unsurvivable.

They’re not.

Cling to the good moments. Let them quietly remind you that life was once pleasant and will be again, even if it’s not today.

For me, these moments often come late at night or early in the morning. When the world is still and the fog lingers above the ground like a cloak.

Even now, three years hence, if I stand very quietly in the fog, let the stillness enshroud me and listen closely…I can sometimes hear the drums.

A fellow journeyer,

Bryan

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