My family said see you soon to my dad last week as he took his spot in his eternal home. His departure was brutal, and it was beautiful. There was a cd player gently playing; I’ll Fly Away, sung by George Jones. My mom was at his side rubbing his arm and singing the song. I behind her had just opened my Bible, as my son sat at the foot of Poppy’s bed. Then in the most peaceful posture, his breathing stopped, and he flew away.
I have been trying to wrap my brain around everything that has happened. The processing has been slow. When someone asks, “How are you?” It is difficult to explain. I am in a fog. That may sound like a vague answer, but it is my most accurate explanation. I don’t know how I got there, and I don’t know when I will walk out, but this morning, this occurred to me:
At some point after the storm, you realize that perhaps the fog you are standing in is God’s gentle protection to prevent all the pain from pressing in at once. Gratitude is born even in the fog because we remember His tender mercies weather every season we endure.