The grief rock

I haven't talked much publicly about my grief process.  Writing is a great way for me to express as it sets thoughts in a tangible way- not that those thoughts can't change or aren't temporary, but I can use them as an assessment of a specific point.  Also, whether the audience ends up being me alone or something more exposed like this, I think there's value in writing to the invisible audience.  So anyway, I came up with this analogy, and it's probably a little obtuse, but not as bad as the molecular reaction turkey handshake.

It's like a rock that I carry around.  Maybe a little larger than a microwave.  And this rock, it has a lot of different materials, a lot of different surfaces and textures. . . it seems like you can look at it from every angle and it always seems a little different, there's always something new to discover.  Some parts of it are smooth, too smooth to grip, and other parts are rough, sharp even.  And so sometimes I am carrying the rock and it is scraping my hands, or maybe I hold it to one side and it jabs into my torso, or if I sling it over my back it can't stay still because the smooth parts won't grip on to anything.  Sometimes when I'm carrying it I notice its weight.  It's not unbearably heavy, but it's also not something that is easy to carry around.  Mostly it's uncomfortable.  But sometimes I'm carrying it and don't even notice it; I can run and hold it above my head, or tote it behind me as I work on other things with my hands.  Sometimes I'm even able to set it down for a while and go and do other things.  . . but I always come back to it.  Sometimes I kick it or punch it, but that only proves to hurt me and not change the rock at all.
And so I find myself asking a lot of questions about it.  Is there something useful I'm supposed to be doing with it?  Is there an opportunity to shape it into something new?  The material won't change, but perhaps I can craft it into something.  Or maybe I'm not supposed to carry it around.  Is there somewhere I should put it, set it as a monument or memorial so that I can come back to it if I want, but I don't have to continue to cart it everywhere?  Or maybe. . . is there some other option?  It seems there is always something new to be discovered about it.  Do I just keep doing what I'm doing with it, just embrace it as a part of the daily walk of life?

As I thought through this imagery last night after what had ended up being a day where I was aware of the weight and the roughness and the discomfort, I realized there's something else to add.  Because there is Someone else in the picture.  Someone who is right here with me.  Someone who has dealt with this kind of rock.  Someone who understands.  Someone who offers compassion.  Someone who offers to help.  And so now my question is this: am I supposed to give my rock to Him?  Is it something we can trade back and forth, or is it something that I need to let go of completely?  If I can be rid of it, how do I do that?  How do I let go?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A line from "Hello, Dolly" has been bouncing around in my head (which, side note, until I became a widower I never realized how often that is used as a storytelling device, including in theater.  I suppose any new normal brings an awareness and sensitivity to any similar experience):

But lately, Ephraim, I've begun to realize that for a long time... I have not shed one tear.  Nor have I been for one moment outrageously happy.

I can't begin to tell you how much I identify with that statement.  But near the end of that same monologue, she states:

I've decided to join the human race again.

In many ways, that is what I've been moving towards these past few months.  To return to my life.  To return to God and His plan and His will.  To join the land of the living.

So while the question still remains, I will continue to seek the Answer.