Solace is an act of sharing

A fortnight has passed. The shock is starting to wear off and it is now sinking in that you are no longer around. Last night, I used the juicer/blender for the first time. It was the one purchased with the voucher from my employers a couple of Christmases ago and which was always one of your many contributions to our menu and my eating regime. The oranges and pineapple I mixed in together tasted bitter, even though I had bought them fresh from the nearby Farmhouse, earlier that day.

 

This is how it is and this is how it will be. When Brodie died, I said that it was as if the colours on the world became duller and the volume on our music, our laughter, our capacity to enjoy life was muted. His death impacted on my sight and sound - your's is playing havoc with my taste and smell. Food, which was such a prominent part of our life, despite your inability to actually sample it, is lacking. I eat because I need to but I have not really enjoyed a meal in the same way you and I did, whether we were eating out or dining in front of an episode of a DVD or TV show of our choice.

 

A friend sent me a newsletter recently and it contained an article that articulated something of what I am feeling, two weeks on from your death. It also addresses the question that I am regularly asking myself about why I persist with these reflections. What does pouring my heart out onto a page actually achieve, for me and for others? 

 

Here is an extract from the article, kindly shared with me by Sue Thomas:

Gary died at the beginning of Advent, so this season holds some particular sorrows. Yet I have learned that Advent is a season custom-made for experiencing how Christ meets us in the places that are most shadowed, most hopeless, most uncertain, most fearful. The trappings that have become associated with this season can make it difficult for us to see this. Yet beyond and beneath those trappings is the wondrous truth that lies at the heart of Advent and Christmas: that the Word became flesh and comes to us still as life, as light, as fierce love that does not abandon us in the darkest times.

The gifts of this season are beautifully and powerfully personal, but they are never just for us alone. The Word comes to us and takes flesh in us for the life of the world. After Gary's death, when those words came to tell me Solace is your job now, I knew this was not an invitation to seek solace only for my own self. Solace is not solitary: when it comes, it is for sharing."

 

I write to share. I write because it gives me comfort to know that someone, out there, may derive some peace, or contentment or be less angry or bitter about what has happened. You were never any of those things in your life and I would hate for the world to be burdened with those qualities in your death.

 

I write for me and for others, but I also write for you. You were my muse in life and now, you and Amber and Brodie will be my inspiration from the next life. I feel connected to you when I write and I pray others will feel connected to you when they read what I have written.

 

The author I quoted above mentions that "the Word became flesh and comes to us still as life." In my writing, I am giving flesh to words and there is a sense that I can continue on with the journey of life. This is a truth for me in this Advent season - my solace too must be shared.