The Undiscovered Country

Back from the Dead

Two years.

That's a long time to avoid a passion, but for two years I did. Writing used to be that passion, but I quit it. Every time I tried to write even a simple blog entry, my fingers refused to type. When I forced it, the words were flat, emotionless, dull.

It took me a while to figure out why.

I was grieving first over my dad's death and then my mom passed 18 months later.

I didn't want to acknowledge that grief, because, really, why? They're gone and no amount of tears will bring them back. Plus life goes on. I have a job and a family to take care of. I didn't have the time or energy to blubber into my pillow every night.

Anger played a large portion in my lack of words. Writing is how I talk to God, and I didn't want to talk to him. He took my parents away when they were far too young, and I wasn't remotely ready to let them go. It was unfair and I was unprepared.

God in his never-ending grace and depthless compassion and understanding allowed me to wallow. Through little glimpses, he gently showed me that this time of grief was necessary. As Ecclesiastes 3:4 says, there is "a time to cry and a time to laugh.
A time to grieve and a time to dance."

Recently I began to understand that I could never move forward until I release my burdens to his care. He reminded me of the man who wanted to follow Jesus, but first asked to bury his father. Jesus responded, "Follow me and let the dead bury their own dead." (Matthew 8:18-22).

I've also been hearing often a song by Jonathan Thulin called "Dead Come to Life":

1: I am the living dead, you are the opposite
We're like fire and ice only one can survive
My will's departed

Pre Chorus: Light is in your eyes reaching to mine
I am

Chorus: A valley of bones covered in stone
Nothing more than human
Into the unknown body and soul
You're calling me cause only with you the
Dead come to life, dead come to life
Only with you the dead come to life,
Dead come to life

2: I am a foreigner, caught in the crossfire
I am paralyzed by the battle cries can you
Hear it.

Pre Chorus:

Chorus:

Bridge: We are the dry and thirsty sand
Upon this dry and thirsty land
But you speak life into the flesh
Breathing air into the dead.

I belong to a group on Facebook called Bismarck Writers. We meet every Monday night and Barnes and Noble to write and talk about writing. I've been able to go three times now. I've been surprisingly productive. I finished the synopsis to one book so I can now search agents/publishers, finished editing another book and finished the outline of a new story.

How amazing it is to listen to and heed God's wisdom, allow him to comfort me in my grief and let all my burdens go.

My sister and I agree, however, no one we love is allowed to die for at least five years. We so decree for very selfish reasons, admittedly. Although both my parents had wills, they had no outstanding debt that couldn't be taken care of quickly, and there was no strife between my sister and I with everything else they owned, setting up and managing estates SUCK!

We had to get rid of a lot of their stuff, and each time we couldn't help but feel we were slowly erasing our parent's existence. And what we did hold onto felt like ill-gotten gains. We didn't earn any of it, so how can we remotely claim it as ours now? Especially since they taught us that all our successes and failures are our responsibility and no one else's. I find the whole thing rather sickening, as if we were feeding off the dead, even though intellectually that wasn't remotely the case. Our parents wanted us to have their worldly goods, so to turn our noses at it would mean we didn't appreciate all the hard work they put into gaining it in the first place.

Still, I wish they had just enough to pay any remaining bills with the end result a big, fat zero.

It's a good feeling to be brought back from the dead, finally.