grieving with guinever

It seems strange that it has been 3 Easters without my daughter Abby since we only just passed the 2nd anniversary of her death.

That first Easter, it was the day after Abby’s funeral. I was so numb, so stiff. I thought of the little girl who had waved palm branches the Sunday before and said “Hosanna” and sang “Holy, holy, holy,” in her high pitched toddler voice. And then 2 days later she was gone. In the words of her four year old brother,

“She went out to play and went to heaven.”

As we celebrated Jesus’ Resurrection and talked of the empty tomb, I thought of the grave that had been filled only the day before. And I was screaming inside, “But the tomb isn’t empty–my daughter is in it. The grave will not give her back. Would Jesus please weep with me and raise her like he did Lazarus?”

A year passed and it was Easter once again. I didn’t want to go to church. I wanted to be alone. Who would weep with me? Buried a day, I had been numb. Buried a year, I was sobbing. This poem by Oscar Fay Adams sums up how I felt:

The Easter brightness fades away;
A chill has numbed the bursting leaf;
A shadow falls across the day
And in our hearts is bitter grief.

I did end up going to church last year, by the way, just like I do every Sunday. This Easter, I was neither numb nor sobbing. Rather, I was reflective–happy and teary-eyed. To say that I am fine is probably a lie, but I am much better, moving slowly through this thing called grief. Looking forward to heaven, I live today and everyday on earth with my family. At times, this takes great effort.