Community

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I think ofcommunity and wonder if it’s really necessary for so many to suffer together. Imean, Tim, Margaret and I have to suffer because Jack was ours. Grieving is theprice we pay for loving him so very much. But the sadness that slammed a tiny school, descended on a town, and spread throughout this country and beyondthrough friends and social media? Is that sadness too much to put on others?

Is it rightto want others to share our grief with us? To walk this path by our sides? Oris that asking too much?I reallyhate to use a drowning analogy because my oh my how I’ve been struck over thepast year with how many hymns, praise songs, and even references to grief referto drowning. Ick. That’s a lot for me to take. Last week Margaret and I counted 5 songs in a row on our Christianradio station dealing with storms, waves, being pulled under, drowning andfloods.

Ugh. However, thereis an image that keeps coming to me when I think of community. It is of ourlittle family huddled together out in the middle of a pond on very thin ice. It’slonely out there. And the weight of our grief and longing for Jack are so heavy, bearing down onus, the pond starts to crack.

Then I seeus getting down on our bellies, and spreading our arms and legs out, almost asif we are embracing the ice. Friends, those we have met and those we may notmeet for a long time spread out too, grabbing onto our hands or our feet, untilwe’ve redistributed the weight, making a web or a snowflake pattern thatreaches to the far edges of the pond and keeps us safe. Tim’s and Margaret’sand my weight remains the same, but we don’t go crashing through.

I’m not sureif that’s really how ice works. Or grief works. But there is a real feeling ofblessing and relief that comes from being connected to others in grief andpain.

Thank you for that today and always.