Pit of Grief

June 2023

We are driving westward. While overhead the skies are clear, there is a dark, ominous storm filling the sky ahead. It pales in comparison to the darkness filling my soul right now. This threatening torrent ahead will pass in a few hours. The monsoon in my deepest being will not. It will pervade my being for decades to come.

We got a call saying "come soon. He doesn't have much longer."

The voice was smitten and broken, the voice of a man who was teetering on the edge of all he had left.

Whirlwind. Toothbrushes. Shirts. Absent minded toiletries collected. Aldi bag is good enough.

The rush of thoughts, events, commitments. Pieces of incoherent texts sent out randomly to very-fine, very-living, very-good-day people who were untouched by the panic of the thought of a child on the edge of death.

Lightning cracks the sky. Thunder rattles the the air. Driving is down to a crawl. "Hazards on, people. Things are getting worse."

The smashing of a dozen cars on top of ours would seem more tolerable than the reality that met us next. The hurling of our truck over a cliff would seem more reasonable. More coherent. More grounded in reality. Our vehicle is just a toy amongst other toys, scattered on the road of a little boy's playground. His playground.

God, don't. Please undo. Please bring back.

Meandering up to the edge of the deepest, darkest abyss where the blackest of the depth promise to swallow you whole, I edge toward the precipice. I know I have to go over that edge, to face the reality. To admit he died. I can't yet.

I still need to tell my daughter, but we are driving down the road in a literal and figurative torrent and she is all alone in the backseat. This storm seems so benign compared to the inky pit awaiting me.

The pit where I see his parents. His grandparents. Where I have to tell my my daughter that he passed. Where I know funeral arrangements are made and a tiny casket is chosen. And emotions run high. And expectations are unmet. And dreams are shattered. And the big sister becomes the only child. This pit is a nightmare of unimaginable proportions. I stand on the precipice.

We stop for the restroom. We break the news to our daughter because the calls are starting and discreet conversations are impossible in the cab of the truck.

I go over the edge and surrender to the free fall. My stomach is floating as I hold her. The tears are drenching. There's nothing to grab hold of in this fall. No answers, no solutions. Just the void becoming darker and darker.

I am reminded of Jesus promise: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."

And His enduring presence: "If I go up to heaven, you are there; if I go down to the grave, you are there. If I ride the wings of the morning, if I dwell by the farthest oceans, even there your hand will guide me, and your strength will support me. I could ask the darkness to hide me and the light around me to become night— but even in darkness I cannot hide from you. To you the night shines as bright as day. Darkness and light are the same to you."

Psalms 139:8‭-‬12 NLT

I am particularly comforted by that last verse. This pit is certainly not out of His reach. So in the free fall, I trust.