A line in the sand, I’ve drawn one before. That symbolic line that says, “No more; I will not cross it.” Times when I think too much about life and wonder. Times when I have more questions than answers. Times when I just can’t get past the hurt associated with grief. Most people don’t want to hear about it, and I can understand feeling that way. If you have never lost someone that you deeply love, it’s really a blessing that you don’t understand what I am talking about. It’s like there is this invisible line that keeps you from thinking about situations that you cannot control and placing blame.
With the strange weather these last couple of months and the extra days off work, I have had an opportunity to start my book about Holt. I love writing about him and his life. I love writing about the stories you have never heard before and telling things that prove how active God has been through Holt’s life since his death. Miracles, mind you, just sweet miracles that I cannot wait for you to learn about. Stories that involve people who have been instrumental to God working good through our tragic situation. But like most stories, there is a small handful of people who have been instrumental in adding grief. It’s like looking at two groups of people who were all given the opportunity to play a part in an amazing story and one group chooses to play a role like an ugly step-sister or a troll instead of choosing to be Cinderella or a prince.
As I sat down to write a few weeks ago, I wrote about the situations that have caused my family added grief. People who have chosen to play a negative role. As I wrote, I didn’t name names, like I really wanted to, but I did give some specifics. As I typed, it felt good to get it all down. It gave me a feeling of power that I have not had since the accident occurred. See, I believe words hold power, the written word even more so than the spoken word. Written word is lasting and can be reread and repeated without question.
When I finished all I thought I needed to “say” about those people and situations, I just knew I would feel better. In my mind I wondered, “Should I really write all of this?” Part of me felt like I had gotten revenge and the other part felt convicted. When I went to bed that night I had a vivid dream. I was walking down a sidewalk in Blackshear when I passed one of the people from my small handful of step-sisters and trolls. As I walked past the person, instead of continuing on down the sidewalk minding my own business, I stopped, turned around and called out to them. I said, “I am Holt Rowland’s mom,” and then I continued to let out all of those pent up feelings by telling them all I needed to say. I even started crying as I was dreaming.
When I woke up the next day, I felt much better at first, but as I sat and drank my morning coffee, I began to think about the unresolved situations that had sparked such hurt. I thought about all my questions and the very few answers. I looked back over the past, almost four years, and instead of seeing the blessings, all I saw was hurt and sadness. My mind began to place blame on God for allowing these people to add to my grief. “Why have you allowed all of this hurt?” I boldly asked through the flood of tears. Full well, knowing, I was near the line I had last drawn. The line that I know not to cross because it makes me angry; it makes me bitter. The line of doubt and blame…and resentment. When you cross that line, it is easy to keep on going because it is obviously runs down hill.
God knows me well enough to know that I am very hard-headed; both of my parents and my husband would agree. When I make my mind up about something, it takes a while for me to change it back again. That’s why crossing the line is so scary for me. For the last few weeks, God and I have had some pretty long talks and some pretty long times of silence. Days when I didn’t want to say much because I was pouting. However, in the end, like a kid who needs to apologize but resists doing so, I have realized the more I blame God for all the unresolved situations in my life, the more miserable I feel. The more I cross that line in the sand, the further away I am from peace. Bitterness takes root in my soul, and I cannot see the flowers for all the weeds. I lose the blessings that God wants to show me. I miss the stories worth telling. My creativity becomes dormant, and like a tiny seed that can sprout by breaking through the soil or lie still and lose its potential, I have to choose. God will not make my mind up for me. He is fighting on my side, but I have to make a decision on my own to lie in resentment or break through the tangled circumstances to see hope. Like a baby bird that needs to break out of the hard shell to be tough enough to survive in the world, God is cheering for me to break through the problems associated with grief and come out stronger yet more dependent only on Him. He will cheer for me, but it is my choice to break through.
In the midst of fighting this battle, I have realized that some stories are just better left untold. God knows every name and every situation. When I decide to publicize the poor choices of others, I become part of that group. After weeks of making myself miserable, I have run back to the only side of the line that offers freedom and the opportunity to see good come from sad circumstances. God loves me too much to force me to cross back over again, but I have made my choice. I want to be better not bitter. I’m choosing life over death, to trust and not doubt, to love and not to hate.
These are not easy choices if you are in the group of people dealing with grief. There are always those stories we could tell of people who added to our hurt or caused it in the first place. We all have those untold stories that only a select few know about. It would feel good, for a while, to spread the word and tell everybody. But, in the end talking about them will not take away any of the pain, the hurt, or the disappointment. Honestly, talking about it would only arouse more anger.
Life is not easy. It’s no surprise that Jesus told us, “In this life there will be trouble.” God is not shocked when we get knocked down. He sees the natural hurt, and he also knows any one who added to it. I’m choosing to believe he will take care of every bit of the added pain when the time is right. One thing is for sure. God has given us all stories. Most are worth telling but some are simply better left untold. With my line in the sand redrawn, I’m back on God’s side. Choosing to use our stories to bring God glory and trusting that He knows and will take care of all the rest.
