You know those moments when sorrow and joy collide with such force, you can't tell if you want to cry or laugh? Some of us talented folks can do both. Friday evening was a test of my body's ability to physically exude both emotions without implosion or explosion. It was a feat worthy of note, hence this blog posting.
It started with a show, or a concert more like, where my husband's band was the opening act. Late Night Transit (husband's band) was up and getting started and I was helping the drummer's wife corral their three beautiful daughters into seats where we could all see our men in action. As soon as the music started, the youngest daughter (she's 2) got up and started dancing as if her feet couldn't touch the floor fast enough. She hopped and flailed her arms and shook her mini rump as fast as her little body could get the actions out. In the middle of all of her unabashed dancing, she would stop and laugh with such wild joy that I couldn't help but join in. It was beautfiul. Her laughter, her freedom of movement, her delight in her daddy's music....., it took my breath away. I've seen kids dance and laugh before, my own neice is rockin' it hard core in the picture above, but this little one was something different. She had so much infectious joy just oozing from her, I had to join in and delight in the music with her. As swiftly as my laughter came, so came the tears. I wanted that to be my Edy out there dancing with wild abandon, proud of her daddy and the magic he makes with music.
I've had a few days to ponder that moment and the word that seems to come to me over and over again is "simple". I think what struck me most about the dancing little beauty was the simplicity of her emotion. She felt joy, she expressed it. There's nothing complex about that, nor should there be. How does that word "simple" apply to me? Well, grief has become all about allowing each moment to express itself simply, without me constantly trying to grieve the "right way" or judging myself for needing to grieve. I am simply trusting my Father to hold my heart, knowing that He, above any other, knows my sorrow. Grief is no longer that tiny crack in the windshield that ends up spider webbing across my field of vision. Grief is simple and holds no power to overwhelm me, because I have no need to figure it out. So when I cry, I cry good and hard. When I miss my Edy, I let the missing of her wrap it's arms around me. When I imagine her little pixie face, I smile until my face hurts. I talk when I need to talk, I write when I need to write. I let my husband hold me as I hold him, knowing that we are learning to hold onto our Father together. Most of all, I know my Edyth is dancing, and she's dancing with our Savior. You just can't beat the joy in that. Rock on my Edy, dance away.