The Grieving Hour

At first, confusion upon awakening... what time is it in Alabama? an hour earlier than South Carolina time, but did my cell phone adjust automatically? Then, what time is it Ireland? as I read my friend Jane Barry's comments on Facebook, where I went to clear my fuzzy head from morning fog and sadness. My cousin has died, our bright boy, Brad. We will miss him. I come back home to Alabama on occasions like these, and in addition to the obvious pain of present loss, I am nostalgic in general, driving the roads of Anniston, Jacksonville, and Huntsville. The question about what time it is becomes more than an inquiry about clocks and second hands.

"Time won't freeze" is the caption for this photo, borrowed from themebin.com. That's the truth of this hour. I walked the puppy out this morning to find the ground frosty. Winter has come at last. Brad will be cremated, as he wished. We are a new age --- I want the same thing, when the time comes. Simple, a body back to fragments and ash, seeing as how the soul has gone to take residence elsewhere; it could not be burned... or rather, it was set on fire by faith and will arrive in heaven a glowing ember. We will see him again. We do not grieve as those who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13).

As I rise and dress in jeans and sweater (for we are not formal, at this hour), I am thankful for all of the winters and springs that Brad saw here on earth, and for the impression of his feet on frosty lawns. We will follow him, but we will take our time. We can look just ahead and see him as in this image from gospelblog.com.

Brad's in better hands now. "So take this heart of mine, there's no doubt..."

I pack my bags --- will meet the family briefly again before I take the roads back to the place I call home these days and to the joys and pressures of daily life. "Stop all the clocks," wrote the grieving poet Auden... but they do not stop. I'm glad for the momentary pause.

If you are reading this, and you are grieving, then we know each other. It's the human experience. I wish you peace and confidence in eternity, where it will all make sense. "For now we see as through a glass darkly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know as I am known." (1 Corinthians 1:31). May we let ourselves be known also while we are here on the blue planet, in our fragile skin. May we open up to each other and look fully into each other's eyes and less often at the clock.