Ocean Sized Bed of Pain

I have a huge ocean of a bed.  It's so big that half the time I have stuff residing in the bottom opposite corner where I know it won't bother me. 

I sleep in a small corner of this large body and sometimes find that I am almost falling out of bed.

It's ridiculously large for a single person.

Except when my boys sleep with me.  Which is every Friday I have them and on special occasions.  Like snow days.

Nothing calms me more than watching and listening to my boys sleep.  I can stare at them all I want and they don't move.  It's my personal heaven.

Someone recently told me, "Wow you must've really been hurt before, huh?"  He was referring to romantic relationships, but my mind went to all the big hurts I've experienced.

Watching my boys sleep reminds me of when Graham was in the hospital.  He was in a coma so I could stare and touch him all I wanted.  He didn't fight me like the feisty kid he was because he was immobile.  And I stared at him and touched him often.  And cried.  I became a human form of a non-stop crier.  It was simply a part of everything I did at that point.  Instead of speaking words I cried them.  I ate and cried.  I laughed and cried.  I took a shower and cried.  I brushed my teeth and cried.  I talked to the nurses about his delightful disposition while crying.  I had no filter for the tears.  They were simply a part of me.

I've grieved the loss of two husbands, a cousin who died too young, three grandparents, countless friends and boyfriends, pets, numerous houses that I made into homes.  I said goodbye to three young kids I had the privilege of caring for for two years while the oldest pressed her face against the window and cried my name as I drove off.  I've lost a step daughter.  I've lost jobs.  I've lost employees who were dear friends. 

And then there are the countless times I've been in the pit with others.  I've cried with two of my best friends who buried their babies.  The depth of their pain has no end.  I've grieved with my siblings and their spouses.  I've grieved with my parents.  My aunts, uncles, cousins.  I've grieved with my city in the wake of hurricanes.  And when the Saints lose (which is also intensely sad but not quite on the same level).

If everyone made a list of their hurts, they wouldn't be dissimilar to mine.  Some probably much worse than mine.  Some less.  But the hurt is the same.  It impacts us the same, whether big or small to others.   Pain does not diminish because others do not see it as pain.  Great or small.  Pain is pain.

The difference is how we carry it.  I suppose in they eyes of some, I have not carried it well.  I feel like May in The Secret Life of Bees at times.  May has a wall where she stuffs little pieces of paper that are marked by each hurt she feels.  It is a very long wall full of paper in every nook and cranny.  Her sisters try to keep her from the knowledge of pain, but it's something you can't reign in.  She lived her entire life the way I lived for those critical weeks in the hospital with Graham. 

Rightly so.

Pain is infinite.  And inevitable.  It isn't unique to any one person.  It is a part of the human experience.

So do we carry it like May who can't function because the pain is incapacitating, or me who was the embodiment of tears?  Or do we lay it at the feet of the only One who can take it from us? 

I think in order to revel in the beauty of my little boys sleeping in my huge ocean-sized bed that is ridiculously large for a single person, I'll leave it at His feet.  I have life still left to be lived.  I can't afford to be incapacitated.