Rose-colored Glasses

There is a temptation in grief to romanticize the past. To divide your life into the categories of good (when your person was still alive) and bad (now that they are gone).

I think it's because in the initial gut-wrenching, life-exploding, shock and horror of grief, it is absolutely true. Everything is worse. Absolutely everything. Grief touches your senses, your ability to hear, think, read, feel, eat, sleep, even smell and taste. Death feels like it is lurking around every corner. The worst has happened and now anything is on the table. Life as you know it has been altered forever in the worst kind of way. You are treading water in a stormy ocean of bad, with no life preserver, and no land in sight.

Slowly, over time, over a long, long time, good begins to creep back in to life. Not all at once. A moment here. A memory there. A food you can eat again. The ability to think and hold an idea that is other than your tragic loss. The sunset looks beatiful. An animal brings you comfort. A hug from a friend feels good.

And that goodness grows around the grief. Not replacing the grief, but living alongside of it. And life because this mix of good and bad. Sorrow and joy. Fun and pain. Future and past. Longing and contentment. What will never be and what still is.

Somewhere in that journey from the first throws of grief to a place where there are more moments that feel good, there's the dichotomy. The inability to see that anything will be good - could be good- without your person. You remember only the good things about them, the good times you had with them - and forget - or at least push away - the bad. It feels disloyal to remember the bad. Dishonoring. You want so badly for them to be with you - their presence surely would make everything better right?

But life isn't that simple. People aren't that simple.

The truth is that life was really hard in many ways when G was here. It was hard in very different ways than it is now - but hard it was.

We are leaving tomorrow for a vacation at the beach and it's gotten me thinking about the first time we took P to the beach in the summer of 2016. I love the picture from that trip. P's first time seeing the ocean. His total joy as he runs towards the waves, no fear in his body. Pictures of him and G collecting shells. Pictures of him sitting in the tent in the big hole in the sand that G dug out for him. Pictures of him floating in the pool - just totally chilling.

Of course, those pictures don't tell the whole story.

P had hand, foot and mouth disease and spent the bulk of the trip feeling miserable. It was really only the last day or two that he could enjoy being in the sand because his fever was finally down.

But there was something worse than that going on. G was in the throws of a deep depression. We had just been through a horrible season - a terrible year. Hospitalization for G and a really scary diagnosis, facing abuse in the family and cutting off ties, interpersonal conflict at work, strain in our marriage.

Alongside the beautiful memories captured in photos, there are the memories I don't like to think about. G weeping in despair as he sat looking at the ocean or locking himself in our room. Him being angry and overly sensitive and so hard to be around. Me feeling exposed as UT finally saw how much emotional and mental pain G was going through.

The week ended with us deciding enough was enough. We needed more for our family. More health. More stability. A chance to flourish.

Not long after this trip, G would check himself into the ER for suicidal thoughts. He was not okay. All that surrounds that time was one of the worst seasons in my life.

So what do I do with that? What do I do with the fact that some things feel better now that he isn't here? What do I do with the truth that being married to someone who suffers from anxiety and depression is extremely hard? What do I do with the memories of moments that felt so desperate and terrifying?

Sometimes, I think I'd take G back on any terms. Just to have him. Even on his worst days.

Other times I think I wouldn't. Not like that. Yes, healthy G, stable G, kind G - in a heartbeat. But suffering G? Unable to breathe G? Barely able to participate in life G? Angry G? Depressed G? Overly sensitive and difficult G? Honestly... no.

It's hard to admit. But when I take the rose-colored glasses off I see things more clearly. Yes, G was a gift and much of the time his presence made life that much sweeter. But no, G could not satisfy my soul, meet every need, or make me okay. He had his own wars to battle in his own heart and mind.

Jesus was my hope then and Jesus is my hope now.