Friday, July 9, 2010

Into the sunset...

My blog comes from beautiful Seattle - my first visit here without my Tony. He absolutely loved this place, loved it, and has such dear friends here. It is bittersweet to see them and be surrounded by people and things so close to Tony's heart.

My flight over from Atlanta departed around 8 p.m. so I flew most of the way into the sunset. Toward the last hour of the flight, I sat in complete awe of God at the breath-taking colors of yellow and orange enveloping the dark blue earth below. How majestic is our God that He gives us a glimpse of heaven as the day meets the night. Tears welled in my eyes as we made our decent, the bright warm colors fading into darkness. All that remained was a small beam of light on the wing of the plane, guiding us to our destination.

This, all too well, describes my very journey into my sorrow. The first book I picked up after the accident was "A Grace Disguised" by Jerry Sittser, a journal of his grief after major loss. I only read the first two chapters because it was just too much too soon. However, I gleamed a nugget a truth that became a guiding principle in my own grief. He talks about how he was faced with a choice early on whether or not to intentionally walk into his sorrow. He described it as walking into the sunset. Either he could face his darkness head on or run the opposite way and have it hit him on the other side. His grief was unavoidable, but it was up to him whether he confronted it or delayed it, only to have it manifest in other ways later.

I, too, made the choice to walk into my sunset, and the darkness that quickly ensued. It was one of the most painful decisions I have ever had to make. As much as I want to escape into the daylight, I continue to walk straight ahead. And just like that tiny light on the outside of the plane, there are glimpses of light along my journey to give me enough hope to carry on. It is God reminding me that He alone is my guide, my shepherd, leading me safely to the morning light.

As Psalm 30:5 says, "...weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning..."

My morning might not come soon, but I must trust that dawn will one day break through. Until then, I'll think on the beauty of the sunset from that plane high above, for that is the God-sized view that I cannot see from the earth below.

Dearly loved, from a sunset,

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