Thanksgiving 2017. It has been two and a half years since
our lives were forever altered. We never talk about that day. How do we
incorporate such tragedy into the tapestry of our lives? It is as if that day
exists upon a separate timeline, far removed from the new reality we have
created—the one in which Woody is a beautiful, painful memory. He is gone, but
we never discuss how or why. The elephant in the room has a date and a name: May 10, 2015, traumatic death. And we slowly
walk around the elephant, ignoring its presence, pretending that the space
occupied by the beast is vacant. Some days I want to grab it by the tusks and
wrestle it viciously to the ground. I am so tired of the heaviness it exerts on
our lives. “Why can’t you go away?” I demand. As much as I try to approach the
elephant and find a way to integrate it into our lives, I can’t. So, just like the
children, I ignore it.
Trauma does that. It exists on its own. It is difficult to
accept. Yet, accept it we must. Slowly, we approach the mammal, careful not to
stir the beast, knowing that we must somehow clear the room of the large animal
that has taken up residence in our lives. It is a process that may take years
more. There is no rushing healing. There is no easy button, no shortcuts.
However, God holds us so closely, and every day we breathe a little easier. I
am hopeful for the first time in a long time—truly hopeful! I do not know what the future holds, but I do know
God holds our future. And that alone is enough to make me hopeful.
