I am having a missing moment. Park days on Fridays don’t really get any easier. In fact, innitially, when Jenna was newly gone and it seemed like she would just pop out from behind the playground equipment and come running to me for a handful of goldfish, it was not as hard as it is now. She has been gone so long that her presence in all our old haunts is not as tangible anymore. But little girls and little boys her size, even her old friends, are still there, running and laughing and playing and reminding me of Jenna’s absence.
I carried a little two year old to his mom’s car today. Jenna was such a petite little muffin, and this little boy weighed exactly as much as I remember Jenna weighing. He sat comfortably on my hip, his hand resting on my back like Jenna’s used to, and my younger boys kept up with us, ducking out of his sight and then popping up to make him laugh just like they used to do with their little sister.
I kept my face averted for the most part. I wanted to pretend that I was still holding Jenna. Part of me always wants to go back, ever so foolishly, and feel what it felt like (just for the briefest of moments) to have Jenna here, and to relish in the joy she brought us.
Such a sad post – I know.
Please realise, if you are reading this, that this is not all there is to me. The times of sadness are actually much less than the times of normalcy. And when they come, I have experienced them enough to know that they come…and then they go. They do not define me. They do not rule me. But they do visit every now and then.
A friend of mine asked how I was doing today, and I answered as best I could. I told her we are all fine, but that being at the park isn’t easy because it reminds me of Jenna. She asked me (and I suppose I received her question with a sense of incredulity) whether I think of Jenna every day. Part of me wanted to shake her. Excuse me? How can she think otherwise?
The missing doesn’t hit me every day. But every day holds a myriad of thoughts about Jenna. I can think about her without being consumed with sadness. It helps to mentally release her to Jesus in heaven every now and then. I picture her there, joyously happy with Him, and I whisper: “She is yours, Jesus.” I always feel such a sense of peace when I do that.
But think of her is something I absolutely do every day, and it is something I welcome. It doesn’t always hurt.