Grief is not good/ I must grieve good

It’s been one month and five days since my son took a leap of faith off a bridge to swim with his friends in the river below. It was the last thing he did in his earthly body and I know that the fall down to the water was thrilling for him. He was doing what he loved to do and having fun with his friends. He hit the water and didn’t come back up. I searched for my son that night, a whole team of friends and family and experts searched for him. When we found him, it was much too late. Joshua James Bailey left us at 18 years old.

The moments that stand in bold print in my mind are terrifying. The worst thing that could happen, happened. My son died. I am living through the biggest fear of my life yet I grossly underestimated the size and power of this monster. There is not a piece of my spirit that has not been crushed under pressure and exploded, shattering shards and slivers through every cell of my body. I feel the wreckage within me, a constant physical burning and itching that cannot be soothed. The pieces of me could never go back together as they were, too much is broken and scattered beyond restoration. But, my heart beats on, one breath leads to another, so somehow my brokenness has not left me for dead. My broken pieces will slowly and painfully move and writhe within me until I become her. The person I will be once the evidence of my implosion becomes ruins pilgrimaged by few.

Until I find her, I am meandering, lost and confused in my war zone. The air is thick with sulfur and suffocating to breathe. Ears ringing unwilling to hear. Water can’t be found and couldn’t quench or stifle if it were; it’s murky, filthy, hot. The only moisture is the saltiest of tears that flow like a hot stream, leaving dirty streaks on cheeks that are ever creasing from set expressions of despair. Light is blotted out, shadows and darkness prevail day and night, day and night. There is no search and rescue coming for me, no vehicle of escape, no provisions. It is not accessible, I am an island in a sea of treachery. What once was a thriving beautiful landscape has turned into desolate wasteland. I am wasteland.

I’ve visited ancient ruins in different countries. I’m fascinated by their stories. I read the books of ancient civilizations and cultures with great interest. Of course, since the villages are ruins, something caused their demise; disease, famine, corruption, war. But, to visit the ruins is spiritual to me, something moves within me to see that a once thriving fortress with incredible architecture could ever be abandoned. It is a beautiful sight but with whispers of secrets lying in the overgrowth that something terrible happened here. Yet, the empty walls and crumbling stone hedges are magnificent perched by the sea or tucked into the woods with centuries of native flora inching around and up the walls, reclaimed by wildlife. And I travel and pay an entry fee to lay my eyes on these remarkable places, to feel my spirit wonder over the peace found there, knowing it took a long time and natures help for peace to be restored there.

I was a fortress. I built impossible things without the proper resources, without the knowledge or experience to do so. I dreamed up a land and worked to the grind in unrelenting conditions for the sake of my people. And it worked, and my foundation was solid and though there was always maintenance issues, there was harmony. It was founded upon love, it was named Mother.

I am ruins. Mother was ravished July 3rd 2022 the moment my son died. My fortress is now a death zone, a war zone. The once sweet, light air is thick with sulfur and suffocating to breathe. The sun is blotted out by clouds of darkness. Nothing is thriving, barely surviving. The walls are empty, my people are afflicted, severely injured and unable to crawl from under the debris. We must remain where we landed after impact, crippled and pinned where we are. If we ever get up, it will be of natural healing which demands time. If we ever get up, what mutilations will define us?

Good grief, grief is not good, I must grieve good. A few days after Josh died, I was taken to the emergency room. I didn’t die. The diagnosis was “Failure to Thrive”, I was dehydrated and my body was shutting down from lack of sleep, food and fluids and excessive stress. I welcomed the discomfort and confusion I was feeling, though it was not comfortable it felt like I could be dying and I didn’t mind that. Fear of my death is nothing to me anymore, that innate fear vanished the second my son died. The fabric of my fear is weaved by the inconceivable dread of being separated by death from my children. I have donned a heavy cloak cut and mended from the fabric of my darkest fear, only it is far worse than I could have conceptualized. My death would separate me from my children who are here and the death of my Josh has separated me from him. I am looking square into the eyes of a monster. My brokenness has not been the death of me, and I need my children who are here and one breath keeps leading to the next. I must grieve good.

While I lie in pain and paralysis in the ruins of my war zone I am prisoner to only myself. There is no one who can help me, no one to know the severity of my condition, except for me. I have no control over what has happened and no scope of its long term effects. I know that I will heal and I know that I must tend my wounds with care and patience for when the scar tissue begins to form it’s layers poison cannot be trapped within. When the war dust settles and the shards of me begin to connect once again, they must form to function.

I am Mother. I must again build impossible things without the proper resources, without the knowledge and resources to do so. I must dream up a land and work to the grind in unrelenting conditions for the sake of my people. And it must work, and my foundation must remain solid and though there will always be maintenance issues, there must be harmony. It was founded upon love, it must rise again upon love. It’s name is Her. She will be a beautiful sight but with whispers of secrets lying in the overgrowth that something terrible once happened here. You will feel my spirit and wonder over the peace found there.

To my children both dead and alive, you are my nucleus. I will love you all the days of my life here and then I will love you beyond that. Death can only cause physical separation but death has no power over love. I promise that I will be whole again, it will take time, it will take work but I will not fail you and I will not give up. While I don’t know Her, (the person I become as I heal) I know she loves you more than she could have before. It has always been about love, but I could have never know what love really was until now. We must grieve good even though grief is not good.