Blessed are they that mourn.
Our family has been grieving the loss of our mother, mother-in-law, sister, and grandmother. It has been two weeks now since my mom's death. There are good days and bad days. Days when I am so grateful for the good times, and so happy that Mom and Dad are together again. There are days when I miss my "little Mommie" and wish I could talk to her again.
Experiencing the grief and loss of my mom seems to me like tiptoeing past a room I used to go in, but cannot now bear to enter. I remind myself not to look too far into that empty room. I know I will get used to the silence. As I age, more and more familiar voices will be silenced. For us, and other families living with HD, that silence will come prematurely. There will be more empty rooms to avoid.
That empty room feeling reminds me of the words of Jesus: "....in My Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?" The rooms that become empty here in this life have their counterparts in God's house, and they are not empty there.
A few weeks ago, we heard a sermon at church that focused on this scripture. When a man and woman married in Jesus' time, the father would build a room onto his house for his son and daughter-in-law. The couple would move in there and live in a room built especially for them. In the father's house were many rooms. In our Father's house there are many rooms, too. One is being prepared for Kenny, Lacy, and me. "And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again to take you to Myself so that where I am, you may be also." What a great promise and what a comfort.
That scripture from John I referenced earlier begins with these words: "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid...." My prayer for all of us living with HD, and experiencing losses every day is that we experience the comfort that God gives. Our circumstances may not change, but we can know we are not alone. "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." Not might, but shall. A promise and a reality.
Experiencing the grief and loss of my mom seems to me like tiptoeing past a room I used to go in, but cannot now bear to enter. I remind myself not to look too far into that empty room. I know I will get used to the silence. As I age, more and more familiar voices will be silenced. For us, and other families living with HD, that silence will come prematurely. There will be more empty rooms to avoid.
That empty room feeling reminds me of the words of Jesus: "....in My Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?" The rooms that become empty here in this life have their counterparts in God's house, and they are not empty there.
A few weeks ago, we heard a sermon at church that focused on this scripture. When a man and woman married in Jesus' time, the father would build a room onto his house for his son and daughter-in-law. The couple would move in there and live in a room built especially for them. In the father's house were many rooms. In our Father's house there are many rooms, too. One is being prepared for Kenny, Lacy, and me. "And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again to take you to Myself so that where I am, you may be also." What a great promise and what a comfort.
That scripture from John I referenced earlier begins with these words: "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid...." My prayer for all of us living with HD, and experiencing losses every day is that we experience the comfort that God gives. Our circumstances may not change, but we can know we are not alone. "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." Not might, but shall. A promise and a reality.
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