Tomorrow

I've known it was coming for weeks. It's been right on my heels, trying to sneak up on me without warning, but I've felt it. It has come every year for the last five years, and it will come this year, too.

Tomorrow.

It's still beyond my comprehension that Carla is no longer in "this world" with me; that I can't call her to share some silly joke or ask her for advice when I'm struggling with a problem. My mind can't fully take it in that her spirit has moved on--my sister and best friend. It's so unfair--and the pain in my heart is still so - well, painful.

I wonder if it will always be like this--coloring my world a gloomy grey when it should be filled with the vibrant blue of the California sky and the vivid oranges, yellows, and reds of the new fall season (yes, even in San Diego, you can see these colors . . . if you look hard enough).

Tomorrow.

I want to wish away this dreaded anniversary; ignore it, and pretend it's just an ordinary day like any other. But tomorrow will surely come, and I will surely wake up with the familiar ache in my chest. And I'll go through my "Carla box" of memories, and I'll cry--again. I'll mentally list all the joyous events she's missed, like James' and Sabrina's wedding, and the events that are still to come, like Anna's upcoming wedding, and one day Scott's, Stacey's, and eventually, Kelby's. The many grandchildren that she so desperately wanted, but that she'll never know. (Thankfully, she did get to see Ashlyn and Ben.)

Tomorrow.

The recent passing of Patrick Swayze to the same, evil pancreatic cancer that took her life has made this year especially difficult. All the painful memories of her last months came flooding back when I heard the news of his death, and I found myself drawn to any media reports about his life, and I sat in solitude, unable to change the channel, tears pouring down my face unchecked.

But the tears are cleansing somehow. In some strange way, they create a momentum that carries me forward. She wouldn't want me to wallow in sadness. I know that. But, even after six years, the hole she left is still there, gaping and raw, and I'm still left with a heavy emptiness that weighs me down and tries to crush my spirit. And sometimes--all too often, really--it succeeds.

Oh, how I miss her!

This morning, as I ate breakfast, contemplating the coming day, God reminded me of a verse that I've often quoted to comfort others who are grieving or going through a difficult time: "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning."
Psalm 30:5

I'm praying that my joy will be renewed soon.

Maybe tomorrow.