Is it possible for time to crawl and fly simultaneously?  That's what the year between us and Amy has felt like.  Amy died one year ago today.  That is the very first time I've typed those words.  Many lovely messages have been sent to me (us) expressing sympathies, love and a comment on time.  Love you.  Thank you.

Some thoughts:  

Earlier this year I was involved with a Bible study of sorts with a small group of men committed to meeting weekly, guided by a curriculum that a dear friend composed.  One topic that was discussed was healing and, of course, a topic that strikes home and has been a consistent prayer of mine:  'This hurts.  Please heal us.' 

(I have to credit my friend, Dave S., with this excerpt)

"At the end of the Lord of the Rings, his adventures are finished, and the hero, Frodo, is almost done with the journey back home.  And things in that world have been set right, but one issue remains.

 ‘Are you in pain, Frodo?’ said Gandalf quietly as he rode by Frodo’s side.

‘Well, yes I am,’ said Frodo. ‘It is my shoulder. The wound aches, and the memory of darkness is heavy on me. It was a year ago today.’

‘Alas! There are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured,’ said Gandalf.

‘I fear it may be so with mine,’ said Frodo. ‘There is no real going back.

Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not

be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden.

Where shall I find rest?’

Gandalf did not answer.”

Sadly, we all have wounds like that. A fundamental pain. A profound brokenness. Wounds that are too deep for complete healing in this world.  The bottom of them beyond the reach of even the most skilled and compassionate pastors and therapists and loved ones.  There is some wisdom in acknowledging and understanding that. Some wisdom in taking that type of help as far as it can take you, but understanding that it will leave off at some point.  Letting it go there.  Accepting that some imperfection, pain and loss will always remain."

 Always remain.  

But lately something that has come to heart and mind is that as much as the pain and wounds and scars remain, those things aren't too far removed from such wonderful things.  I recall years ago when my son, Ty, was pushed off a trampoline by his older brother (because, of course).  His arm broke and it was a hard afternoon setting it right in the hospital.  The story we recall is the pain and the broken arm but just SECONDS before was this long stretch of joy and FUN for him.  I think of when I had to get seven stiches on my elbow that is left evident by an ugly scar.  But that scar was born out of a joyful moment as I picked up my little (at the time) cousin, Chelsey, I started to run with her, tripped on some uneven concrete and her whole weight went down on my elbow.  I touch that elbow and remember the moment it hurt.  But Chelsey and I were laughing pretty hard before that.

Also remaining is the love we have for Amy and the memories stored in our mind.    

Before Amy died, I recalled a song by Andrew Peterson that has been an odd ringing in my soul ever since I heard it decades ago.  A lyric is sung ‘Till there’s no more faith and no more hope.’  Again, what an odd thing to hear.  It’s haunting…but true.  Today, Amy is not with us.  She no longer needs faith...or hope.

The chorus ends with 'Only love, only love remains, only your love remains.'  Thank God for that.  

I have a lot more to say on love...  

More to come.