To die and part is a less evil; but to part and live, there, there is the torment.
~George Lansdowne

A friend posted this quote in a private journal a few days ago and it’s been swirling in and out of my consciousness ever since. I hear it like a record running in my head while I wash dishes, bathe babies, attend get-togethers. It plays on while I run errands and go to church.

“…but to part and live…”

It even made its way into my dreams last night, after I fell asleep on the couch listening alternately to the playlist on Angie’s blog and my own playlist I call “needing God.” Asleep, still clutching this picture in my hand.

How I wish there was an “off” switch for emotions. I’ve tried to create my own–stuffing it all down, back, out of sight–but the end result isn’t pretty. Lashing out at those I love, the ones still here, we who are supposed to be holding tight to each other in the face of complete and utter rejection from one who said he loved us most, serves no purpose. Screaming through tears, words that don’t even sound like me, stabbing at a bleeding wound. Pointless.

Today I’ve realized there isn’t any toggle switch. It’s either all on or all off. To turn it off means a cold, stony heart that misses not only the pain, but the joy as well. Surface happiness might last for a while as the heart tries to cope and pretend things are normal, just hoping to function.

But wounds take time to heal. A lifetime built in security doesn’t just crumble without leaving it’s mark. Simply because she’s married, has a family, has had an existence apart from her childhood home for five years doesn’t mean a daughter has to convince herself she doesn’t have a right to the depth of pain she knows is abiding in her heart.

…there, there is the torment…”

So I face the pain. The rejection. The despair. Knowing my Lord understands and has experienced far greater… from me. Believing that, though feeling again means experiencing what this pain is to me, individually, as a daughter who was very, very close to her daddy, and though the wound to myself and my family might look mortal to my eyes, my Lord will bring joy to equal this at some point down the road.

And yet, for now, feeling hurts.

Lord, bring comfort.

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