Advent: The season of my grief

I wrote in September, anticipating difficult days ahead of me. 

I sensed the inevitable march of time, as trees progressed in their colors in the predictable way. There were warm days when the yellow maples shone bright against a robin egg dome.  I would pause, and whisper my son's name.  I had compulsively planted salvia among my golden daylilies and yellow mums between my blue hydrangea bushes.  I would see Brent's colors everywhere, whether by chance or by design.

There were wonderful opportunities throughout the fall, to be sure: Galas raising money for cancer research, and speaking opportunities for Lauren.  Liv had soccer games; Lauren, cross country meets.  There were birthdays for Lauren and Alex, who are here.  

And for Brent, who is not.

I sat for an hour in my living room one Sunday, watching the wind carry leaves that were still falling as they mixed with snow. I was filled with a feeling of helplessness and dread, incapable of stopping the days to come. That afternoon, I felt incredibly small and insignificant--recognizing that I was unable to control the wind, powerless to corral the many leaves, or stop the snowflakes as they blustered about. Gazing out the window as my cup of coffee went cold, I couldn't even define the season.

I went alone to West Virginia, to spend two days at my friend's cabin.  I tromped in the woods, recognizing that God resides in this natural cathedral.  The towering trees drew my eyes to the gunmetal heavens beyond.  Bronzed oak leaves still clung to branches high above.  I whispered a prayer for my son in this holy place.

The snow began to fall as the darkness came, and Frost's poem began to fill my mind, carrying with it the memory of teaching it to my boys when they were young:  

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer 

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep, 

And miles to go before I sleep.

I attended a more traditional church last night, the one where we had Brent's services. The music was beautiful, but unfamiliar.  The voices combined like silver waterdrops, which soothed the ragged parts of me.  

Father Walt spoke about Advent season being a time of waiting and promise.  I remembered that last year at this time, I was filled with anxious waiting.  Waiting, but still hopeful.  I wanted to hurry the days along so that Brent could get to his trial. There were so many difficult days last December, opening the tiny door, but not finding the chocolate. Our hope was found in those cells, ones that Brent would never receive. My profound disappointment lead to profound doubt.  

This year, Advent is rather the reverse.  The days are relentless in their advance.  They arrive without me wanting them to, without me being quite ready for them.  Like the leaves and snowflakes swirling, they are blind to my outstretched arms and deaf to my pleas for a pause.

Father Walt also talked about doubt last night. Rather than being a spiritual weakness, he considers doubt to be evidence of faith.  I would agree, and describe them as different sides of the same blade; you cannot experience one without the other. My friend's daughter would have been 21 yesterday, had she lived.  Grief, we have decided, is evidence of love.  It comes in equal measure. There is balance in the universe, the yin and the yang.  

This morning, the leaves are not gone, but buried under a thin layer of snow.  More is steadily falling. The advent season is here. 

But I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep.