I’ve been struggling a little with re-entry. The rhythm of the road is different than that at home and I always have a bit of a hard time adjusting. It’s a little like the let down after the holidays…you know, when you have to get back to reality. Not that it’s a bad thing. It’s just always a little sad when the party is over. 

Yesterday morning I woke up at what seemed like a reasonable time with the time change. As I stretched and thanked God for letting me open my eyes to face another day, I went through my morning inventory. I noticed I felt a little down so I searched around in my mind as to what might be going on beyond the normal re-entry slump.

Then it came back to me. I was having a dream when I awoke. In my dream, I was sitting at a desk, going through my calendar, and realized it had been over six-and-a-half years since I had spoken with Mr. Virgo. In the dream, he hadn’t died…I had just seemed to have lost contact with him. I was really confused, like…did I go someplace and forget him? Did I tell him I’d call him when I got there and then just…didn’t? If that was the case, then why hadn’t he tried to contact me? What on earth was keeping him so tied up that he couldn’t find the time to text or call me? Then, of course, I woke up. And reality is reality. He is gone. I am here and happily married to Mr. FixIt. So, why did I have such a dream?

There aren’t answers to that, really. I believe it was Freud who said, “a cigar is sometimes just a cigar”. There’s no reason to psychoanalyze every little thing. We have dreams. Things happen. Life moves with its own rhythm. Still, dreams like that can stir something deeper and create a ripple in the force.

The day went on and was lovely. Church, breakfast, errands, a nice Sunday afternoon snooze. Then, I went into the bedroom for something and had that old familiar urge to call my mom. I always called her on Sunday evenings. I miss those calls and it made my heart ache a little. Then I thought of my kids and how busy they are and they don’t call me on Sunday evenings and…

That particular snowball had to stop right there. It doesn’t do any good to go down that road and make myself miserable over things I have no control over. There are wounds that heal with time. They become so small they don’t even leave a scar. There are wounds that heal and leave visible scars. Then there are those that not only have the scars, but also have varying degrees of pain. Like the phantom pain of a leg long gone or a throbbing knee when it rains.

Grief and time. I see them like those models of DNA. A twisted ladder, connected and spiraling. Never really finished. Never quite tangible. Always affected by our emotional temperature. No…time doesn’t heal all wounds. But, God does. When I remember to stop trying to handle hot coals with my bare hands and give them to my Father to carry, my wounds are bound up. It’s just the remembering to turn them over that trips me up every time.

❤️

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

Psalms 147:3 NIV