Letting go . . .

The letting go for me, the I-want-I-need-to-control-every-detail-me, is hard. So very hard.

I have never been good at dealing with the aftermath of unfulfilled plans. I don't know how to deal with dreams left floating for the two lives lost.

The letting go . . .

It is so hard.

The unclenching of fist always is.

I have held tight to all the good in life, never wanting to let any of it go. Holding so tight, I became unconsciously afraid to share the good. Because if I shared, would there be less for me? Would there be less for me when it all ended? When it was all over?

Finger by white knuckled finger, I let go while the heart was screaming in protest.

I let go. It was against my nature. My desire. My dreams.

You would think it would be easy for me to continue to let go now. You would think, but you would be wrong. I want to hold tighter. I want to grab tight and pull in close.

I cannot do that and trust in the same moment. I cannot have white knuckles and trust in the same beat of the heart.

To hold tight, is the false sense of control. To hold tight is the opposite of trust.

The letting go, the releasing, that is the trusting.

I want to trust. I want to believe. I want to have faith that there is more. I want to have faith, to trust, that there is hope.

I can't clinch the fist tight and whisper hope together. Trust me, I have tried. In vain, I have tried. It doesn't work. It is not natural.

It hurts more.

So everyday, I unclinch the fist in an act of trust in order to trust.

I let go. I let go and it hurts.

I want what I have to always be mine. I want what remains to never be lost. I want a promise to fall down from the heavens and rest softly in my heart. I want the promise to whisper that no more will be lost.

It doesn't come.

While still praying for a miracle to enter that dark room, the only Promise that really matters came and pried every finger away from what the heart held dear. Held sacred.

You would think that I would have left the hand open. Left it open in the hopes that something good would fall into it.

I didn't. I closed that fist right back up tight.

I held the one I chose close. Closer than ever before. I feared my first blessing of Motherhood would be lost as well. In the wake of loss, in the wake of death, the soul became hyper-aware of what stood to be lost.

I couldn't bear another heart break.

I couldn't bear it so if I just grab, pull, and hold close, I can control the breath, the squeeze of the heart. They won't leave. I won't lose.

But what a sweet lie that is.

If I close a fist around what I already have, if I just hold on to what I know, how will I ever receive more? How can more be had?

The day before the funeral, our minister, the one performing the ceremony, came over to talk with my husband and I. I spoke to him of long ago dreams. I spoke them to him because I was no longer afraid. I told him the fear was gone. How can I fear death when I have already stared it in the face? Walked day in and day out with it?

He held out his arm and at the end was a clinched fist. As he slowly opened the fist till the palm was flat, facing toward the heavens, he said, ". . . when the fear is gone, you start living with open hands".

I thought I understood what he was saying then, but I didn't.

I do now.

I am scared to lose again but I am not going to let that fear keep the hands closed, unable to catch the blessings that rain down.

I am designed to receive it all.

It can only be received when the hand is open, palms faced to the heavens.

The letting go . . .

It is so painful, yet so beautiful.

Stephanie