In yesterday’s post, I explained how my family recently and tragically lost one of our dogs. Remi was an Australian Cattle Dog and was only four years old before her life was cut short, and her passing has taken a toll on our family, understandably.
When it initially happened, I’m pretty sure I was in shock. I saw and held her body, and while I knew in that moment that she was gone, the grief hadn’t really hit me yet. I knew it would come back and likely hit me harder than a Mack truck, and, sure enough, it did; however, it wasn’t until the following evening.
I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, when out of nowhere, the image of Remi when we found her came crashing into view. I cried harder than I have in a long while, and I was genuinely worried I was going to wake up Blaine with my sobbing. Thankfully, I didn’t, but I did have to leave our bedroom because the pain wasn’t letting up in that moment, and it took a solid 30 minutes or so of absolute hysterics before I was able to bring myself back down again.
In the few hours that passed after Remi died, I kept waiting for the grief to hit me, and I was a little confused as to why it wasn’t. I’m not sure why it presented itself so powerfully the following evening, but perhaps it was a matter of allowing myself to fully acknowledge what had happened.
Try as we might, grief is not something so easily navigated. It comes in waves, sometimes prompted and sometimes not, and while we might try to comprehend why it hits the way it does, I think only God can answer that question. Grief is not linear, nor is it straightforward, and sometimes, we simply must permit it to work its course.
Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash
ontheedgeofeverything 