Reality; served two ways.

The first day of the past 11 months has been hard for me. Every time the calendar flips its page, I remember (not like I could forget)  that things are different now. And it's not even the things that are different. I am different. We are different. Yes, some things are okay (different okay, but okay none the less) but some things will never be okay.

Yesterday I had just gotten out of the shower, I had the radio on in the background, and I was just thinking about things, and I had a terrible shock of reality. See, each first, for the last 11 months, I have almost counted down to the year mark, like it was some magical number. Somehow, subconsciously, I put a year being the moment that everything would be alright. Like after a year, everything would be okay again, back to normal, the way it used to be. After a year, it won't hurt so bad. After a year it won't be such a big thing. But yesterday, I realized that there was nothing special about that year mark. All it's going to be is the start of a new counting system. First it was hours, then days, followed by weeks, then months, and soon, all too soon, the count will be in how many years since James was here with us. And I hate that. I hate that it feels like he is so far away.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said that that which we persist in doing becomes easier, not that that task itself has changed, but that our ability to do it has increased. I think grief is like that. The pain doesn't stab any more, just aches. In the days just after James' death, I remember running away to the apartment and Dad coming over and sitting on the futon and just crying because the hole that was so real and so present inside of me was too big, and too dark and the edges were too jagged for me to ever survive it. But somehow, over time, that hole hasn't shrunk, but the edges have become smoother. The darkness not as all encompassing. I've become better equipped to deal with it. The hole isn't what I see all the time any more. But it's still there.

Last month, one of the Seventy gave a beautiful talk in General Conference about the loss of his son. He said:

Tyson has remained a very integral part of our family. Through the years it has been wonderful to see the mercy and kindness of a loving Father in Heaven, who has allowed our family to feel in very tangible ways the influence of Tyson. I testify that the veil is thin. The same feelings of loyalty, love, and family unity don’t end as our loved ones pass to the other side; instead, those feelings are intensified.
Sometimes people will ask, “How long did it take you to get over it?” The truth is, you will never completely get over it until you are together once again with your departed loved ones. I will never have a fullness of joy until we are reunited in the morning of the First Resurrection.

He concludes with my favorite quote from Preach My Gospel (the missionary guide) The last sentence of which currently resides on my wall. 

 “as we rely on the Atonement of Jesus Christ, He can help us endure our trials, sicknesses, and pain. We can be filled with joy, peace, and consolation. All that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”

I know that this is reality. God keeps his promises, and we are promised a fullness of joy. If not here, then after, when we are reunited, when our tears are wiped away, when all is made right.