When someone you love is gone, either because of the loss of relationship, distance or death, all of what was between you and that person (or other being, like a pet) has no place to go–the affection, for example, or the confidences, the shared insight, the humor, the connection, the appreciation, the tenderness, the infinite small ways your "we-ness" found expression. You are left with it all. It's all just yours, alone. You spin, within that small space that once belonged to you both, looking for some place to channel it, but there's no place for it. What do you do with it?

Denying that all these things exist doesn't help. Acknowledging and embracing them does. But how does that happen? I mean, practically speaking–how does that happen? Can you allow yourself to feel what is simultaneously both loss and overload, without being afraid of it? It's awful, but it won't destroy you; you won't cease to exist. Can you express it–talk it, write it, blog it? Can you sit down with someone who respects the process and isn't afraid of the strength of what you may be feeling or the sheer volume of all you carry without a place to park it? Can you allow yourself to rant? Can you trust God enough to know that God (and your relationship with God) will not, for one second, be lessened by your anger, hurt and frustration, even when aimed squarely at the heart of God?

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.