Do You Not Know

He stood still, just like the young woman beside him. The animal’s eyes were covered by what looked like a blindfold while the two of them paused on a dirt path near a busy intersection. The horse never pulled against the reins the woman held loosely. Never tried to bolt. Never reacted to the noise of the congested road. He just stood there. Beside her. Letting her be his vision for whatever reason known only to the two of them.

It looked cruel. And out of place. The incongruity of it held my attention where I sat watching, idling at the red light, captivated.

For several minutes they were motionless, not trying to go anywhere, not exactly waiting—the woman holding the bridle, the horse immobile. All while cars rushed past, revving and braking with all the noises you only notice if you’re standing still. Out in the open with nowhere safe to hide. I imagined how his instincts must have been screaming to run away. Shake off the blinders and take over. It’s dangerous standing at a corner like that. Didn’t the girl realize how frightened he must feel?

Maybe she was training him to ignore the sounds. To trust only her despite the noise all around them. In this encroached portion of what was once secluded horse property, lots of riders exercise their animals near busy roads. The last thing anyone needs is for a thirteen-hundred-pound quarter horse to panic and bolt into traffic.

The light changed for me, but I watched them in my mirror as I drove away. I saw the young woman lead the masked horse away from the intersection, walking slowly while they followed the trail. They never attempted to cross the street—just remained off to the side on that dirt path. The confident girl leading a blind horse.

Probably at this point, you may notice what a city girl I am. That I didn't realize the horse's eyes were covered by a mesh fly mask to protect him from annoying insects. Maybe that's what he was wearing--a stylish mask, both comfortable and transparent, available on Amazon at an affordable price. But even if it was, what were they doing just standing at the noisy corner with no intention of crossing the street?

It was right after another memory of my husband brought me to tears that I first noticed them there. Right after I prayed the only prayer I’ve been able to offer for months.

“God help.”

I zeroed in on the eyewear because I feel blinded right now. By my loss. By the agony in my gut when I remember again the man I’ve loved and held for nearly forty-seven years. I face an uncertain future, a life I’m going to have to rebuild from the ruins where I stand. While the last four and a half decades have been a joint effort between Rob and me, choosing and compromising together, now it’s all up to me. I have trusted friends and family I talk with, but the ultimate decisions are all mine.

I don’t know which way to look most of the time as the noise of options and fear and sorrow overwhelm whatever confidence and concentration I have left. If I look behind me, I crumble in the anguish of all that I’ve lost. If I look too far forward, I’m frozen by the unknown and the pain I foresee as I do this “slog through grief” in this year of horrible firsts. The first birthday without Rob. The first time our anniversary comes after his death. Christmas. Everything I have to try to celebrate or remember without him here.

Where is the safety at an intersection like that?

I’m surprised by the things that cause me pain, including the memory of Rob’s love for me. I’m still his wife, but he’s not here anymore to keep loving me. I miss his love desperately. I miss his advice and insights. His humor and even his annoying habits. All of it. I miss all of him. I miss what I no longer have. And in the void of his familiar presence, the noise of the unknown has rushed in, confusing me so much all I want to do sometimes is run away.

And I do. Sometimes. But running doesn’t teach me how to face this crushing loss. It’s a temporary distraction and it helps when I need a break, but I can’t keep running mindlessly. Forever. Sometimes the best thing to do is stand still. Let the grief wash over me. Surrender to it with all of its throbbing pain, listening to its cries and mine until it passes by and its safe for me to move again. Waiting for the One I begged to help me . . . to help me.

Maybe the woman was teaching her horse not only to ignore the disturbing racket of frantic road traffic but to tune in to the quiet sound of her voice. Today as I cried out to God, I accused Him of not answering me. Not listening. Not speaking. This faith walk through the dark is surprisingly silent on His end. He promises to never leave us, but where is the proof of His presence? I can’t feel Him. Or see Him. Or hear Him much of the time. Just give me something to hold on to, I tell Him.

Maybe this is uncomfortable to read. Some can’t relate to this. I’m being honest here. I’ve been told over and over again that I am not alone. The meaning is that God is here as well as the love of people who are thinking of me. But physically, in this room, I am alone. I can’t feel God’s presence the way I once felt Rob’s. The screaming silence that accompanies grief is as comforting as being flattened by a hurricane.

I sat on my bed this morning telling all of this to the Silent One and my eyes fell to words on a plaque I keep on my bookshelf. It’s Isaiah 40:28-31, a familiar passage about rising up on the wings of an eagle. The word “strength,” superimposed over the verses, is artistic but makes it hard to read all the words.

So, I looked them up. Something told me to.

Do you not know?

Have you not heard?

The Lord . . . will not grow tired, and His understanding no one can fathom.

He gives strength to the weary and

Increases the power of the weak.

Youths grow tired and young men stumble and fall.

But those who hope in the Lord

will renew their strength.

They will soar on wings like eagles.

They will run and not grow weary.

They will walk and not be faint.

Here and there, some of the words jumped off the page, making a lot of noise while they did it.

Know. Hear. Understand. Strength and power in weakness. Hope renews strength. Soar. Run. Walk.

But I want to see—not know. I want to touch—not listen. I want to feel strength and power without being weak. I don’t want to stand here with this blindfold on and trust in the quiet voice of Someone Else who can see what I can’t see. Someone Who soars above the chaos and catastrophe of my life.

How can I walk, let alone run, when I.Can’t.See?

How can I hope when my heart is breaking? How can I move when I don’t know where I’m going? Do I dare take one step when I can’t focus?

Only if I stop running.

And wait.

At the corner of Here and Now.

For His voice. The One Who will not grow tired or weary. The One Who understands better than anyone I’ve ever known just how terrifying this feels. The One with holes in his hands who has been in my shoes and knows the way to safety.

The One Who holds on to me. Whispering words no one else can hear. When I wait for His voice.

Even though I’m walking blindly, His understanding is beyond comprehension.

Stand still. And wait for Him to lead. He is with me whether I feel Him or not.

Do you not know?

With thanks to Andrea Vallejos for the beautiful photo of one of Wanda's horses. The original can be viewed by following this link: _RAC4990 | Bonnievale | andreavallejos | Flickr