Illusion of Control

I miss you so much today, Baby. The hurt runs so deep. I saw the hawk flying twice, circling, reminding me that God has me and you’re close. But here’s the rub. It’s pretty obvious. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure this one out.

I can’t see you. Or touch you. Or hold you.

This has been the problem with knowing God all my life. And now it’s the problem with you as well.

They tell me life is messy and we don’t have control over anything. Some call it “the illusion of control.” How do I stop being controlled by an illusion? That’s where the cute phrases come in. “Let go and let God.” And tons of scripture that make it sound easy to stop asking for a clear-cut path or searching for answers to the impossible ‘why’s’. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not unto your own understanding.” “We walk by faith, not by sight.” “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.”

But when your soul has been damaged by people who were supposed to love you unconditionally and protect you, and didn’t, trust becomes a foreign language all its own. You were spared that kind of wound. Trust was second nature to you. Your favorite hymn was my worst nightmare. “All to Jesus I surrender, All to Him I freely give . . . I surrender all, all to Jesus I surrender, I surrender all.” I wrote my own lyrics to that one, which shocked a few people but, as always, my words were honest. “I surrender some, I let go a bit, I can’t see You, I can’t feel You, Take what you can get.” See what I mean?

I don’t want to let you go. How crazy does that sound when it’s already been eighteen months since you asked us to? Eighteen months since you died, and it still feels like yesterday. I don’t know what’s normal in grief. I’ve never been here before. I hardly know anyone who has been here before. Losing your husband, your best friend in the world, half your literal heart, is a lot different than other losses. That’s what’s so hard to explain to people who think I should be able to blow you a kiss, wish you well, and move on.

You were my everything. “That’s what you get when you love someone too much,” somebody told me days after you died. That one went deep. And yet it’s true. You grieve much when you love much. It’s the price of loving full on, no holds, all in. Eighteen months. You’d think by now I’d be used to living in silence here. I’m not. Even counselors get it wrong sometimes. “This is an opportunity,” I was told once. I disagreed and she thanked me for my honesty. This is pain, she also taught me to say when I couldn’t breathe. I thanked her for her validation.

So, you died. Or rather, your body did. Still, I lost everything, especially you. I’m here trying to pick up the pieces, finding my way in the dark with our family, facing every day without you, not knowing who I am anymore. I was half of Us. I identified with Us. We talked about everything. We made every decision together. We carried each other through other heartbreaks and losses. Not anymore. And now I don’t know how to live this life I’m being forced to live.

A life I have no control over. So, I googled “the illusion of control.” Turns out, that phrase isn’t just a clever wordplay. It’s a psychological abnormality. Great. Guess I won’t use that one anymore. I changed things up, simply searching for some stranger’s outstanding advice on how to let go of what you never had control over anyway. That was also a bust. “While we can’t control the events in our lives," the copycats parroted, "we can control our response to them.” Good luck with that. I suppose that’s true when the grocery store runs out of your favorite potato chips. It’s a lie and more condemnation dumped on a shattered heart, though, when your personal world implodes. You can’t control the triggers waiting to remind you that your husband isn’t here to drink coffee anymore, and in America, where coffee is more important than Mom’s apple pie, that means I’m living in a mine field. When that long term memory gets tapped, so do the tears and heartache.

Who writes this stuff anyway?  

So, here’s my take on lack of control. Here’s what I am capable of doing when I hear myself say something you used to say, when I remember the way you looked at me, when I have to chart my own course on a road trip, when I celebrate our wedding anniversaries alone.

Keep. Breathing.

There it is. That’s what I can control. Maybe.

And one more thing. I may not know how to surrender (which I don’t think matters since it’s clear I don’t control anything anyway), but I am smart enough to know deep in my spirit that the One who has control also has me.

And that helps.

With thanks to JoLynne Martinez for permission to use the exquisite photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: The Magician [Square Crop] | Thanks to my Flickr friend Shir… | Flickr