Staring into a puddle.

I have fourteen blog post drafts.  That means I’ve started typing words….many words fourteen different times and didn’t finish.  Tonight I’m sitting here wondering why, but also not even knowing if I’ll post this one.  It’s become a strange journal.  A not so public documentary of my feelings and thoughts.  I feel like the closer we get to 11 days from now,  there is a tidal wave of unknown emotions just waiting to burst through.  I’m not sure what is harder….the feelings I feel, or not knowing what’s coming.  It’s a cycle of emotions that always brings me back to feeling guilty because my tidal wave is small compared to some of my dear friends…..so I end up not finishing the writing I started…..because it doesn’t feel right to share the depth of my sadness.  My depth is like a mud puddle when others are staring into a canyon. And I imagine it feels bottomless.

And I moved.  I moved away.  I moved 2500 miles away exactly 3 months to the day after the “slide” in Oso.  Those I was most worried about leaving told me emphatically to go….it’s what life was about….go.  And we did go.  I know we made the right choice, but it doesn’t feel like that when it’s late at night, or first thing in the morning.  It doesn’t feel like that when I wake up in the middle of the night.  Once again though, I have a mud puddle.  A divot in the road.  Where do I fit?  Do I fit anywhere?  Does it really even matter, because me fitting or not fitting affects nothing.  What I know is that it hurts not to be there, but me being there wouldn’t take away an ounce of the hellish bottomless canyon of unknown that people I love are facing.

Also, it wasn’t a damn slide.  The whole side of the mountain came away.  It didn’t slide.  Slides don’t do what happened.  I don’t really know what it should be called, but slide sounds too nice.

I knew it would be hard approaching the day. I didn’t know that the day it became March, I would slip into this weird place.  Not even on February 28th did I know that the very next day it would feel like this. I just know that one day I woke up and it was March, and it felt like a gut punch.  Not a swift striking blow….but more of a slow aching shove to the gut that hasn’t stopped and it keeps hurting more and different.  Every day feels a little bit different.

I’ll just say what today feels like, because I can’t really remember how I felt yesterday.  Today I keep wondering what I was doing on March 11th, 2014.  I wonder what I was worried about.  I wonder who I was with.  I even wondered what I ate.  I wondered all of this, and then I wondered what my friends who lost their family 11 days later were doing on this day a year ago.  Who they were with.  And then I wonder about those who died that day and what they were doing.  Did God whisper to them that they’d be with Him soon.  I always wonder if He’ll do that to me.

I remember how it felt the moment I heard.  I remember what it felt like that whole first night, week and months.  I remember so much about small details…the look on people’s faces, the sounds of the constant helicopters, the big white semi trailers crowding the streets. Muddy boots. Faces that couldn’t smile. Everything is like a slow motion film when I look back.  But right now I want to know about the before.  I want to know what it looked like in the Oso fire department on March 11th, 2014.  I want to know if those volunteer guys and gals had just returned from a call or if they were all home, because it was a slow day in Oso.  I want to know what Pastor Gary was doing.  If he was spending the whole day at his little country chapel.  Before he knew that the President of the United States would be sitting in his chairs. I want to know what my friends teenage son was doing.  He was probably in one of his classes at the high school.  Not old enough to vote, but 11 days later he was out in the mud searching for friends and he was no longer a kid.

I want to know if I felt grateful.  If I felt hopeful.  If I felt appreciative of small moments in a simple day.  Before I knew that I would soon question everything I knew about what it means to really live.

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About dancingintheminefields

I am a wife to my best friend, and a mother of 4 wonderful, beautiful, indvidually amazing, kids. I am a child of my two lovely parents, a sibling to a brother and 2 sisters, and a friend to many whom I love dearly. I live my life grateful for a grace-filled God.
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3 Responses to Staring into a puddle.

  1. Tim Ward says:

    Your writings touch me deeply. I am one of the 9 that lived, after riding through this event. I am still sharing a lot of the questions, but also many more ponder in my darkest times. I am now a widower, but also a grateful father of two wonderful daughters, and two grand children. I pray to my Bride daily, she gives me strength, and compassion for those that lost even more than we did.
    Like you, I seem to stare a lot now. Not really knowing what to do, or why to do it. Life seems so shallow now.
    But I promise you this, you will be in my thoughts often, so hopefully you can smile about that Ole Southern Baptist Praying for you daily. Keep your Blog growing. It is touching a lot of us down here in the Mud, along the North Fork of the Stillaguamish.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. tinalearay says:

    I have these thoughts as well. God bless you and your heart. Your beautiful words are healing. ❤️
    ~ Tina Ray

    Like

  3. Deborah Durnell says:

    Thankyou for your pure honest and heartfelt words. I am also one of the nine survivers. Your words have slot of meaning to me!

    Like

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