Glimpses of Life (3): The Promise

Glimpses of Life (3): The Promise

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The Promise

I promised I wouldn’t kill myself.

I willed my feet to sprint until my lungs collapsed, and my heart stopped beating. But I stopped, exhausted.

“Help me, God.”

Help.

How do I do this? How do I go on when reminders of your fingerprint cause an ache so deep, it penetrates beyond the marrow, into my invisible soul?

I made a promise to you in the bathroom last night, “I’ll give you a year, Lord.”

The desire to die to be with Bill is so overwhelming, I don’t desire to fight it’s pull. But the words in his final letter cause me to stay the course, “I want you to be strong and live a beautiful, fulfilling life…”

I am giving you one year to rekindle the desire to live again.

Backstory of The Promise:

I turned on Fox News this morning, I guess missing the routine of you, even though my bend is toward the middle, and not necessarily the right.

I am scared.

I stood in the bathroom last night and felt closer to the edge of death than I ever thought possible. It was after I picked up your death certificates at the funeral home. They said you were there, but your box wasn’t in yet. I guess some misunderstanding in shipping or something. So I left you, and made my way to the bank.

I attempted to change the accounts with the simplicity you put on paper, but it was not that simple. They are requiring me to create a new account– for just me. You made special passwords, like when one carves initials into the bark of a tree, to show your undying love–you made intimate sayings I’d treasure each time I went online.

I had to change them.

Tears drained as I sat across from the manager in the fishbowl of an office. She tried to comfort me as best as she could.

Like I said, I was in the bathroom standing there, looking down at the cold tile. Feeling lost. I’m not sure who I was talking to, you or God, “I will give it one year.” I don’t want to kill myself, but I am not sure how to navigate in this sorrow.

Later, Kylie cries her way into my bed, and I comfort her.

Her pain was delayed compared to the others. I knew this would come and am comforted by the fact she has opened up.

In the middle of snot, she looks at me and asks me not to leave. She is worried I will kill myself. I don’t understand. “Why do you say that?”  She says she is not sure, like a sense, or feeling, or something.

“Oh.”

Okay, God. We have a year. Beginning today. I promise I will not take my own life.

I cling to this verse today–

Blessed are those who take refuge in him. Psalm 2:12

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