Unfilled Gap

Today I came across a quote by Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

There is nothing that can replace the absence of someone dear to us, and one should not even attempt to do so. One must simply hold out and endure it. At first that sounds very hard, but at the same time it is also a great comfort. For to the extent the emptiness truly remains unfilled one remains connected to the other person through it. It is wrong to say that God fills the emptiness. God in no way fills it but much more leaves it precisely unfilled and thus helps us preserve -- even in pain -- the authentic relationship. Further more, the more beautiful and full the remembrances, the more difficult the separation. But gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. One bears what was lovely in the past not as a thorn but as a precious gift deep within, a hidden treasure of which one can always be certain.

Of course, I am sure I have read this before. I am sure I reflected on it seriously and studiously. Now I read it and the tears flow, more flood-like than ever before. Eight months and two weeks... but who is counting! I knew I would grieve, but perhaps I never knew what this flavour of grief would be. There have been other griefs, but whole chunks of my own soul departed those last breaths. As much as I hunt the cupboards, I cannot find those pieces of my soul... and the Makita drill... it has disappeared too, and there is no-one to ask where it is!

I reflected today on the emptiness and the pain of this ongoing, authentic relationship.Do I even hope for the silent joy? It is hard to imagine in the torment of memory. Yet I find myself constantly searching for memories to try to appreciate and give thanks for that life-giving moment to counter each little death. I look for the silent joy in the taste of juice or the wearing of a T-shirt. I seek a hint of what was lovely in a sip of coffee or a favoured song. I catch myself trying to appreciate what was once deemed beautiful in the echo of today.

Echoes are exactly that. The sound of the echo reminds how terribly far away the voice has gone. Presence cannot be captured in the bounce of reflected story. It is real and it is remote.

I know there is a hidden treasure. And when one finds a hidden treasure in a field you sell everything to buy the field. It is no surprise, therefore, that I would continue to search the stories to husband my treasures.