Scars

I have several scars, from past injuries. There is the scar that is near my eyebrow from hitting my head on the metal frame of a bunk bed in the dark. There is a scar on my knee from the rocks on the playground at my elementary school. And the scar I am most proud of is the one that can be found where my abdomen meets my pelvis, from the three c-sections that represent the birth of each child. Then there are the emotional scars….

It was almost five years ago to the day that I sat in an LDS chapel in Provo, across from the temple, for the funeral of a friend of mine. I would have liked to call her a “dear” friend, but I had not known her long enough to fall into that category. She was my boss. She had only been my boss for six months. During that six months she was a friend, mentor, and role model for me. I soaked up every word, every piece of advice, every suggestion she offered. As a judge she had a mature sense of wisdom, with a sense of right and wrong and fairness. Little did I know in 10 months time I would be attempting to fill her enormous shoes, and relying on every bit of wisdom I had learned from her in our short time together.

She died unexpectedly, without warning. No illness, no accident, just a silent peaceful passing, a call to return home. She was young, 48, leaving a husband, and three children, all girls, 19, 15 and 10. Her death was a shock to all. I sat in the chapel or rather the overflow in the cultural hall, among my co-workers. As I sat I pondered the last time I sat in a chapel for a similar reason. It was the funeral for my mother 14 years earlier. She too was young, 46, I was 22, my brother was 15 my sisters were 10 and 7.

Her daughters filed into the chapel with their father, and other members of the family. As I looked at her daughters, whom I knew she cherished above all else, I ached for them. I had taken that walk 14 years earlier. I knew what they were feeling, but more importantly I knew what lay ahead for them in the days, weeks, months and years to come, and they adjusted life without their mother, whom I knew had been a larger than life figure in their life just as my mother had been in mine.

I pondered the change in my life during the last 14 years, and as much as I ached for them I knew time would be the best healing medicine I could prescribe for them. Time having helped me make it through the roughest part of the grieving, with now only occasional moments of sadness to remind me of my humanity. I knew they would grow, I knew they would change, I knew they would become stronger women and most importantly I knew their mother would be closer than they thought, even though many days she would feel very far away.

Several days after the funeral I had the unenviable task of taking the items from her desk at work to her house. I was greeted at the door by her husband and I expressed my sadness and sympathy at her passing. We chatted for a few minutes and I shared with him the death of my mother at a young age too. He asked me “Does this get better?” I recall my answer “Time, time is the only thing that will make things seem better.” I recall the disappointed look in his eyes.

Oddly enough I now find myself having to swallow the bitter pill of my own advice. Time, it’s a four letter word, and in my book right now not a good one. I know in time the strong emotions I am feeling now will be tempered by newly found wisdom, and growth. I know time will heal the wound that seems so open and raw right now. And in time even though the wound will be healed, the scar will remain as a reminder of injury and the miracle of time.