I lay in the bed I used to share with my husband, the toddler’s tiny form tucked in beside me, listening as her breathing settles into sleep. My eyes are open, but I cannot see, save for the sliver of light coming from the hall. The darkness feels like a metaphor.

Marrett’s death is exactly like all the light has suddenly gone out of my life. I cannot see where I’m going now, or how I can possibly get wherever I’m supposed to go next. I’m a pastor, but Marrett feels so completely gone that I’m not sure I believe in heaven anymore. Someday soon I will have lots of words for God, and angry ones, but today I have none.

Yet even in this darkness, there’s a sliver. It’s light, yes, but painful. Slivers only find their way in when you are rubbed over something splintered and broken. The sliver is you, dear ones, sharing my pain and offering your prayers in place of mine. The light is getting in to this great darkness through your hugs and your meals and your fixing the things that can actually be fixed.

I’ve long told the people I pastor that the community of faith is there to rise up around you in your weakness, their faith standing in for yours when you are afraid, their love a mirror of the Love that is above all. Either you listened to me well, or you’ve figured this out for yourselves, because you are doing exactly that. I’m having trouble trusting God, but I trust you to hold me and my children until we can find our way again.

My hope is a tiny sliver, enlivened by your kindness. Thank you for entering the tomb with me, and inviting me by your lived faith to believe in what I cannot see.

7 responses to “Sliver”

  1. Oh Collette darling, we love you so very much, and yours and Marrett’s children. This is beautifully and painfully written; yet it speaks deeply from the great reservoir of yours and Marrett’s abiding love for one another. The pain of that loss reflects the goodness and abundance of your marriage. May God grant you grace and peace, second by second, minute by minute, in fullness and healing, as you swim up towards greater light.

    • ❤💗💖no words to offer my friend. Holding you and your family in prayer every time I think of you. Which right now is often.

  2. My heart and soul are so sad for you! It is our time to be strong for you and your kiddos as you have been time and time again for your church family and so many in our community!
    Take care , I and many others will be here for you! Prayers and strength to you!🙏❤️

  3. My heart aches for you I sure you are surrounded by close friends who have big shoulders. I will come by after all the hoopla is over and bring a dish to pass and weed your garden because I don’t know what to say To ease your burden. I can’t dive you or your kids anywhere . … but I can weed your garden !!!!!!!!

  4. So powerfully expresses…the void…what makes it possible to put the next door down. Remembering… Remembering you.

  5. Dear Collette, Three years ago we lost our grandson, Jack, 17 years old folling heart surgery, We did not feel we would survive, breath, and continued to live. They”silver” is still partially here, but we can breath and move on.
    Fortunately both continuing to work and serve others helps keep Jack and wonderful Memories with our daily life. We eel blessed that
    God gave us 17 years with him and we pray for the day we are united with him. We wi lol continues tto o pray for you and your family.

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