Sunlight streams through the large windows of a meticulously clean, modern home. The sun’s rays illuminate the room, revealing a large open space that is both cozy and stylish. It is evident that Amy takes great pride in keeping her home spotless, as every surface gleams with cleanliness. The furniture is arranged in a way that maximizes the natural light, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. As she hums softly to herself, it is clear that Amy is content and at ease in her surroundings. In the corner of the living room, a small table holds a framed wedding photograph.
The photo captures a moment of pure joy and love between Amy and Jason.
Amy’s eyes linger on the photo, a small smile playing on her lips as she remembers the day it was taken. Jason stands tall and proud in his Marine uniform, a symbol of his bravery and dedication to his country. Amy’s hand lingers on Jason’s face in the photo, a silent gesture of love and longing. Despite the distance and time that separates them, the love between Amy and Jason remains strong.
As Amy continues to dust the coffee table, her mind drifts back to the day when she and Jason said their vows. It was a beautiful ceremony, filled with family and friends who love and support the couple. Amy’s heart swells with gratitude as she remembers the love and happiness that filled her on that day. She knows that no matter what challenges may come their way, she and Jason will always have each other and their unbreakable bond.
She reminisces about their first encounter, a serendipitous meeting at a local café. Jason, tall and dashing in his casual garb, had approached her with a bashful grin. They had conversed for hours, instantly bonding over mutual interests and values. It was almost as if they were soulmates, and Amy had felt an immediate sense of comfort and familiarity with him.
As she buffs a vase, her thoughts transport her to their inaugural date, a charming picnic in the park. She had packed their favorite sandwiches and they had laughed and chatted beneath the shade of a majestic oak tree. The sun had beamed radiantly that day, foreshadowing the warmth and joy that would permeate their lives together. Amy’s heart flutters as she recollects the moment Jason first uttered the words, “I love you.” It was whispered softly, beneath the stars on a balmy summer night. Despite the obstacles of Jason’s military service and their time apart, their love had endured and flourished. Amy knows that their bond is extraordinary, a love that comes once in a lifetime. As she completes her tasks and settles onto the couch, Amy’s heart swells with appreciation for the life she shares with Jason.
The sudden chime of the doorbell startles Amy out of her reverie, causing her to momentarily halt and collect herself before addressing it.
AMY’S KITCHEN – PRESENT DAY
The kitchen floor was a battlefield of scattered papers – bills, unpaid, a half-finished jigsaw puzzle depicting a vibrant Tuscan landscape, a stark contrast to the emotional wreckage strewn around it. Empty wine glass, a testament to a night spent wrestling with grief, sat precariously close to a wedding photograph. Amy, curled on the cold tiles, clutched the glossy paper, her knuckles bone-white against the smiling image of herself and Jason. Tears, hot and relentless, traced paths through the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun. “Why?” she whispered, the word a ragged rasp against the silence, a mournful mantra repeated again and again. A year. A year since Jason had been killed in action, leaving behind a gaping void that threatened to swallow her whole. The pain, she realized with a chilling certainty, was not fading; it had simply become a constant, dull ache beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.
The shrill ring of the telephone sliced through her despair, a jarring intrusion into her private hell. Amy hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to engage with the outside world, to pretend she was anything other than the shattered woman she felt herself to be. But the caller ID showed her mother’s name, a familiar comfort in this desolate landscape. She answered with a voice barely a breath, a fragile whisper that betrayed the turmoil within.
“Amy? Sweetheart, are you alright?” her mother’s voice, laced with concern, filled the small space.
Amy’s throat constricted. “Yes, Mom. I’m fine.” The lie tasted like ash in her mouth.
“Amy…” Her mother’s tone shifted, a subtle but unmistakable change that pierced Amy’s carefully constructed facade. “It’s been a year, sweetheart. Let us help you.”
The unspoken words hung heavy in the air – the unspoken anxieties, the silent fears, the shared history of a family grappling with a devastating loss. Amy’s grip on the photograph tightened. She looked at the smiling Jason, at the promise in his eyes, the promise that now felt like a cruel betrayal.
“No, Mom, really, I’m okay,” she insisted, her voice trembling slightly. “Just… tired.”
“Amy,” her mother said gently but firmly, “I know better. Your father and I… we’re worried. We want to be there for you.”
Amy squeezed her eyes shut, fresh tears escaping. The weight of her unspoken grief, the crushing loneliness, threatened to suffocate her. The image of Jason’s empty chair at the dinner table, the silence in their once-vibrant home, flashed before her eyes. It was a reality she couldn’t escape, couldn’t even begin to articulate.
“I’ll… I’ll call you later,” Amy managed, her voice choked with unshed tears. The phone clicked, leaving her alone once more with the aching emptiness and the persistent, agonizing question: Why? The jigsaw puzzle, a symbol of life’s incomplete picture, lay unfinished, mirroring the shattered pieces of her heart. The Tuscan sun, so vibrant in the picture, felt a world away from the cold, gray reality of her grief.
AMY’S BEDROOM – ONE YEAR EARLIER
Amy’s bedroom, once a sanctuary, was now a constant reminder of the pain she was forced to endure. As she sat on the edge of her bed, the weight of her loss threatened to consume her. She longed for the comfort of her husband’s arms, but all she had left was his folded American flag. She clutched it tightly, tears streaming down her face as she whispered her thoughts to the empty room.
The memories of Jason surrounded her, from the photo on the nightstand to the half-written letter she had been working on. With each passing day, it became harder for Amy to face the reality of his absence. She couldn’t bring herself to finish the letter, the words feeling empty and meaningless without him by her side. As she poured her heart out to him, she couldn’t help but feel the silence that greeted her in return.
Amy’s mother could sense her daughter’s pain, but she knew that Amy needed space to grieve. As she stood outside the closed door, her heart ached for her daughter. She wanted to take away her pain, but she also knew that healing would take time. She vowed to be there for Amy, to support her in any way she could. As the sobs echoed through the room, her mother’s love for her daughter only grew stronger.
Present Day
Amy sat on the kitchen floor, her body shaking. Tears streamed down her face, soaking into the worn linoleum. A half-eaten bowl of cereal sat abandoned on the counter, milk congealing around the remaining Cheerios. The digital clock on the microwave blinked 11:23 PM.
She gasped for breath, each inhalation a ragged, shuddering intake of air. Her hands clenched into fists, digging into the cool surface of the floor. A low moan escaped her lips, followed by a choked sob.
“Why?!” she cried, the sound raw and ragged, echoing in the otherwise silent kitchen. The single word hung in the air, unanswered. She raised her head, staring at the ceiling, her face contorted with grief.
She attempted to speak again, but only a strangled whisper emerged. “It… it wasn’t fair.” This time, the words were quieter, more broken, barely audible above her own ragged breathing.
A sudden, high-pitched ringing pierced the silence. Amy flinched, her head snapping towards the source – a small, antique telephone sitting on a nearby shelf. It wasn’t connected to anything. The ringing continued, a persistent, unsettling chime that seemed to pulse in rhythm with her own uneven heartbeat.
She hesitated, her gaze flickering between the ringing telephone and the ceiling. After a moment of indecision, she crawled towards it, her movements slow and deliberate. Her fingers, trembling, reached out to the receiver.
“Hello?” she whispered into the mouthpiece. Silence. The ringing abruptly stopped. A single, red LED light flickered on the base of the phone. The light pulsed slowly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat.
Amy stared at the phone, her face a mask of confusion and apprehension. She slowly replaced the receiver, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and wonder. The LED light continued its slow, deliberate pulse. She remained on the floor, staring at the glowing red light, the unanswered question – *Why?* – still hanging heavy in the air. The remnants of her cereal remained untouched, a silent testament to the night’s events.
The next morning…The telephone rang beside Amy’s bed, its shrill tone cutting through the quiet Sunday morning. Amy reached for it, the receiver cool against her ear. Sunlight streamed through the gap in her curtains.
“Amy, darling,” a voice, warm and familiar, said on the other end. “It’s your mother. We were wondering if you’d like to join us at church today?”
A pause. Amy shifted slightly, pulling the covers tighter around her.
“I don’t think so, Mom,” Amy replied, her voice barely above a whisper. A faint sigh escaped her.
“Oh, dear. Is everything alright?” The mother’s voice held a note of concern.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
“I… I really don’t know how I feel about God anymore,” Amy said, the words sounding hesitant, almost fragile in the morning stillness.
Her mother remained silent for a moment. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, a sound Amy could hear even from her bedroom.
“Well, honey,” her mother finally said, her voice softening, “we’ll miss you, but we understand. Perhaps we can do something else together later this week?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Amy mumbled. “Thanks, Mom.”
The call ended. Amy placed the receiver back on the cradle, the plastic cold beneath her fingers. She stared out the window, watching a squirrel scamper across the lawn. A discarded, half-eaten bagel lay on her nightstand, a testament to another sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling.
Later that morning, Amy pulled out a worn sketchbook and a set of charcoal pencils. She began to sketch, her hand moving across the paper with a surprising fluidity. The drawings were abstract, swirling lines and dark shades that seemed to mirror the turmoil within her. A small, unexpected detail appeared in one corner of a sketch – a faint, almost indecipherable depiction of a single, stylized bird, seemingly ascending.
She worked for hours, completely absorbed in her art. The charcoal dust smudged her fingers, a dark contrast to her pale skin. When she finally paused, she looked at the drawings, her expression unreadable.
She gathered the sketches, carefully placing them in a portfolio. She then went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of orange juice, and ate the rest of the bagel. The sunlight seemed brighter now, filtering through the window and illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The phone sat silently on the counter, a potential connection to the outside world, untouched for now.
Amy’s thoughts return back to her mother’s invitation to attend church with her. As the thought of God enters her mind she asks, If you are there,if you are truly our God, then why haven’t you answered me, why haven’t you told me the reason for taking Jason from me, Why have you left me here alone?
As evening fell upon her, Amy needing a breath of fresh air decided to go outside. She sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic creak a counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of her heart. Her mother’s invitation echoed in her mind, a persistent whisper against the silence of the evening. *Come to church, Amy. It might help.*
Amy’s gaze drifted towards the darkening sky, the stars beginning to prick through the deepening blue. The image of Jason, vibrant and alive, flashed before her eyes, a cruel juxtaposition to the emptiness she felt. The church bell, a distant, melancholic toll, seemed to hammer the question into her very being.
A tear traced a path down her cheek. She spoke the words aloud, her voice barely a breath against the rustling leaves.
“If you are there,” she began, the words laced with a desperate hope that belied the cynicism in her tone. “If you are truly our God, then why haven’t you answered me? Why haven’t you told me the reason for taking Jason from me? Why have you left me here alone?”
Silence. Only the persistent chirping of crickets answered her plea. She swallowed, the lump in her throat tightening. Then, a different voice, a memory, surfaced unexpectedly. It wasn’t God’s voice, but her grandmother’s, a gentle, almost whimsical voice from a past that now seemed impossibly distant.
“God doesn’t always give answers, Amy,” the memory whispered. “Sometimes, He gives strength. Sometimes, He gives peace in the unanswered questions. Sometimes…He gives you the courage to find your own answers.”
The porch light cast long shadows as Amy stumbled through the doorway, the screen door sighing shut behind her like a final, weary breath. Her shoulders slumped, a physical manifestation of the weight crushing her spirit. She hadn’t even made it halfway across the living room or reached the comforting embrace of the worn sofa before her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the worn rug, the soft wool offering no solace.
A sound escaped her, raw and primal – a cry that wasn’t merely sadness, but a shattering of something fundamental within her. It wasn’t the polite, controlled weeping she’d managed throughout the day. This was a deluge, a torrent of grief that seemed to tear at the very fabric of her being. Her body heaved, racked with sobs that shook her from head to toe. Why? Why? Why, Jason? the silent question reverberated in the stillness of the house, a desperate mantra against the overwhelming silence.
The unanswered question hung heavy in the air. It wasn’t the simple loss of a loved one; there was a complexity, a knot of bitterness woven into the grief.
“He… he promised,” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper against the onslaught of her tears. “He promised forever. He swore…”
The silence stretched, filled only by her ragged breathing and the muffled sobs. She curled into a fetal position, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if to ward off the chill that had seeped into her very bones – a chill that went far deeper than the autumn evening air.
“Forever,” she repeated, the word catching in her throat. “He said forever, and then…” Her voice trailed off, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy between the gasps for air.
A tremor ran through her, a physical manifestation of the turmoil within. She clutched a small, worn photograph – a snapshot of a younger, happier Amy, laughing beside a smiling Jason. The image, once a source of joy, now felt like a cruel mockery.
The doorbell chimed. Amy, startled, composed herself before unlocking the door. A man in his thirties, with long hair, stood on the porch. He was casually dressed.
I apologize for interrupting your evening, “My car’s broken down,” he explained, “and I don’t have a phone. Could you call a tow truck?”
“Yes,” Amy replied. “Do you prefer a specific company?”
“No, anyone will do,” he said.
“There’s a porch swing if you’d like to sit,” Amy offered. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” he declined, but thanks for asking.
Amy retreated inside, attempting to mask her distress. The man sat on the swing. His calm contrasted sharply with Amy’s visible agitation. She walked towards the telephone, her curiosity piqued by his unexpected arrival.
Amy dialed the tow truck company. As she spoke, she felt the encounter was more than coincidental. Returning to the porch, she informed the man, “The tow truck will be here soon.”
“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been very kind.” He paused, then added, “May I ask if you’re alright? You seemed… upset when you answered the door.”
Amy remained silent.
“I understand,” the man said gently. “It’s hard to talk about pain. We hold it in until we…burst. Like a balloon, or a cup overflowing.” He continued, “People fear what others will say, or think, or even repeat it. It’s a burden many carry alone.”
That is precisely why we find ourselves more at ease confiding in psychiatrists instead of those in our personal lives. They are strangers to us, bound by law to keep our conversations confidential.
As Amy approached the swing, she sat down next to the unfamiliar person, taken aback by his words and empathy. She couldn’t help but ask, “When will the pain go away?” To which the stranger responded, “That depends on you.” Confused, Amy questioned, “Me?” The stranger nodded and continued, “Yes, Amy, it ultimately depends on you.” Amy was shocked and inquired, “How do you know my name? I never told you.”
Reassuringly, the stranger replied, “I know the pain you’ve been through since Jason’s passing. I know the days you’ve spent on the floor, holding onto a photo and crying until there were no more tears left to shed.”
Feeling unsettled, Amy jumped off the swing and demanded, “Who are you? How do you know these things?” The stranger calmly responded, “Please don’t be afraid, Amy. You called out to our Father today.” Confused, Amy asked, “What are you talking about?” The stranger explained, “Earlier today, as you were crying on the floor, you asked our Father ‘Why?’ and if He was listening. He always hears your cries Amy and holds every tear you have shed in His hand.” The stranger continued, “When you asked the question, He answered. The phone that rang without connection? Our Father was letting you know He hears you. The dove that appeared in your drawing? That was the Holy Spirit letting you know He is with you.”
Amy’s voice trembled as she asked, “Are you…?” Her eyes filled with tears, unsure if she could handle another disappointment.
The stranger’s smile widened and his eyes sparkled with kindness. “No, my dear. I am not He,” he replied with a gentle chuckle. “I am merely a messenger.”
Amy’s heart ached with confusion. “Then… what does He want from me? Why does He allow me to suffer so much?”
The stranger’s expression softened, his voice filled with compassion. “The Father feels your pain, Amy. It hurts Him to see you hurting. But you must understand, this world is not your final home. Heaven awaits you, and your beloved Jason has already arrived there before you.”
As Amy’s tears fell, she couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope amidst her despair. The stranger’s words touched her soul, awakening a sense of peace and comfort. She gazed at him, wondering who he truly was.
The stranger’s smile never faltered, but his eyes held a depth that intrigued Amy. She couldn’t quite place it, but there was something familiar about him. Something that drew her in, like a magnet.
As she listened to him speak, Amy realized that the stranger was not just a messenger, but a wise and gentle guide. His voice carried a richness that captivated her, and she found herself hanging onto his every word. As she continued to listen, she felt a sense of peace wash over her, knowing that she was not alone in her pain.
“He knows how much you loved Jason and miss him,” the stranger said, his voice gentle yet firm. “But who do you think loves him more, Amy? You or the Father?”
Amy looked up, surprised by the question. She met the stranger’s gaze, searching for answers in his eyes. “I guess God does,” she replied in a soft voice, tears welling up in her eyes.
The stranger nodded, his eyes full of compassion. “And who do you think loves you the most?” he asked.
Amy hesitated, unsure of the answer. But then she remembered the moments when she felt lost and alone, and a sense of peace and comfort washed over her. “God,” she answered, her voice filled with conviction.
The stranger smiled, his eyes lighting up. “Yes, now back to the question you asked, ‘When will the pain stop?’” he said. “Amy, the Father doesn’t speak to you in an audible voice, but through your heart. When people lose a loved one, their hearts become so full of grief and anger that it sometimes blocks the Father’s voice. But when you start to trust Him with your pain and release the anger, that is when true healing can begin.”
Amy listened intently, her heart opening up to the stranger’s words. She realized that the anger and bitterness she had been holding onto was only hurting her more. She took a deep breath and let it all go, feeling a weight lifted off her shoulders. The stranger reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It won’t be easy, but the Father will be with you every step of the way,” he said.
Amy gazed up at the evening sky, her heart filled with a tranquil calm that she hadn’t experienced in a long while. Though she knew she still had a challenging journey ahead, she found solace in the knowledge that she was not alone. It was the first time since Jason’s passing that she held onto hope for the future.
“May I know your name?” Amy inquired.
“I am called Azrael,” came the reply.
As soon as the stranger spoke, Amy’s head whipped around in surprise, but he was gone,
“Azrael,” she whispered, her voice soft and gentle. The name of the Archangel who guides souls to the afterlife and brings comfort to those who are mourning. With a smile on her face and a sense of peace in her heart, Amy made her way back inside.
Amy awoke the next day, feeling rejuvenated and at peace. For the first time in a year, she had experienced a restful night’s sleep. After sipping on a warm cup of coffee and indulging in a hearty breakfast, Amy set out to tidy up her home. As she carefully dusted each surface, her eyes caught sight of the antique phone that had mysteriously rung the day before. With a grateful smile, she softly whispered, “Thank you.”
That evening, after a long yet fulfilling day of cleaning, Amy reached for the phone and dialed a number.
“Hello?” came a voice on the other end. “It’s me, Mom,” said Amy, her voice full of energy.
“Are you alright, dear?” her mother inquired with concern.
“Yes, Mom. I’m more than alright,” Amy paused, her voice filled with sincerity. “For the first time in a long time, I truly am. Mom, I was wondering if you and Dad would like to come over for dinner tonight?”
Amy’s mother, with tears of joy streaming down her face, replied, “Sweetheart, we would love to.”
https://247ofpraise.com/2024/12/16/the-shattering-grief/