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Living in the Hard Moments When I Want to Eject

Navigating the loss of my dad a mere five years after the loss of my mom . . . there are no words. The strong desire to push eject from life and run away has been ever-present. To hide from my pain and all of my responsibilities. To remove myself from reality so that maybe I can wake up and this won’t be my reality. How am I to live in these hard moments when all I want is to eject?

I’ve wrestled with the immense pressure I feel to navigate my grief and my pain by the culture’s measuring stick. And when the option to bail for days, weeks or even a month, is not a viable option for me, it creates a precarious balancing game. On one side I have my kids, my husband and the life we are presently living. And on the other side, I have my heart and the myriad of emotions, thoughts and feelings coursing through my body. 

In Need of a Rescue

This is the part in my writing where I unveil a magical map or pill. I’m sorry to say, I don’t have anything of the sort to provide. 

Living in the hard moments when I want to eject.

To be rescued off of the tight rope has been a silent, unanswered prayer. I’ve felt the bitterness and resentment rise in me as I fight to find an hour or two to myself, where no one needs me. And in the quiet moments that do find me, the only word I am able to utter is, Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. 

Simply saying the name of the One who has already rescued me, I feel my clenched fists slowly release. My feet feel more anchored on the ground beneath me. My face softens and peace washes over me. I hear the still small voice ask me, ‘Do you trust Me?’ And as I take a deep breath in and a long exhale out, my heart whispers, ‘Yes.’ 

Living in the Hard Moments

My feeble ‘yes,’carries me to the next moment of quiet that finds me. While it may not be the ejection from life that I think I need or long for, it is somehow just what I need for that moment. And with each yes, my eyes begin to lift and catch the gaze of my Father, God. It has me feeling a little lighter. A little stronger. And a little more hopeful.

My pain hasn’t gone away. The shock and disorientation of being parentless are still very present. I’m hit with waves of grief when I least expect it. But my eyes are beginning to see that to eject from life is to eject from my story. And my story isn’t over. It is being written each day I choose to get up and live. Not just in the moments that are spectacular and glorious. But even in the moments that are hard. 

“The hardest, gladdest thing in the world is to cry Father! From a full heart.”

George MacDonald

Robin Pantusa

Robin lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado with her husband and three children. She taught kindergarten and first grade for ten years before making the choice to stay home and care for her children. She enjoys the beauty of the Rocky Mountains and the laughter of dance parties with her family. Robin finds life in honest and vulnerable conversations and in the partnership of writing with her Father.

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