So much preparation for a passing when your mind can't seem to even find first gear.
I drove past the store when I went to pick up milk for breakfast. I got into the wrong lane on a road I travel every day and headed downtown when I was trying to go home.
We're all trying to cope. My husband and I need quiet and the kids need to play. At top speed and full volume.
Last night around ten when the house was still, my middle son came down. I held him while he cried. He said, "I keep seeing Papa holding his arms out to me."
Isn't that like the picture of God? Always holding his arms out to love, to comfort, to show His immense affection for us.
I haven't done much talking to Him lately, though I feel His presence.
I haven't felt like talking at all. Except sometimes. Sometimes a friend will call and I can't stop talking. Other times I can't even answer the phone, or email.
I bought our clothes for the funeral yesterday. I wanted new clothes for our Papa. And I wanted black, everything to be solid black.
I set the pile down and the kindly man behind the counter gave us a cheerful smile and asked, "What's the occasion?"
I wanted to say it was for pictures or a concert.
But they are for a celebration of sorts. A celebration for a man who loved the Lord. Who lived a hard life and won the race.