the difference between

 
Broken or bitter? part 3

My sister came to stay with the girls;
  I was adamant that no one say anything to my children, after all I was not convinced yet that any of this nightmare was true.
  I would indeed experience every emotion in the day that followed.

At the morgue I was given a pile of paper work.
  Filling in his middle name, his birthday, and my maiden name made it all too real.
  I got very sick.
  When I was finally allowed to view him, I was overcome with love and compassion.
  The bruises on his face concerned me and I wanted to kiss them.
  I became small and vulnerable with my parents, sitting and walking between them all day as they physically held me up.
  Collecting his things at the police station was surreal, his wallet (full of pictures of the girls and me), his favorites UofM hat, and his wedding ring.
  I placed his ring under mine and left it there for over a year. I was sickened that everyone kept referring to him as a case number, or “the victim”.
  I hated that it was business as usual for them, while it was the end of life for us.
  They did not know him; they did not deserve to come into the privacy of our world.
 
 When I told his twin brother about the accident his wife squeezed me and sobbed, I could not cry, I just looked over her shoulder and tried to console her.
  His mother wailed like a wounded animal, I felt like this was all my fault somehow, I couldn’t wait to get out of that house. God has surely forgotten me today.
  I did not feel His grace or presence; I felt only unbelievable pain and abandonment. By that time I was going on no sleep for over 36 hours. I exploded in anger over the poor salesmen that tried to convince me that Johns’ eternity would be more comfortable if I spent $10,000 on a casket. I thought my heart would pound right out of my chest; physically I was close to shutting down.
  However my biggest and most important task that day still awaited me at home.

  I slowly opened the door to the bedroom where Alexis and Emily waited for their only remaining parent to comfort them.
  Sitting on their bed, two little angels looking up at me, their eyes full of questions. God, please speak through me, I do not know how to do this.
  I started with the facts.

“Daddy was hurt very bad, so bad that he stopped breathing, he didn’t want to leave us, but he can’t come home ever again…..” Any strength I had left me and the weeping took over… I felt a tiny, soft hand on my cheek.
  I opened my eyes to see Alexis, just 4 years old.
  “You don’t have to cry Mommy, Daddy is okay, and he is with Jesus now.”

It felt like someone had poured warm oil over my head and it flowed down the rest of my body.
  I took a deep breath and actually felt the oxygen go into my lungs for the first time in days.

God had used my own child to speak to me of His love and presence.
 He had been with me all along…I must never doubt Him again.
  I vowed at that moment to always know the character of my God, whether I could feel Him or not.

I would be broken in this process; bitterness is simply not an option.