I have a box. I've lived in several, only to have them blown apart by my loving Father. But that's not this box. The box I write about now is a literal box. Right now it sits in my closet toward the back awaiting my attention, as it has for the past year.
This box is full of memories, full of hurt and healing, full of lost dreams and love. This box was created shortly after my Dougie's home-going.
It's a process that I've put off. I can look at it now though. At first it was in the bottom floor of my old house...where I never went and therefore never saw which meant I didn't have to deal with it. Then we moved and it came with us. It sat in a corner of my family room in between a couch and a chair for several months until I decided it was time to straighten that room up. Then it moved to my room on a trunk. That's when the idea hit me to write about it.
As it has moved it's gotten closer to the destination of it's contents: a memory chest in my closet. I am all about healing and I know that healing comes when I deal with things and move on. I know that I won't truly move on until the Lord's loving, healing hands pour over me...and that only happens when I allow it.
I know that I have to go through this box and "blow" it apart so-to-speak, but I also know that grieving is a process best left to the loving hands of my Father. I won't delay it, but I won't rush it either...what's your box look like?
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