Flooded with Light

To not speak of my daughter would be to unknot her existence from my womb ~  

TL Alton 

Under the light of a half moon in a back alley, I rummage through a dumpster bin. I am searching for clean cardboard to pack what remnants I have. My twenty-five year old vehicle is being turned into a transporter of goods. I am fortunate as it is not raining- yet-as a dull glow is cast upon me in the shadows. I stuff every inch of my car with the flattened corrugated fiberboard and take a sip of my lukewarm Timmies vanilla coffee.

Staring up at a tree, I imagine what I would like to become in another life, as melancholy sweeps over me… I think of its roots. 

Once back at the place I am soon to depart, I tackled the ambitious project of my expanding library of books. From my string of Christian literature to a tower of healing from grief, my taste in what I like to read varies. During my forty-five days of bed rest, recovering from my work injuries, I was house bound. In over a month, I read five books that had patiently waited for me to select them and be pressed between my fingers. This made a small dent in the numerous selections I have to choose from. As I pulled out a book, I would lay it in a separate pile I had designated. There was one for charity, another for a woman’s shelter and a red suitcase to lug my present mix of reading material. 

I was concentrating on the task at hand, when I reached under a shelving unit and pulled out something unexpected. It was a pale blue devotional journal, with strands of white flowers gracing the entire width of it. On the cover, hovering above the title was a silver butterfly. The journal was called Looking Up by Beth Moore. I knew before I opened the pages, who it once belonged to…my daughter, Shayla. 

Placing it on the counter, I release from inside, the words written from the angst of a young girl. Her worries always were followed by prayers and conversations with God. I read of friends she had forgiven and an old boyfriend she had let go.

In hindsight, I believe Shayla felt she could somehow could save the world, beginning with me. What I know now is I had to learn my own strength in surviving her death.

As I poured over her words, absorbing every strand of vocabulary she had written, the pages became drenched with the outpouring of emotions I was releasing. Whereas others have treated me as beyond repair and over time some friends abandoned me, my daughter was cupping her faith in her hands and praying to the Heavenly Father.

Shayla quoted scripture and verses that she recited; reaching out in lament. 

Psalm 30:8-11

To you, Lord, I called;

    to the Lord I cried for mercy:

You turned my wailing into dancing;

    you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy. 

As I continued to read, my heart was lifted by my daughter’s words. Despite her sorrow, she always followed up in her journal with gentle reassurance that everything would be okay. Turning the page, I was overcome with a feeling of connection with her, when I read her writing of Psalm 40:2. It is the same scripture I have been holding onto. 

Page after page, I allowed Shayla’s expressions of her own golden heart, envelop mine. There is a sense of dignity in knowing she could see how I rose to the challenges of ‘healing.’ Her words echo the belief that God was with her and I; despite the adversities facing us…we did so together as mother and daughter. 

By the time I finished reading her devotional journal, my heart clung to every word my mind had studied. 

To Shayla, I was not a statistic; she never blamed me nor saw me as being different. As tough as it was for her to have a parent who once had been ill, I was never cast into that mire pit alone. 

Now standing in the midst of another predicament, my daughter’s words were meant for me to read while I pack and sort out my life. Ever so timely then as they are now, I embrace the bond of faith we shared in this life…and the Eternal one. 

 

By TL Alton