As I walk into the closet, I gently pull the black, v-neck, three-quarter-length sleeve, knee-length dress off the wooden hanger. I force myself to stop and take a deep breath. I know this routine far too well, for it is ingrained in my being. This past year in particular I have taken part in this ritual more often than I would have wished.
I carefully apply my makeup, adding just enough waterproof mascara and brown eyeliner to accentuate my bright blue eyes. I pencil in my blond eyebrows, brush on my foundation, and add a dusting of bronzer to the tip of my nose and apples of my cheeks. I carefully apply my “violet parfait” lipstick, the perfect shade of mauve. It is just enough to add a touch of color, but not enough as to not look natural.
I scrunch my curly blond ringlets to loosen the crunch of the gel that holds their perfect shape. I carefully pull a small portion of my hair back. A few blond curls escape and frame my face. Their familiar sway is my companion.
One last look in the mirror, and I add my large gold hoop earrings with green beads, the only color I dare to add. My radiant and comforting smile adds the finishing touch to my ensemble.
In the depth of my bright blue eyes, my soul aches. My heart groans. The disdain I feel in the pit of my stomach mocks me with its familiarity. The wounds and loss of the past once again feel fresh, the despair so close.
I know the motions all too well. The details are set, the pictures are displayed, the talk of how wonderful they were begins. The hellos to distantly familiar faces. The smell of flowers that bring no comfort, the music and scripture that apply little balm.
I breathe in and subconsciously hold my breath. The service has finished. It is still and quiet.
I hate it.
I hate the final goodbye.
I want to sit and stay.
I don’t want to leave.
I don’t want this to be real.
I know I will soon have to enter back into a world where grief and loss are not welcomed. I’d rather sit among the mourners, in the safety and freedom of my tears, to tear my clothes and put ashes on my face.
I walk by the casket and can hold back my tears no longer, nor do I want to. With a beautiful release for all that is lost, my tears flow freely and fully, each droplet a precious expression of the depth of my love and the anguish in my soul.
I cannot yet bear to walk out the door. I find a haven in the back of the room and sit to support the weariness that has overcome me.
I am alone, yet among so many.
Weeping openly, I tend to the beautiful brokenness my heart holds. I breathe deeply to calm the rhythm of my sobs. Hand on my chest, I feel every heartbeat strong and fully alive, yet barely able to go on.
I am alone with grief, my welcomed friend.
My breath steadies, and I slowly stand. I walk in beauty, head held high, and bask in the glow of the black halos around my eyes. The redness of my nose and wistfulness of my curls are a tribute. My soul breathes in the comfort of my sorrow, a beautiful gift.
Caroline M. Tiell lives in Orlando, Florida, and loves hot tea and deep-souled conversations. She works with women of all ages and in all stages of life through G.R.O.W. Ministries. She is passionate about helping women discover authentic community and healing in the hard places. She has been married for 21 years and is a mother to twin teenage boys and a 2-year-old daughter.
