Friday, February 3

"This hurts. Please help."

The biggest shock of all has been how much this hurts. Not the initial hurt, but the constant, stabbing hurt that literally leaves me gasping for breath. The debilitating waves of sadness that crash on my heart and set my body rocking back and forth, hands grasping for anything solid to keep me from being knocked over by the emotional tsunami.

And this time of night is always the hardest. It was always when the sun had long gone to bed and I was winding down from the day that Z would call, wanting to talk or come over or watch a movie. In the past month I’ve had to stop myself more than once from waiting for that late-night text or phone call. And it’s in that moment that it hits me, with the force of a tank, that he’s gone. He’s gone.

It also hits me when I’m driving to work in the morning and when I’m driving home in the evening. It hits me during my conference period and during lunch. It hits me when I’m sitting in church or at the temple. It hits me again and again and again. And every time I think it’s getting a little better, another wave (or tank, or whatever (I’ve lost track of my metaphors)) destroys any progress I might have made.

It also hurts that his family has moved from Texas to their new home in Maryland. I feel very alone in my sorrow sometimes because the people directly connected to Z are no longer here. I hurt for their hurt, too. I hurt for a lot of people’s hurt. But mostly I hurt for my hurt, which, I’m discovering, is at times unbearable.

I’ve experienced the death of a loved one before, but nothing like this. This death was sudden, tragic, shocking. This death has left so many unanswered questions, so many unresolved feelings, so many unexpected emotions. I’m still dealing with the desire to be angry at him that this happened, angry at myself for not doing more to help him, angry at heaven for allowing this to happen. But I know I can’t hold on to my anger. I know I can’t blame him or myself or heaven for this. I can only pray for comfort and understanding. 

I’ve been taught in numerous Sunday School lessons, though, that if you want specific answers to your prayers, then you should ask specific questions. In the past weeks, my mind has been so overloaded with questions and thoughts, that the only thing that manages to come out is a very simple and humble prayer: This hurts. Please help.


  1. I am so sorry that you are hurting. I will pray for your comfort and peace. Tressa (Meacham)

  2. Dear Miss Katie,
    You are loved and you are prayed for and you are not forgotten and you are not alone. You can do this hard hard thing. You are doing it. Tell me how to help. Love you.