Our community extended generous (and I mean generous!) support to us after the accident.  Hundreds prayed for us.  Maybe more.  The kid’s school, our friends and neighbors, our church, and many strangers surrounded us and gave gifts, brought meals, visited, sent cards, and loved.  They sacrificed.  We’ve never experienced anything like it.  It blew us away, and we are grateful. 

And then, as they should, they had to return to their own lives. 

I understand this.  And yet, in my pain and in the long days I sit alone, I’m angry.  Angry at the people who have sacrificed for us.  And I’m ashamed that my loneliness is demanding and selfish.

Our friends don’t know what to say to us.  I’m sure people are afraid to intrude, so they give us space.  That space wraps around us like an unbreachable void, isolating us.  Sometimes we try to reach out and share what we’re going through, but it’s so heavy.  It feels burdensome to put that one anyone, especially if they aren’t asking for it.   I don’t know who is willing and able to listen, and who needs to distance themselves for their own survival.  I err on the side of caution, and keep our sorrows to myself.  Everyone else errs on the side of caution too, not wanting to bother us. 

And so we are alone.

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