The furnace hums a distant prayer, and it's whispered in vain, through the vent. The blanket wrapped around me can't seem to ward off the growing chill. The weather outside is warming as the flowers of spring are offered through the dull brown hues, remnants of last years life. So why do I feel cold? Where is the icy mist rising from, that has captivated me?

Frigid is how I feel, packing away his things... pulling out his shirts, his pants, his socks, his jackets. It torments my emotions. It belittles hers too. Tears stream down her face as she gently puts his belongings in bags to be carried away. This just doesn't make any sense. It's bone numbing cold.

The warmth these walls previously offered are cooled with emptiness, loneliness. His closet grows spacious, his dresser echoes as the drawers are closed. In these difficult moments, his life seems to be summed up in what these bags can hold. Not enough! Not nearly enough!

The memories are rich and the vein runs deep, however. Each shirt brings with it a replay in time. The ones he wore routinely, now adorn the closets of his sisters and mother. The next 15 shirts are gathered into one bag. An offering from a friend of Lauren's to make a blanket from them, brings us a brief reprieve, as we wonder how the finished product might appear.

His socks... how pathetic. Most had to be discarded. He was so hard on socks. He never took them off. Even to bed they went. We often found them tucked deep beneath the covers, or hiding between the bed and wall. I'm not sure how it is possible to have your feet eat socks threadbare in such a short time. He knew.

We count it a blessing that though we despair of his loss, and must pack his clothing, we have friends who will put them to good use. They have six boys. The eldest two may be able to wear some of these things, the remaining four will, as promised by their father, "wear these clothes out." Somehow, that is an encouragement.

The trip to and from their home was a difficult one. Emotionally exhausted in moments. Saline drips that would not cease. I imagine this is part of healing, but it feels more like the scars have been ripped open. It's hard to breathe. It hurts so deep.

Lord, I know you are here. You must be carrying us right now, for I cannot sense Your presence. Thank you for loving me.

brent