This is our life

Yesterday was exactly ten months since Cameron died. Today is exactly ten months since we first and last saw him.

These two days have been looming in my mind for the past week. On Monday night as we laid in bed, I told Rick that I was scared. I was scared of the darkness that these two days would bring and I was scared of the loneliness that would come with the darkness.

We’d arranged for Rick to come back to the house at about noon yesterday so that he and I could go out to Gundagai and have a quiet lunch together for Cameron’s ten month anniversary.

We found a quiet and cosy cafe at the Gundagai Art & Craft Emporium. We sat next to the window and ate a hot lunch together whilst reading about the history of Gundagai. It seemed that in 1852, the town suffered the worst natural disaster in Australia’s history – a flood that killed 89 people. Both young and old perished. Entire families died. One man lost not only his wife but also all four of his children…

After lunch, we drove out to the historical Gundagai train station. It was beautiful and peaceful there. It felt like we were the only people in the world. We sat together on the platform bench for some time – remembering Cameron together and praying together. We also read from Ecclesiastes 12.

Rick cried. I sat on his lap and held him.

Even though we were very sad, it was a blessing to have Angus with us. He kept kicking and moving the entire time – it was almost like he knew…

Before we left, we explored the station a bit and ended up carving Cameron’s initials on one of the three gum trees beside the tracks.

As nightfall came upon us, I became increasingly emotional and distraught so Rick decided to take me out for walk.

We headed up the main driveway on the farm leading up to the sheep yards.

I couldn’t stop crying as we walked.

Halfway up the path, I stopped and looked around me.

“This is our life,” I whispered to Rick.

It was dark. If it wasn’t for the dim moonlight that shone down from above, it would’ve been pitch black.

It was quiet. If it wasn’t for the sound of the occasional truck or car driving past, it would’ve been dead silent.

It was cold. It seeped into my skin and made me tremble.

I could vaguely see how far we’d travelled along the path. I could just make out the house, and the track that led up to where we were standing. We hadn’t actually gone that far, yet it seemed like such a long distance from our starting point.

I couldn’t see what was ahead. I couldn’t see where we were going or how we were going to get there.

We were completely alone. Vast, empty space surrounded us.

It was like we were standing in our very own metaphor: the darkness, the coldness, the quietness, the blur of these past ten months, the uncertainty that lay ahead of us, the loneliness, the emptiness, the isolation from the rest of the world and the very dim light from above.

That is what our life has been like since Cameron died.

No-one else can truly understand. I accept this now.

But Rick does. And God does.

Without Him, it would indeed be pitch black.