Ihr habt nun Traurigkeit;
aber ich will euch wieder sehen
und euer Herz soll sich freuen
und eure Freude soll niemand von euch nehmen.
Sehet mich
Ich habe eine kleine Zeit Mühe und Arbeit gehabt
und habe großen Trost funden.
Ich will euch trösten,
wie Einen seine Mutter tröstet.
It seems somewhat strange to be writing this.
After all, I know what I believe,
And I seem to recall what you believe,
So writing this serves no purpose really
As you'll not be looking down to see the words,
Black pixels on white screen;
Not even pen and ink any more.
But there are things that remain unsaid
And this is the only way I have left to say them.
To say that you are missed is the grossest understatement.
I can't count the number of people who miss
all of the things you brought to their lives.
And not just your friends; people you never even knew
have been touched as well.
They see us in pain
and they reach out to us, trying to stop the shakes,
the shudders, the tears, the cries. They cry with us,
understanding our pain, our loss. They know you though us,
and our loss becomes theirs as well. That is how far
your reach is; even now, you touch people's lives.
They come less for me now, but that does not mean
in any way that I am 'over' this. No one really
gets over something like this; they just process the pain
in different ways.
For me, it is turning to anger.
Not at you. Never at
you. There has never been a single
moment in which I have felt a whit of anger
because of this. I am
angry at a cold, callous
unfeeling world that allows horrors to continue apace
yet steals away someone with a family
who had so many more years of life and love to
experience. I am
angry at people who say you
are in a better place.
The better place is here,
with your family, with your friends.
I am angry at the illness, and how it took you from
your family. From
your friends
From me.
And I am sure you would laugh, if you were here,
to know that despite belief, or lack thereof,
I have spent hour after hour bargaining with
something that isn't there.
I can almost hear it,
actually, along with a snarky yet well intentioned
remark about how futile it is to ask for something
from something you don't believe in. Despite that
I carry on.
I am writing this for myself as much as anything else;
mostly to try and expose and understand my feelings
because right now, a month on, I'm no closer to
understanding that than I was.
Everyone says everyone mourns in their own way,
that there's no right timeline, there's no wrong
way to experience the feelings of loss. You know
I always felt things the keenest; I know this because
you always tried to protect me from things that were
actually going on.
You never wanted me to hurt,
and you never would have wanted me to blame myself
for the things that happen.
We were the same
in that respect.
Arguments over who was really
at fault, each side arguing for itself, not the other.
You were far more than a friend; in every way
except genetic, you were my sister. And do genetics
really matter, anyway?
You encouraged me,
wanted me to be myself, and stood up for me like
a big sister, even though I was older than you.
And I think that's what hurts the most...I haven't
just lost a friend, I've lost family.
I keep waiting to see you post on my wall.
I keep waiting for an e-mail, or a message on Skype.
I keep waiting to hear how Basti is doing for United.
There are a million million conversations I will
never finish, nor even start.
Life is like that, in the saying and the doing;
a million beginnings, a million endings,
never in precisely the right order, and never ending
when you are ready for it to end.
I only hope, with the saying and the doing said and done,
That I was for you what you were for me.
Siehe, ich sage euch ein Geheimnis:
Wir werden nicht alle entschlafen,
wir werden aber alle verwandelt werden;
und dasselbige plötzlich, in einem Augenblick,
zu der Zeit der letzten Posaune.
Denn es wird die Posaune schallen,
und die Toten werden auferstehen unverweslich,
und wir werden verwandelt werden.
Dann wird erfüllet werden
das Wort, das geschrieben steht:
Der Tod ist verschlungen in den Sieg.
Tod, wo ist dein Stachel?
Hölle, wo ist dein Sieg?
Julie Knispel
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