This week has been more difficult than last week. Chalk it up to shock, disassociation, or the unpredictability of grief. That’s what I’m told it is — the unpredictability of grief. We break an arm or get the flu and expect steady improvement from one week to the next. Grief, however, is not a sickness or a disease. It cannot be treated, it does not follow an identical trajectory from one person to the next, or from one week to the next.

Grief is like an intolerable roommate who is assigned his own room but takes over the entire house. Grief sits on your couch (in your spot) and cooks beef stew without cleaning up the kitchen afterwards. He keeps you up at night with sad, loud music that shakes the walls and has the audacity to sing along off key. The next morning the house is quiet as Grief must’ve fallen asleep on the ratty couch downstairs, but you can’t rest because you know that he’ll be bounding up the stairs any second, likely at the most inappropriate time. I expect grief to knock over the Christmas Tree this December.

I had every intention of jumping back into normal life yesterday. I wanted to pick back up where we left off two weeks ago. Walking up to my office on the 3rd floor felt surreal. I can’t explain it, except to say that things look and feel different now. Not dark, not sad, and no, it’s not a new coat of paint or the faint smell of popcorn or anything. It just felt different. Keeping my concentration was difficult but the distraction of a couple of big projects and looming deadlines (self-imposed) were a welcome relief, but I only had so much energy. It’s difficult to focus on anything right now.

Then there’s Cam. Thank God for my son Cameron. He’s 7, which means he understands factually and emotionally — to a certain extent — what happened. Yesterday he played a song in Lexi’s honor on one of her keyboards. He’s seen me sad a time or two (or 17) and says something like “I’m sorry that Lexi is gone, Daddy” and then gives me a hug or a reassuring hand on the shoulder. He’s got a good heart. AND a lot of energy. We’ve been playing basketball and frisbee like normal. Like normal, but not normal at all. It’s a strange spot to be in. Grief is the unwelcome third player in every game.

Our other boys are more lament-y. Lament-ish. Lament-ing. Wait: lamenting is actually a word. And it’s a good word to describe the vibe ’round here. Knowing glances and sighs, sudden hugs, and a general malaise fills the space. Turns out grief has the time to hang out with all of us.

Especially Brittany. Britt became Lexi’s mom in situation at first and ultimately by law, but always with her whole heart. She and I sat with Lexi right after she passed. It’s like Britt and I are still in that room on the 5th floor, flooded by the sunlight of a summer day while holding our daughter’s hand for the last time. We shook hands with grief (again) that day. “Mind if I stay with you guys for a while?”

Grief won’t ever leave us completely alone, but he’ll eventually move out, insisting on visiting from time to time for the rest of our days. Until that day, I’m here with him and, right now, he won’t stop staring at me.

Of course, there’s a far greater and more powerful presence that, for reasons of mystery, doesn’t kick Grief out. That’s the other set of eyes on us at all times — eyes filled with compassion and warmth, love and (best of all) presence. “I’m here too, and I’ll still be here when Grief moves out.” There’s unexplainable peace in the presence of Christ. I can testify.