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Quote by Frances Wren

“It was easier to cry alone. No people or mirrors to bear witness. Ethan sobbed into his fist, the swell of pointlessness and frustration bursting a dam in his throat. The exhaust fan drowned out the sound. Ethan wanted to scream, to manifest some tangible evidence of the shredding hurt. He managed a few croaky gasps, the sound withering like rot. Even encased in solitude and steam, it felt performative.”

Quote by Frances Wren

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Frances Wren

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“I am sometimes tempted to feel like God has become distant from me or turned his face away. I sometimes feel as if God's love for me has grown cool. Perhaps he has turned his attention elsewhere or turned down his affections. But then I think of our planet, I think of our sun, and I think of our God. Surely he is not a God who forsakes his people when they need him, his children when they cry out for him. Surely he is not a God who is least present when most needed. He promises that his eye is upon us and his ear is toward us, so when we cry out, he hears and delivers. He promises he is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Is my spirit not crushed? is my heart not broken? Am I not crying out? Then surely God is near. Surely God has not turned away. Surely he is not ignoring my cries.”

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“I think you’re confusing the opposite of love with hurt.” “No,” I disagreed. “I know the opposite of love is hate.” “No,” he replied with a headshake. “The opposite of love is indifference. The feeling of emptiness. That’s what the opposite of love is. Love allows you space to feel everything—joy, bliss, sorrow, and pain. Grief is love, Avery. Love and grief go hand in hand.” “Why is that?” “Because grief is the realization that you could care for another so deeply. That your heart could shatter a million ways, all due to how much you adored another. Being able to feel so deeply is a gift, baby girl. It’s the indifference, the inability to feel, that is the curse.” “It’s scary to feel grief…” “It’s even scarier to feel nothing.”

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“…the scent of incense reaches me. I think of looking back, but the fear of putrefaction suddenly grabs me, and I move on. Finally, at the end of the road, I stop and turn to admire the Roman-columned funeral home. In the distance, I see the bent figure stoking the flame and the thin line of smoke reaching high up towards the sky. A red kite cuts across its path and something tells me Sophie's enjoying this all somehow. The scent of burnt paper reaches me, and I know Grandmother is burning them for me too. (Mismanagement of Grief)”

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