A crisis of faith

I have lost all of my grandparents, my father, aunts, uncles, friends, and co-workers to (in no particular order) age, illness, disease, injury, accident, and murder. 

While I recall some deaths affecting me more profoundly than others, I think that I have always viewed funerals as a sort of benchmark.  I certainly didn't stop grieving at each funeral I have attended, but I do think there was some feeling of moving incrementally forward in the process at that point.

I don't feel that way today.  Yesterday, I sat through a lovely service with all of the elements that would normally provide the expected amount of tears, laughter, and thoughtful remembrance - slide shows from birth to just a few days before a beautiful young woman's death, touching eulogies from friends, comforting words from religious leaders.

It seemed that some people were where I suppose I thought - or think - I should be.  They gently joked with the family and spoke of the future.  In my head, I am still screaming at the sun each morning, wondering how it dares to shine when such a precious child has been taken from us.  This loss is still my last thought before tossing and turning, and it is still my first thought when I finally give up and get out of bed in the morning.

There is no catharsis, no forward progress, no faith that I will see her again, in the place called heaven.