Misunderstanding

I recently met a new friend. He lives several thousand miles away, but over the miles we have shared stories and history, as well as some laughs. There was the barest hint of a possibility of romance somewhere farther down the line, but for now it was nice to have a friend. Yesterday I received an email from this friend letting me know that some of his friends had tragically been killed. I immediately tried to call to offer my support. He was angry and hurting--I could tell from the sound of his voice. The short conversation ended suddenly, and I quickly sent an email reiterating my friendship and sympathy. In response, I received a short, angry message. He accused me of taking death lightly, and making a joke of his suffering. He asked me never to contact him again, saying he didn't have time for somebody who didn't respect life and death. I was stunned when I received this email. I had innocently extended a hand of comfort, and had it cut off for my trouble. I recognize this pain, I have seen it mirrored in myself many times. He is hurting to such a degree that it is akin to a wild animal. A wild animal, when it is mortally wounded, will lash out with teeth, claws, and hatred at anyone or anything that comes near it. Heedless of attempts to help, the wild animal will try to hurt whatever is nearest to it. I have felt this pain, and recognize the impulse to inflict hurt on those that are only trying to help. I harbor no ill will to this friend. I am sorry for what he is going through, and pray for comfort to find both him and the other people that are experiencing this loss. What he said to me was understandable. Understandable, but not excusable. Last night I wept anew for the loss of Ammon. As I try to navigate my new single world, the lure of finding love again is almost overpowering. Last night I was reminded that the love that I experienced with Ammon is sacred, unique. My husband treated me as a queen. He coddled me, he pampered me, he loved me in a way that I fear I will never find again. I am not accustomed to rough treatment. In times past, when Ammon was hurting, I could extend my hand to him without fear that he would try to emotionally hurt me in response to whatever pain he was feeling. I was secure in his affection for me, and in our respect for each other. We stood on solid ground together, and last night I felt that ground crumple away again. I know in my heart of hearts that it is premature to be searching for a replacement for what I have lost. In a way, I am glad that this friend showed his true colors and temperament before I became too attached. At this point I can say goodbye without feeling as though my heart is being ripped out again. In a strange way, though, saying goodbye to this friend only makes me miss Ammon more fiercely, more intensely. I want him back, and find myself bargaining with the Lord to make the pain go away. Last night as I laid on my bed weeping, I pled for Ammon to take me with him. I don't take death lightly. I would never joke about another person's suffering. How could I, when my own is still so fresh and new?