THAT day

I will never forget that day.

Not the day he died. That day I remember, but it is broken into sharp fragments and bits of memory by shock and pain. Shards I can pick up and examine, but like pieces of a puzzle, no overall meaning or emotion connected to them, really.

The day I am referring to is the day that came shortly after the first anniversary of his passing. As Emily Belle Freeman put it, "Some days are harder than others. And perhaps you only know how hard the one year mark is if you've lived through one. There's something permanent about the not coming back that settles in just now."

Permanent. No more the first Thanksgiving, or the first Christmas, or the first 4th of July, his favorite holiday. In a matter of a single day, it went from 'the first' to 'for the rest of my life.'

Let me back up just a bit. During the first year after my son's passing, I cried every Sunday at church, without fail, during the sacrament hymn. These weren't simply tears of missing, but also tears of gratitude. The Atonement of Jesus Christ and what He made possible - that the dead would live again - became immediately and deeply relevant to me on a level I had never experienced before. I became used to these tears and even welcomed them.

Then the first Sunday after July 27th, 2017, the sacrament song began, and the tears started as usual. Only this time, they didn't stop at the end of the song, or even at the end of the passing of the Sacrament. I thought, "What is going on with me?" I felt a tidal wave of grief pick me up and carry me far out to sea. I couldn't stop. My eyes became red, my tissue shredded in my hand, and it was all I could do to hide my crying from those around me. Who sobs uncontrollably for an entire hour in church?

Somehow I made it through the meeting, yet even after a quick escape from the chapel and arriving home, the sorrowing continued. I texted my dear neighbor - a woman who personally knew my same grief - and said, "I don't need you to come over. I just need to understand what is going on. Is this normal?" She answered with her usual sensitivity, and helped get me through that afternoon.

And then that evening, it dawned on me. So often the body remembers things that the mind would rather forget. My body knew on a cellular level that the passing of this date meant something new for me. More mortal terrain to be traversed. More of my grief journey.

No more firsts, but for the rest of my life.

I wish I could say after four years, that I don't still cry here and there. That all the holidays and family get togethers are easier. They're not necessarily what they were, they are just ... different. And that's as it should be. Why would I expect my life to feel the same when my child feels gone?

But there is also hope. And the hope grows and increases every year, maybe because of the cleansing tears, and because I'm not counting firsts anymore. Maybe because we let ourselves feel the missing. Even Jesus wept.

"I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged ... how we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again."

It's all so amazing, this life.

I'm doing my best to live life, relying upon the time when we will see each other again. And that is faith. I'm grateful for those who have carried us through and continue to remember. It's amazing the difference it makes. And that is love.

With each year we are here and fulfill whatever mission we have, we are all getting a little closer to home.

This IS Happening

What a year. And what a time we live in. I started this blog to talk about codependence (my own), and then my oldest son gave me a book called "List Yourself" and I thought that a good frame of reference. But I can be honest - sometimes I talk about deep and personal things here, sometimes I use the list book, and sometimes I just want to write. This post is in between all 3. And how ironic I can hear my husband in the background saying to his aunt, 'We'll all leave this earth with nothing,' which makes this post all the more relevant.

You see, I have spent the last hour downstairs going through a box. A box of things my mother saved. A lot of it is stuff that meant something to HER - cards from my long-divorced step-dad, ship launching announcements they would go to together (my dad and step-dad were both Navy), balls they attended at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I remember the lavish costumes they wore. I remember going to New Orleans and watching the parades. I was too young then to be afraid of the crowds, or of strangers. So when a young man offered to lift me on his shoulders so I could see, I was grateful. I'm also sure my parents were nearby. I remember seeing people on the balcones looking down, and I remember being entranced by the romance of those architecturally pleasing balcones.

I didn't save the cards or the announcements. You see, I have a box I keep in my closet. It contains cards from my friends and children. It is full of MY memories. I feel I need to put a note in the top of it saying, 'Feel free to discard everything in here when I die.' It's not like I'm John Adams's wife.

But I do feel I want to mark the memories that have washed over me today, or the things I have learned. For example, I already knew one relative came from a difficult home life, but I came across one letter that shared details of that, and reading that made me have even more compassion for that person. I think it's true most of us are all wounded individuals in one way or another. For me, we can choose to heal from those wounds, or not.

I found another page where my mother was working with someone - maybe a counselor? - and she wrote down the things she wanted to let go of. That I saved. That I will scan. There's power in that piece of paper. There is a greater knowing of her. There are lessons to be learned. Am I stuck in the patterns she wished to be free from? A good question to consider.

Then, I came to items in the box that were about me. Old report cards, little notes from friends in jr. high and high school. Several wishing me luck as I tried out for officer of our drill team. (I didn't make it.) But the notes were super fun to read, and I was reminded of how blessed I have been to always have good friends. Then a choral evaluation. I remember that day clearly. The song I greatly enjoyed singing. That was the year before I became afraid to sing. The year I still sang soprano and everything was fun and I didn't think too much about my tone or what needed changing. It was interesting to read the comments from the judge that day. I could apply those comments to my singing today! As soon as Covid is over, I want to take voice lessons again. I only have so long before my voice will age and begin to crack a bit.

Anyway, I understand my mother saving things. And I understand her saving my things, even after I had moved and started my own family and now my kids are grown. My sons are more minimalist. DS#2 has everything he owns in his bedroom closet downstairs. DS#3 has one box downstairs, and the rest at his apartment. DS#1 left his things very neatly organized when he passed. (I remember how he could not understand how I could forget things or not take care of things on time.) But DD - I have at least 6 boxes of her things out in my garage, including a box of dolls! (I also have a box somewhere of my dolls.)

So, today has been a different part of my Covid life today. I miss going to the gym, but ours is full, and I refuse to go when it is so full. I only go out mainly to grocery shop. I try to work out at home, but our air quality is not good right now so no walking out of doors. I really hate winters here. I hope next year I am better prepared to travel to someplace warm. That is part of why I am working with decluttering. Time to get this stuff off my plate!!!

Unexpected

Well, it is Christmas Eve, 2020.

To say it's been quite a year for the world is an understatement. Loads of feelings.

But what I did not expect to feel, this Christmas Eve of all Christmas Eves, is peace. I suppose it's a forced peace, in a way. With Covid and it's accompanying quarantines, there has not been the usual mad dash of parties, get togethers, concert-going, or .... well, anything. Lots to enjoy online, and I realize I'm one of the fortunate few who does well with online intereactions.

But it's peace, nonetheless. And the biggest peace has to do with our oldest son. Going through letting go of what happened to him all over again earlier in the year was not pleasant. I was anything but peaceful.

I was angry. I was frustrated. I wanted justice. (I still do, on occasion.) I wanted our boy back.

I realized I was letting what happened to him destroy me. And I would not give --- that victory.

So I let go. And quarantined.

Thanksgiving came. Only grandma was able to be with us, and between the two of us, we cooked up a storm. Which allowed me to take leftovers to my youngest. My youngest, who has such concern for his father that we can only see him outside, masks on, physically distanced six feet. I'll take it, even when it's below 30 degrees outside.

And now, it's Christmas Eve. Yes, I've thought of my oldest much. But today, while out running errands, I decided to be cheerful. Not in a forced way, but in a 'this is what the world needs' way. And everyone was being cheerful. And helpful. And nice.

Chris would like that.

So on this quiet Christmas Eve, I'll think on that sweet little baby born to save us all. Born to comfort, and heal, and gather. Bornt to redeem. My son is fine. I will, be, too.

I Love ...

Wow. The past six weeks have been quite a test for the world. Covid-19 has turned the world on it's edge, and we are still in the middle of it. As with most of history, these things have happened in the past, and they will happen in the future, but this is the first pandemic of this proportion in my lifetime.

The first two weeks were surreal, and it was easy to be full of positivity that we could get through this all together. (Even with experiencing my first ever earthquake in Utah during that first week, too.)

Hubs stocked up on necessities and some food storage, in case we contracted the virus and couldn't get out for a few weeks. Now, we are only going out for groceries and medical needs. And with the weather changing, the occasional walks.

Darling son has been hiking several times a week. And he has started our backyard garden. Thank goodness for spring.

I won't lie - the past two weeks have been hard. I've felt lower than normal for various reasons. Cover-19 is like putting a lid on a pressure cooker, and everything just wants to bubble to the surface. Overwhelming, to say the least.

There's been a lot of good going on, tho. I hope when people reflect back on this time, they can remember those good things. Sometimes the good things feel far away. Then one day you wake up and realize life is going on and that dwelling on the negative has never felt good, so let's get back to as normal a life as possible in these circumstances, right?

Well, this was going to be a post about what I love. Maybe I overshot the mark. So I'll end by saying goodnight, stay safe, and I love s'more flavored pop tarts.

Her Life Will Never Be the Same

Every morning, as much a habit as anything I do, I open FaceBook. It's a nice way to wake up, catching up with the world that way. This morning, I read the unexpected message: "Just thought I would let you know about a tragedy in our family this week ... I felt like you should know since you have been thru this before and might be able to offer words of hope to them at this time." And within those three dots were included the words 'son' and 'suicide.'

My heart immediately broke for this dear family, but especially for the mother. I had been close to her in past times. Distance is the only reason we really didn't see each other much. But I still considered her like a sister. And now ... her son was gone from her. In an instant.

Yes, when she is ready, I will know the words of hope to offer. I have said them to myself over a hundred times. They have been said to me. And I believe those words to be truth.

But first, there will be shock. Only, it doesn't feel like any other shock I've known. It comes as an uninvited but necessary guest. This strange companion never leaves. He's there first thing in the morning, when she moves from sleep to waking, and she doesn't even need to remember, to remember, to remember ... she knows. Her child's passing became as much a part of her as breathing, in the instant she was told.

Shock gets her through that first week, the first month, the first years. The necessary preparations, the visits, the memorial service itself. She will speak to those around her, perhaps even offer comfort herself, and somewhere in the back of her mind she may wonder, how is she even standing in this moment when her entire world has been turned on it's head?

As she moves through life, there will be Before, and After. Always. This is her way of reckoning time for the rest of her life. A perfect dissection.

Shock will stay with her. He'll do what he came to help her through. (As Lin-Manuel Miranda has so eloquently stated, 'the unimagineable.') And there will be tears. That goes without saying. So many tears, more than she ever knew she had in her. How does one measure the tears that will come unbidden for the rest of her life? Yes, the waves will come crashing with less frequency as time passes, but for the first year, or even two or three, she will cry, and cry, and cry ... because, as the Facebook quote says, grief is love with nowhere to go. Her love knows no bounds, so why should her tears?

She may have a spot she goes to. Sitting on the bedroom floor, leaning against the wall, crying into the room where no one else is. She needs it to be this way. She needs this space. She will cry, and cry, and cry .... again, and again. And her love will ask the air, "Why him? Why my sweet little boy who once had laughing eyes?" The room won't answer, but it's always there when she needs.

Not that that spot is the only place she'll cry. But it's the place where she will go when the big cries come. When her heart needs room to break, again and again.

And along the way, the words of hope from others will co-exist with the love, and the missing, and the tears, and the grief. They will be her lifeline. They will be the thin threads of the rope she clings to. (Don't even begin to call this a new normal. Normal? What is normal about your child being so broken he can't go on?)

People will tell her they feel him near. She'll believe them and disbelieve them at the same time. She'll hope in her heart that he is being cared for, and loved, and looked after. That he is surrounded by loved ones who have gone before. That he doesn't have to carry the enormous burdens he carried in life. It was always so easy to believe this about others who passed, why should it be any different with her child? But it is. She longs so much to hear his voice again, to see his laughing eyes, to KNOW he is okay.

And then, perhaps sooner, perhaps later, perhaps in the midst of it all, who can say - she'll feel what others have felt. She'll sense he is near. He may even say words to her. In her heart, in her mind. He'll speak to her. She prays that it is really his words coming to her. She wants to believe. The words sound like him. He will tell her how amazing it all is. That he loves her. That he is okay. That she needs to be her amazing self.

Peace may come quickly or slowly. But it is quite possible for grief and peace to co-exist. Hasn't it always been this way?

Yes, I'll offer her words of hope and truth. Because I have lived them. Because someone offered them to me. And someday, she'll offer the words to other women around her. We'll all hold hands through the 'after' until that glorious day we embrace our dear children again.

Myself

Yesterday, I showed darling son's girlfriend my blog. She graciously read my entry, 'Before,' laughing at what she termed was 'just the right amount' of humor. No wonder I like her!

Darling son came back into the room and asked what we were doing. Upon answering, he said, "I didn't know you had a blog."

Sigh. The life of a mother.

What does it take before our children see us as complete human beings beyond the title of parent? I believe I may be partly at fault in this.

I believe it's time for a few things to change around here. And as with all good change, it has to start with me.

Not long now

It's all too close. His birthday, and then his passing date. Maybe I should simply call it his passage date. Maybe that would help. I have a feeling it might not.

As someone told me, the tears are all about the love. We wouldn't want the tears gone. But I sure would like him here. I'd give anything to see him, if only for a short time.

I'll write more later. For now, there is this. From several years ago, when I wouldn't necessarily have called life simple, but certainly my life seemed simpler in some respects. How I miss him. For all of those we miss so dearly.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxAaGp5SHoQ&t=13s