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.
Thursday, December 24, 2020
Thursday, May 14, 2020
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
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
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
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
December Night
My dearest son.
Music. It makes the house feel like home. E noodles around on his trumpet. Such talent - he learns by watching, and I'm amazed at all the things I know are inside of him. Like you, he does things his own way. It's relaxing to hear him learning new songs as I hook up the electronic piano. Yes, the one I barely know how to operate beyond playing the keyboard. I need to have M sit down with me and teach me all that this contraption is capable of. That would be a fun thing to do this next year, along with brushing up on my French.
The downstairs family room is a mess. Chords everywhere, evidence of Dad's work and your brothers' gaming. We'll figure out where the extra TV will go.
Remember when you and E started sharing a bedroom, and we were so upset with each other because you tried to organize it differently than I thought it should be? I felt E needed more space. What's funny is E didn't care. He rarely does. He has his priorities in the right place when it comes to people being more important than things.
I wish you could meet E's dog. Oh, wait ... you probably have! Isn't he something? E is such a good daddy to that dog. So much more consistent as a parent than I ever was. So caring and loyal. I like to watch him with Oz.
We miss you. Thanks for letting me know you are near. I'm trying to open my heart to your hellos. I'm trying to believe that all those little coincidences aren't coincidences. Thank you for being brave. Thank you for being our angel.
Music. It makes the house feel like home. E noodles around on his trumpet. Such talent - he learns by watching, and I'm amazed at all the things I know are inside of him. Like you, he does things his own way. It's relaxing to hear him learning new songs as I hook up the electronic piano. Yes, the one I barely know how to operate beyond playing the keyboard. I need to have M sit down with me and teach me all that this contraption is capable of. That would be a fun thing to do this next year, along with brushing up on my French.
The downstairs family room is a mess. Chords everywhere, evidence of Dad's work and your brothers' gaming. We'll figure out where the extra TV will go.
Remember when you and E started sharing a bedroom, and we were so upset with each other because you tried to organize it differently than I thought it should be? I felt E needed more space. What's funny is E didn't care. He rarely does. He has his priorities in the right place when it comes to people being more important than things.
I wish you could meet E's dog. Oh, wait ... you probably have! Isn't he something? E is such a good daddy to that dog. So much more consistent as a parent than I ever was. So caring and loyal. I like to watch him with Oz.
We miss you. Thanks for letting me know you are near. I'm trying to open my heart to your hellos. I'm trying to believe that all those little coincidences aren't coincidences. Thank you for being brave. Thank you for being our angel.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
He begins to feel away from me.
I've known this feeling before. I don't like it. Why is it happening so quickly this time? Is grief so familiar to me now that I don't even need much time to process? Or am I in denial?
His hands. I remember thickish .... like his feet. Hobbit feet, we called them. He could grow hobbit hair, as well. Not surprising that Tolkien was one of his favorite authors.
I vaguely remember the physical space of him as he came through the back sliding door. Usually grinning, and bearing gifts. Thoughtful, sweet gifts from his place of work, Costco. He loved seeing the new things that came into the store. He loved owning and giving the things that came into the store!
My exercise shoes are because of him. My heated blanket in winter. Our kitchen knives.
His first gifts? Nausea and stretch marks. The nausea faded with time. The stretch marks didn't.
I now touch my scarred skin reverently.
Please, help me remember. His hands, his legs, his arms. His smell. His hugs. His laughter.
(Oh, that boy loved cologne. Remember that day at Macy's? We went to pick out earrings for your girlfriend, but we couldn't help stopping at the perfume counter.)
I remember the snarky remark said with a smirk. But also, the serious softness of his eyes that took in so much. That tried to understand. That in the end ... left us lost for awhile.
I open the mp4 file on my desktop. The video begins. And I try to remember.
I've known this feeling before. I don't like it. Why is it happening so quickly this time? Is grief so familiar to me now that I don't even need much time to process? Or am I in denial?
His hands. I remember thickish .... like his feet. Hobbit feet, we called them. He could grow hobbit hair, as well. Not surprising that Tolkien was one of his favorite authors.
I vaguely remember the physical space of him as he came through the back sliding door. Usually grinning, and bearing gifts. Thoughtful, sweet gifts from his place of work, Costco. He loved seeing the new things that came into the store. He loved owning and giving the things that came into the store!
My exercise shoes are because of him. My heated blanket in winter. Our kitchen knives.
His first gifts? Nausea and stretch marks. The nausea faded with time. The stretch marks didn't.
I now touch my scarred skin reverently.
Please, help me remember. His hands, his legs, his arms. His smell. His hugs. His laughter.
(Oh, that boy loved cologne. Remember that day at Macy's? We went to pick out earrings for your girlfriend, but we couldn't help stopping at the perfume counter.)
I remember the snarky remark said with a smirk. But also, the serious softness of his eyes that took in so much. That tried to understand. That in the end ... left us lost for awhile.
I open the mp4 file on my desktop. The video begins. And I try to remember.
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