He's the youngest now-A loss is not just a moment in time: the loss of one child and life with his siblings

 A lot of things hit differently with our loss of Michael, in relation to our other kids.

 This picture was taken back in 1998, when we joined my grandma, some of my cousins, and their kids on a float honoring our grandparents for a small-town parade. (And yes, little thirty-year-old me was pretty proud of how those costumes turned out) The "corn" has now been married for ten years, the "pea pod" is getting married this Fall, the baby "turnip" is married and a mom of two, and the "raspberry" was our Michael, gone too soon.

When he died, he was halfway past twenty-six. He was the second-oldest of our four kids, and six years older than the youngest. She's now twenty-seven. He seemed so much older and grown-up back then, but now...they're all, even the "baby," older than he'll ever be.

We've had two weddings and will have another later this year. Without him. It's hard and awkward and painful, hand-in-hand with fully joyous celebration. I had a hard, beautiful, searingly tender moment at our younger daughter's wedding a few years ago, when at the last minute we thought to ask Michael's oldest friend to walk me down the aisle. We both looked absolutely stone-faced in the pictures, as we struggled fiercely with tears. It was wonderfully right, and tremendously meaningful, and also...so hard.

Michael now has a nephew who will turn two next week, and a niece born this Spring. I'm glad he got to be an honorary uncle to his friends' kids ("Unca Mitch" to the littlest, who couldn't quite pronounce Mike), as he didn't live long enough to be an uncle to his siblings' kids. They'll never know him. He'll never know them. How, and at what age, do you tell your small child that there was another uncle, but he died? At what age can a kid handle knowing that their other uncle died by suicide? Our kids who have children will have those difficult conversations to navigate, someday down the road. That won't be easy.

So how do I, how do we do it? We try to pay attention to our feelings in these important situations. We talk about it when we need to. When such a thing comes up, I check in with that child, like recently asking our son, "How are you doing with not having your brother in your wedding party?"  I'm not there to advise or correct, just to listen; to given them an opening to talk about it if they want to.

When I meet our kids' adult friends, new friends made since 2018, and I tell family stories, I carefully don't mention Michael, or things like having had four kids. The stories of their brother and his life and his death are theirs to tell, when and how they choose. I don't "out" their loss and pain to people they may not be ready to share it with yet. Each person has their own journey with loss, and I think it's really important to respect one another's comfort zones and ways of coping.

A death is not a moment in time; a fixed point from which everyone, eventually, moves on. It continues to hit and ripple, throughout the rest of life, for those left behind.

I went to a costume party as my old self

 In our small (very small) town, there is a group called Birthday Girls. Any woman from the community can be part of it. It was started several decades ago by Zonia, who is now in her eighties, and as colorful and creative as ever, to bring women together for a bit of fun. 

Many people, in adulthood, don't get celebrated...ever. I love that, with this group, any woman can come and be celebrated. It's lovely.

For October's gathering, we had a costume party and potluck lunch. Almost every lady dressed up, which made it fun. There were two ladies and a baby in pumpkin costumes, a Flower Child, a 1940s lady, an American Conspiracy Theorist, a bumblebee, two clowns in full makeup, wigs and appropriate red noses, some kind of alien monster bug, and a leprechaun (my own mom, who took home the prize for best costume). I looked vintage, like I'd stepped out of the 1920s or thereabouts. 

 

I spend most of my days dressed down, with a high value on comfort. I haven't dressed like this in years...in six years, actually...six years, four months, and four days. 

That's the thing; while I looked vintage, I was really just dressed as...my old self. That old self, before our beloved Michael ended his life, loved whimsical clothes. What I wore for church danced on the boundaries of "costume" at times. Not like...silly or flamboyant, but...like a character in a play, or like someone who had stepped out of another era. This outfit that I wore for the costume party today? It's truly just what I used to wear to church sometimes. Not that we went to a dressy church...at all. On an average Sunday, if there were, say...a hundred and twenty people in attendance, there might be me, the pastor's wife and maybe one or two other women in dresses. I didn't blend into the crowd, but that was fine with me. I just really enjoyed dressing up and adding a playful edge. 

I have not worn this hat in six years. I couldn't, not only because of the logistics of travel-trailer living and limited space, but because...I'm no longer the person who wore this outfit as part of regular life. Until April of this year, I would have bet money that I would never wear this outfit again.

That sense of light-hearted whimsy died when Michael did, and I was pretty solidly sure it was never coming back. If you've read the post before this one, you'll know that big things changed in my heart this April, and that a lot of healing has taken place. 

When I thought of what costume I might wear to the party, I thought of this outfit and...it felt right! It took some dedicated time, digging through our things in storage, to find it all, but I'm so glad I did. It was so fun to put on this dress, which I loved, and these shoes, which I loved, and this hat, which I loved. I missed them. I missed...me...the me that I used to be. 

It's one of the pervasive truths of grief and loss that, no matter how much we, or anyone else, wants it, we will never again be the people we were before. There is no "getting back to our old self." It's simply not possible. Trauma and loss change us, and there's no getting around that fact. Not all of the changes are bad. Often there are gifts of grace in the dark night of the soul that are truly beautiful. Whether the changes feel like devastating scars or the sweet beauties of a deeper heart-life, the fact remains that we are...forever...changed. 

What a surprise and delight, then, to discover that this part of the old me is not gone forever, or at least not entirely. I really thought she was. Now, I'm not sure I'll go back to wearing dresses and heels for church- I'm not sure my aging feet would forgive me. And I'm not sure I'd casually walk in wearing a hat with a whimsical poof of feathers on it...or even one without the feathers. It's an even smaller church than our old one, and mostly very casual, and...I'm still not the same person who dressed this way. But...we'll see. 

I don't have to know the answer right now. 

For now, it is enough to know that I dressed up as my old self...and it left me smiling.

This...kind of changes everything.

 

Something happened...something good. 

Just as, in the writing world, they say that you write from scars, not bleeding wounds, I wanted to sit with this good, and rather big, thing for a bit. I wanted to live with it; to let it season, to see if it...lasts.

I started counseling recently (long overdue, I'm sure) and have not been sure what I think about it. The big thing didn't happen through anything the counselor said, but in talking to her, I heard myself say something that resonated like a bronze bell. It was something I have known, that saved my sanity six years ago, but I hadn't thought to apply it to one particular point of pain. 

In trying to describe my inner emotional state to people, in the wake of our son Michael's suicide, I have often used two metaphors.

I speak of being strongly compartmentalized; of how Kristie was here, speaking to you and going about daily life, while Michael's mom dealt with the awful, relentlessly practical details of after-death, and Michael's mommy was sheltered tenderly behind a closed door, huddled on the floor, wailing. We check in on her, and care for her very, very gently. Kristie is able to function because Michael's mom and his mommy were given space to experience their own parts of this awful reality. Once in a while, they all collide in an eruption of tears and raw pain, as they should. This has felt like the healthiest, most functional way for me to live with these conflicting realities. I mean...I have to go about daily life, and I'm not especially fond of melting down in a grieving puddle in public. By giving that lava-river of pain a private, separate place to exist, I've been able to carry on and do the rest.

I also say that some part of me, one-fourth of my mama-heart, has been pinned to the moment we heard the awful news of his death. That is a good descriptor...pinned. As I went about my day recently, I delved deeper into that idea and realized how very apt it is. Some part of my beating, bleeding heart has been impaled to that moment like a moth to a collector's board. This part of me has been spiked there, writhing, gasping for air, neither healing nor breaking free, for nearly six years. 

Two things occurred to me, and they have changed my inner world rather dramatically. Interestingly, the first major part of this shift came only twelve days after my most recent post; the one where I spoke of the relentless cost of not crying, and how I could, legitimately, break down and weep at any given time.

The past year has been especially hard and heavy. On the last day of January, last year, a memory surfaced, related to Michael's death, that leveled me. Emotionally, I was almost back to where I was in the weeks just after we got the news of his death. This emotional devastation brought on some health issues that plagued me for several months. While those physical symptoms eventually eased, the emotional weight continued to press me down and down and down. I wasn't depressed, really, but...crushed. I could apply all the logic and self-compassion to this memory, but the hard fact of it could not be swept away. It was like swallowing a shard of glass, and having it get stuck halfway down my throat, and finding there was nothing that could be done to shift it.

Just a week and a half after sharing that post, something changed. 

I spoke earlier about remembering something I knew. It was something my friend's husband told me- the life-ring he threw me- when I was agonizing over my mistakes as a parent, after Michael died. [Not that I blame myself for his death- we all make mistakes as parents, because we're fallible human beings. Those regrets just become blinding in the wake of a child's suicide!] When I shared this, this friend said, "I'm so glad God has mercy on our failures." Those words of hope were the first true light shined into a hard, dark place. Others had tried to help, but these were the words that helped. I have spoken often of how life-giving they were. They helped me find sanity in the unbearable reality of my loss. 

I never forgot those words, but, in the struggle of last year, I forgot to apply them to this, too.

They're just as true, and just as life-giving now as they were six years ago.

At my most recent counseling appointment, as I tried to explain why this helped, I had an epiphany. This understanding flashed through my mind, and I said:

"When God said he would carry my pain, he meant all of it!"

I heard myself say those words, and it truly felt as if the God of the universe was saying them straight into my brain and out of my mouth! 

It was a holy, healing, glory-filled, beautiful moment, and I think I'll never be quite the same. 

This was the vital thing that I had failed to understand.

While Michael's death, and every painful thing around it, is horribly true and there's no brushing away or softening or sweetening any part of it....I don't have to carry it alone!

This is not denial. This is not pretending it's not true. I will never, for a single moment of the rest of my life, be anything less than fully aware that my son is not alive, but (and this is one of those earth-shaking, Jesus-sized, holy "buts") ...the truth of it may be unavoidable, but the crushing, soul-sucking, awful weight of it...is not mine to carry!

It was the crushing, devastating weight of the pain that took me down last year.

I forgot, and I hope now that I see it, I will never forget again, that the weight of my suffering is not mine to carry. 

When God said he would carry my pain, he meant all of it. Truly.

"Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows..."Isaiah 53:4-5

"Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens." psalm 68:19

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls." Matthew 11:28

"You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?" Psalms 56:8

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit." Psalm 34:18

~~~

This moment of clarity was absolutely revolutionary for me.

I also did not immediately run around telling everyone.

Why?

I've mentioned that I have a monthly cycle of emotional capacity, mental health and physical energy. It took me a year or two to figure this out, but it's proven true. The low point of all these facets of my life falls on the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth of every month. Michael died on the 24th of June, and we found out the next day. I did not decide that these days would be extra hard every month; they just were, and over time I noticed the pattern. Just as with all bell curves and pendulum swings and dives into deep water, where there is a low point, there is a corresponding high point. At the other end of my monthly swing, at my high point, I am much happier and energetic and able to accomplish more. 

The day this reality-altering light dawned on me was the tenth of April, firmly in the sweet spot of the "high" between my monthly lows. Because of my nearly six years of experience with this cycle, I wanted to see how this change would weather through the coming down-swing. 

My heart has been through too much to casually bank on an insight caught during a sparkling high-point.

I treasured my epiphany. I gazed at it in tingly wonder. I breathed grateful prayers to the God Who Sees Me. I sank into the rest of its truth and started to heal. But I still kept this beautiful card close to my chest.

A week or two later, I had a whole new, beautiful realization.

Remember Michael's mommy, in her tender, safe little room, clutching her head in her hands and wailing? I suddenly realized...she's not alone! All this time, with all the tender love and care, I've pictured her there alone. Not lonely or forgotten; always held with tender awareness, but just...alone in a loving, private space. The other day, I suddenly had a whole new picture, and even typing these words, my eyes well with wondering tears. I saw Jesus walk softly into that room, gather Michael's mommy tenderly onto his lap, and cradle her close to his heart. He doesn't shush her, but, with such precious compassion, he holds her close and warms her, and tears trickle down his own cheeks.

She is not alone.

The One who wept with Mary and Martha, even when he knew that in like five minutes, he'd have their beloved brother walking back out of that tomb...weeps with me, gently, and with such compassion. My wait will be longer than theirs was, before I see my beloved son, but while I'm waiting and hurting, my Jesus holds me close...and he weeps with me.

~~~~

Here I am, more than a month later, still in wide-eyed wonder at this beautiful, heart-rescuing gift of mercy. I have come through the next low in my patterned swing, and...I felt okay. I felt better than okay. On the morning of the twenty-fifth last month, I checked in with the state of my heart and I felt... light-hearted!!!  For nearly six years, even in moments of sweetest, most fully-celebrated joy, there was a background weight on my heart. I have not felt light-hearted, whimsical, playful or silly... for almost six years. I have fun clothes it would not have occurred to me to wear, because they're playful and whimsical, and that part of me felt...dead. But now...that whole part of me feels alive again! 

It's not even as if nothing hard has happened, to challenge this resurrected life in my heart. I recently went through a rough week, when I felt battered and bleeding by ways other people chose to handle problems with me. I was tied up in knots, unable to sleep at first. It was painful and hard. I was angry. I was very hurt. And still...that weight that had pressed me down for so long...was still gone.

That spike that pinned my suffering heart to that devastating moment at 6:30 PM on June 25th, 2018... is gone. My Jesus has taken every facet of the crushing devastation I carried...and he's holding it for me. The compassion of Jesus is different from how humans, even the best, most loving humans, try to help. He never once dismissed or diminished the reality of my pain and the reasons for it. He doesn't try to change how I feel or convince me to believe an alternate reality. He sees all of it, with the truest of eyes, comes alongside me and says, "I'd like to carry that for you. Will you let me?" And then he keeps walking alongside me, in compassionate togetherness, radiating the most tender love, as he carries all my heavy things. All of this is another facet of the comprehensive, beautiful love he wants to pour out on every one of us. It is there, for every person on earth, if we'll just open the door and invite him in.

He comes alongside us, with such tender strength and says, "Lay your heavy cares on me, let me carry them for you, because I love you." 

That's my personal paraphrase of 1 Peter 5:7, which says, "...casting all your care upon him, for he cares for you."  

(Yes, the apostle Peter wrote those words, but God prompted him to write them, because they're a truth that we need.)

As I have experienced recently, he actually meant what he said. He will do it! 

He's doing it for me.

And now, for the first time in nearly six years, I feel light-hearted.

I feel alive!

NOT Crying is exhausting

 

 

This is something that can maybe only be fully understood by people walking through a similar fire: that as draining as it can be to let the grief pour out, holding it in is exhausting in a whole other way.

Today, Michael's mommy came out to play. I wrote about this concept several years ago, but I'll explain for anyone who hasn't read those words.

The way I have survived our terrible loss, and the reason I am able to function on a daily basis (in addition to the precious grace and comfort of Jesus) is my ability to compartmentalize. The home in which I grew was not a good place to let "unwelcome" emotions (anger, frustration, etc.) show on the surface. I learned to bury them deep and hide them.

Curiously, this hard-gained skill became a great help to me when our precious Michael took his life in 2018. In the first few days, my fiery pain was right out in the open for all to see. As soon, as I had to leave the house, though, and interact in public, I had to have a place to put that consuming pain. And so...I compartmentalized into three facets. 

As I explained it at the time, and as still holds true, Michael's mommy is curled in a safe, protected room, howling and wailing her pain. Michael's mom carried on, dealing with the practical realities of his death; things like meeting with an attorney about his small estate, dealing with creditors, organizing a viewing and then a memorial service, and ordering a headstone. While Michael's mommy writhed in pain, and his mom dealt with these hard, but necessary, tasks, Kristie ran errands, spent time with family and friends, and just...carried on with life. At all times, all three of me are very much alive and active, though Kristie is usually the one people see. Sometimes, if conversation turns that way, Michael's mom will rise to the surface, welling my eyes with tears and making my voice tremble. Michael's mommy, though, I usually keep tucked away where her terrible suffering is private and safe.

Not everyone...few people, in fact...can really handle the raw, naked pain of others' intense grief, or handle it in a helpful way. The heart of Michael's mommy is so vulnerable in its deep, relentless pain that it must be protected from anything that hurts it more. 

This is what has worked for me. It may not be right for everyone, but it works for me.

It is also...exhausting.

I tried to explain this to a friend recently, and she was surprised. She said that she'd have thought that crying would be more draining. She's not wrong. Letting the pain rise to the surface and boil over is certainly draining. Holding it back, though, is exhausting in a whole other way.

I could plop down and cry at any moment.

Yes, after five whole years, the pain is that ready and present, when pinged by well-aimed triggers.

Five long years. It feels like forever and like yesterday. A moment; one harsh, in-drawn breath.

I think that people imagine the goal of grieving to be reaching a place where the pain no longer ruffles the water of daily life. I can't imagine a time when my dear son's life and death will no longer weigh on my every moment to some extent. As long as he's dead, I will not be truly okay. I don't walk around feeling the intensity of our loss every moment, but it is also never absent.

It is this weight, the constant, relentless truth of his death, that presses on me. Even when I am laughing, with sparkling eyes, with dear family or friends, cuddled on the shoulder of my dear husband, or gazing with wondering joy on our precious new grandson...the truth of Michael's death is still real, and still heavy. Whether at the forefront or in the background of my thoughts, it is always there.

Holding that weight, but keeping it set apart in a protected space, draws on my reserves of energy, like a bank of blinding spotlights plugged into an extension cord. As long as the lights are the only thing drawing on that power source, everything will seem fine. For every other thing that is plugged into the same source, though, the strain on the system grows, until things start to sputter and fail.

To step out of metaphor and into my real life: I seem fine most of the time. In many ways, I am fine. Granted, my stamina and capacity are noticeably less than before, but within those bounds, I do well enough. The problem arises when too many strains are placed on the system. The weight of my grief presses harder on me when I'm tired. 

Today, I was very tired. 

I have been going hard for too many days, with not enough respite or rest.

Today, I felt the hard, gray weight of my grief, pressing on my shoulders, clinging to my back, dragging at my limbs, trying to pull me down. Usually, I shove it back into its assigned space and firmly close the door. Today...I just didn't have it in me. I was so tired, on top of everything else, of the struggle to not feel. And so...I gave up.

I plugged in my earbuds, pulled up that certain playlist on my phone, and opened the door of the room where Michael's mommy lives. I took her hand and gently invited her out into the open. I cried.

And cried. 

And cried and cried and cried.

This is what I mean when I say that Michael's mommy came out to play. It means that either I have made a space for the grief to rise, or it has ripped to the surface from some other cause.

It means that I dropped my stoic determination and let myself feel for once.

It is both draining and a huge relief. 

In a way, I was less weary after this extensive romp with my hard emotions than I was before. The weight of it just gets so crushing when I don't let it out from time to time. It was a relief to rip the lid off and, as they said in the old days of the American West, "Let 'er rip!" 

Where is the hope or the useful arrow in this? Well...a couple of things:

*If you carry grief (or trauma or depression or clinical anxiety...) it's important to remember that your physical body carries this weight. It needs to be fed and watered and rested, or its ability to hold up under the load will be compromised. We need to care for our bodies so they can help us carry this weight. If we're unusually tired and worn down, we should expect the grief to rise to the surface, and give it room to do so, when and where and how it will feel safe and healthy to us. Be gentle with yourself. Give yourself the comfort, care, and permission for rest that you need.

*If you know someone who is grieving, or carrying some other heavy emotional load, give grace to their limits (when they say they can't do something...believe them), don't try to "fix" it when their emotions make an appearance, and do not hold onto the expectation that they will return to their "old self." That person doesn't exist anymore. It's harmful and hurtful to be pressured to pretend that we are the person who never weathered this terrible loss. We are forever changed. There is no going back; only trying to find a grace-touched balance of sorrow and joy, moving forward.

~~~

I wrote this post last August, two months after the fifth anniversary of Michael's death. I don't remember why I didn't post it then, but here it's sat as a draft, all these months. I heard something today that reminded me of this post, and I think it's a helpful addition to the conversation.

This morning, I listened to episode #656 of the podcast called The Happy Hour with Jamie Ivey. There was a guest host for this episode, a woman named Toni Collier, who interviewed Dr. Curt Thompson. The conversation was so healing and so helpful to me that the moment it ended, I sat down with a notepad and pen and listened to the whole thing again, taking notes.

One of the things they discussed was the cost of not feeling. I could sure resonate with that! They talked about healthy, emotionally safe ways to bring the grief into the open. They talked about many things, and I took many notes. One of the final comments by Dr. Thompson was so healing for me. He said that the goal of grieving is not that we'll no longer feel sad. He said, "He (God) is not just trying to get us to work through our grief. He's trying to turn us into people who are unafraid of it."

Unafraid of grief. 

That is a goal I can stand to live toward. 

That feels honest and real to me.

May we all find safe people and places for bringing our grief into the sunlight. May we heal and grow to be unafraid of grief; to accept its reality as a normal part of the human experience. May we give grace to one another as we feel our real feelings and live our true stories. May we love each other well.

[The photo at the top of this post shows the first blossoms on my Grandpa Dick's Rainier Cherry tree. He's been gone since 1996, so this tree is growing elderly. It grows by the slowly crumbling root cellar my grandparents once used for storing root crops and home-canned fruits and vegetables. The gray behind the blossoms is the concrete of the root cellar's roof. I love this image- this delicate, fruitful, hopeful beauty growing out of this gnarled old tree, above the cracked and weathered cellar. As the old saying goes, where there is life, there is hope. Here's to finding small, sweet breaths of hope as we navigate this hard, gnarly journey.]

No New Favorite Pictures

When we passed the five-year anniversary of the death of our son Michael, in June of this year, I flinched away from sharing a collage of favorite photos from his life on Instagram or Facebook.

It suddenly hit me, with painful clarity, that they would be the same exact pictures I'd shared for the fourth year, and the third, and the second... They're wonderful pictures, from various moments in his twenty-six years. I treasure them.

What stopped me? 

There will never be a new favorite picture of our son.

This is it; this fistful of most-favorite moments. The stack will never grow taller or wider. 

If I share favorite photos every birthday and deathday, they will be the exact same pictures, over and over again, because the chance for capturing new moments died with him. 

Having that painful truth hit me from this fresh angle made it impossible for me to even go look at my desktop file of his pictures. It has, in fact, taken almost three months for me to be able to look at pictures since this realization hit me.

The pictures are so precious. I love them.

There will never be more, and that is...hard.

Five years today- the kintsugi life

 Five years ago today, at (the best we can figure) 10:30 or 11 in the morning, our beloved son Michael took his life. His death would not be discovered for roughly thirty-one hours. During that time, none of us knew anything was wrong. Our family's first inkling that our world was irrevocably changed was when a police officer knocked on our door to deliver the news.

By the grace of God, we are still standing.

We have seen and lived in the thick of God's merciful goodness and tender love every day of these five years.

We are, also, forever, shattered by his absence. 

Maybe we're examples of the Japanese art of kintsugi, in which cracks are not fixed to make the vessel seem unbroken. Instead, as the vessel is mended, the cracks are filled in such a way as to still be visible. While the shattered pieces are put back together, the breaking is honored. No one pretends the vessel never broke; they honor its past while assuring a future life of use and beauty.

I am glad and grateful that by sharing our sorrow publicly, people have been blessed and encouraged, and some have even chosen life over death- a powerful grace!!! I can see and appreciate and value good that has come during and through our heart-breaking loss. I can treasure it and thank God for it.

I am still...broken.

I will never be someone whose heart did not shatter.

Being who I was before is not on the table; not remotely possible. We are forever changed.

The best, the very best, that I can hope and pray for, is for this broken and gently mended life of mine to still hold beauty and to share that beauty with others.

I will always be a mom whose heart was shattered. I can also be someone who lives, alongside my forever-sadness, with faith and courage and hope and love and joy. Sometimes, joy feels the most courageous of all. 

On today's square on my calendar, my dear sister wrote "Psalm 62:5." I waited until today to look up this verse, wanting its specific blessing for when my heart needed it most.

"Let all that I am wait quietly before God, for my hope is in him."

What sweet, healing, hopeful, true words.

I sit at the feet of Jesus, the safest place for my heart to rest. His bottomless compassion comforts me and holds me close.

I am loved, and seen, and known, and tenderly held.

For that, I am deeply grateful.

I also miss my son with every breath.

Both are fully true, and that's okay.

I love you, Michael, my dear, handsome, deep-voiced, tender hearted Paul Bunyan of a son, with your big appetite and even bigger heart. What I wouldn't give to meet you at Gustav's or La Provence or one of your other delicious "finds" and share a great meal and catch up on life. What I wouldn't give to even take another ride with you in your pickup on a breathlessly hot day and sweat so much from the vinyl seats that I look like I wet my pants. I would do it in a heartbeat. How I miss you. <3

. 

Here are links to a couple of thoughtful articles on kintsugi as a metaphor for grief:

https://www.craftcourses.com/blog/cracks-are-how-the-light-gets-in-kintsugi-grief

https://medium.com/illumination-curated/kintsugi-the-art-of-repairing-a-soul-15b7a2883bc5

 

When broccoli feels aggressive

[I wrote most of this post last year, on June 25th of 2022, the fourth anniversary of the day we learned of our son's death. As it turned out, I did have Covid- for the third time- and it laid me flat. I didn't have the mental or emotional wherewithal to come back and finish this post at the time. Now I do, and I have, and I think it's worth sharing. As I post this, we are staring down the straight stretch at a weighty fifth anniversary of our loss. It is a good time for me to revisit what I learned last year. May we be gentle with our own hearts, and give them room to just...need what they need.]

 

Is it because I'm sad?

Because I'm sick?

Either? Both? 

In the face of this fourth "deathiversary," four years since our beloved son took his life, being sick feels just plain insulting. 

Yet here we are.

My dear husband has Covid again, given to him by an inconsiderate co-worker. (People! Seriously! Stop going to meetings and events, feeling ill, and *then* going to the doctor!) I have had three negative Covid tests, but I definitely have ...something. Maybe a cold? Not sure. 

I already have feelings about what food to eat when I'm passing a heavy emotional milemarker. These foods need to be gentle...comforting. Comfort food is a gift. It is a simple, tangible way to be gentle and kind to our physical bodies as they carry the weight of our emotions.

Knowing that this deathiversary was on its way, I planned ahead for what I would cook; gentle old favorites, made ahead so I could subsist on leftovers through these couple of hard days.

Chicken soup with gluten-free noodles. Homemade biscuits. Creamy noodles with broccoli and ham.

Leftover from earlier in the week, everything-free waffles with link sausages.

 

That all sounds delicious, doesn't it?

Well...not anymore. My waffles, made from a recipe of my own development, are one of my favorite foods. In fact, four years ago as we reeled in shock and pain over the news of Michael's death, my waffles were one of the few foods I could (barely) stomach.

They seemed like a shoo-in for this week. Nope. Yesterday morning, I had to force myself to finish my breakfast...because I am sick, on top of sad, and my body objects.

The idea of protein right now, or vegetables, is not only unappealing. It feels...aggressive. My body is deeply offended at the very idea of sausage or chicken (or heaven forbid- beef!) and the thought of broccoli? One of my all-time favorite veggies? Horrible. 

 My body assures me that any attempt at eating broccoli will be taken as an act of aggression. It has issued a firm request for what earlier generations would call "light fare." Since toast is not an option for me, this will look like...broth. With gluten-free noodles. And fruit. Fruit sounds acceptable.

People have asked me how the anniversaries of Michael's death go; how we observe them and how they feel. Here is my answer: inconsistent and reliably unexpected. 

I can plan and prepare. I can consult the deep places of my heart and arrange my world around what feels comforting and safe. 

For all my planning and care, though, there is no way to prevent "life" from rudely intruding into this sacred space. 

Three years ago, on the first deathiversary, my dad was admitted to the nursing home. He still lives there. The weight of that, on an already painful day, was a lot to carry. This year, it is the nagging weight of illness, and all its added implications and stress, that has twisted these days out of shape.

These hard anniversaries, like death itself, hit in unexpected ways.

I think we all, as our own hard dates approach each year, try to anticipate what will be the "right" way to handle them. Some plan heartfelt observances, or parties overflowing with love and memories. Others plan seclusion and rest. What I have learned these past four years, and especially this year, is that, no matter how well we know ourselves and our grief, and how carefully we plan, the reality of the hard days can still come at us sideways. 

Sometimes, waffles are soft comfort. Sometimes, they feel like soul betrayal. The best we can do is listen to our own hearts, prepare for what we think might help...and be ready to roll with what we actually end up needing. A gentle willingness to adapt is one of the best gifts we can give to our own hearts.

Four years Eight months...how am I still here? Here is the answer.

 

 

Four years and eight months ago, at almost this exact moment- 10:30 AM, on what was that year a Sunday morning, our beloved son Michael, twenty-six years old, ended his life.

The heavy weight and razor-sharp edges of this loss never change. Sometimes we feel them more acutely and sometimes they sink below the surface, but they never diminish and they never leave.

The closest thing I can think of to living with loss, especially a shocking and brutal loss, is the sudden amputation of an arm or leg. Over time, the initial wound does heal, and the person learns to adapt to life without that limb...but the arm or leg never grows back. That place is permanently empty, and that void affects life in big and small ways every moment of every day for the rest of the person's life.

This is how the death of our son feels to me, nearly five years in. 

Yes, there has been solid, deep healing of that initial bloody wound. We are not as shell-shocked and wide-eyed with horror as we were in those first days. Our lives look...normal, now. This is where my amputation analogy breaks down. Unlike with a missing limb, our devastating loss is not readily visible. Its impact is felt, though, in many ways.

I have learned that my reserves of energy- physically, emotionally, socially, mentally- are limited. Those tanks are far shallower than they used to be, and they leak.  I seem fine to those who don't know better and that confuses people. Looking at my seeming strength and capability from the outside, they may be puzzled that I don't do more. They can't see, and don't know, unless I - again - explain the tragic why behind my limits. They don't know that, emotionally, I am missing a leg and that makes it hard to run the way others do.

What enables me to function so "normally?" There are two answers to that question, both springing from the same source: Jesus.

 ***I have intense, unbearable regrets as a mom. Every parent fails their child in some ways, because we are imperfect humans. Those failures are thrown into a painfully bright spotlight when that child dies, and if they leave by suicide that hindsight only gets more vivid and harsh. No kind and comforting assurances can change the raw facts of my failures in my relationship with Michael. Nobody else actually lived that relationship. I did. Michael did. He and I are the only people who really know the ways I let him down. Yes, I fought for that relationship and did some things very right and loved him and hung in there with him when it wasn't easy. I did the best I knew how, to love him well. I loved him and he loved me, and I found out from others after he was gone that he was very proud of me, and that means the absolute world to me. I also let him down in important moments and ways that only became clear in blood-stained hindsight. 

There is only one thing that makes this hard truth bearable: the mercy of God. The first time I deliberately waded into these hard waters of truth, a friend threw me a lifeline of God-laced hope: "That's rough. I'm so glad God has mercy on our failures." Those simple words were a spark of help and hope that I needed desperately. To this day, this truth is the only thing that helps me keep breathing when those regrets hit hard. If I could look Jesus straight in the eyes and say, "Lord, look at the ways I failed my boy," I think he would not pat me on the head or try to brush away my regrets. He would look at them honestly with me. He would speak hard truth, and as he did so many times in Scripture, he would say it with love and follow it with mercy. He might say something very similar to what my friend said; something like, "Yes, beloved, while you got some things right you also let Michael down in ways that hurt him." And he would turn to me, and rest his hand gently on my shoulder and look me in the eyes and say, "Beloved, I forgive you for your failures. They are covered by my mercy. I know they pain you deeply, but I will hold that pain for you." 

There are aspects of our loss of Michael that are actually unbearable. This is how we are able to bear these unbearable things: Jesus carries them for us. When I am overcome by the searing weight of pain or regret, I let the pain out through tears and then I turn to Jesus and say, "It's too heavy for me. Will you carry it for me, please?" This is what I do with my regrets as a mom. The weight is unbearable, but I am not alone and I do not have to try to carry it on my own. Jesus carries all my sins and failures, and this one is no different. He looked down the halls of time before I was even born, saw every single way I would ever falter and fail and said, "Beloved, if you'll let me, I will carry that for you."

 

***"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18) "When you go through deep waters, I will be with you; when you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown." (Isaiah 43:2) "Yet not I, but through Christ in me..." (lyrics from a song, paraphrased from Galatians 2:20)

These words of life and truth have kept me sane and breathing for the past four years and eight months. The only reasons I am functional at all are the powerful tenderness of Jesus, that carries me when I can't walk and holds me close when my heartbreak boils to the surface, and his love that holds my deep and painful regrets and covers that bleeding wound with his mercy. 

God doesn't shy away from the hard truth of our failures, but while he looks at our messy lives under the clear, revealing light of his holiness, his eyes do not hold scorn or disgust or condemnation. He looks steadily at us with clear eyes that lay bare our most uncomfortable truths. He may look at us seriously or sadly. He may get intense in his urging us away from paths of destruction. But all of that, always, is fully infused with his intense love for us, and our pain and regret and repentance are met with unbelievable mercy. 

This is how I am able to live with apparent normalcy-

The mercy of God for my failures.

The tenderness of God for my great grief.

The comfort and strength of God to hold me close and keep my chin above water.

His capacity pouring through me, to enable me to carry on when I do not have what it takes.

The mercy of God and his tender care for my heart are the answer; the reasons I am still standing. They are the reason I am not only sane and mostly functional, but able to laugh and love and live.

Not helpful? Telling me I'm doing it wrong...

A very few people have essentially (or actually) told me that I'm doing this wrong. 

Of these few, 100% of their children are walking around alive. This is an important point.

A friend of mine lost an adult son a couple of years after we lost Michael. He left this earth in a different, but equally sudden and tragic way. She is also a mental health counselor. She knows a lot about healthy ways of handling emotions. Do you know what she does not do? She has never once told me, or even implied, that I am doing grief wrong.

Why is it that these other folks have tried to push me in a different direction?

It's because I'm still sad...because Michael's death still, daily, has an impact on me. Because I still think about it and talk about it. Because...his death still makes my life harder.

The reason for their words is rooted in their pain at seeing me suffer. They love me and they want so badly for me to not suffer so much. For them, and for others, their motivation is a deep desire to help. They want so badly to say something that will ease my suffering and make this not so heavy for me.

None of this is ill-intended. 

These are all people who love me.

Their desire, I fully believe, is rooted in love and caring and a longing to somehow help me in this.

The problem?

No matter the depths of love and kindness that drive the words, the words still land hard and crosswise on my heart.  I do my level best to respond with patience and grace, believing that the motivation is loving, and not wanting to hurt these people who matter to me. Still...their words hurt.

What should we all not do? Tell somehow whose heart is broken that they're bleeding the wrong way.

There is no "fix" for my pain. Michael is gone and nothing will bring him back. His absence is the cause of my pain, and nothing changes that. 

Grief is not something to fix or to solve. Loss is an unyielding fact.

My continued sadness is not an indication that I'm doing something wrong. It is the most natural reaction to the loss of my child.

What prompted me to sit down and write this? A memory of someone- again, someone who loves me and deeply desires to help- suggesting that my use of words is somehow...an avoidance of really working through my feelings.The comments were well-intended. The problem? 

I am a verbal processor. Words are the best and deepest way that I dig down to and wade through my thoughts, feelings, and emotions. I talk, I write, I pray- all ways I use my words to understand my own heart. While it may be true that for some folks, talking about things can be an avoidance of doing something about them, for a verbal processor, words are the most direct and effective way of sorting, learning, and understanding. For someone whose mind and emotions work this way, words are doing something.

I know that because I am writing this and sharing it, there will be a few people who will (or who will badly want to) come to me  privately and suggest that I shouldn't have. They will be concerned that my words will hurt someone's feelings or make them feel bad. They will want to remind me that everyone means well and is just doing their best. 

May I just gently point out the irony of telling me I'm wrong for talking about how it hurts when people tell me I'm doing this wrong?

 

My opening up about something that has hurt me is not the problem. The hurtful words are the problem.

 

Why is it my job to protect people from the discomfort of knowing that their words have made my burden heavier and harder to bear? It's...okay for others to hurt me, but I'm not allowed to mind? It's okay for them to hurt me, but not for me to say, "That hurt?"

 I am not writing this to be mean, to get revenge, or to shame or embarrass people.

So why am I writing it?

Because nothing will get better if we don't talk about the things that hurt us.

Because we all need to do better, at walking alongside the grieving.

Because people have asked me to share my experiences, so they can learn better ways.

Because before my own huge loss, I have also said all the wrong things to grieving people.

 

Now that I, sadly, know better, here is what I want to say:

Please, please oh please, stop telling, suggesting or implying that grieving people are doing grief wrong.

It doesn't help.

It really hurts.

It only adds to an already terribly heavy burden.

Grief is not a problem to be solved.

Expressing sadness is not a request for helpful solutions.

Maybe, instead of trying to fix or solve the grief, or advise the hurting person on how to hurt the right way, we could just...listen? 

You don't have to have the right words in response to grief or the expression of grief.

There are no words that make it not sad and hard.

Words are not what is needed.

What is needed is compassion, grace, and room to just be sad without people trying to fix it.

Dawn of Slow Healing

 

Four years, four months since that horrible day.  

On June 25, 2018, we got the shattering news of the death of our son Michael. He had taken his life the day before, on a Sunday morning. A friend of his, also a co-worker, went to check on him after work on Monday, because he hadn't shown up and wasn't answering his phone. We got the news soon after.

Every month since then, for four years, I've gone into a decided slump as those dates rolled around. This wasn't some private drama I invented but a pattern I noticed over time. The first time I realized this was happening came maybe seven or nine months after his death. My hubby Lee and I were
watching TV one evening and I suddenly felt like I was about to burst into tears. I turned to him and said, "I feel like I'm about to cry, but I don't know why." 

Then we realized what date it was, and the time. It was the twenty-fifth of the month, and almost the time when the officer knocked on our door to deliver the news.

After that, I recognized the pattern. Every month, as the dates of his death and of our receiving the news rolled around again, my physical energy and emotional reserves would take a dive. I learned to build my schedule around this cycle, keeping my calendar clear around those dates. I learned to be extra gentle with my grieving self through those days. Even on the few months when I didn't realize the date, everything in me downshifted to a low, heavy idle. There's a saying, "The body keeps the score," and I've found that very true. Even when my conscious mind was not paying attention, my body and my emotions were very aware of and very affected by the return of those dates.

...until recently.

I didn't say anything for a while, even to my closest people, because I though it might be a fluke; a temporary reprieve. 

It wasn't. 

It has now been four months.

June of this year, the fourth anniversary of Michael's death, is the last time I got pulled into dark, clammy quicksand on those dates. I am...cautiously celebrating. After four years of living through that downward pull and the slow climb back to the light, I'm a little afraid to jump for joy quite yet.

Still...for four months now, those dates pass, and I am...okay. I'm actually fine. 

Let me clarify: I am still, forever, intensely sad and miss our beautiful son deeply.

I'm not saying that I'm done grieving. 

What I am saying is that the monthly cycle of exhaustion and depression has...lifted. 

That bone-deep weariness has not hit me a single time since June. 

I have not needed to retreat to my dark corner of our bedroom for two days straight, to sleep for hours and to stare bleakly at shadows as I did early on. I have not struggled (or failed) to carry out the most basic of tasks, like eating, taking a shower, and getting dressed. Though still a little more tired than usual on those days, I have had the physical and emotional energy to carry on with normal daily life. Rather than my sailboat of life nearly capsizing every single month, it has stayed upright and gently on course.

I am so grateful.

Fourth Deathiversary...Am I "fine?"

This fourth "deathiversary" was a good example of the awkwardness of grief wedged into the mundane.

For my hubby it was a workday, so he carried his sadness in his pocket and went about his day with necessary normalcy.

I had "cleared my decks" in preparation for these days of memory. With no appointments or plans, I left my heart all the room to feel however it wanted to feel about these days. 

There are two consecutive days that I mark each year; the day that our Michael took his life and the next day, when he was found by a friend who went to his home to see why he hadn't come to work.

In many ways, these days passed in completely normal ways. The sun shone, we ate meals, we took the dog out for potty walks. Also, I took a lawn chair up to the cemetery and hung out for a while. His ashes don't live there yet, but the headstone is in place. Aside from the cemetery time, anyone seeing me through most of either day would never have guessed it was a heavier day than most. It all looked very...normal.

And then there is the other side. It looks like any other day, but it also looks like this weary mom lying in bed, curled around a metal box packed with the crumbled bones of our beloved son, breaking my heart.

I rarely let the agony out to play.

Based on comments I've received, from well-meaning people who love me, I guess people think that if I'll just let the feelings out, they'll...I don't know...pass...or dissipate. And I'll be fine. Like if I just have one really good cry (as if I haven't!) then I can dust off my hands and...move on.

Here's the thing...there is no bottom to this pain. 

It's not walking through the fire...as if it has an exit or end that leads to the rest of life. It is living life, every day, in the fire. This is not something I pass through, to get to the rest of my life.

This IS the rest of my life! 

The. Rest. Of. My. Life...

...I will live with the very present, painful reality of the death of our child. That will never change. It will never go away. It will never be okay. It will never stop being permanently, intensely painful. No amount of grieving will change what is true- that our son is no longer alive.

Yes, I seem "fine" most of the time.

Also, I am always this intensely heartbroken, deep inside where most people do not see.

I just cannot go through life wearing my agony on the front of my face.

I don't stuff it out of sight and pretend it's not real. I am always fully aware of its presence, existing alongside everything else. I experience peace and fun and even delighted joy. 

And all of it is alongside this also-truth  of deep sadness.

Because I seem "fine" most of the time, it can seem to some people that maybe it's really not that bad. For those who wear all of their emotions openly, I can see how this could be confusing. This is not how I roll. My life has taught me to hold my true feelings in one place while functioning in another. This practice of compartmentalizing enabled me to hold onto my sanity in the wake of Michael's suicide. It makes it possible for me to function, and even to live a full and happy life, while also holding close the truth of my terrible sadness. This does give the impression that I am, somehow, fine, because I am not visibly in torment and can often speak of our loss calmly.

(Sidenote: Being "fine" takes a tremendous amount of energy. It's part of why I am often very tired.)

All appearances to the contrary, let me say...

Having our beloved Michael kill himself is always, in every single moment, waking or sleeping, the most shocking and agonizingly hideous truth of my entire life. 

It is horrible in ways I cannot even begin to explain. Always. Every moment.

Yes, I live with the matchless, blessed peace of God filling and healing my heart.

Also, having the peace of God does not mean not being sad!!!!

Even with the very real peace of God, it's not a one-or-the-other deal.

I have the peace of God. 

I am also very sad.

And that is okay.

 

Why I don't make posts about Suicide Prevention month

For me, September is hard. 

September...Suicide Prevention Month.

The ...whole entire month... when people are sharing posts on social media about suicide.

It's hard for me.

Don't get me wrong. I am profoundly glad and grateful for the many people who raise awareness with heartfelt and informative posts, and for the many working to save other families from such hideous loss.

People I know and love faithfully advocate during this month, in the hope that other families will be spared what they have watched us suffer. I am so glad that they do; so thankful. If you are one of those people- thank you. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Also...every post or article about suicide makes me flinch.

Seeing the word is like a sharp kick to the rawest nerve I have, deep in the core of that heavy wound. 

On a surface, yet true, level, I am okay. I really am. Also, in the deeper places, I am very much not okay. I never will be, because it will never be okay that our precious son Michael is no longer living.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I have written before about the compartmentalization that enables me to function: how Kristie may be chatting with you and carrying on with normal life, but Michael's mom just ordered a headstone for her son, and Michael's mommy still stands frozen in tear-stained disbelief, unable to grasp the impossible truth that her child is dead.

While I think it is deeply, profoundly important and good that so many people are sharing hope and love and compassion and resources around the issue of suicide, I...cannot be one of them. 

Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

Because that word rakes claws across the bleeding heart of Michael's mommy.

The Juggling of Sorrow and Joy

 I've written about this awkward balancing act with sorrow and joy before, but it is on my mind again.

Yesterday was my husband's and my thirty-third wedding anniversary, which is a joyful accomplishment and testament to God's grace. We've walked through some hard years and are grateful for the healing God has done in our marriage. I savor the sweetness we have.

Yesterday also marks the last time I ever talked to our son Michael.

Three years ago, on our thirtieth anniversary, Michael called. I had a lovely visit with him. We talked for about forty minutes about all kinds of things. I loved hearing his enthusiasm over dreams and ideas, trips he wanted to take, new career possibilities and a cookbook he wanted to write. 

One week later, we got the devastating news that he had taken his life. 

I miss him so badly. 

I am so glad for that final conversation with our beloved son.

Also...that precious memory now casts a shadow over my joy on our wedding anniversary.

In the three years since our hearts were shattered at the news of Michael's death, one of the big things we've learned is the carrying of both sorrow and joy. Neither cancels out the other.

Sorrow cannot kill joy.

Joy does not magically "solve" sorrow.

Instead, we learned to hold both at the same time. 

The most joyous event on our family's horizon this year is the wedding of our youngest child. Her engagement was the big bright spot in the surreal mess that was 2020. Her fiance is a wonderful young man and they suit each other well. Their wedding will be a day of true joy. 

Also...her brother Michael should be here.

He should be there to stand in the line of groomsmen, along with our other son. Our older daughter is Maid of Honor. All of our children will be up there, except for Michael.

He should be there with his big laugh and love of celebrating.

He should be here today, as we move our daughter into the home she'll soon share with her new husband. Michael was great about showing up for moving days, and his strength was a huge help.

I am excited to help with the moving-in today. This is a fun and happy occasion. 

I am thrilled to celebrate our daughter's wedding next month. That will be a truly joyous day.

At the same time, I carry sorrow.

Michael should be here.

Songs that help my heart

There's a playlist on my Apple music app that I turn to when my heart needs help. It starts with two beautiful, powerful songs that we sang at our son's memorial service. Because of the deeply personal connection to those songs, they usually move me to tears. This can be very healing and needed. Also, it's important that I not sink down that hole and vanish.

I built this playlist to meet my heart in that hard and tender place, and then to gently lead me back to a place of peace. As I listened to these songs last night, I thought they might be helpful to others.

Those first few songs take me to such a worshipful, healing place. I've added others that maintain that sense of love and worship. Here's the full list:

O Come to the Altar (Elevation Worship)
Reckless Love (Cory Asbury)
Thy Will (Hillary Scott & the Scott Family)
Do It Again (Elevation Worship)
There Was Jesus (Zach Williams & Dolly Parton)

{the whole album by Elevation Worship: Acoustic Sessions 2017}
Songs on the album:
-O Come to the Altar [again]
-Fullness
-Resurrecting
-Yahweh
-There Is A Cloud
-Yours (Glory and Praise)
-Overcome
-Here As In Heaven
-Mighty Cross
-Do It Again
-Here In the Presence

Songs from a different playlist that I'm thinking about adding because of how they breathe life to my heart:
Who You Say I Am (Hillsong Worship)
So Will I (Hillsong Worship)
Broken Vessels (Amazing Grace) (Hillsong Worship)
O Praise the Name (Anastasis) (Hillsong Worship)
Everything (Lauren Daigle)
Rescue (Lauren Daigle)
Fight Song/Amazing Grace (Piano Guys &Wasatch and District Pipe Band)

I hope you find something here that comforts and uplifts your heart.

Lord, I forgive....help my unforgiving heart

"Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!"
Mark 9:24 NKJV

These words give me such comfort and such hope. They tell me that it is truly okay to come to God with what scraps I have; to speak to Him from where I truly am.

It is not only okay, He invites us, calls to us, longs for us to come running to him in the middle of our confusion and mess.

"Let us then approach God's throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need."  Hebrews 4:16 NIV

Jesus wants us to come straight to him in our greatest weakness and deepest need.

This is where I am.

I wrote before about my need to forgive. (Blocking the Peace- Sept. 17, 2019)
This is real and soul-deep. These are some of the greatest wounds my heart has ever endured.

At least...that is how it feels to me.

What is it that I have been clutching to my chest, refusing to let go?

Blame.

That is the naked, ugly truth.

Holding onto hurt and refusing to forgive means that I hold blame to people for hurt to myself or to my loved ones.  Here's the thing: Whether these people are truly at fault (and some of them are) or whether my heart and mind have laid blame where it is not really justified...the need to forgive is the same.

Forgiving means that I will surrender my toxic emotions that are tied to each situation. It means that I will relinquish the "right" of resentment.

Whether or not my hard feelings are justified does not actually matter. Either way, I must let go of my hurt and anger. I must hand it all over to God and allow him to wash my heart clear and set my mind free. I need to give up to Him my ticket for endless re-runs of the incidents that caused hurt.

So, how am I doing with that?

Well...I have made a start. I have made a small baby step of beginning.

I have looked at each name on my list of "People I need to forgive." I have recalled why each name is on that list, and I have prayed for the grace to forgive.

I paraphrased that verse in the book of Mark to fit my own deep resistance and need.

"Oh Lord. I need you. Please help me. I choose to forgive. Lord, please help my unforgiving heart."

After many months of refusing to even discuss with God the wounds festering in my heart; after weeks of giving frowning side-eye to this list on my table...I heaved the first reluctant sigh of surrender. I took the first small, pained step on the road to healing.

No fireworks burst in the sky. No choirs sang or trumpets sounded (none that I could hear, anyway). But I know that my loving Father wrapped His arms around me and held me close as I did this first, small, hard thing. After I prayed, I felt the first, tiny, quiet easing of this tight know of hurt.

It's a start.

Blocking the Peace

"And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts..." Colossians 3:15b

Having been in church since before I was born, these words have mushed into a blur; all run together into one word. letthepeaceofChristruleinyourhearts... Having heard them times beyond counting, they had almost ceased to have meaning to me...until today.

I have been feeling for a while as if there's a thick curtain between God and me. I've resurrected my practice of daily devotional and Bible reading and prayer, but it feels...effortful. It is a meaningful time, and I have been touched, moved and learned important things, but my spirit feels sort of stodgy. Recently, I have been praying about this, asking God to show me what roadblock I have put up.

A feeling of distance from God is never caused by Him pulling back. He is unchanging, and His love is poured out in never-ending, changeless bounty. If I feel far from God, or cut off from Him, it is always because I have moved away or allowed something to come between us. But what is it this time?

The light began to dawn last night, as I talked to our daughter on the phone. I think the feeling of broken communion may be tied directly to a sticky note on our dining room table.

The note signifies a move in the right direction, but it also represents the sticking-place in my walk with God. The note is a short list of names, and it is titled, "People I need to forgive."

Thankfully, because of God's deep, heart-deep, decades-long work in my life, the list does not extend beyond last year. I have been on a long journey of forgiveness, starting about thirty years ago. I have learned that forgiveness comes in layers, as a long process over time. I have learned to forgive, by God's grace, in the exact moment I am being hurt; to forgive instantly rather than carrying around the offense like a trophy of my victimhood.

I have spoken boldly on the topic of forgiveness, and urged others to walk right into those deep waters, because I know the incredible healing and freedom that bloom on the other shore.

And yet, I have a list of names on my table, of people I have not forgiven.

There is a common thread to this list. It is comprised of a couple of people who have a fairly short path of influence toward the suicide of our son, people who said thoughtless hurtful things to me in the wake of his death, and people who made this already-agonizing year even harder for Lee or our other three kids. Mama Bear struggles to forgive hurt to her cubs.

God, in His infinite, gentle mercy, did not address my need to forgive for long months after Michael died. I think it was probably eight or nine months before He started, ever-so-gently, nudging the idea of forgiveness. I knew the hurts that lay behind that door, but I felt that unleashing all that wounded rage might tear my fragile self to pieces. Despite God's loving nudges, I kept that door firmly, emphatically locked, barred, bolted and nailed shut.

The first, most tiny of baby steps that I have taken forward was to write this list on a sticky note, and to acknowledge the need to forgive. I made that step, and there I stopped.

Given my decades of experience on this topic, I have no illusions over the process. I know that I can't just hurry by with a quick, "Yeah, I forgive them." For true freedom and healing to take place, I know that I need to sit still and let those incidents out one by one, honestly facing the pain and hurt and deep betrayal that are bound up with them. Before I can let go of those heavy wounds, I have to feel them, at least for a moment.

I know that the moment will be brief, if I then turn and release the people and incidents into God's hands, but I have been avoiding even that short time of feeling the pain. I'm just tired of bearing hurt and sadness. It gets really, really old.

I also know, though, that I will never move forward into healing, into peace, into many things, until I let go of these hurts and my rights of resentment.

This is why the peace of Christ is not ruling in my heart. It can't, because I have filled that space with hurt and anger and resentment. If I want to move back into God's peace, I have to clean house. I have to relinquish my "right" to hold onto those offenses and surrender them to God's much-better justice and wisdom. I need to move from my sticky-note list to the actual work of forgiveness.

The broader picture and beautiful benefits of this are spelled out in the rest of the verse I quoted above.

Colossians 3:14-15 "And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body. And be thankful."

- I am not acting in love by holding onto these hurts, no matter how deeply justified my hurt may be.
- It is love that creates a commerce of harmony between hearts. It is love that heals. I am not acting in love by holding stubbornly to this list. God's love is all around me, poured out to me like Niagara in flood, but I am letting it lie on the floor, not taking it up, because I am holding other things in my heart. His love heals, and makes possible the love that flows between hearts.
- Letting the peace of Christ...I used to hear that like, "May the peace..." as if it were a benedictory wish from the author to readers. Now I see that in that one small word lies a wealth of choice, determination and opportunity. I have to choose to allow the peace of Jesus Christ to operate in my heart through the avenue of forgiveness. My willingness is the key that will open the door to His peace.
- And be thankful. My eyes need to move from the hurts of the past to the face of Jesus. My heart will rest in His peace when I fill my thoughts with gratitude, rather than rehashing or clinging to past hurt.

These hurts are big, and beyond my strength. I cannot, in my own abilities, do the heavy work of rooting them up and moving them out. I just have to be willing to look at them, and then let go of them. Once I do that, God will do the heavy lifting.

Sometimes, the process is quick. Sometimes, it is a layered work that takes place over time.

I see now that I will not move out of this stuck, clotted place until I let this process begin.

One of the best quotes I've ever heard is: "Refusing to forgive is like drinking poison and waiting for the other guy to die." It is so true. Holding onto hurt and resentment, nurturing them and clutching them close...it only hurts me. It keeps me from really wonderful things that God wants to do in my heart and my life.

So, this is me, preparing to do the hard and scary thing; preparing to tear off the locks and start letting the big things out of their closet. And you know what? I'm pretty sure that God is already sitting in that moment, with a heart full of tender love, ready to meet me there. He will not leave me to face these hard things alone. He will hold me close through it all.

Grief Reading... not what I expected

There are so many great books out there about the grieving process.

I own some of them, either gifts from loving friends or things I've bought for myself.

I have started reading a couple of them.
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But that is as far as I've gotten.

I just can't do it.

It's not that I can't handle reading about grief. I cannot read anything remotely challenging. I don't mean hard or heavy topics; I can't read even positive things that I will have to process.


The combination of intense loss and immense life change with profound physical, mental and emotional exhaustion has left my brain a soft little pudding.

When I told our youngest daughter recently that I was reading Little Women, she said, "That tells me exactly how you're doing." This is something that my family knows.

Just last Spring, I had this conversation with my dear Lee. I gave him the secret key to knowing the state of my inner world. I was sharing with him some ways that I was struggling under the emotional strain of those days, and I said, "What have I been reading?"  He thought for just a moment. "The Chronicles of Narnia....D.E. Stevenson." "Exactly." "Ooohhh!!!" He totally got it in that short conversation.

If I am under stress, I can only read gentle, comfortable old-friend books. The quickest way to know how I'm doing is to look at what I'm reading. (Currently: Jo's Boys- a sequel to Little Women)

It can be frustrating.  I want to be reading deeply helpful books that will encourage me and guide me along this hard, strange new road...but my brain simply cannot process the words.

One of these days, hopefully, my inner world will settle down enough that I can prowl the pages of all those great books and drink in their wise words.

For now, I just have to be patient and read the things that are gentle on my mind and comforting to my soul. Comfort food for the mind. :)


Things I read in times like these:
Louisa May Alcott [Little Women, Little Men, Jo's Boys, An Old Fashioned Girl, Eight Cousins]
The Chronicles of Narnia
L.M. Montgomery [the Anne of Green Gables Series, Emily of New Moon trilogy, the Blue Castle]
the Mitford books, by Jan Karon
The Secret Garden
Pollyanna and its sequel
books by D.E. Stevenson, one of my favorite authors
the Miss Read books
Understood Betsy
the Riddlemaster trilogy- Patricia McKillip
The Blue Sword - Robin McKinley
the Little House on the Prairie series

I'd be interested to know how this impacts others. What are the books you return to when life hits hard and the way is heavy? What lifts your heart and takes you to a happier place?

Grief eating...carrot sticks and gummy bears

Grief eating? It's just all over the place.

I've been thinking about this post for a while, partly to clarify something I said in an earlier post, and partly just to talk about it.

When I was writing about the wonderful people who brought food those first couple of weeks, I made a comment about what a comfort it was to see my family fed, even though I could only eat carrot sticks. "Johnson Girl Disclaimer" (my mom and sisters will get that- the Nice Girl compulsion to explain so nobody's feelings are hurt)-  it was not that I was being pitiful, like, "Oh, poor meeee. The food is food that I cannot eat. Poor me, eating these lowly carrot sticks." The meals were lovely. It lifted a huge weight off of all of us, having meals brought. None of us had it in us to think, plan, shop or cook. Those meals, and the groceries and supplies that people brought to us were a godsend!

Here's why the carrot sticks: they were one of the few things I could stand to eat.

For the first two weeks or so, the horrible shock and unbearable grief sat in my throat, choking me. I could barely eat, and when I did eat (even something small and gentle, like one square of an allergen-free waffle) I would feel sick to my stomach for quite a while.

Our family often uses bits of dark humor to help us cope with things. The day after we got the news of Michael's death, I remember saying, "Well, this should be a good weight loss plan." Dark humor.

But it was also true. A few times a day, I would choke down a piece of waffle, one small carton of (dairy-free) yogurt, or a few carrot sticks. Those were about the only foods I could stand to put in my mouth. And then I would feel sick for an hour or two, until eventually my body would calm down, like, "Oh. Okay. That was not a hostile enemy poison attack. That was just yogurt." About every two days or so, I could actually eat a meal.

Everyone was worried about my not eating, but my body was in such a state of horrified panic that food was more than it could handle.

My husband, my mom and sister, and the kids, and my friends, were all worried and watching to make sure I ate, and I was keeping an eye on my husband, worried for him. I was relieved to see that he was actually able to eat meals. I mentioned this to one of our girls and she said, "Yeah, he eats, but a lot of his food ends up thrown away." "What do you mean?" She explained. Sure, I would see him with a plate of food; see him sitting down and eating with the family. What I had not noticed was that, as soon as a card came in the mail, with beautiful words of compassion, or someone stopped by to bring flowers or food or hugs and tears and prayer... the emotion would hit him so hard that he could not eat another bite, and would quietly go drop his meal in the trash. For both of us, the tidal waves of emotion made eating a problem.

I also ate a lot of gummy bears in those first days. In fact, one of the darkly funny moments, to us, was this:

My husband and our eldest daughter came in and saw me sitting at the computer. Them: "What are you doing?" Me: "Eating gummy bears and shopping online for cremation urns." Them, with wry humor: "Of course you are."

I needed to find an urn for our son's ashes. Horrible, hateful nightmare of a task. I also needed to eat lunch. The emotion of the search made me queasy, and the only thing I could stand to put in my mouth right then was gummy bears. So...I had gummy bears for lunch and hunted through the online jungle for just the right urn.

I've actually drawn a comic about this, and some of the other moments of this journey. One of these days, I'll share them on here.

Anyway, as predicted, this horrible loss was a "good weight-loss plan." And then it wasn't. Because everyone was so worried about me, I kept a watch on my weight just so I could reassure them. Overall, I lost about seven pounds. Since I'd started out about twenty-ish pounds over my ideal healthy weight, this was not a problem. My weight was not my main priority at that point. I kept an eye on it to be sure it didn't get dangerously low, but how my pants fit was by far the least of my worries.

I had been shaken and shattered so completely on every level that I needed to be very gentle and nurturing with myself. I was suddenly, deeply fragile and every single nerve felt raw and battered. I needed soft voices, kind words, comfortable clothes and comforting food. Comfort food was a legitimate need.

Here is something I'm proud of: even though I needed comfort food in a real way, I did not actually fall back into my old destructive eating patterns. In the past, I definitely used food to deal with my emotions. The day we put our dog to sleep, back in 1995, I ate almost everything in the freezer- even the old nasty frost-caked ice cream. I would pile food in until I could no longer feel the sadness. I would eat until the physical pain drowned out the emotional pain.

God and I have worked long and hard on this issue. To have experienced a trauma like the suicide of our child, and to come through it without reverting to those old habits feels like an incredible accomplishment to me!

Here's the thing, though...grief hits everyone differently. Some people stop eating and become dangerously thin. Some people eat their way through their grief and gain a lot of weight. It is not the same for everyone. In the past I probably would have had opinions about how other people handled things, judging whether they did it "right." I am so over that! This horrible experience has taught me a depth of compassion I did not have before. I look at how each grieving person struggles along, and I feel tender toward them. We are all, every one of us, just doing the best we know how. As my middle sister said recently, "Sometimes, people are doing their best and their best isn't very good, but it's still the best they have for that day." She's so wise.

There is not one, right way to do grief. It is so personal and so individual.

My way was hardly being able to choke things down, and then eating gentle comfort foods for many months. Eventually though, a diet of comfort food will catch up with a person.

Also, my health and eating were impacted by a whole different issue: RV life. Once we sold our home and started living full-time in a travel trailer, we both started to put on weight. When you live in about 275 square feet, you really don't move much. If I were not in all sorts of trauma, maybe I would be one of those energetic, motivated people who work out passionately, and vigorously counteract the effects of tiny-space living. Or maybe not. Maybe I'd still just be me. I am starting to make some positive changes now, cutting back on sugar and going for more and longer walks.

One of my favorite things about God is His gentle compassion. Through those long months of soothing my hurt with food, He just loved on me. Only after about seven or eight months did He gently start to nudge me about the food issue. Gentle is really the word. First, it was just coming across the phrase, "God of comfort" in something I was reading. When I read it, there was a gentle little touch on my heart. Soon after that, a pastor mentioned in a sermon that as He is the God of Comfort, we should really be turning to Him and not to other things. Again, the gentle nudge on my heart. I started thinking about that, and felt God encouraging me along that path; toward seeing Him as my source of comfort, rather than food. A couple of weeks ago, one of our kids said that God had been bringing her to the same message, in almost the exact same words. More confirmation that this was God's voice leading me.

I felt so loved. There was never, in all those months or in His redirection of my thinking, one hint of condemnation. He did not shame me. He truly is all-loving and all-compassionate. He knows the deep suffering of my heart and mind even better than I do. He has been so gentle with my broken heart. At the same time, He knows that there are better, healthier ways and when the time is right He gently leads me toward them. He loves me so much and He grieves for my sorrow. He also loves me far too much to let me continue on paths that will hurt me in other ways. He gave me time to get through those first agonizing months, just cradling me close to His heart. Then, with such love, He started easing me into ways that will lead to wholeness and health.

I think that one of the most important things, for those who are grieving, is to be gentle with ourselves. And for those around us to be gentle with us. We are all, every one of us humans, just doing the best we know how. Sometimes, our best may not be very good, but it is still the best we have to offer in that moment. We need to just love on ourselves and let ourselves be okay with where we are. And then, when God nudges us to move in a better direction, we need to lean on Him and let Him lead us there.

More signs that I missed

I am still smiling gently to myself over how many blatant signs I missed in the past couple of weeks; signs that something was amiss in my inner world. Along with what I wrote in my previous post ("When I don't even realize I'm struggling"), here are a few more things I've noticed.

~ For days, maybe even a week or two, I have spent most days sitting inside, with the shades down. Hint- hunkering down in a dark cave is an almost ridiculously obvious sign of depression!

~ Most of those days in the cave have been spent face-down in the internet, mostly watching hours of YouTube videos.  Hint- losing myself in the cyber-world for hours (days!) on end, and doing very little in the real world? Classic sign of depression/running from my own thoughts & feelings. Other hint- often, when my thoughts, feelings or inner burdens are too much for me, I run from them until I feel better able to face them. Usually this looks like binge-reading. My supply of books is limited (one unfortunate aspect of tiny-home vagabond life), so I have been turning to the internet instead. This, to me, is not always a bad thing. Being able to escape from what feels overwhelming can just be a welcome respite, filling my mind with benign input rather than painful or exhausting thoughts...as long as it doesn't last too long and take over my life. :)

~ There are several unanswered emails, letters and text messages from dear, wonderful friends. I have read all of them, smiled over them, been truly blessed by them, been concerned and prayed over them... but I just have not had the emotional energy to answer them. Now that the clouds are starting to ease from my inner world, I hope to begin working on that backlog. Hint- if responding to messages from people you love feels like an impossible task, you just might be depressed! (And/or carrying an impossible emotional burden, like the sudden, tragic death of a child.) For me, this inability to respond can be a sign of depression, or a sign that the weight of our loss is pressing me down, which are very similar conditions. The response paralysis is understandable, given the long, hard journey that is my current life...but also an indicator that the waves are winning and I need to find a way to breathe.

~ I made our bed yesterday morning and suddenly realized that I could not remember the last time I'd done that. Now, whether or not you make your bed each day is not inherently a depression-marker. That is a simple matter of personal preference. If, however, you are someone who really prefers crawling into a neatly made bed each night and who likes beginning each day by creating that little corner of orderliness, and who takes pleasant satisfaction in the sight,  and suddenly the bed lies tumbled day after day after week, that is something to notice. (Hint, Hint)

~Something less specific, but also noticeable: many things just seem more possible all of a sudden. Like...washing the dishes, taking the dogs for a walk, making dinner. When everything just feels hard and like it's just too much....you might be depressed. :) As I emerge from the fog a little more each day, this becomes more clear to me. It is becoming easier for me to do these daily things, without a huge amount of effort, without mini-drama, without feeling that I am draaaagging myself through the task. Things just feel...possible. And with this, each day our little living space becomes slightly less messy and a touch more bearable.

And now, I think I will open the blinds! :)  I will let in the light, and I will turn on some pleasant music. I will walk over to the laundry house and see if I can put in a load or two to wash. We did a lot of laundry this weekend, but I still have a few loads to do. I will eat a good breakfast, and read my devotional book and my Bible while I do so. I will pull out my prayer journal and lift up those people and issues so close to my heart. I may even stretch my tight muscles and take a nice warm shower. I will put on comfy clothes that make me feel happy. Maybe I will choose a few more things in our living space and put them where they belong. Little steps, but all moving in the better direction.

I so appreciate every single one of you dear people who read my words. This means so much to me. You are wonderful. <3  I have appreciated your responses to my last post, in which you shared your own tactics for pushing back the clouds. Thank you for that. <3  This is another thing that helps- putting my thoughts out there and knowing that others read them. The thought that what I write may help or encourage someone else means a great deal to me. <3

****When I talk about being depressed, it is what I think of as "small d" depression, the kind that is helped by simple changes in thoughts or environment. "Big D" Depression (clinical depression) is a whole different animal. Someone close to me describes it as waking every morning in a "gray wasteland." It is deep and very long-lasting. In a post from a few months ago ("How do I keep my kid alive?") I wrote about some things that have helped people I know who deal with Depression on that larger, deeper level. You really can't just think happy thoughts to solve it, or "boot-strap" your way out of Depression (or Anxiety Disorder). These things need deeper intervention. All of the things I talk about- opening the blinds, taking walks in the sunshine, listening to positive music- will also help those with the Big D, but they cannot fix it. They are good to do, and they can make a difference, but they are not the solution. Big D Depression is rooted in brain chemistry, and it needs to be addressed on a gut-deep level (literally as well as figuratively-again, see "How do I keep my kid alive?"). It can also be the result of trauma, which most certainly cannot be "solved" by just thinking happy thoughts! That needs the care of trained people who know their business, to address the deep scars of heavy wounds. (I have been hearing good things about EMDR therapy, from people who have experienced it.)****

Okay, I really felt that needed to be added- I never want to seem to trivialize the depth of other people's emotional experience and wanted to make clear the difference. <3 Now I really will make a start on the things I need, to help this be a better day. So much love and gratitude to every one who pauses to read my words. You are lovely humans. <3