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.

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.]

Where have I been? Death and bots

It has been a long time since I posted on here. There are a couple of reasons. 

Last Fall, my mother-in-law had a quick succession of health events and then passed away. 

It was a very hard ending, for her and for us.

This is grief piled on grief. It's heavy. 

This hard, painful loss came at the end of a year that was already very hard for me, and I've been in survival mode until very recently. I thought of things I'd like to write and share here, but I just didn't have it in me to make it happen. I'm slowly doing better now, most of the time, and so...here I am.

The other reasons is...bots. 

It took me a while to figure out what was happening. I check the stats for my blog from time to time. It doesn't show me anything personal about my readers, just indicates from which countries my blog is accessed. Suddenly, there were hundreds and hundreds of "looks" at the blog, all originating from one country.

I was puzzled. Either my words on grief suddenly went viral in Singapore, or...something was wrong.

I did an internet search and found that this is a large and growing problem. There are bots that people use to scan every word on every page that others have written. Maybe it's part of gathering fodder for AI. I don't know.

What I do know is that while this would always feel intrusive, and it's frustrating that there's not really anything I can do about it...to have something like this happen with the words my grieving heart has bled onto these pages is awful. 

This blog means something to me, something special and important.

The people who come here and read what I've shared matter a great deal to me. Nobody comes here for casual reasons. When I look at those stats, and note how many people have visited, I pray for them...for you. I pray for those with hurting hearts, trying to make sense of the incomprehensible and find ways to keep breathing and living. I pray for comfort and hope and peace and strength to carry on. I pray for healing of broken hearts and broken families. I pray for those who come here with generous, compassionate hearts, wanting to learn how to walk alongside their grieving loved ones in helpful ways.

When people have told me that what I've written here has helped them in some way, that is deeply meaningful to me. 

This is a place where I can talk about hard and painful things, in the hope of somehow helping others find hope or understanding or just to know they're not alone. 

Having these hard, heartfelt words casually plundered feels terrible.

It may not be a personally hostile act, but it can't help but feel very personal to me...because these words and these topics are very, very personal for me.

I don't want this intrusion to ruin this good thing.

And so... I will carry on anyway.

For you, the real, hurting people who have somehow found my small corner of the internet and have read my words, I am so glad that you are here. I am also deeply sorry for the pain in your life that led you here. I hope that something I've shared has been of some comfort or help to you. I wish I could give you a hug and sit gently with our shared heartbreak.

For my own loved ones who read my words...thank you. Your support means the absolute world to me.

For those who read what I've shared so that you can love others well...your hearts are beautiful. I dearly hope that something I've shared has been helpful to you.

Thank you for being here.

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.

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.

The "yes-and" of holidays and grief

 Holidays bring into sharp relief the "yes-and" nature of living with grief, the hard, now uncomfortably familiar dance of holding joy and sorrow simultaneously. 

On a large scale, every holiday shines a light on the one who is missing and prods that deep, sore wound.

On a smaller scale, the wretched weather pummeling the Columbia Gorge has prevented us from gathering with our other children to celebrate Christmas.

The yes-and of this Christmas is layered. It holds the same sharp edges of the past four years, of feeling the heavy loss of our elder son while also celebrating and savoring with our other loved ones. It also holds this added weight of sadly longing to be with our other children...while treasuring having spent Christmas day with my mom and stepdad, who are 81 and 92 years old. 

Yes, I am heart-sore and teary over the frustration of our happy plans with our kids...and after decades of living too far away for this, spending a winter holiday with my mom is absolutely priceless. 

One way I cope with this awkward juggling act is something I've written about before: I do something tangible...physical...visible...to acknowledge the hard things. This is nothing big, that would be obvious to others. It is just the way I make room for the true story going on in my heart. When I give real space to the hard and painful weight I carry, it actually frees up room for...joy. 

Today, this looked like the careful choosing of jewelry.

This has been, from the first early days of our loss, the most common way I honor my heart's suffering so I can function. Instead of just stuffing the feelings down, I give them official, private recognition. 

I had the joyous opportunity of going to Christmas morning church today, with my husband, mom and stepdad. What a precious joy that was! Also...we were supposed to spend today with our younger son, our younger daughter and her husband, looking forward to our elder daughter and her husband joining the party tomorrow. It is hard to lose that. It is precious to be here.

Here is how I told my heart's story today:

The colored bracelet and the black one with the heart are about our children; the one who is gone and the ones we planned to be with today. I carried all of them very much in my heart today. The little gift-bow earrings were a deliberate choice, reminding my heart to not dwell only on what I don't have. I sometimes need a reminder to also be happy; to let the joy be big and real, too. The other earrings are small black crosses that I bought in the first wave of our grief. I often wear them when my heart is heavy. The bracelet with the silver feather  is my "hope" bracelet. You know the poem that says, "Hope is a thing with feathers...?" The feather on this bracelet makes me think of hope. I almost always wear it when I wear the silver heart bracelet, a reminder to myself that while our loss is devastating and real...hope is also powerful and true. 

If you are also walking this hard yes-and of grief in this season of special holidays, I just want to say that I see you. I see the weight on your heart. I feel the energy it takes to smile and to celebrate and while you truly love this special time, the extra effort it requires leaves you exhausted. I see the careful dance you do of making sure your special people know how you love being with them, while also holding the deep ache for the ones who are not there. 

Hold on, dear ones. 

This is hard. 

You are doing a good job.

It is okay to feel happy in spite of your sadness.

It is okay to feel sorrow in the midst of happy celebration.

We hold both joy and sorrow at the same time.

It is difficult, but it is what we do.

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.

 

You are not alone.

The past week:

On Wednesday, we learned of some heartbreaking things happening in our family.

On Thursday, I heard of a serious situation in the life of a young person who is like family to me.

On Saturday, at four o'clock in the morning, I was driving a family member to the emergency room.

On Tuesday, we got the news that a long-time family friend had suddenly died.

And that a family member's brother had died.

All of this...in just one week.

It's a lot.

 

Last summer and into the Fall, we got news of a death among our family and friends at least once a week. In the space of six weeks, six women that I know lost their husbands. 

This constant news of death is heart-breaking and heavy.

Also...we're not unusual. 

If you're feeling weary...you're not alone. People speak of "compassion fatigue." There must also be such a thing as...tragedy fatigue. For many of us, these past two years have been a nearly non-stop stream of tragedy and heartbreak. 

News of a trauma or death is like taking a body blow. It hits, and leaves a mark. Some blows are lighter, while others bruise deeply. Over time, we heal from such blows. These past two years have been like being stuck in the ring with the world heavyweight boxing champ, in a bout where the bell never rings. For many of us, the blows just keep coming, with  little chance to catch our breath, let alone heal.

It is taking a toll. We are weary and sad and our hearts are very sore.

At the same time...this is the marrow of life; standing in the hard places with one another.

In the wake of our son's death three and a half years ago, people were lovingly careful of me. They did not come to me with sadness or hard news. I was deeply grateful for their thoughtfulness. I was carrying all I could carry. While I am still, always, devastated by our own loss, it is good to see that I have healed enough to walk with others in their pain. I am glad I wasn't sheltered from the news of pain and hard concern in the lives of people I love. I am glad to once again be someone a friend can come to, with a heavy heart, asking for prayer. It tells me that I am, in fact, healing.

If you are exhausted from the endless stream of bad news, you are, sadly, not alone.

Also- good news! You are not alone! My friend, you are not alone. 

We can either plod along in a stunned parade, staring blankly at our own inner wastelands, or we can put our arms around each other and walk together. I think of soldiers from some old-time war, making their way back from the Front. I picture one guy wounded in the leg, while the other has an arm in a sling and a bandage over his eyes. The one guy puts his arm around the shoulders of his friend, to take the weight from his injured leg. In return, he acts as the "eyes" for his friend, so he doesn't run into obstacles.They could each struggle along alone, but instead they make that trek together. 

Our "wounds," and the heavy loads we carry may be different, but we can help each other along. We can, at the very least, help each other to feel less alone. When we're able, we can put a shoulder under the burden of our friend and help bear the weight for a while. 

Sometimes, all we can carry is our own suffering.

Sometimes, we are able to help carry the suffering of another.

Always, it is good to remember that we are not alone.

We are not alone in our suffering and in our care for the suffering of others.

If you are in a hard and heavy place today, and feeling alone, may I just say...I see you there. 

My heart goes out to you, with all that you are carrying. 

I see you.

And I pray that the peace of God will gently gather you up and carry you.

I pray that you will feel his loving comfort, so tender with our wounded places.

I pray that you will know that you are seen and loved, and that you are not alone.

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.

The Spear That No-one Sees

There is a spear shoved through my middle,
jagged, splintered, rusted, rough
skewering me to a moment in time:

The sober-eyed officer standing just inside our front door,
kind in his terrible duty.

"Michael has been found deceased...
It was suicide."

I am impaled, forever suspended
in the thick of that crushing moment.


A savage blade
shoved violently,
twisting and tearing,
through my heart's core.

And yet...

Because I seem so outwardly fine, so normal...

I move, talk, breathe, chat,
cook, smile,
write, love, laugh,
find joy in simple daily things...

Few may realize how,

...every moment of every day...

I still struggle to understand
how to live in a world

where our son is dead.


Sometimes,
even I forget

the jagged shaft
protruding
from my body;
it's heaviness and heft,
the relentless pressure
as it shoves aside my heart and lungs,
leaving me aching and short of breath.

Every moment.
Every breath.
Every beat of my heart.

In those rare moments,
I frown upon myself for being less,
not doing more.

Forgetting how
behind it all
sits Michael's mom,
shaking her head

...shaking...

Bewildered.
How can it be true?

Pierced to my bones
Frozen
Trapped in the echo

"Michael has been found deceased...
It was suicide."

I can't write it yet...

People have asked me to share what are good things to say to those who are grieving, and what are things better left unsaid.

I've tried.

I've tried four times.

I have not posted any of it.

Why?

The hurt has still been too raw and ready, and it has taken me to a very angry place. I don't get angry over most of the things that were said to me. What stokes my fire the most is the memory of words that have hurt our children and made this already agonizing road even more painful. Mama bear. She has a hard time letting go of hurt to her cubs.

 What have I learned?

I will write about those things someday. First, though, it is essential that I walk the road of forgiveness over all of those clumsy, thoughtless, well-intended, damaging, hurtful words. I wrote about this in my most recent post. I have not posted anything since because I am living the journey right now.

I am doing the hard work, prayerfully, sometimes reluctantly, but committed to pressing on.

I will not be able to write in a healthy, hopeful, helpful way about the words that hurt until I have excavated the buried pain and resentment in my own heart and let it go.

For now, I'll continue to share the journey toward forgiveness.

And someday, when I can do it without fire shooting from my fingertips, I will write about the words that were spoken to us in our hardest days.

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.

Beginning and Ending With Thanks

My greatest battles take place inside my own head.

The giants I wrestle with most often are hurt, resentment and a complaining attitude. It is so easy to fall into those traps. My mind can be spinning in toxic spirals without my even realizing that I've gone there, yet again.

So... how do I fight the battle for my mind?

The stock answer would be, "Just pray. That will solve it."

But it's not always that simple.

Prayer can take many tones. There are whiny prayers, and resentful prayers, and angry prayers. Praying angrily or resentfully does not help to pull my mind out of its unhealthy track. Toxic prayer does not heal.

I have a long journey with this struggle, and I have learned a few things. Many would say that if you're having a bad attitude about someone, you should pray for them. That can work, or it can just be a continuation of the same destructive thoughts, dressed up in spiritual clothes. Complaining about someone in prayer is no different than complaining about them in my own head. Praying angry prayers about someone can feel like flinging sharp rocks at their head. Spiteful prayer is ugly.

Angry, resentful, complaining, whiny prayers do not help move a person to a more healthy inner space.

What does help?

Here is what I have learned:

When I am in that space of toxic spinning, the only thing that will stop it and send me in a fresh direction is to focus entirely on God. Talking to Him about my resentments does not help if my attitude still stinks. Talking to Him about the beauty of His own character helps tremendously!
Singing worship songs, even silently in my mind, helps. Recalling Bible verses about God's love and faithfulness helps also.

In my struggles with sleep, I have learned that the moment my mind goes still it will leap to upsetting places. It will either fling me into some painful place about the death of our son, or it will dig up hurtful words and dismissive actions that have come my way. Either one is sure to kick my adrenaline, which guarantees that I will not sleep for a couple more hours. Reading the Bible just before I go to sleep often helps to circumvent this cycle. I have the Bible on my Kindle, which sits next to the bed. If I put my thoughts on God's Word just before I sleep, that puts me in a better frame of mind and helps me to downshift from the day.

There is still the moment after I've put down the Kindle, when I'm settled and ready for sleep. What I'm thinking of as I drift off makes all the difference. For me, if I start praying about issues or for people at that point, it can wind me up all over again. The one thing that works is...gratitude.

The same is true in the morning. If I can plant gratitude in my mind before it has a chance to take any other tack, it sets a better tone for the entire day.

Gratitude is not fancy, but it works. All I do, as I lie in bed, slowly waking up, is to say, "Thank you," in my mind. I do the same at night. When I'm all settled, and drifting toward sleep, I simply think, "Thank you, Jesus. Thank you."  It doesn't have to be thanks for anything specific. Simply saying thank you is enough.

This, making my last and first thoughts be words of thanks, has helped me more than anything else.

I do still deal with skirmishes inside my mind during the day, but it truly does make a difference if I begin the day by pointing my heart toward gratitude.

Softening the hard ground

I recently listened to a podcast that spoke of the Parable of the Soils (also known as the Parable of the Sower). This refers to the story Jesus told in the New Testament, in Matthew 13:1-23, Mark 4:1-20, and Luke 8:4-15. 

The parable speaks of a farmer who sowed seed on all kinds of ground rather than on carefully prepared fields. Some of the seed landed on a hard-packed path where birds came and ate it, some on rocky ground where the soil was shallow. The plants sprouted and grew but with no deep soil for their roots, they could not bear the sun and soon withered and died. Some seed fell on ground full of weeds, which grew up and choked out the good plants. Finally, some seeds fell on soft ground, on fertile soil, where they grew and flourished and produced a rich crop. 

In the parable, the seed is the Gospel, the good news of Jesus, and the different soils represent the hearts of people; how they respond when they hear about Jesus.

Being a church girl, I have heard this parable my whole life, almost to the point where the words have no impact on me anymore. I think of it as getting anesthetized to the Bible- having heard it so many times that we just don't hear it anymore. 

This time, though, the words struck me in a fresh and relevant way.

The past year has been a hard one, to put it mildly. I was already under tremendous stress before we got the news of our son's death, which drove my stress to ridiculous heights. In those early weeks, when I could hardly breath from the pain, I clung to Jesus like I never have before. I knew that He was the only way I would survive that desperate sorrow.

As the months went by, though, that sense of urgency faded. I no longer stuck to Jesus like a limpet. I was no longer faithful and deliberate about drinking in the healing words of the Bible or filling my days with the beauty of worship music. 

Grief is an extreme roller coaster of emotion, and it affected my walk with God.

How thankful I am, that my understanding of God's grace and love has grown so much deeper these past few years. I know now that God has tremendous compassion for our slow, fumbling, confused journey on His pathway. He loves us hard every moment, every step of the way. He loves us deeply and sweetly in midst of our sadness, questions, distance and anger. His love is poured out to us like the grandest, most thunderous waterfall, every moment of our lives. His love is like the softest, most fragrant and gentle breeze that cools our miserable faces when life beats hard and hot like desert sun.
Because I have learned these important things, I knew that God would not be impatient or angry with me for the place I was in. I knew that He would sit with me in love and help me gently to a better understanding.

One of my new favorite sayings is "God has not brought you this far, just to bring you this far." There is always a further plan. 

This time, He spoke to me through the long-familiar parable of soils and seeds. In that story, He showed me the state of my own heart.  The story was suddenly not about a response to the Gospel, but a metaphor personally tailored to my own struggles.

I saw my heart hard-packed and dry, with tough, stringy weeds and sharp rocks stuck fast. A wave of despair swept over me at that. I was overwhelmed at the thought of all the work it would take to change soil like that to something soft and alive and ready for good things. 

But...another version of the idea in that saying- "God has brought me this far, but He loves me too much to leave me here." 

He quickly changed my view, bringing other verses to mind, tying them to a parable of my own life, to real things happening that very day. 

For weeks, storms of lightning and torrential rain had rolled over us every night. Vigorous weeds had sprung up with all that nourishment, making the spot where our travel trailer is parked look a little shabby. I miss puttering in my yard, so I decided to do a little weeding. It's not my job to make it neat. The people who take care of this park do a good job, but I wanted the physical activity and the satisfaction of the work. 

I put on gloves, took a sack with me and went out to pull weeds. It felt so good. I enjoyed being outdoors with a fresh breeze blowing, easing the weeds out of the soil. Though this ground has been compacted by years of tires driving over it, and though it is covered with a blanket of packed gravel, the weeds came out easily...because the soil had been softened by the steady, daily rains.

Ah. That is when the lights started to dawn. 

When faced with a patch of dry ground with a heavy crop of weeds, what does a gardener do? What did I do, in my flowerbeds back home? I did not start by trying to pry those tough weeds from the brick-hard ground. 

No, I started by softening the ground, by putting water on it to mellow it and loosen its grip.

I did not need to throw exhausting effort at trying to fix the state of my heart and force it back into line. All I needed to do was to put water on it, to let the water gently soften that hard soil. God will do the work of pulling the weeds and digging out the rocks. I just need to get my heart ready for His gentle, healing work.

But how? How do I "pour water" on the dry ground of my heart? I can't set a sprinkler and let it run. What does that even mean, to water my heart?

The verses that God brought softly to my mind as I worked at pulling weeds were these:

Romans 12:2a "Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind..."

Ephesians 4:23 ..."and to be renewed in the spirit of your minds"...

Ephesians 5:26 ..."that He might sanctify her, having cleansed her by the washing of water with the Word"...

God connected the dots of these ideas to show me a beautiful picture. The thoughts bumping against each other in my head were about renewing my mind (refreshing it, giving it new life) and the phrase "washing with the water of the word."

When I called a halt to my weeding project, I came inside to do some digging in the Bible. I don't have Bible verses and their references all neatly filed in my brain. Often, I do an internet search with the bits of a verse that I recall, which gives me the reference for the verse. Then I look it up so I can see what it actually says.

The picture God gave me with those few words was so beautiful.

The heavy work is all His. All I need to do is to soften the ground. How? By filling my mind with the living water of His Word. My job is only to get into His presence, by reading my Bible. His job is everything else.

That is so beautiful, and brought deep relief to my soul. Instead of heavy labor, all I have ahead of me is to rest under the shadow of His wing, close to His heart, and read His love letter to me.

He will do the rest.




 

God loves me with quarters

Sometimes, when we're too lost in our own pain or numbness, we can become a little blind to God's attentive love for us. Sometimes, when this happens, and He knows that we especially need to be reminded of just how loved we are, He does something a little out of the ordinary to get our attention. He did this for me this week, with a handful of quarters.

Remember those state quarters, one for each of the United States? I loved those. I diligently hunted for them, putting together a set for each member of our family. I got the special pasteboard folders for them, and felt such satisfaction when every divot was filled with its proper coin.

And then came the U.S. territories series, and the parks and monuments series. I truly enjoy both the search and the quarters themselves. Many of them have beautiful artwork.

I didn't start collecting the parks and monuments quarters until a year or two after they started being issued, so I missed a number of those early ones. I've kept a list of what I'm missing, and over the years I've found many of them. There were a few, though, that I had never seen. Yosemite, El Yunque and Acadia were the final three that I had never found.

Since we started living in our travel trailer last December, we now frequent laundromats and the laundry rooms of RV parks, which necessitates a stead flow of quarters. I often take a few minutes to sift through each new roll of quarters, hunting for buried treasure. I have found a few to fill gaps, but still, those few early ones eluded me.

In the process of all the shuffling in our moving process, some state quarters had fallen out of our folder, and Michael's as well. I was so frustrated to see that. Too late, I thought to put each one in a large plastic zipper bag. I did that, sighed, and started searching for replacements for the missing coins. I'd been able to find all but two, by the time July rolled around.

In addition to the frustration factor, there is also the emotional element of having lost anything remotely related to Michael. That nerve is raw.

This week, we passed the thirteen-month mark since we learned of our Michael's death. He took his life on June 24th, and was found by a friend the next day, which is when we got the news. Every month, those two days are just hard for me. My heart hurts, and every one of my nerves is on edge. This loss of our beloved child is like no other pain I have ever experienced. The days that mark the count of how long I've lived without him carry an especially heavy weight.

One of the ways I survive those hard days is to intentionally carry on with basic tasks of daily life. This week, that meant laundry. I could have done my laundry on another day, but I decided to do it on the 24th. I thought it would help me to get through the day in a healthy way. The laundry room is a few dozen yards away, so doing laundry gets me out the door, walking back and forth in the sunshine and fresh air. It's good for me, and does good things for my heart.

I had schlepped the first bag over and started the first load, scanning the quarters as I dropped them into the slots. There was nothing I needed, so I started the machine and walked back to our trailer. I thought that, rather than checking each quarter as I used it, I should probably make the effort to check all of them at once.

I sat down at the dinette and emptied the baggie of quarters onto the table. I pulled out the wrinkled little paper with my list of long-sought treasure, and began the search. On the second handful, I smiled. There was the last state quarter I needed to refill our folder. A few coins later, I smiled again. There was the last one I needed, to fix Michael's folder. I whispered, "Aww, thank you," and continued my search. That comforted a small sore place in my heart, being able to replace what was lost.

I dropped each handful back into the baggie as I finished checking it. In all, we had about one or two rolls worth of quarters on hand. On the third or fourth handful, I turned a quarter and my eyes grew wide. There was Yosemite, from 2010! I smiled so big! "Oh, thank you!"  I set it aside with the others, turned over a couple more coins, and froze. There was El Yunque, from 2011.

I sat and stared at that quarter with misty eyes and said, "Are you kidding me?!" Goosebumps prickled my arms as I added it to the pile of "finds." I turned over a few more quarters and there it was: Acadia, from 2011, the last of the long-sought quarters. I looked at that silver coin, buried my face in my hands, and cried.

It might seem silly, but I had been searching for these specific quarters for seven or eight years. Every pocketful of change, every time I emptied my coin purse, I checked every quarter, looking for these missing few. All those years...nothing.

Until this day, when my heart was sad and sore, and my loving Father reached down from Heaven to send a precious message to me. It wasn't really about the quarters. It was about my heart. Finding every single one of the coins I'd longed to find in one small pile, all together, sent me a very clear message.

It said, "I see you. I see your heart. I know you. I am with you. You are so loved."

The odds of those specific, hard-to-find coins all showing up in one single batch are beyond any measure of coincidence.

But God.

He wanted to speak love to my hurting heart, and He did it in a way that I could not miss. He did what He has promised to do, and what we have seen Him do over and over this past year: to love me, to hold me close, to be tenderly with me in the broken middle of my pain.

He is here, holding me close. He sees my aching heart and catches every tear.

I see His hand in the beauty around me, and when I revel in an exquisite sunset I often think, "He paints the sky with glory." But that is not something He does for me alone. I am blessed and uplifted by the majestic, fiery beauty of it, but it's not just for me.

This, though, was about as personal and pointed as it could be.

My God, my Abba (Papa, Daddy), my Heavenly Father, reached into my world and showed me His presence and His love with an unmistakable flourish.

Some might think of this as a sign from Michael, but I've never known what to think about that idea. It never sat comfortably with me. I read an article a while back, where the author talked about these things not as signs from the departed loved one, but as signs of love from the One who loves us most. That felt right to me. That spoke peace to my soul.

So, this week, when my heart was a small sad thing, hurting and tired, Jesus reached out and sent me a love note, spelled out with common coins.

The struggle to be still

"Be still, and know that I am God." Psalm 46:10

Those words have blown in on the breeze, waved like a banner, and been spoken in the words of friends and strangers, so many times in the past year.

In my struggle to understand the "why" behind the massive transition of our lives, I slowly came to think that part of it was so that I would rest, and in that resting, learn to be still in the presence of God. To sit at the feet of Jesus and be loved, and learn- this made some sense of all the changes. Not of Michael's death. That was a bomb that exploded in the midst of intense and comprehensive change.

Some of you already know this story, but for those who don't: Lee first proposed the idea to me in October of 2017 that he would retire, we would sell our home, buy an RV to live in, and that he would work different jobs that hire people who travel. This entailed giving up our family home and leaving our kids, family, friends, church family, community, my work (teaching violin) and ministry that I dearly loved. It meant going from a life of steady income and comfortable familiarity to one of uncertainty and constant change.

When people would ask about our plans and I would explain the kinds of jobs Lee might do, the next question was usually, "So while he's working, what will you do?" Most often, I would answer, "I will rest and write." This sounded lovely, but every time I said it, something about it felt "off" to me. It seemed a little too me-focused. It felt like that shouldn't be the end of the sentence.

After a while, the lights started to dawn, and I added to my answer, "...and sit at the feet of Jesus." Now, the whole thing actually started to make sense to me. I needed rest badly, to help restore my health. In order to write, I needed a less busy life. In order to grow, I needed to sit with God and listen.

So many things crossed my path in those months with the message, "Be still," confirming this idea.
I started looking forward to this time of rest and spiritual refreshment. It seemed simple.

The reality has been much more of a struggle than I ever imagined.

For the first several months of this new life, we were basically on vacation. That time of rest and togetherness was much needed and very healing. It was only when Lee went back to work in late March that I started having long spans of alone time. Somehow, it didn't go as I'd expected, and it took me quite a while to understand why.

Instead of quiet hours of study, prayer and worship, or of richly creative writing, I went face-first into the internet and stayed there. I would spin the hours away crawling through Facebook or watching one YouTube video after another.

At first, I just thought badly of myself for wasting so many days this way. After a while, though, I finally started to wonder why I was spending my days (and nights) this way.

After a long time of wrestling with the issue, I finally asked myself the right question:
"Why am I afraid to be still? What am I afraid will happen?"

Oh. There it was. Yes, it really was fear-based. But why?

The answer lay in my struggles with sleep. No matter how many calming, soothing things I did before going to bed, the moment my mind stilled, intensely upsetting things would flash into my thoughts, usually things to do with Michael. This was upsetting, to say the least.

This was the thing that was stopping me. It was not an unfounded fear. From experience, I knew that if I tried to Be Still I would be tormented by painful thoughts. I would suffer a fresh outpouring of agonizing grief, and I was tired of being desperately sad. Deep grief is exhausting. It wears you to the bone, then pounds your bones until they break. It is miserably hard.

Identifying the problem was good, but it did not solve anything. It was a relief to understand the reason behind my avoidance, but it did not fix it. I talked to God about it, saying, "I see the problem, but I don't have an answer for it. Being still does not feel safe to me." This was my position for a month or two more, seeing the problem but having no clue how to move from that stuck place.

As I was traveling back to the Northwest in late May for a visit, my feelings finally began to shift. I started to feel that the day would come when I could be still. I knew that the pounding waves of sadness would sweep over me, but I began to see that God would meet me in those moments and help me through them. I would not be alone in that storm. He would be with me and would hold me close and comfort me and give me strength. I could see a time, once I went home to my quiet little corner of the world, that I would feel safe enough to go to that place of stillness.

I've been home for a few weeks now, and I have still been shying like a skittish foal from the specter of stillness. I came home completely exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally. It was absolutely wonderful to see my people, but all of the people time, travel, busyness and goodbyes wore me out and used me up. Two days after I got back was the first anniversary of Michael's death.

If I had been in a less exhausted state, I might have leaned into Jesus and let His peace carry me through that painful "deathiversary." All I could do, in the state I was in, was to be very still. Not in the lovely, "Be still and know that I am God" way; more the frozen state of a rabbit who senses a predator nearby. That is exactly how I felt- like a terrified rabbit, holding desperately still, knowing that any movement might trigger the predator to attack and destroy me. I had imagined that I might do something emotional and meaningful to mark that first year, but I couldn't. Through those few most-intense days, if I even thought about Michael, I felt like I might start screaming, or throwing up, or both. The pain really is that intense.

All I could do was hold very still and breathe quietly until those days passed.


Colossians 3:15 "Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts." <3

I have been using devotional plans through the Bible app on my phone. The other day, the message was about merely existing versus really living. I thought about that, and it rang very true. For people in grief, this is probably pretty common. This past year has been one of gut-level survival. It has not been about shining or achieving or living victoriously. We have survived. So...yeah, in light of this devotional, I am existing rather than living. It's all I can manage, most days, and that's okay.

I do have a tentative hope that the day will come when this changes.

I do believe that someday, maybe soon, I will take a deep breath, take hold of the supportive hand that Jesus is holding out to me, and step into stillness. I know it may unleash a flood of agony, but I also know that it won't end there. I know that in time I will move through the agony and into a better, restful stillness; a stillness that heals.

Far off, somewhere on that hopeful horizon, I can imagine a time when, not only outwardly, but from my heart, I will once again truly live. I will not only survive, one clutching moment at a time, or drift quietly through the days avoiding the pain, but I will live.

Pizza Stones and Camel Straws

I could have made the title of this something deeply melodramatic, like, "When the pizza stone broke like my shattered heart." My wry sense of humor won't let me go that far, though in a way it's true.

My pizza stone did break. My beloved Pampered Chef pizza stone, dark with years of use, deeply seasoned with memories; all those years of pulling homemade pizza from the oven to feed my eager family.

This morning, I'm making biscuits, and it hasn't gone well. It was nothing big, just that string of petty frustrations that get under my skin. I spilled the dog's water dish, spilled more water down my leg while putting away dishes that weren't quite dry, knocked things over, dropped things into the sink and onto the floor. Petty things, but so many of them, one after another, was getting under my skin.

Hungry and harassed by all these irritating incidents, I stood for a moment, leaning against the counter, head bowed, eyes closed. Praying? No. For just a few seconds, I let it all wash over me. I thought of how, if I didn't have so many food restrictions, I would just give up and ask Lee to take me somewhere for breakfast.

Much as I would love to drive into town, find some cute little diner and sit down to a stack of hotcakes and a pile of hash browns with bacon...I can't.

If I want to eat, I have to cook, even when everything goes wrong.

So...I pulled myself together, pushed back the waves of self-pity and moved on.

We have a little gas oven in the trailer, one that we have to light each time we use it. I got out the lighter and opened the oven door....and saw my pizza stone on the oven rack, broken in two.

It's nobody's fault that it broke. It just happened one day while I was gone.

I stood there with the pieces in my hands, struggling with tears.

Before you think, "Wow, she's weirdly attached to her kitchen equipment," let me tell you about straws.

Not drinking straws, though the whole nation is worked-up about them right now.

I'm talking about the "straw that broke the camel's back" kind of straws.

The whole point of that analogy is that the straw itself is insignificant. What is one single dry wisp of grass among thousands? What is one more petty frustration, piled upon a whole string of other small irritations?

But what about one more small loss, one more small heartbreak, on top of a mountain of other losses and shattering heartbreak?

The thing itself, the thing that breaks me, is often something small and rather meaningless.

Last week, it was a drink shaker.

You know those plastic tumblers with lids, that people use for mixing up protein drinks? That was the thing that made me cry. A drink shaker was my straw; the thing that broke me.

Was there any special significance to the shaker itself? Maybe a little. It was Michael's, and made me think of all the times he must have used it. It reminded me of the years he invested in body-building, and how intently he'd researched fitness nutrition, to give his body what it needed to be strong and resilient.

Still, that would not usually be enough to break me. It's a fairly small thing, on the scale of things that hurt.

Except that, this time, that piece of plastic was my straw. It was that one more seemingly insignificant thing, piled on top of so many others, that suddenly became too much.

For three weeks, I had been reveling joyously in getting to see so many of my precious people...and then having to say goodbye to them all over again. I had been fully immersed in the life that I miss so much. That week, we had emptied one of our storage units back in Oregon and hauled a load up to our long-term storage in Washington. Added to the physical exhaustion was a heavy emotional burden, as a good share of what we moved were Michael's belongings. All of them. Everything that is left of the life he had built.

I had soldiered on for days on end, bravely facing those remnants of his life, handling mementos of his passions and dreams. Lifting, packing, moving. Every piece of that sad puzzle was a small hurt, added a small weight to my heart.

As I sat in my mom's living room, going through yet another box of his things (hunting for the title to his pickup), the pain was building. One book, one dish, one piece of mail with his name on it at a time, the suffering of my loss crept in on me. Finally, when I picked up that silly drink shaker, it all became too much and I broke. I sat on my mom's floor and cried, for all we've lost and all that's ended; all he worked for and dreamed of that will never be.

It's just a drink shaker; just a pizza stone...just a straw.

The point of the camel analogy is not that single bit of straw, but the thousands and millions of straws that came before.

The pizza stone is just a pizza stone.

It is also one more loss.

On top of loss after loss after loss after heart-breaking loss.

After selling our family home, moving into a travel trailer, and wandering a thousand miles from our children, family and beloved friends...after leaving behind community, work and ministry that I loved...after having my entire life ripped up by the roots, torn into a hundred pieces and cast to the wind...after receiving the news that our son was dead, and that death had been his choice...after loss after loss, after letting-go after letting-go after letting-go...my heart is raw on this topic.

Strong as I seem, I am deeply fragile in ways I never was before.

After enduring so much loss and letting go of almost everything and everyone that matters to me, any fresh loss, no matter how small, hits me hard.

The nerves of my heart are raw, my reserves are fragile and low.

And so, some days, a broken pizza stone is enough to break my heart.