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.]

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.

To you, dear readers

I just wanted to drop a note here to you, the readers of my words:

I have prayed for you.

 

Few come to this blog for casual, happy reasons.

Many people who read what I write are probably wading the cold, dark waters of heartbreak.

A couple of days after I share a post here, I come back to see how many people have read my words. I look at those numbers, and I think of the weariness and sorrow they likely represent, and I pray for every person represented by the data.

I pray for comfort, and rest, and hope for you and for your families.

I pray that you will feel seen, and a little less alone on this hard road.

I am grateful for every one of you who comes here and reads what I have written.

Your presence here comforts and encourages me. Thank you.

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