New Year's Eve....

2018.....

the year when Michael was alive....

and then he wasn't.


2019...

a year in which Michael is not alive.


It is breaking my heart, moving into this new year...leaving behind the last year of my life in which my son was alive.

Christmas, the first one without him

I have been quiet on here, over Christmas.

Partly, we're discovering that while we do have wi-fi at RV places, it's not always the greatest. Even checking things like Facebook has been fraught with delays and malfunctions.For several days, I could not even post a reply to a private messages on Facebook.

In that atmosphere of frustration, I thought that trying to write and post something emotional would probably be a bad idea. Writing from my deep heart and having trouble posting it....that would have been a bit much.

Also, I was just being gentle with my heart, through this hard time.

So, how was the first Christmas-without?

Good.
Hard.
Good.

It really went about as well as such a Christmas could go, partly because we had some conversations ahead of time, so I knew what was feeling right for our family.

This Christmas had the potential to be horrifically painful.

Not only was it the first Christmas without our son and brother, but Christmas Eve was the six-month mark from the day he committed suicide, and Christmas Day was the six-month mark of the day we learned of his death. That is a lot of emotionally explosive potential to pack into forty-eight hours!

As we're living this vagabond life now, Michael's urn is traveling with us. At some point, maybe next summer, we will put his ashes to rest. The thought of that moment tears my heart out, which showed me that I need time with this last bit of his presence, before we reach that day.

There is a lot of symbolism to this urn, and to packing it around with us. It is large, and dark, and very heavy, with sharp corners. It pretty much looks and feels like the pain that sits in my heart.

I had thought about bringing it along to our daughter's house for Christmas, including him in the day. I sent a group text message to Lee and the kids, asking their thoughts. My own feelings about the idea were deeply mixed. The consensus from the family was not to bring the urn. Which I totally understand and respect.

This Christmas just has so much heavy, painful weight around it that we needed to ease it a bit.

It helped, going into the day knowing what my family needed.

Basically, the waters of our pain are so deep and dark and cold....we need to stay out of the deep places or we'll be pulled under.

The best possible way for us to survive this day was to let it just be an easy, pleasant day; to stay on the surface and glide past the danger points without looking too closely.

One thing that was agreed upon quickly and firmly was- no family pictures. In fact, no pictures, period. At other times, we have taken pictures, but we firmly avoid: the whole family...without Michael, Dad and the kids...without Michael, Mom and the kids...without Michael...just the kids...without Michael. This time, the idea of any pictures, at any moment was too sharp and too raw. Just...no. That helped. It helped so much that there was such agreement on what felt right and what would hurt too much.

Not that we did not think of him- he was so on my heart- or that there were not moments of tears- there were...times when one of us would just sort of stop moving and tear up. But that was okay. Whoever noticed the stillness would just go give a big hug, just get through the moment with a little quiet, loving togetherness. And then we'd take a breath and move on. Overall, it was honestly a nice time together.

We went to church on Sunday with one daughter and her husband, and to Christmas Eve service with our other daughter and her boyfriend and his family. Both were times of hope and comfort, speaking to our hearts.

We stepped lightly on our family traditions. We did the Christmas Eve dinner that we like the most- a sort of Smorgasbord of fingerfoods. It's easy and quick, so nobody is wearing themselves out in the kitchen. We watched the Great British Bake-off together.

We did not use the Christmas stockings that I sewed for our four kids. Three of them are in storage in Washington. The other one, I ran across unexpectedly among Michael's belongings.That tore a fresh hole in my heart, finding it suddenly like that- so painful. No, it was not a year for the deep symbolism of every-stocking-but-one...or of having them all there, but having one empty, or....no. None of us were in any place to be doing anything big and meaningful. Our hearts could not take it. It's too soon, for us.

Instead,  I took paper bags and created rugged little stockings for our three kids and our son-in-law. They were cute and fun, and helped make Christmas morning not tragic. :)

We cooked and baked lots of good food. Our family really loves food. :) We had a fun, happy time opening presents.

I know that people speak of our departed loved ones being with us or watching over us. I don't know whether that is true. Part of me hopes it isn't. I don't want Michael to witness the depth of suffering among those who  love him, seeing it but unable to do anything about it. But on Christmas afternoon, I suddenly hoped that he was getting to be there, somehow. He has spent the past four Christmases away from home, unable to get time off work to come home and join us. And now, when we finally managed a Christmas on this side of the state...which would have meant the absolute world to him.... he was not here to be part of it. Painful.

I hoped that somehow, God let him be there, or peek in on the day...that somehow he got to be a part of our time together. It would have meant so very much to him, to be there with us.

I did not share those thoughts on Christmas. We just needed it to not be a tragic day. I'm guessing I'm not the only one who thought of that, but I haven't asked. It's such a raw place in my heart that it's not easy to talk about.

The day after Christmas, all seven of us, Lee and I and our kids and our son-in-law and our other daughter's boyfriend (i.e. all five of our kids) :) went to see the new Mary Poppins movie together. It was so good! Our daughter had ordered our tickets ahead of time, so we had a whole row of super-cushy reclining seats. We are from a small town, where the theater, when it was still open, had seats that were probably much older than I am. To watch a movie in a theater, in such comfort, was a treat. It was such a fun movie. And there were some sad parts, and some parts that touched on the raw nerves of our grief.

Again, Michael was so on my heart. I wondered, again, if somehow God let him be a part of that special, happy time together. I pictured him hunkered down behind me, with his chin on the back of my seat, and his arm around me, hugging me close, or just sitting with his hand on my shoulder. It hurt and it helped. Oh, how I wished he was there with us!!!

So, that is how we survived this appallingly difficult Christmas- with simple, happy times together, avoiding the deep, cold waters, with time in God's presence and with prayer (lots of prayer), and by just loving on each other.

What was right for our family might not be what is right for others, but for us, this was what we needed. And we made it through. And we had a really lovely, loving time together.

Considering all the painful angles of this Christmas, I am deeply grateful for how it went. What could have been a time of falling into agony and despair became a time when we gave each other grace and loved each other gently; a time when we made sweet, special memories together. It became a blessing.

And for that, I am deeply grateful.

Thank You...Yes, you :)

Dear Readers,

It means so much to me, that you join me here to read my thoughts.

There is a feature where I can see the countries of those who stop by this blog. There is no personal information at all- only a simple list of countries.

I want you to know that it means a great deal to me, to see those connections with people from far places, as well as closer to home.

It feels as if we are reaching out and taking one another's hands across mountains and deserts and oceans... just quietly standing together, walking together for a few steps on this very difficult journey.

Your presence here, even if we never speak a word to one another, is a gift...

and I just wanted to say thank you for this gift.

Thank you for stopping by.

It matters to me that you did. 

My Christmas sweater...

I think that I need a Christmas sweater that just says...


 "Fragile. Handle with care."


In going through a box of office supplies today, I came across a gift tag from years ago, in Michael's writing.

"Merry Christmas Mom. Love, Michael."

So simple.

So blind-sided me with pain.

Life feels like a mine-field sometimes. I never know when I'll trip over something that will blow a fresh hole in my heart.

Cutting the anchor chain on ideas that just don't work

I heard something so important this evening, while listening to something that my sister had shared on Facebook. It was an episode of "On Being," an interview with Pauline Ross (who writes and speaks on the subject of ambiguous grief.)

Here is the link: https://onbeing.org/series/podcast/?fbclid=IwAR0zHF0EyDy_LB0pc3F6JGwkW8fhwpBthwtVW1I9_xbpUY1hoIDJw-pqULw

(I don't know how to make a link actually work in this format, so you'll need to copy-paste it into the...task bar? on your browser. Sorry- someday I'll be more fancy and know how to do the things) :)

Okay, I heard two very important things.

One: "Closure" is not a word to apply to loss within a human relationship.

Thank you!

As she said, closure is a good thing, if you're speaking about a real estate deal.

But when you are experiencing the loss of relationship, whether through death or divorce or dementia or some other means....closure is not a word that should even be used.

I feel that in my bones.

In our society, we like tidy endings. We like for things to be solved, to be accomplished; for people to "get over" things and move on.

Closure implies that something is finished.

I will never be over the death of our son. I will never be finished with missing him and grieving his death. It will never be somehow okay that he is gone.

I am learning to live within the terrible truth of grief, but this is something that will never have an end. There is no closure. There is only learning how to live and move and breathe within the new reality.

Two: the Stages of Grief....those were never intended to apply to people who have experienced the death of a loved one!

Did you hear that?!!

They. Were. Never. Meant. To. Apply. To. The. Grief. Of. The. Survivors!!!

Those stages were defined for people who are adjusting to the reality of their own impending death!!

Wow. Thank you!

Everyone...every single human...who experiences loss and grief experiences it differently, in different ways, at different times. Some people never experience all of those "stages." Some experience them all jumbled up together.

And that is all okay.

Because that construct was never meant to apply to this journey!

There have only been a couple of people who have felt a need to instruct me on what I will feel in this process. "Oh, you'll get angry. You will." That just irritates me. It's partly the words, and partly the condescending, wiser-than-you tone that usually accompanies it. It's also partly that I just resent being told what to do/think/feel already, and especially now that I'm in the midst of horrible loss.

Not that I'm proud of that. I mean, being resentful is not a character trait to aim for. I've come far, by the grace of God, in that area, but the raw nerves of grief have thinned my tolerance.

I try to be gracious, even in those moments, partly because it is just better for my soul to not trash people, and partly because we are all just being the best versions of ourselves that we know to be and I hope people will extend the same grace to me when I have my own bad, awkward moments.

Back to my point:

It was such a relief, such an affirmation, to hear this very knowledgeable woman say that those tidy, linear stages were never meant for my journey. It is wild and chaotic and so very individual. This terrible loss cannot be pinned to a neat little checklist. There is no ticking off boxes. "Good. Anger. Did that. Moving on. What's next?" No. Just no. It does not work that way.

And I was so grateful to hear someone say that it was never meant to.

A thick month

So...the 14th of last month would have been Michael's twenty-seventh birthday.

Eight days later was our first Thanksgiving, first major holiday without him.

Two days after that was the five month mark since he killed himself.

The next day was five months since he was found, by a co-worker and friend.

This was a lot...a lot...in the space of less than two weeks.

Also in November, both our daughters had birthdays...their first without Michael there to help celebrate.

All of this, in the midst of....saying goodbye to well-loved friends, with an overwhelming amount to accomplish to prepare the rest of our belongings for storage, get ready for a sale of what we're not keeping (which took place under several inches of fresh snow), donate/discard the leftovers from the sale, finish moving into our RV trailer, and leave the town we've lived in and loved for over twenty-three years.


It sounds impossible, doesn't it?

But so was holding a memorial service for our son in the midst of selling our home and moving out.

And yet, it happened. By the grace of God and with loads of help, it happened.
 

Somehow, it all got done. Not smoothly, not always gracefully, but...done.

Again, only by the grace of God.

Like everything, everything the past five months....only by the grace of God!