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
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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
