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

 

Talking to the grieving

**This was written about eighteen months after Michael died, so it carries the intense emotional energy of that time. I am not in exactly this same emotional place anymore, but I thought these words might still be important or helpful for others. They are still very true of where I was at that time.**

 

From that first terrible day, I have tried my hardest to not resent the clumsy, thoughtless things people sometimes say. And God gave me grace for that; filled me with the ability to leave all this room for people to stumble awkwardly around our tragic loss. Still, there were some people who made that very hard to do.

There were things that I was prepared to hear; things I expected people to say, so I was braced for it. "But you still have your other kids." It still stung to hear those words, but I had expected someone to say them so it was not much of a shock. To my surprise though, I only heard them once, from someone I truly care about and who was just trying to find words in the face of my pain.

One of our early conversations as a family, in those first jagged days after we got the news of Michael's death, was about this very thing. We said, "Let's decide now to just have grace for people who will say stupid things that hurt us."

This was important, both for the sake of those around us and for our own well-being. If we responded harshly to people who tried to offer comfort in unfortunate ways, we would have to deal later with the damage to those relationships. That would take even more from our critically overdrawn emotional reserves. To lash out would hurt others and it would also hurt us, and we were already so wounded.

Also, we made a safe space within the close confines of our family, Lee and the kids and I, to vent about those harmful words. This was part of what helped us weather those hard conversations. Knowing that we could go home and blow off the hurt, anger and disbelief by telling our closest people about it was part of what helped us hold that line of determined grace.

Another thing that firmed my resolve to take this road of grace was remembering clearly how many times throughout my life I have been the one trampling tender ground with heavy feet and dumb words. I have blundered all over people's raw hearts, with the best of awkward intentions. I cringe to think of those time. That shamed regret fuels and strengthens my determination to respond gently when the same is done to me.

Still, there are times when it is very, very difficult not to lash out and ricochet hurt back to its source. There are some painful, painful things that have been said to me. Some of them have been said by people who truly love me, as they tried to make sense of this unbearable loss. Those are ridiculously beyond my capacity to handle with compassion, and I have to take them straight to Jesus.

When I talk about the way that I have handled these hard and hurtful things, people sometimes wonder why I do not address this issue directly. Why do I not confront the people who speak these deeply wounding words? It's simple. I can't. For someone like me, for whom confrontation is an intensely vulnerable, threatening idea, going straight to the source is no simple matter. That is me in regular life. Now, there is me in the severely wounded state of bereaved mom of a suicidal child. 

My resources on every level have been deeply damaged. Just everyday life takes everything that I have. I have to carefully budget and manage my physical, emotional, mental, spiritual and social resources every single day. I do not have the resources for confrontation. To put myself and another person through even a simple conversation about how, despite how much they care, they have also hurt me deeply, would bankrupt my emotional resources. Because then I would not only be hefting the bulk of my own emotional struggle, I would also have to deal with their wounded sorrow, which only adds to my already heavy burden. I would most likely be thrust (as I have been before) into the position of having to make them feel better for how they hurt me. That is, if they immediately recognized the hurtful wrongness of what they said. If it were to go down the road of their justifying what they said and why it's really fine because they care and their intentions were good, that shoves me into having to defend my having been hurt. This, also, has happened before.

And frankly, I just don't have the energy. Just thinking about the possibilities enough to write it out is draining me, like the light dimming in a room when clouds cover the sun.

There is even a risk in writing about this issue here on my blog. I write about the real things, not only because it helps me, but because a number of people have reached out privately and told me that my sharing helps them, too. Where is the risk in this? The risk lies in the need of others to be reassured. Any time I talk about this kind of thing, people start wondering if they're one of the people who has trod on my toes or stabbed me in the heart. And they want to be reassured that it wasn't them; that they have not caused me more pain on top of all the other pain.

And so they leave a worried comment, "I hope this wasn't me." "I hope I haven't done this."

What am I supposed to say?

The compulsory Nice Girl answer is clear, "No, of course not! You would never do such a thing."

But why must I continue to spend my limited emotional energy comforting other people in the face of my loss?

And what if they are one of those people I'm talking about? What do I say then?

"Yes, actually, you were a huge thoughtless clod and you crushed my already bleeding heart."

No, I am not going to do that, for all of the very good reasons I articulated above.

So here's the thing: if you read my words and you feel a compulsion to ask, whether because you need my reassurance, or even from a sincere desire to know and to learn and to make amends...please, just don't.

If you were one of those people, we are fine.

Whatever hurt has been dealt me, I have taken to my loving heavenly Father and He has given me grace to forgive.

Here is what I would suggest...

If you have any doubts about things you have said to me, or to anyone else who is grieving, then chances are there is a better way you could have handled things. Look at your own words through a lens of truth. 

Were your words gentle? Were they steeped in compassion?

Were they... necessary?

I will give you this two-cents worth of advice:
If you feel a need to wrestle with a death and try to make sense of it, please, please, please do not do so by talking about your theories with the person whose loss is maybe the greatest.  Please.

Please. Talk about it to other people. Talk about it to God. Or to your dog. Or just...someone else.

Trying to figure out a death by talking to that person's nearest people is just not very kind..

Being willing to let your questions go unasked is one of the most loving and generous things you can do for the bereaved, especially in the case of a suicide.

Part of the reason for my starting this blog was so I would not have to answer those questions over and over.

But really....should they even be asked?

Think about the why. Why do you want to ask this question? Is it because you are struggling to make sense of it all? Trust me, the nearest and dearest of the deceased are wrestling with that in bigger ways than you can probably comprehend. 

 Is it because you have a theory as to why the death happened? Leave it unsaid. 

How could hearing your theories possibly be helpful? Think it through. What are you expecting? Are you imagining that...you expound your theory, and that dead person's loved-one nods, the light dawning, and says, "Oooh, wow. I had not thought of that. Now it all makes sense. Suddenly, now that you have showed me the secrets behind their death, it no longer bothers me. I think I'll be fine now." That is not how that story goes.

Seriously, think! Ask yourself that all-important why.  Why do you feel such a need to ask that question or make that comment to that person in the midst of their grief? Why?

Talking to grieving people may not be your best choice, especially if you are just processing at their expense. Why must they be the sounding board for your grief over their loss? Why must they be forced to listen to your theories and field your questions about their shattered hearts? What answers do they owe you? What response are you looking for?

Trust me, it is not comforting to hear our dead child blamed for our complicated relationship. 

It is not helpful to hear someone be astonished at our stupidity for not seeing it coming. 

(It is not helpful to have such thoughtless comments by others repeated to us- we don't need to know!)

It is not helpful to be advised on how to walk this hellish road by people who are not on it. Not helpful.

Grieving people are rarely looking for advice!! Trust me.

This is not your chance to tell me about everyone else you know of who has killed themselves.

How is this supposed to help me wake up every morning and remember how to breathe?

This is not your chance to tell me what I will feel and how I should handle it. 

This is not your chance to process through your feelings about my son's death at my expense.

I fielded so much of this; so many questions and theories and just words in the months following Michael's death. I tried to see this as a gift I could give to people- to help them through this hard thing. I saw that  people felt a real need to connect with me, Michael's mom, specifically, and God gave me grace for those needed conversations. 

There were also many, many conversations in which I was put in a position to explain and explain and answer and comfort and help other people as they struggled with the suicide of our son. 

It became too much.

Frankly, I think this is one of the many reasons God removed us from our beloved small town and thrust us into an RV many miles away. 

People, using me, the mother of this broken, dead son, to help them work through their questions and puzzles over his suicide...

God gave me grace...and then he gave me a break. 

More than a break; he gave me escape. He gave me rescue. He gave me rest. 

I have heard a set of questions that can be wisely applied to any conversation, and they especially apply when talking with the bereaved:

"Is it true? Is it necessary? Is it kind?" 

[edit: since I wrote this, I have actually had conversations with some loved ones about things they said that hurt me and it's gone really well. I couldn't do it in those days when my heart was bleeding and I could hardly breathe. It took time, and healing, and had to come in a safe moment, at a time when I could handle the conversation. I am grateful to have been able to have those conversations and to have had them go lovingly and well.]

Never the same, never, never...

When I think the words, "Never the same," I hear it like this refrain of the song Never Enough from the movie The Greatest Showman.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                No matter the cause of the trauma, those who have experienced great disruption of their lives are never quite the same afterward. Our lives have this sharp point of demarcation between Before and After. We may look essentially the same to others, but in profound and fundamental ways, we are forever changed.

This may show up in a variety of ways: mental health, physical health, stamina, temper, capacity. From conversations in an online grief group, I learned that many who have experienced a sudden, shocking, and/or profound loss find themselves dealing with  degrees or kinds of depression, anxiety and health problems they never had before. 

Our emotional bandwidth, especially in those first months and years, is substantially less than before. Our stamina in  all areas- physical, emotional, mental, social- is dramatically less. Our interests, our enthusiasms, our capacity for creativity...all these things take a severe blow. Some may recover, in part or fully; other may never return. 

In those first early days of our great grief, I remember thinking that I felt like champagne suddenly robbed of its bubbles and froth. I felt flat and dull and devoid of sparkle. I wondered if it would ever return.

There are times when I seem like my old bubbly self, but they're rare and somewhat of an illusion. Even at my most excited, I still hold a grave ballast that never leaves. 

Though I trust God whole-heartedly; though I choose to live riveted on hope and joy...I am still... never the same. This is not a personal failure; it's simple fact. Great loss changes us, permanently.

For the grief-adjacent-  those who are close to people who have weathered great loss- this is important to know, and to never forget. Please, leave room for the grieving to be who they are now, with no pressure to be who they once were. There is no getting back to who they were before. That's simply never going to be true. 

Please, don't put pressure on others to ease your sadness, discomfort, and concern by being who they used  to be. I know it's unconscious, but people have this longing to see their loved ones "back to their old selves," back to being okay. That is unfair, unrealistic and unkind. 

There is no going back. 

There is only finding livable ways to go forward.

Please, leave space for others, and for yourself, to figure out who they are, who you are, now.

The changes are not all bad. Often, there is greater compassion, courage, and tenderness. There is often a new determination to love well and to live boldly. There is greater wisdom in handling relationships and in not wasting the time we have with our living loved ones. 

There is loss, and there is gain, but both reflect permanent change. 

Those who have lost are...never the same. 

 

 

Why God did not answer our prayers for peace

 We prayed. Oh, how we prayed.

When my dear husband came to me in October of 2017 and told me that his job was killing him, and suggested a complete upending of our lives, I went into high-level stress. I was appalled at the idea of leaving our home of over twenty years, our lives in the wonderful small town where we'd raised our four kids, our son who still lived in town, and our daughters and other son who were a short day's drive away- the youngest still in college and coming home for summer and winter breaks, my work in ministry at our church, and my community of wonderful friends- women who were true sisters of the heart. I had a whole rich, rooted life there; a life of connection and purpose. I was known and loved and welcomed there. I had not imagined we would ever leave. I pictured growing old together in that same house with its worn-out carpet and its view of sunsets over the western hills. I could not fathom leaving all this, but when my husband asked me to consider it, I said that I would. I committed to praying about it. I believe that my exact words were, "I can't leave my whole life because you're having a bad day at work...(what a sweet, compassionate, loving response, right?)...but if God tells me to, I will and I'll do it without complaining." That was my bottom line: if this was God's plan, not just my husband's, I would agree and I would not fight it or complain about it. I had learned to trust God, at least that much.

Thus began months of intense prayer. I could see how the unbearable stress of the job was tearing my husband to pieces. I also hated the idea of leaving. I pounded on the floor of heaven, begging God for peace for him, for wisdom and strength to endure; for the godly character to persevere in a challenging situation.

It didn't come.

When I speak of that time in our lives, I have had people respond in ways that disparage the character, strength, or faith of my husband. That makes me so angry. Anyone who was not actually inside that situation has no idea what it was like. He did, and does, have strong faith. He diligently sought God, prayed earnestly, and continued to show up faithfully to this job that was destroying him. There were a number of fine people in that place, who were good to work with. He was just put in a position where it was nearly impossible to do his job, based on decisions made by other people. He cared deeply about the well-being of those who depended on his role, and having his hands tied so he could not do what was needed...was unbearable. His integrity was the very thing that made it so hard.

We had more than one conversation about the tension of not knowing whether he needed to dig deep into God for the grace to carry on, or whether God was using the stress as a sharp stick to prod us out of our nest. For those first months, we honestly didn't know which it was.

Years ago, my childhood pastor told a story about how eagles will line their nests with down from their own bodies to make it soft and warm and safe for their babies. As the chicks grow, and the time approaches for them to leave, the parent starts removing that comforting fluff. Soon, sharp ends and elbows of sticks emerge, making it less and less comfortable to sit in the nest. Only this discomfort could get the babies to leave their life of ease and comfy provision and embark on their adult lives.

Now, I don't know if what I've remembered is ornithological fact, but the framework of the story has stayed with me and it came back to me in those months of desperate seeking. Did my husband just need to take it to Jesus and trust him more? Or was God really using this intense discomfort to pry us out of our settled rut and move us in a new direction?

A few months into this ongoing conversation, two things happened that gave me great clarity. First, my husband told me that he'd started having chest pains every morning before work. This was a classic symptom of heart attack and it scared me. He went to our doctor and had a thorough work-up. The conclusion? There was no sign of heart disease. It was "just" stress. The stress of his job had become that unbearable. The second turning point was when I realized that my appalled horror at the idea had faded away and I had peace about it. I had exactly zero desire to agree to any of this. When I realized that I, rather suddenly, felt a measure of peace about it...I knew that was the work of God on my heart.

 Why did God not answer my desperate prayers for peace and all the other things my husband needed, in order to survive his job? Well...because him staying in the job was no longer God's plan. He allowed it to become aggressively uncomfortable for my husband, to prod him in a new direction. He allowed the stress to have a serious effect on my husband's health, to move my heart out of its selfish clutching of the familiar and comfortable, to a place of willingness. For the first few months after he shared his idea with me, I raged against it in my heart. I was resentful and very scared. We had told very few people, only our kids and a few others, what we were considering. Of course, there were lots of thoughts and feelings about it, and I was the one having all those conversations. It was hard. There I was, trying to find answers to questions about something I had no desire to do or to defend. 

When I learned that not only was my dear husband feeling the pain of a heart attack every morning, but that it was tied directly to his job stress, my own heart changed abruptly. I contacted our kids, told them what was happening, and said, "I care very much about how this change affects all of us, but Dad just shot to the top of the list. I will do whatever it takes for him to be okay." Of course they agreed, because they love their dad. We talked about how our family is one that makes sacrifices for one another; about how their dad had stayed in the same place and the same job, even through times when it was the last thing he wanted to do, solely for their sake. We both wanted them to get to grow up in one town, not having to move around and be the new kids in new schools, trying to find new friends and places to belong. He did that for them. He gave twenty-four years of his life so they could have that stability. As I said to the kids, "It's his turn."

As my heart changed, we moved forward with our plans. It was still hard, and scary, and full of blistering unknowns, but at least I now believed it was, somehow, God's plan for us. We got our house ready and listed it for sale. We moved ahead with research and plans for the new shape our life would take. 

This is the year in which we lost our older son. In the midst of unbearable stress and immense change, we got the news that he had taken his life. The timing made it, yet again, abundantly clear that this new plan was God's doing. We got this devastating news four days before my husband had planned to give his notice at work. Basically, after we were leveled by the nuclear bomb of this heart-breaking loss, my husband never had to go back to that job. He did go in a few times, and tied up the necessary loose ends, but that road came to an abrupt end. All those months of discussion and earnest prayer and slow acceptance and preparation led to this great mercy- him not having to go back to work after our hearts shattered.

In the five years since that time, I have thought that God did not answer my prayers for my husband. I knew God used those unanswered prayers, and the extreme discomfort, to pry us out and move us in this new direction. I thought that his answer had been productive silence.

Suddenly, this morning, the lights dawned. Actually...God did answer my prayers!!!!

I begged God for his protection and help for my husband; for wisdom and safety and peace and integrity and direction. I thought God didn't answer my prayers...because I was looking for the answers in the wrong place! I kept looking at our current situation, expecting God to pour his provision into it and fix everything!

As I thought about it this morning, I realized that God did answer every single one of my prayers. The provision of peace and wisdom and every other thing I begged God for did come. It came when I asked, but it came where I wasn't looking. It came on the new road, poured out to carry us well in the new direction God had given us.

I picture me, standing at a Y in a gravel road. My back is turned to the intersection, and I'm staring back the way I've come, yelling at God, "Where are you??!!!" Behind me, standing on the new road that branches off of the old, stands God, smiling with gentle love, "I'm right here," he says.

 

Grief is weird...a.k.a...My address book is a mess.

 

Who would have thought that a simple tool could hold such emotional weight?

I'm sure we've all been through that moment when we go to the address book and see the name of a dear one who is gone and feel yet another edge of that loss.

This is always a sad moment, but after our son took his life in 2018, flipping the pages to check the addresses of family members became almost unbearable. 

I could certainly not erase his beloved name from the page. 

I may never be able to do that.

I also could not keep having my heart lacerated every time I wanted to send a card to any of our other family members.

It was too much.

I found a little pocket-sized address book that I think my mom gave me one time and decided to use it. I went through the pages of the old book, transcribing names and addresses to the new one. Our last name falls early in the alphabet, so I was in rough shape for most of this project.

This is why the book is a mess.

I was still in shock, exhausted, and battered by the pain of passing by Michael's name; not carrying it forward.This was, of course, the whole point of what I was doing. It was still heavy and hard.

In the four years since that day, I have found strings of names in the wrong sections, and worse, names and addresses I somehow failed to transfer. I have had cards to dear people come back to me, because I'd jumbled the address in the new book. I lost the addresses of two long-term friends, and only re-found the through roundabout means in recent months.

I look at the mess I made of this much-needed information and I feel frustration, but also...compassion for the sad and battered self I was on that day.

Grief is messy and hard and it complicates our lives. It shows up in weird ways, throwing wrenches in unexpected gears.

May we extend gentle grace to ourselves and to others in similar state.

When broccoli feels aggressive

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

 

Is it because I'm sad?

Because I'm sick?

Either? Both? 

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

Yet here we are.

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

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

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

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

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

 

That all sounds delicious, doesn't it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

The mercy of God for my failures.

The tenderness of God for my great grief.

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

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

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