Uncategorized

I’m sorry, but this just isn’t right.

 

I am in Erie, PA, visiting my cousin. A little while ago, we were headed to be when my cousin told me to look outside, “it’s white.” While we peacefully watched “quality” Sunday night TV, the world outside changed. It had snowed. Everything is now different and it will be more different by morning.

It has been eleven months since Christopher died and I still have a hard time believing it. It has not even been three months since my cousin’s thirty-year-old son was killed by a drunk driver. On the way to Erie, from my dad’s house in Wooster, OH, I stopped and visited the mother of one of my brother’s friends; her 17 year old granddaughter committed suicide last week. I’ve previously mentioned my friend whose four year old died in a day care fire. The list goes on.

I don’t know that I ever knew anyone when they had a child die. I’ve learned since Christopher’s death that it isn’t an uncommon experience and I, in fact, know several people who have had a child die. I’ve been told that we are not wired to have to bury a child; we expect our parents to precede us in death, but never a child. If that is true, then why am I walking with so many through this horific experience?

When I look back to that night in December, if can remember the same numbness I feel tonight. There is an inability to really feel all that has happened; I still cannot believe that Christopher has left this world. I take great comfort in knowing that we will be reunited, but that does little good tonight.

The last time I was here with my cousin Linda, Christopher was with me. He, her then 14 year old son and 10 year old grandson went sledding with Christopher. When we left Cleveland for Erie in the morning, there was no snow, but by noon, there was plenty on which to fly down the local hills. Tonight is one of those nights. If Christopher were here, I have no doubt that he would, even now, be outside romping.

But he’s not. Neither are Kevin, Grace, Megan, Ryan, Taylor, Steven, and the list goes on. I am sorry, but this just isn’t right. Or is it. It sure feels wrong, I can tell you that.

We were laughing earlier today about our sons in heaven laughing at the two of us telling stories. Another of Linda’s sons (she has five sons, a daughter, five granddaughters, and a grandson – she is much older that I), laughed and decided that the boys were probably saying, “I told you my mom was crazier than yours!” Jay may well be right.

I shared Steven Curtis Chapman’s song, “With Hope” with Linda today. Then I realized that I have this all wrong. I am so blessed to have the hope of heaven. I cry, I ache, I hurt, but I somehow do all this with a sense of hope. It isn’t a hope that I can always feel, but it is always there.

You know, it is night, and it is cold, here in Erie, but somewhere out there, the Sun is burning hot and bright. I don’t feel it now, but it still is; my feelings have nothing to do with that reality. I don’t feel like any loss of a child is “right”, but it still is. God is good and He loves me. In the past eleven months, that has been my hope. Do I feel it, not often, but I have to remember, my feelings have nothing to do with that reality.

Wandering – Alone with Others

 

Since Christopher’s death, there have been several other young people who have died, including my cousin’s 30 year old son.  I have also attended the funeral of a former co-worker’s 18 year old son.  There has been other young people to die in Tallahassee, including a young man whose father died two weeks later.  So much pain, so much grief.


So, I guess my experience is not so unique.  Why doesn’t that help?  I am trying to look at all these other losses to normalize the loss that I have experienced.  I can’t do it.  I know that they loved their children, but they didn’t lose Christopher.  (Yes, I realize that I haven’t lost their loved one either, but that is not my issue.  My issue is that I lost Christopher.  Call me self-centered.)


What did I lose when Christopher died?  Not just what you might think.  Sure, I lost a fine young man.  A tall, handsome man who called me “mom”.  But I lost more than that.  I feel like I lost my closest companion.  As a friend said, I lost the wind in my sails.  Every now and again, I get a breeze as I begin to look ahead and try to begin a “new” life.  The problem is that it is lonely.


Sailing is not fun alone.  Traveling is not fun alone.  The plans that I am making would be so much more enjoyable if I could just tell Christopher about them.  I know that he would not always be “traveling” with me, but he still would share in the details.  He wouldn’t admit it, but he’d be proud when I graduate next Summer.  


I lost my sense of family; my sense of my belonging for the future.  I know that I have a place, I have a purpose, it is just suddenly not the one that I’ve been imagining for the last 14 years.  


I miss my old dreams.  As yet, I can’t imagine the new ones, but I know they are there.

Is Hope the Best We’ve Got?

 

I love the hope that is provided in the Gospel. I love that through Christ, we have the hope of heaven, the hope of being reunited with Christopher, etc. But more than hope, I have confidence. I know that Christopher is in heaven, I know that I am going to heaven and we will be reunited.

I don’t hope that God forgives me, I know that He does. I don’t hope that God will sustain me through this painful process that I hate so intensely; I know that He will.

God has made a lot of promises. I don’t hope that He keeps his promises; I know that He will. Hope is not the best that God offers. He offers Himself and that gives me confidence.

And for that I am truly thankful.

Reflections for a hard “Night of Worship”

 

Last night, I attended a night of worship at a local church.  The music was not particularly my styles, but it was good.  I had to leave early however, because I was struggling so deeply.  Interestingly enough, I wasn’t when I went (otherwise I wouldn’t have gone – duh!)

Upon further review (yes, yesterday was an NFL Sunday), I realized that this was a different time of worship and I am not sure that I like it.  The reason, I went, was that I need to focus on Jesus;  I need to be reminded about who God is.  That is what I think of when I think of a night of worship.
The songs selected for last nights “event” (using Facebook lingo here), had the word “I” in them to many times.  I wish I could remember them all.  But it seemed to be more about us praising than it was about the object of our praise.  It kind of reminded me of a pastor who once told me that he loved me unconditionally.  I finally figured out that mean he didn’t really, because he had to keep telling me.  Rather than talking about praise, let’s just do it!
I think that these songs were hard for me because, while my faith has remained strong, it has certainly been a struggle.  My faith hasn’t been a struggle, but anytime someone wants me to get over my circumstances because of who God is, I crash.  I firmly believe that I can have confident faith, and still be in the pain of grief.  If the scales are going to be tipped towards praise in the midst of the circumstances, it is only going to be done by a genuine focus on the character of God and not by declaring that “Praise is what I do.”
In the songs and from the worship leader, I felt condemned for hurting so.  I felt like he was implying that to allow circumstances to influence us was wrong.  I don’t don’t know how you can avoid letting the death of your only child not affect you;  it just wouldn’t be honest.  I am convinced that standing before God, admitting my pain is worship.  And when I am able to do this, “I” is not the main noun;  I go because if who He is and not who I am.
I am thankful that he makes that possible.

Memories from Pensacola: the good, bad, and the ugly

 

Yesterday, I had reason to go to Pensacola.  My mom had lived in that area (Gulf Breeze) since before I adopted Christopher until 2003.  As a result, there are a lot of “Christopher memories” in that area.

As a matter of fact, the home that Christopher lived in before he came to me was in Santa Rosa County (same as Gulf Breeze).  When we were transitioning from their family to me, we would alternate between me coming to their home or that family coming to mine.  When I would pick him up at their home, Christopher and I would just go to my mom’s place rather than driving all the way back to Tallahassee.  As a result, some of my earliest memories of getting to know Christopher were based in that area.  
We often went to “Quiet Waters Beach”.  This is an area on Pensacola beach, on the sound side, that was very calm; perfect for small children.  The water was shallow and the beach was full of families with young children.  At the place where my mom live, Seaview Pines, there were 23 units in a “U” shape.  In the courtyard, there was a small pool.  For most of the time that mom lived there, this was a really great community.  We would be out at the pool and everybody knew us and we knew them.  It was easy place to be.
Seaview Pines was destroyed by Hurricane Ivan in 2004.  The place has been rebuilt, but nothing looks even remotely familiar.  It was almost hard to imagine what I remembered.  It appears that few people who lived there before the hurricane will be back.    
That is kind of how I feel about moving forward without Christopher.  What I knew has been destroyed.  It is being rebuilt, but it doesn’t look even remotely familiar.  I fear that it will become hard to imagine what I remember (and that is why I write).  The question is, what can be done?
I don’t know.  I suspect that this is the root cause of my desire for a “new life.”  I don’t want to rebuild on the same ground.  I don’t know that I can handle trying to live with the memories in a place while there is a totally different view.  At the same time, every change I consider is diminished by the reality that it will always be a direction that I took, “because Christopher died.”  Hard to get excited about that foundation on which to move forward.
Doesn’t appear to leave a lot of options.

Slow Fade

 

Below are the lyrics from the above-referenced song by Casting Crowns.

“Slow Fade”

Be careful little eyes what you see
It’s the second glance that ties your hands as darkness pulls the strings
Be careful little feet where you go
For it’s the little feet behind you that are sure to follow

It’s a slow fade when you give yourself away
It’s a slow fade when black and white have turned to gray
Thoughts invade, choices are made, a price will be paid
When you give yourself away
People never crumble in a day
It’s a slow fade, it’s a slow fade

Be careful little ears what you hear
When flattery leads to compromise, the end is always near
Be careful little lips what you say
For empty words and promises lead broken hearts astray

It’s a slow fade when you give yourself away
It’s a slow fade when black and white have turned to gray
Thoughts invade, choices are made, a price will be paid
When you give yourself away
People never crumble in a day

The journey from your mind to your hands
Is shorter than you’re thinking
Be careful if you think you stand
You just might be sinking

It’s a slow fade when you give yourself away
It’s a slow fade when black and white have turned to gray
Thoughts invade, choices are made, a price will be paid
When you give yourself away
People never crumble in a day
Daddies never crumble in a day
Families never crumble in a day

Oh be careful little eyes what see
Oh be careful little eyes what you see
For the Father up above is looking down in love
Oh be careful little eyes what you see

Grief is like Football?

 

I absolutely love to watch football, much to almost everybody I know’s amazement. I especially love the NFL. Falls are hard for me because there are late games on both Sunday night and Monday night. Jessica asked me on Monday night who I wanted to win. I don’t even remember who was playing; it does matter. I just love to watch football.

Yesterday I was encouraged that that the only way through this grief process is right up the middle. Of course, I think of football. Actually, I don’t know that my friend who offered this counsel even watches football, but no matter. Have you ever seen the brutality that players who try to run up the middle experience? I think that I watch in awe that not more guys get hurt.

So I, at five foot tall and too many pounds, am being told that the only way through this grief process is to run straight through it. I picture myself in a Cleveland Browns (of course) uniform and the play has started before I was ready. I’ve been handed the ball and, having see the size of those defensive guys, I don’t want the ball. But I’ve got it and there are boundaries that keep me from running around them. So, I have no choice but to go up the middle.

I am confident that this is going to result in my certain death. I know that it really hurts.

I can hear the commentators, “If she can just keep her legs moving, she’ll make it through.”

Lord, please just help me keep my legs moving. Either way, it is going to be a painful process, but the shortest difference, I’m told, is straight through it.

Roller Coaster Ride

 

Probably the most surprising thing through this process is the range of emotions and how quickly they can change – in either direction. Today was a good day. Work went well, I had lunch with a dear friend who lets me be where I am, I was encouraged to see new life in the midst of grief when I visited my friend Lili, I talked to two other dear friends and made plans for a trip the week after Christmas. All in all, a very good day.

Tonight I went to run an errand with a friend. We stopped at the cemetary to remove flowers that I had put on Christopher’s grave for his birthday. Crash. I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise when visiting my son’s grave makes me kind of sad. As Christopher would say, “Duh!” But it was a good day and nothing really changed except that I started thinking.

I am much better on autopilot. I do much better when I am busy and don’t think too much about my new reality. As a parent, I would often scold Christopher to “Think!”, but as a grieving parent, I would do well to not think too much.

Clearly Christopher was smarter than I; he knew that thinking was overrated! He just lived life to the fullest and generally had a great time.

For that I am very thankful.

Trying to run

 

I so want this process to end.  I am willing to run from it, but it appears that I can’t hide from it so what is the use.  It is an odd process in that I am constantly amazed on how hard it is to accept what has happened.  I still look at pictures of Christopher and can’t believe that he is gone from this world.

And the ache has been more intense this week than it has been for months.  I never imagined a couple of months ago that it could get harder or hurt more, but I was wrong.  I just so want a break from having to deal with it, but there is no where to go to escape.  I’ve tried some old standbys, but they haven’t worked.  Part of me doesn’t want them to work because I know that I can’t run away from this; it will always be there whenever I decide to face it.  It is kind of like work after a long weekend; everything is still there waiting for me to deal with it.
I think that the hardest thing is the alone-ness.  It isn’t exactly loneliness, but it is being alone in my grief.  There is nobody who knows what I’ve lost in Christopher; we had a one-of-a-kind relationship.  I don’t like (and never have liked) the feeling of being alone in my emotion; I am a talker and need to let it out.  
I’ve cried more this week than I have for months.  I guess that is letting the emotion out before God.  He knows what I’ve lost; He understands.  I just need to believe that He is enough.  The hole left seems to big, too deep, for even Him.  I guess the reality is that it is bigger than what my faith feels like it can handle, but it isn’t bigger than what my God can handle.  Somehow, it seems that He wants me to want Him to fill it; it doesn’t seem like He is going to just barge in. 
I want to want Him, but I am afraid.  It seems like if He is going to work, it means that the pain will go away and I haven’t found that to be the case.  I so want relief.  I confess that I want relief more than I want God.  
Herein lies the problem.

I need to see a light

 

Last Saturday was Christopher’s 18th birthday.  He didn’t show up.  I really didn’t expect that he would, but I so wanted him to.  I miss him so and he so much was looking forward to his 18th birthday; I wanted to share his birthday with him.

On Saturday, Mike Houghton sang Steven Curtis Chapman’s song, “With Hope.”  I had asked him to sing it because it fits so perfectly.  The first line is that “This is not at all how we thought it was supposed to be.”  That is the understatement of a lifetime.  
I never imagined such pain.  I physically hurt through my breastbone to my back.  I just ache.  It has been over nine months; it shouldn’t still hurt so much.  I know that this is my new life and I need to get used to it, but it just hurts so much.
I just need to know that this is going to end, even if it won’t be for a long time.  I just need to see a light at the end of the tunnel.  
It is so dark and so painful and I am so alone.