Sweet boy, last night I went to check on Grandma as she was in the garage, re-organizing. She has always loved projects but since you left, they are her lifeline. For her, Grief is temporarily hidden by keeping busy. There isn’t enough busyness in the world, though, for Grief to remain quiet.
Every morning I sit on the couch waiting for the morning sun. I have been hunting for even the smallest enjoyment. It can feel like a drop of water for a ravenously thirsty soul. Over time and with intention, I pray, those drops just might add up to a glass of water.
Grandma sat down on the edge of the coffee table. Her tiny body held enormous grief as her eyes welled up. She told me every morning she wakes up in a panic because she feels one of you boys missing. At eighty years old, her brain takes a few minutes to process exactly what that feeling is and who she cannot find.
You are gone.
In those few seconds while she tries to become oriented and discover who is missing, you are still here—until reality crashes down, and trying to subdue Grief becomes unsustainable.
When I looked in on her in the garage last night I said, “Are you ok?” in the exact tone of silliness I used to say to you.
Are you okay, Wesley. You ok?
You would laugh so hard.
Here in the after, without you, there is no place for our silliness to go. I grab little glimpses when it slips out—like a single hiccup I didn’t expect that startles me.
When you were here, sweet boy, our home was filled with silliness in equal measure and importance to the very air. Our favorite sound was your laughter, and we did anything to hear it. You would laugh so hard and turn blue. I would have to remind you to breathe.
Do you remember when we lived in the ICU for one month? It was the day before your open-heart surgery and Steve had you laughing so hard your oxygen dropped to below 88. The nurse came running into your room, worried you might be in distress. She was relieved to find you laughing. Steve could always go toe to toe with you in unadulterated silliness.
You were so sick, sweet boy, but even that couldn’t stop your laugh.
If I could have just a pinch of your resilience here in the after.
My heart is sick in a different way than yours was.
I wish desperately I could feel silly and laugh with you again.
Someday, after my last tomorrow, I will.
The house is horribly quiet.
Seriousness weighs heavily in the air where laughter once floated.
I dreamed last night the whole family was at the beach and the roof was on fire. The fire resolved on its own but took the entire roof. We were unprotected. Rain was imminent. We couldn’t find the paper with the phone number for the people who could help. Everyone was scrambling but it was not found.
Like the dream, I feel unsafe in the world but there is still beauty. Unlike the dream, I don’t need a piece of paper to know Who to call for help. I know it by heart.
When you were “actively dying” in the hospital the doctor asked if we wanted a chaplain to come. I declined, saying
I have a direct line.
Over our twenty-four years together, sweet boy, I called on God more times than I can count. Three times I simply asked Him:
Please, God, give me whatever I need for the next part of the journey.
It was the prayer of ultimate surrender from a desperate mother. Only the miracle of healing would keep you here with me, and I did not believe it was coming. There are always miracles, sweet boy, but sometimes they come by God’s definition—morning sun or Grandma’s smile or the new green of spring.
God healed you anyway and you came home from the hospital. Though I am grateful, how I wish He had done it once more.
I didn’t need whatever it was I thought He could give to help the unimaginable. Until now.
And I had it all along.
A direct line.
I cannot escape Grief even in my sleep. She is the most relentless, unforgiving encounter of my life. Here in the after, there are times she is too loud and distorts my end of the direct line. Other times it is my own anger that makes it hard to hear.
Yet I know I can’t disconnect from the very God who is
my rock
my refuge
my strong tower
my peace
my portion
my provider
my strength
my only way through this..
So I call. In the questioning, I call. In the anger, I call. In the depths of suffering, I call. For the next breath, I call. In brief flickers of peace, I call. In gratitude, I call. When I don't know what to say, I call.
When all I can do is scream, I call.
Even if I hear nothing in response, I call.
On the other side of my call, beyond what I can hear, I know you are laughing.
I will laugh again, sweet boy, if for no other reason than to honor you. We are laughing on different sides of eternity. Laughing was your favorite. I can only imagine it still is.
I will find new ways to be silly.
But for today, seven and a half weeks in the after, I have to remind myself to breathe. Each recovered breath feels like rehabilitation—picking up my direct line is an act of rebellion.
Each time I do I move gradually—never linearly—toward the unappointed day when laughter and silliness are not mere memories.
Grief will not have the final say.
