Patience to Endure

Tag: death

  • Out of the Grave

    Out of the Grave

    Sweet boy, today is our first holiday without you. It is one of those days I fiercely fight the tears because if they begin, they will not end. And that isn’t fair to your baby brother Nathan. Holidays can be tinged with grief and not tainted.

    We went to church this morning. I did cry during worship. It was such a strange mixture of tears.

    Sadness.

    Rejoicing.

    Awe.

    Sorrow.

    Hope.

    Gratitude.

    Celebration.

    All of those coalesced into tears I struggled to control. Crying during worship isn’t unusual for me, but today was different. With a still tender heart, I raised my hand in praise. Steve grasped my other hand and Nathan put his arm around me. I was held on all sides.

    Dead things come alive….

    Where, oh death, is your sting?

    The last one got me…

    “Right here,” I thought.

    Something comes out of the grave every time I call You, Jesus…

    “Come out of the grave,” my soul whispered.

    I am the dead thing that needs to come alive.

    Sweet boy, you are alive where it is eternally Easter Sunday. There is never-ending joyful celebration, and it is never hopeful. Hope needs no existence where you are. It is already perfect beyond imagination.

    If God were to, in all His power, allow me to decide – if you stay with Him or come back to me – what would I choose?

    For me, I would want you back.
    I miss my buddy and my entire soul craves your smile, your hug, your laugh.
    You were my ever-present companion and reason for living.
    Being your mom was my highest honor. It always will be.
    Caring for you felt like my Divine purpose.

    And it was, for a while.

    But having you here with me would be entirely selfish. Your ‘here’ included doctors’ appointments and surgeries and medical complexities. It had pain and discomfort. Your body worked so hard. Even though there was so much love, I humbly know it is nothing compared to the tangible, faultless love you now have. Your ‘there’ is glorious. Your body no longer struggles to compensate. Everyone understands you and there is no need for words. There is no sickness. You are with the Great Healer.

    Dead things come alive.

    Something comes out of the grave.

    I will, sweet boy. It will not be as dramatic as standing up and walking out. It will be more like when you got sick three and a half years ago. Critical illness followed by two surgeries including open-heart left you lying in an ICU bed for a month. Your muscles became weak. When you finally came home you couldn’t sit up by yourself. So we started by trying to get you to move your legs in bed. Do you remember we would put on the Wii Fit Dance and stomp our feet? We just wanted you to move even if only a little.

    Once you could move your legs, we dangled them off the side of the bed and tried to get you to sit without support. The first time you flopped right over as if you never sat up before. It took weeks. Just sitting was our victory. I would transfer you from the bed to your wheelchair. You needed my complete support and trusted me to not let go. Eventually, strength returned enough to stand and you only needed me for balance. Months later you learned to walk again with support. Your muscles needed time to recover, strengthen, and to remember. We didn’t listen when the experts said you probably wouldn’t walk again. You were so resilient and persistent. It wasn’t the same as before you got sick, but it was functional and you were proud. I was too. We found a new normal.

    I miss you.

    When you left, sweet boy, my heart got sick.

    My soul was hurt.

    The best parts of me disappeared.
    They are still here.
    I will find them again.

    I am weak.
    But just in the last few days I have started to move my legs.
    I need some time to recover, strengthen, and to remember.
    You taught me how to never give up.
    I still need so much support but eventually I will walk again.

    I will walk right out of the grave.

  • Books

    Books

    Grandma has been cleaning out my closet to make space for your things, sweet boy. I can’t bring myself to let anything of yours go other than your bed. I will sort through your toys and clothes once I am stronger.

    She found books in a dusty box. Titles like, “Even This”, “Just Enough Light for the Step I’m On”, “It’s Okay Not to Be Okay”, and “The Broken Way.”

    The books must have been in there stored away for almost fifteen years. I received them as gifts the first time my entire world collapsed and grief stole my soul for a little while. You were nine when your father committed suicide. On February 10, 2011 you and Emerson went to school not knowing everything would be different when you walked back through the door into a home shocked and cracked to the very foundation.

    While you were at school I found your father in the woods. Not even ten minutes had passed from the time I last saw him to the time I last saw him. I still don’t know why I ran into the woods that day, just my spirit knew I would find him there. The police put me in the ambulance I had initially called for your dad. I was going into shock. Grandpa knelt beside me.


    “Stay with me, focus on me,” he urged. “Look at me. Stay here.”

    At times he had to shout to get my attention. When I looked at Grandpa I had clarity and the full force of my grief was held at bay. As soon as my eyes diverted from him everything became chaotic and uncertain. The world was literally spinning. Gravity was failing. I was disconnecting from reality. Dissociation led me to the cusp of oblivion. If I only let go I could float to an unknown place. Anywhere would have been better than where I was. I somehow knew if I did though I might not know how to get back. As if an enormous vacuum was trying to suck my soul away my altered mind knew I had to try to stay. I was scared. I did not want to go there yet did not want to be in reality equally as strongly. What was transpiring was much too much for me to handle. My world was being ripped apart both figuratively and literally as I lay in the ambulance looking at my father’s loving, pleading eyes.


    “Stay here, the boys need you to stay here,” my father begged.

    That was it. One sentence changed everything. It was the exact switch that needed to be flipped and the fear and uncertainty vanquished. I knew I needed to stay. From the moment of conception I loved you more than my own self. When I was pregnant with you, I would care for myself. I would eat well and drink plenty of water. I quit smoking. I could not or would not do any of those things for just me but when my body became a vessel for you I did anything to ensure you would safely arrive into the world. I needed to do anything to ensure you would stay safe in our now rapidly changing world.


    I fought back with all my might against the lure of being in the other world where, I believed, I could be numb but where you would not be able to find me. You did not even yet know you lost a parent; I was determined you would not lose both.

    The following weeks after your dad died felt similar to where I sit now yet altogether different. Both losses were traumatic and unexpected. Both left me uncertain of what the future holds. Both were excruciating and piercing. Both resulted in a significant loss of my own identity. Both necessitated rebuilding from less than ashes. Both required more than I thought I had.

    And during both I praised God through it all.

    Burying a spouse has stark differences from burying a child. When your dad died and each moment before and after, every decision I ever made was always keeping in mind your wellbeing before all else. I was strong for you and for Emerson. Grandpa’s words, “your boys need you,” was enough to bring me back to reality and to fight just a little more.

    One month ago today you left. Each day I dig deep to empty reservoirs and find my “fight just a little more”. Grandpa is where you are and I don’t have his pleading eyes to remind me that your brothers still need me. And so, I keep my eyes on my Father especially during those moments I am not sure how to live this life without you. You were my whole world. I told you such every single night before I kissed you once more before sleep. My heart is happy I never once forgot to tell you and, more importantly, show you. And you knew.

    The full force of grief, however, is not held at bay. It is crushing. It is relentless. It is suffocating. But I am not alone in it.

    The books are back on the shelf. Grief settles in our home. She will be staying for a while as she did before. Sometimes she sits quietly next to me on the couch but I can still see her in the corner of my eye. I make no sudden moves. Other times she ambushes me and delivers blows consecutively until I am begging for mercy. She is the albatross that hangs around my neck as I walk through the day trying to be “normal.” I am certain she will accompany me for the rest of my days. From my time with her before I know she can become gentler and maybe even a little kinder. Someday, but not soon enough, perhaps just a nudge to remind me she is by my side still.

    Sweet boy, she will not rule me but for a while. I do not know how, I only know God will not let me languish here. I am crawling through the valley of the shadow. I have been here before. It isn’t the same but I see similarities enough to make it a less foreign land. The valley is longer, deeper, darker, and seemingly impossible but my God is still as strong and my dependency on Him even greater.

    He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along. Psalm 40:2

    He has not lifted me yet but He has not left me. I will keep my arms raised knowing He can and He will.

    They say the deeper the love the deeper the grief. I would add the more treacherous the valley. It is a price I willingly pay one thousand times again to have loved you, my sweet boy. For it was and always shall be my highest honor.

  • Home Depot

    Home Depot

    Two weeks ago this day your heart beat for the last time. It feels like two decades at times and two minutes at others. Time is cruel.

    I went to Home Depot today. You hated Home Depot. It was your least favorite store but we also had fun there, especially during Christmas. We would push all the buttons and watch Disney characters sing songs just for you. You would give me enough time to look at plants and then would let me, and the entire store, know it was time to leave.

    I pushed a cart today. It was abhorrent. When you were here I always pulled it because I would maneuver you in your chair in front of me. When I finished looking at the plants, there by myself I said, “Now we have to go find Grandma,” and my heart broke all over again. You were not there to hear me.

    I managed to check out and get back to the car in time to cry. You hated it when I cried. You always would cry with me even if you didn’t know what it was about. You laughed when I laughed and you cried when I cried. You never cared why only that we shared every emotion. You were the best companion.

    There were children everywhere at Home Depot today proudly displaying their craft. I cried more wondering why I didn’t get to keep you, my child. Then I remembered. I did. For twenty-four years I got to keep you closer than most mothers get the privilege of experiencing. And for that I am grateful.

    I don’t know how I am going to do this, my sweet boy. You were the voice in my head and the song in my heart. You were my purpose and every day I thanked God for giving me a child who would ensure my role as mother would always be profound because you needed me and that would never change. At least not until February 21, 2026. Your brothers will always need me as a mother but not like you did.

    I count it progress I was able to get back to the car before I cried this time. Baby steps. A friend once told me

    One step at a time. And when you can’t, just lean forward.

    I am leaning forward. Sometimes I just sit and cry. This grief is different. It has shaken my very knowledge of where I am in the world. It is physical. It is emotional. It is mental. It is overwhelmingly, seemingly impossible. But God…

    All the time I miss your beautiful love. Your smile. Your request for hugs which I honored every single time because I knew each one could be the last.

    That last one came two weeks ago today. Steve held your hand and I hugged you whispering “Mommy is here…mommy is here,” over and over until you were not.

    Someday I will be able to go to a store and not cry. Some day the clock will not remind me it is time to catheterize or give medication or have coffee together in my office. Someday I will make it through a day without crying. But there will never be a day I don’t miss you with my whole, shattered, broken heart. I hold to the promise it won’t always be so shattered or broken but do know there will always be a piece missing until I see you again, sweet boy.

    A friend sent me this poem. Your absence, the quietness of the house, the emptiness of my days tell my truth of this poem:

    Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful Grace of God (Aeschylus, translated by Edieth Hamilton in 1930)

  • Shine Mightily

    Our culture does not discuss grief. In fact, we do just about everything we can to avoid it. We don’t know what to say to someone experiencing it and few of us know what to do once we find ourselves in its powerful grasp. Grief is one of the great equalizers. We all must endure it.

    I found out yesterday that a friend of mine passed away very suddenly. All grief is so very difficult but those unexpected loses do not give loved ones a chance to brace for impact. It blindsides you. It leaves you disoriented and reeling from the pain.

    I met my friend last fall when she came to the Grief Share program at my church. She was drowning in grief but accompanied by her even keeled, ever doting husband. She was raw and honest about what she had endured. I instantly liked her and simultaneously felt great compassion for her situation. Even in the midst of her grief she was a person who filled the room. When she laughed you couldn’t help but light up inside. When she cried you couldn’t help but cry with her. She just drew you in. Her death comes as a great shock and my heart breaks for her husband and sons.

    During the 13 weeks I had the privilege of getting to know her we shared very intimate details about our lives and our emotions. Our losses were different but the essence of our grief was the same. For a brief time we walked the same path on our journey. Her family now begins the walk all over after having already endured one other tragic, sudden, and unexpected loss. The grief they carry is too much to fathom.

    One night during a Grief Share meeting I was able to share this with her and the group. It seems appropriate to share it again today. At the time of sharing it I wanted to lend hope to a room filled with people who had lost so much. Truly, when we lose that which matters the most often hope is the only thing keeping us afloat. It is all we have left but it is all we need to begin.

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    This morning when I left Charlottesville it was cloudy, windy, and raining but I was driving over the mountain to run some errands. I know that often when I get to the other side the weather is quite different. So, in spite of what it looked like where I was standing, I grabbed my sunglasses expectant to find something else entirely when I arrived. True to hope, as I reached the apex and started to descend the sun forced its way out and was shining mightily as if to show off its victory. If my life means anything, if I can impart anything to my children, if I can change my little corner may this picture be my deceleration.

    There will be times in life when it is dark and cold where you stand. The mountain looms in the distance and you can’t be sure of what is on the other side. For a while you might pace at the bottom. You will stop and glance up overwhelmed by the task at hand. You may even lay down and wait for the strength for one more step. But you will stand back up. You scale the mountain and eventually joyful anticipation settles in with you. The journey will be challenging but there are streams and deer. There are flowers and birds. The sun will rise and the sun will set, sometimes with a glorious displays of hues and sometimes hidden. There will always be something for which to be grateful, even if it is that you draw breath. On the other side of the mountain is more than you could have ever imagined. Colors are more vibrant. Love is deeper. Your faith assured. You, like the sun, will shine magnificently in your glory.

    Dearest Friend,

    When I shared this with you I thought your mountain was like mine once was, grief. Re-reading this today I know you are on the other side and it is more than you ever imagined. Your smile and laughter will always accompany me. Shine on, dear friend. Shine on magnificently in His Glory.