Patience to Endure

Tag: hope in grief

  • Mental Gymnastics

    Mental Gymnastics

    On the drive home I told mom, “I guess this is my life now.”

    As a swift summer winds down, we traveled to Atlantic Beach, North Carolina for a few days. We walked along the beach as the sun gracefully whispered “your turn” to a grateful moon. I frolicked in the ocean with my teenage son, Nathan, and for a little while we were both children again diving into the waves and laughing as they tossed us back to shore. A dinner at Amos Mosquitos left us in awe of the culinary genius at a restaurant where every dish was superb and every bite savored. We visited the Pine Knolls Aquarium, delighting at the otters, jellyfish, and sharks. At night we lay in our hotel beds watching movies and eating Dairy Queen Blizzards.

    The trip had an equal balance of excitement and relaxation. It was a beautiful way to bid adieu to summer.

    And yet Wesley’s absence was with me. It tapped me on the shoulder in the aquarium, reminding me how he signed “fish” and loved frogs. It smacked me with a wave, realizing he should have been sitting in his wheelchair at the ocean’s edge, signing “waves” and laughing as the water tickled his toes.

    The mental gymnastics required to create new memories after child loss take a soul strength I am still acquiring.

    How does one create meaningful new memories when a beloved child is no longer here? How long will every new memory have a sigh at the end?  How often will joy-filled moments be tainted by Grief’s hand?

    I suppose always.

    I am eagerly compliant in my attempt to learn mental gymnastics in order to honor my children who remain, my husband who need not lose me as well, my mother who still has years to go, and Wesley who lived abundantly.

    A friend once advised me to “live in a way that honors him.” So, I endure learning mental gymnastics and aching spiritual muscles. The need for such a skill was only ever entertained during the imagining of my worst nightmare from ICU rooms in the quiet of chaotic nights. Then, our last ICU room ended with me awakening to the very nightmare I desperately begged God to allow to pass over me.

    I do not know why He said no. I do know He is still good.

    I must forge a new skill of finding joy even while my heart is still so very obliterated. It honors my sweet boy to smile, laugh, and create new memories in spite of all I have lost. His life mattered and matters still.

    So, I twist in unnatural ways. I leap over hurdles. I swing hoping to catch the bar I just let go of.

    I bend but I do not break.

    Gratitude and grief can and must coexist. Bitter and sweet balance equally now but I hold to hope that someday the bitter will weigh less than the sweet. I do not fool myself to believe it will ever disappear.

    Grief simply will not allow it.

  • Bed Rails

    Bed Rails

    Grief has a way of wrecking everything—including priorities. Apathy sneaks in just behind her. Nothing seems important.

    How can it be when you are gone?

    This morning Grandma said,

    Do I look like I care what the floor looks like?

    Sweet boy, the floors are not as clean as when you were here. Grandma kept them immaculate because she worried to no end about you crawling. She took her mission to keep you safe and clean seriously. We all did everything we could to protect you from outside harm—we couldn’t stop what happened inside. I am so sorry.

    When you did not come home with me from the hospital, sweet boy, my soul went to sleep.

    I hope one day I might crawl.

    I was so proud when you remembered how to crawl after losing the ability to walk for a while. Nothing ever stopped you. When no one was immediately available to help, you would gently slide out of your chair or off your bed and crawl.

    If you were in the bedroom and someone came to visit, as soon as you heard their voice, you would crawl to the kitchen. You reached the people you loved by any means necessary.

    That, sweet boy, is the tenacity I need.

    On the harder days—most days—I wonder if my story ends with me stuck in bed.

    I hear the people I love in the next room. Everything in me wants to slide off the bed and crawl to them.

    Grief has the bed rails high.

    But God will lower them—in His time.

    My soul is in deep anguish.
    How long, Lord, how long? Psalm 6:3

    Only He is more powerful than she is.

    Sometimes, Grief is louder. She is overbearing and chaotic, but I am hearing God’s whispers again, sweet boy.

    The final say is not hers.

    Bed rails restrict—but they also provide safety. Every night after you fell asleep, sweet boy, I would lift them up to keep you from falling out of bed. Then I would kiss your head and tell you,

    You’re my whole world.

    Every single night.

    My bed rails are not permanently fixed. For now, they keep me safe so I don’t fall while my soul is sleeping. Grief is strong but God can make even her work toward good.

    I am not ready, but I will become.

    Perhaps soon, I will slide out of the bed.

    I will crawl—and nothing will stop me from reaching Him—and those who love me.

    Sweet boy, you taught me and you taught me well.