Monday, March 24, 2014
As long as we both shall live
I've said to many people over these long weeks, "we would have been married 20 years....", as that date grew closer. Finally, it hit me. There is no "would have been". I have been married to Shawn for 20 years. And next year I will be married to him 21. I will be married to him until the day that I die.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Oh, still sad. And you?
I am so blessed to have a circle of friends and family who is still here, even after two months. They have not once asked me if I'm "starting to get used to his being gone" or if I am "doing better". But in the neighborhood, at work, even at church, I have been asked those questions. I have been told to "buck up". I have been told that God must have needed Shawn. I know enough to realize that sometimes, folks just don't know what to say, so I think they say what they hope is true. They really want me to have gotten used to the hole in the middle of my chest. They want me to be doing better.
I've started going to a grief support group for folks who have lost their spouse or partner. It took a lot of courage to show up the first time, and still I get a little nervous about going, but I am always so glad I have. What a relief to be in a room where everyone is speaking my language. I was a little discouraged the first night when I learned that most of the others in the group lost their loved one at least a year ago, and they all pretty much still had visible wounds from loss, were still working hard to put one foot in front of the other. Best I can tell, there isn't a prescribed time after which I will feel like I'm on solid ground again. After I left and was thinking about that, the thought did occur to me though that they are all still here. I may think that I can't bear to go on, that I cannot possibly find my way, but their presence says to me that I can and I will. I will survive, in spite of the sadness. Most days that feels like good news.
My sister sent me the following, written by a mother. Her name is Kay Warren. She and her husband, a well known pastor and writer, lost their son to suicide last year. I do not even pretend to know what it would be like to lose a child, let alone to suicide. I can't even bear to think of that loss. So, I am not comparing my loss to hers, or to any other persons really. But what she says is so true. I hope a lot of people read it . It's full of truth.
I've started going to a grief support group for folks who have lost their spouse or partner. It took a lot of courage to show up the first time, and still I get a little nervous about going, but I am always so glad I have. What a relief to be in a room where everyone is speaking my language. I was a little discouraged the first night when I learned that most of the others in the group lost their loved one at least a year ago, and they all pretty much still had visible wounds from loss, were still working hard to put one foot in front of the other. Best I can tell, there isn't a prescribed time after which I will feel like I'm on solid ground again. After I left and was thinking about that, the thought did occur to me though that they are all still here. I may think that I can't bear to go on, that I cannot possibly find my way, but their presence says to me that I can and I will. I will survive, in spite of the sadness. Most days that feels like good news.
My sister sent me the following, written by a mother. Her name is Kay Warren. She and her husband, a well known pastor and writer, lost their son to suicide last year. I do not even pretend to know what it would be like to lose a child, let alone to suicide. I can't even bear to think of that loss. So, I am not comparing my loss to hers, or to any other persons really. But what she says is so true. I hope a lot of people read it . It's full of truth.
As the one-year anniversary of Matthew's death approaches, I have been shocked by some subtle and not-so-subtle comments indicating that perhaps I should be ready to "move on." The soft, compassionate cocoon that has enveloped us for the last 11 1/2 months had lulled me into believing others would be patient with us on our grief journey, and while I’m sure many will read this and quickly say “Tak...e all the time you need,” I’m increasingly aware that the cocoon may be in the process of collapsing. It’s understandable when you take a step back. I mean, life goes on. The thousands who supported us in the aftermath of Matthew’s suicide wept and mourned with us, prayed passionately for us, and sent an unbelievable volume of cards, letters, emails, texts, phone calls, and gifts. The support was utterly amazing. But for most, life never stopped – their world didn’t grind to a horrific, catastrophic halt on April 5, 2013. In fact, their lives have kept moving steadily forward with tasks, routines, work, kids, leisure, plans, dreams, goals etc. LIFE GOES ON. And some of them are ready for us to go on too. They want the old Rick and Kay back. They secretly wonder when things will get back to normal for us – when we’ll be ourselves, when the tragedy of April 5, 2013 will cease to be the grid that we pass everything across. And I have to tell you – the old Rick and Kay are gone. They’re never coming back. We will never be the same again. There is a new “normal.” April 5, 2013 has permanently marked us. It will remain the grid we pass everything across for an indeterminate amount of time….maybe forever.
Because these comments from well-meaning folks wounded me so deeply, I doubted myself and thought perhaps I really am not grieving “well” (whatever that means). I wondered if I was being overly sensitive –so I checked with parents who have lost children to see if my experience was unique. Far from it, I discovered. “At least you can have another child” one mother was told shortly after her child’s death. “You’re doing better, right?” I was asked recently. “When are you coming back to the stage at Saddleback? We need you” someone cluelessly said to me recently. “People can be so rude and insensitive; they make the most thoughtless comments,” one grieving father said. You know, it wasn’t all that long ago that it was standard in our culture for people to officially be in mourning for a full year. They wore black. They didn’t go to parties. They didn’t smile a whole lot. And everybody accepted their period of mourning; no one ridiculed a mother in black or asked her stupid questions about why she was STILL so sad. Obviously, this is no longer accepted practice; mourners are encouraged to quickly move on, turn the corner, get back to work, think of the positive, be grateful for what is left, have another baby, and other unkind, unfeeling, obtuse and downright cruel comments. What does this say about us - other than we’re terribly uncomfortable with death, with grief, with mourning, with loss – or we’re so self-absorbed that we easily forget the profound suffering the loss of a child creates in the shattered parents and remaining children.
Unless you’ve stood by the grave of your child or cradled the urn that holds their ashes, you’re better off keeping your words to some very simple phrases: “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Or “I’m praying for you and your family.” Do your best to avoid the meaningless, catch-all phrase “How are you doing?” This question is almost impossible to answer. If you’re a stranger, it’s none of your business. If you’re a casual acquaintance, it’s excruciating to try to answer honestly, and you leave the sufferer unsure whether to lie to you (I’m ok) to end the conversation or if they should try to haltingly tell you that their right arm was cut off and they don’t know how to go on without it. If you’re a close friend, try telling them instead, “You don’t have to say anything at all; I’m with you in this.”
None of us wants to be like Job’s friends – the pseudo comforters who drove him mad with their questions, their wrong conclusions and their assumptions about his grief. But too often we end up a 21st century Bildad, Eliphaz or Zophar – we fill the uncomfortable silence with words that wound rather than heal. I’m sad to realize that even now – in the middle of my own shattering loss – I can be callous with the grief of another and rush through the conversation without really listening, blithely spouting the platitudes I hate when offered to me. We’re not good grievers, and when I judge you, I judge myself as well.
Here’s my plea: Please don’t ever tell someone to be grateful for what they have left until they’ve had a chance to mourn what they’ve lost. It will take longer than you think is reasonable, rational or even right. But that’s ok. True friends – unlike Job’s sorry excuse for friends – love at all times, and brothers and sisters are born to help in time of need (Prov. 17:17 LB).The truest friends and “helpers” are those who wait for the griever to emerge from the darkness that swallowed them alive without growing afraid, anxious or impatient. They don’t pressure their friend to be the old familiar person they’re used to; they’re willing to accept that things are different, embrace the now-scarred one they love, and are confident that their compassionate, non-demanding presence is the surest expression of God’s mercy to their suffering friend. They’re ok with messy and slow and few answers….and they never say “Move on.”
Because these comments from well-meaning folks wounded me so deeply, I doubted myself and thought perhaps I really am not grieving “well” (whatever that means). I wondered if I was being overly sensitive –so I checked with parents who have lost children to see if my experience was unique. Far from it, I discovered. “At least you can have another child” one mother was told shortly after her child’s death. “You’re doing better, right?” I was asked recently. “When are you coming back to the stage at Saddleback? We need you” someone cluelessly said to me recently. “People can be so rude and insensitive; they make the most thoughtless comments,” one grieving father said. You know, it wasn’t all that long ago that it was standard in our culture for people to officially be in mourning for a full year. They wore black. They didn’t go to parties. They didn’t smile a whole lot. And everybody accepted their period of mourning; no one ridiculed a mother in black or asked her stupid questions about why she was STILL so sad. Obviously, this is no longer accepted practice; mourners are encouraged to quickly move on, turn the corner, get back to work, think of the positive, be grateful for what is left, have another baby, and other unkind, unfeeling, obtuse and downright cruel comments. What does this say about us - other than we’re terribly uncomfortable with death, with grief, with mourning, with loss – or we’re so self-absorbed that we easily forget the profound suffering the loss of a child creates in the shattered parents and remaining children.
Unless you’ve stood by the grave of your child or cradled the urn that holds their ashes, you’re better off keeping your words to some very simple phrases: “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Or “I’m praying for you and your family.” Do your best to avoid the meaningless, catch-all phrase “How are you doing?” This question is almost impossible to answer. If you’re a stranger, it’s none of your business. If you’re a casual acquaintance, it’s excruciating to try to answer honestly, and you leave the sufferer unsure whether to lie to you (I’m ok) to end the conversation or if they should try to haltingly tell you that their right arm was cut off and they don’t know how to go on without it. If you’re a close friend, try telling them instead, “You don’t have to say anything at all; I’m with you in this.”
None of us wants to be like Job’s friends – the pseudo comforters who drove him mad with their questions, their wrong conclusions and their assumptions about his grief. But too often we end up a 21st century Bildad, Eliphaz or Zophar – we fill the uncomfortable silence with words that wound rather than heal. I’m sad to realize that even now – in the middle of my own shattering loss – I can be callous with the grief of another and rush through the conversation without really listening, blithely spouting the platitudes I hate when offered to me. We’re not good grievers, and when I judge you, I judge myself as well.
Here’s my plea: Please don’t ever tell someone to be grateful for what they have left until they’ve had a chance to mourn what they’ve lost. It will take longer than you think is reasonable, rational or even right. But that’s ok. True friends – unlike Job’s sorry excuse for friends – love at all times, and brothers and sisters are born to help in time of need (Prov. 17:17 LB).The truest friends and “helpers” are those who wait for the griever to emerge from the darkness that swallowed them alive without growing afraid, anxious or impatient. They don’t pressure their friend to be the old familiar person they’re used to; they’re willing to accept that things are different, embrace the now-scarred one they love, and are confident that their compassionate, non-demanding presence is the surest expression of God’s mercy to their suffering friend. They’re ok with messy and slow and few answers….and they never say “Move on.”
Sunday, March 9, 2014
In the wind and night sky....
Our daughters came to live with us shortly after the death of their mother. Someone had told them in the days after her death that the first star they saw each night was their mother looking down on them. It seemed to comfort them, and so each night we all just somehow naturally drifted home in time to watch the night sky for the first star. It gave those girls something to hang on to, some sense that their mother was still a part of their days.
Some friends recently gave me a beautiful set of wind chimes with a note explaining that perhaps it might be nice to remember that Shawn was still with me whenever I heard the chimes. The days after I hung them were cold hard days of snow and ice. As I was shoveling my steps and cleaning off my car (again and again) I was aware that there seemed to always be at least enough of a breeze to keep a note or two resonating, and often enough to make a lovely melody. Somehow, those moments did not seem so hard, as I was reminded that he is always beside me, always in my heart, that everything I do has a piece of him woven into it. Now, some days there is just nothing stirring as I come and go.....and on those days I am not above giving them a little tap. Some days, on the days when, as Anne LaMott talks about, the lazy Susan of grief has stopped on anger, I give them a thump and say, "Don't you leave me! Don't!". And there have been a couple of times I have wanted to just take them down, wanted to say that I do not want to just sense his presence, I want to see and feel him right here right now. Mostly they just give me joy, and a sweet reminder of my love for him, and his for me.
Speaking of Anne Lamott, I'll close with this quote that I hold to as I try to make it though.
“You will lose someone you can’t live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
Some friends recently gave me a beautiful set of wind chimes with a note explaining that perhaps it might be nice to remember that Shawn was still with me whenever I heard the chimes. The days after I hung them were cold hard days of snow and ice. As I was shoveling my steps and cleaning off my car (again and again) I was aware that there seemed to always be at least enough of a breeze to keep a note or two resonating, and often enough to make a lovely melody. Somehow, those moments did not seem so hard, as I was reminded that he is always beside me, always in my heart, that everything I do has a piece of him woven into it. Now, some days there is just nothing stirring as I come and go.....and on those days I am not above giving them a little tap. Some days, on the days when, as Anne LaMott talks about, the lazy Susan of grief has stopped on anger, I give them a thump and say, "Don't you leave me! Don't!". And there have been a couple of times I have wanted to just take them down, wanted to say that I do not want to just sense his presence, I want to see and feel him right here right now. Mostly they just give me joy, and a sweet reminder of my love for him, and his for me.
Speaking of Anne Lamott, I'll close with this quote that I hold to as I try to make it though.
“You will lose someone you can’t live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
Sunday, February 23, 2014
What did I do to deserve this?
That's the title of today's devotion in one of my books about grief that a friend gave me.
When I read the title, it immediately resonated in me. The thing is, as I read the devotion I realized that I was coming at that question from a totally different angle than the writer. The writer was talking about folks who question why their loved one is taken from them. Now I'm not saying that I don't wonder at the timing of it, that I don't rail against the thought of living without him, but my thoughts have been less question and more statement.
There is not one thing I could have ever ever done to have earned the chance to love and be loved for 20 years by someone who saw me for what I am, broken and flawed. There is not one thing in me worthy of the kind of friendships that I have, the family that I have, the co-workers that I have who have carried my big old sorry self through these awful days. As hard as these days have been, every single day has been crammed full of tender mercies.
I have in my heart a strong and unrelenting certainty that in spite of all of the sadness I feel right now, I am held. I could not have earned the life I have- it is so rich and so full, even in great sadness. I walk the balance of feeling unworthy and of feeling so very very blessed.
I have been thinking of a song my son used to sing called "Who Am I?"
When I read the title, it immediately resonated in me. The thing is, as I read the devotion I realized that I was coming at that question from a totally different angle than the writer. The writer was talking about folks who question why their loved one is taken from them. Now I'm not saying that I don't wonder at the timing of it, that I don't rail against the thought of living without him, but my thoughts have been less question and more statement.
There is not one thing I could have ever ever done to have earned the chance to love and be loved for 20 years by someone who saw me for what I am, broken and flawed. There is not one thing in me worthy of the kind of friendships that I have, the family that I have, the co-workers that I have who have carried my big old sorry self through these awful days. As hard as these days have been, every single day has been crammed full of tender mercies.
I have in my heart a strong and unrelenting certainty that in spite of all of the sadness I feel right now, I am held. I could not have earned the life I have- it is so rich and so full, even in great sadness. I walk the balance of feeling unworthy and of feeling so very very blessed.
I have been thinking of a song my son used to sing called "Who Am I?"
"Who Am I"
Who am I, that the Lord of all the earth
Would care to know my name,
Would care to feel my hurt?
Who am I, that the Bright and Morning Star
Would choose to light the way
For my ever wandering heart?
Not because of who I am
But because of what You've done.
Not because of what I've done
But because of who You are.
I am a flower quickly fading,
Here today and gone tomorrow.
A wave tossed in the ocean.
A vapor in the wind.
Still You hear me when I'm calling.
Lord, You catch me when I'm falling.
And You've told me who I am.
I am Yours, I am Yours.
What did I do to deserve this? Not enough.
Friday, February 14, 2014
There's a first time for everything....
Every day, it seems, is a "first" for something. First time I made the green chili soup he loved, and he was not here to eat it. First time I went to the accountant's and had the taxes done on my own. First time I went to the Grief Support Group and talked to strangers about my sadness. Tomorrow will be the first chili cook-off that he won't have sent money to vote for our friends. Every day seems to have a "first".
Today was my first Valentines Day without him. I didn't expect it to be a real big deal. We had stopped spending money on each other on Valentines Day years ago. It was, however, the first Valentines Day in years that he wasn't the first to wish me a happy Valentines Day. In fact, there will be many days ahead- birthdays, Christmas, New Years- when he won't be calling me at midnight to be the first to celebrate with me.
I was so well loved today by friends and family- a way bigger fuss made over me than usual. But I was no one's sweetheart, and never will be again. It was my first year to write in our little Valentines book "Things We Love About Shawn" without laying it at his place to see when he got home.
I am longing for some other firsts. The first night that I won't be slammed at some point during the evening by the crushing weight of missing him, in spite of my best efforts to keep my mind and heart occupied. The first time I can say that my husband passed away without having a full breakdown. The first time I finally have a day when I don't wonder how on earth I can keep breathing without him. I have every confidence that there will be those firsts. Probably not real soon.
Today was my first Valentines Day without him. I didn't expect it to be a real big deal. We had stopped spending money on each other on Valentines Day years ago. It was, however, the first Valentines Day in years that he wasn't the first to wish me a happy Valentines Day. In fact, there will be many days ahead- birthdays, Christmas, New Years- when he won't be calling me at midnight to be the first to celebrate with me.
I was so well loved today by friends and family- a way bigger fuss made over me than usual. But I was no one's sweetheart, and never will be again. It was my first year to write in our little Valentines book "Things We Love About Shawn" without laying it at his place to see when he got home.
I am longing for some other firsts. The first night that I won't be slammed at some point during the evening by the crushing weight of missing him, in spite of my best efforts to keep my mind and heart occupied. The first time I can say that my husband passed away without having a full breakdown. The first time I finally have a day when I don't wonder how on earth I can keep breathing without him. I have every confidence that there will be those firsts. Probably not real soon.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
The weeks are short but the days are long
It has been a month. As a good friend used to say, isn't it all so fast and so slow? I feel like my life went into slow motion as I watched his condition worsening and then his death. I get up every day and dress and show up wherever I'm supposed to be, but I spend most of the day feeling like more of an observer than a participant in life, as though I am stuck. Everyone else is moving along in life, I continue to feel adrift. In some perverse way, sadness has become my anchor. I have these attacks of something akin to vertigo, this spinning of things I can't control. I am disoriented. I am in a bit of a panic. I am stunned. Scared. So, I reach for my sadness. It is, for now, my touchstone.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Enough
Last night as I was preparing dinner, I pulled a bowl down to use. This bowl was made by my husband, the potter. His name and Louisville, KY are carved into the bottom of each of his bowls. I asked him several years ago to make a bowl that said "Enough". As our family grew, it was my prayer that we would always have enough. And we did. Enough food to go around. Enough of his patience and my creativity to mold three young kids into the fine adults they have become. Enough to pay the bills. Enough love to cover for our shortcomings. Enough laughter to make life tolerable. Enough sense to stick together. Enough health to think we were going to live to old age. Enough in a world of excess. Enough. When I first pulled the bowl from the cabinet and saw his sweet engraving in the bowl, I crumbled and could only think that I did NOT get enough. Not enough time to grow old and get that Winnebago together. Not enough medical intervention to stop his rapid decline. Not enough But then I realized we did get enough. Not as much as we might have wanted, but we got enough. Enough time and love and resources to fill a lifetime, in 20 short years.
And we didn't just have enough. I had asked him recently to make me another bowl that said Plenty. We not only had enough, we had plenty. Plenty to share, plenty to enjoy, plenty of mercy and grace to make up for our shortcomings, plenty of love no matter what. We thought we had plenty of time.
Tonight I have just ached and moaned and cried and told him to get back here right now. I am setting out my bowl- it's a little prayer for enough comfort and care to limp on.
And we didn't just have enough. I had asked him recently to make me another bowl that said Plenty. We not only had enough, we had plenty. Plenty to share, plenty to enjoy, plenty of mercy and grace to make up for our shortcomings, plenty of love no matter what. We thought we had plenty of time.
Tonight I have just ached and moaned and cried and told him to get back here right now. I am setting out my bowl- it's a little prayer for enough comfort and care to limp on.
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