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. 

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.

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.”

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.”