One year later...

Today was hard. I knew it would be, but I didn't think it would be this hard. Lewis said grief sometimes felt like an imaginary blanket between him and the world. Like he couldn't understand what others were saying, or maybe, he didn't want to understand. "It is," he said, "so uninteresting."
And that, in a nut shell, was my day. I muddled through, hardly taking notice of others around me. My only purpose today was to stay busy. I didn't realize it until now, but the day, and everything in it, was exactly that--uninteresting. I know it is the way of things, but I couldn't understand how everyone else was going about their life as if everything was normal. For me, things weren't normal. I wonder if they ever will be.
It wasn't until I was walking home today that I realized (or more like remembered): death isn't the end! J. isn't lost--he is more found now then he ever was! I KNOW where he is! Should that not be cause for celebration and not tears? Perhaps so.
It is funny how much goes by in a year. Jobs come and go. Birthdays, workdays, holidays. So many anniversaries, too. I look forward to the coming years when this day doesn't send me images of raw grieving. When I don't see faces and bodies wracked with sobs. When my heart doesn't break. When I can remember the life that was lived, the joy that he brought, and the hope of the redeemed.

J. I can't wait to see you again!

When words are my enemy

I love words. If you have been reading my blog for any amount of time or know me at all, you know I love words. I usually like them best when they are carefully placed, properly punctuated and bound in leather, but I love words in all of their manifestations. Heck, I like reading the dictionary. It is fun and you never know when you are going to come across a new word you can intersperse into every day life. (The mocking can happen later, ok? Thanks.)
However, over the past year there are a few words that have become distasteful to me. I try not to use them at all, but if I must use them, I hesitate and do a lot of thinking before I do so.
The words?

"Suicide" and "dead."

(Actually, any variation on the word dead makes me go cold.)

I've had to use "dead" a lot this past week. I don't like it. I try to sanitize it by saying "lost" or "gone." But in my head, I still feel the emptiness of the word. Dead. Gone. Mostly I don't like it because of the grief it brings to the front of my mind. It has been almost a year, and I don't miss J. any less. The shock of it all still puts a lump in my throat and an empty space in my heart.
And I am reminded that life must go on. Life is, after all, meant for living. And while my heart cries for the life that was lost, I force myself to remember that death has an amazing epilogue. And though it doesn't make the pain go away, it makes it easier to bear.

Death Comes in Threes...I hope

Five months ago, I sat with my youth group as we mourned the loss of one of our own. Loosing a peer hits hard. Two weeks ago, I sat in my apartment crying over the loss of a member of my church family. He was a daddy, a husband, a friend. I called my dad that day, just so I could hear his voice. That night, I thought, "Dear God, I hope death doesn't come in threes, because I just can't bear the loss of another friend." Yesterday, I got the news I didn't want to hear: death number three. He wasn't even a year old, sick from birth. I'm not a mom, don't have children--but this loss hit me just as hard.
Today, as with most days at work, I've been listening to some Matt Chandler sermons from a few years ago. He's in Ecclesiastes, which is really great for feeling good about enjoying life, right? Wrong. Even through that difficult book, Matt speaks truth about what God thinks of me and God's purpose for me in suffering. It doesn't make the pain go away. I go from laughing to crying to sobbing in seconds these past few days. But the reminder that God is in every part of my life is like a hug from a friend.
I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to be learning from all of this pain, and I can't help but wonder, "What can I learn from losing a father and a baby that I can't by losing a teenage boy?"
Death is no respecter of person, age, or situation in life. I know that. But I wish it would pick on another person. I'm afraid that the next loss won't hurt as badly, that I won't care as much. I scared that I might lose whatever feeling I have left.

Faith is believing that God is here, and that Everything comes from His hands, even sorrow.

We want to believe that God gives us all the candy and that the devil's there to take it. But that's not the devil I read in Scripture. He's no bishop that can float about the board as he pleases; he's a pawn that always needs permission. So, has God caused your sorrow? No. Has He allowed it? Yeah, the full brunt of it and has not abandoned you to endure it alone. Nor is this about His wrath towards you but His mercy, that your suffering just might be the mercy of God for you.“Why? How could He allow...? What kind of God would allow...?” A God who loves you so much that He refuses to let you become Verruca Salt. (That's the “I want the golden goose” girl from “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.”) Maybe because He does not desire that you be this anemic, weak, spoiled, self-righteous believer in self.
Maybe because the only way to convert and remold is to hammer and hurt.
~Matt Chandler~

*Update*
If death does come in fives however, as I've also heard , I've got that one covered too. Five deaths in 10 months time. I am REALLY ready for some good times...

The thing about loss

Matthew 24:42 -Therefore be on alert, for you do not know which day your Lord is coming.

Death is a part of life. It is as sure as birth, but that doesn't make it hurt less when it happens to those you love. In the faith community and for followers of Christ, the loss of a loved one or family member is soften because of our assurance of their destination. I do find it hard to be 100% sad when I know that they are with Christ, free of pain and the earthy struggles "that flesh is heir to." But for this anti-change, semi-plan oriented girl, the thing that gets me most is the loss. The empty space at the table. How do you live your life from here on out, minus one? The landscape of life shifts. And I find that to be most painful. The initial grieving period hurts. But after that--is there really an "after"?-- how can every day not hurt when it reminds you of the empty space in your home?
I know we are meant to live our lives with our eyes on Christ and His heaven. And I do, sometimes. But it is so hard to comprehend our living space as a tiny dot on the eternal time line of Christ. Loss just reminds me how small that dot really is.

Faith in Crisis

"You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth of falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you. It is easy to say you believe a rope to be strong and sound as long as you are merely using it to cord a box. But suppose you had to hang by that rope over a precipice. Wouldn't you then first discover how much you really trusted it? "
--C.S. Lewis "A Grief Observed"

I love the words to "In Christ Alone." I cling to the line that says "No power of hell, no scheme of man can ever pluck me from His hand," because of its promise to me. Today I heard it and wept because of the promise it meant for someone else. For him, it means that the poisoned words that satan tried to get him to believe cannot keep him from God. It means satan didn't win in the end. Though this was a very encouraging thought, it saddened me. Why couldn't he have understood the Love of Christ better? He knew, surely, that God was with him always. But then, maybe this is the wrong question. I still question, wrongly, if I could have done more. I know the answer. Knowing the answer doesn't make my heart hurt any less.
So today I saw him in heaven where he knows no separation from the Father and the Son who died for all of his sins. And that glimmer is going to have to be enough for me.
At least until God calls me home.

Stages of Grief

There are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Take careful note that they are not numbered. There is a very good reason for that. Grief, like so many other things in our life, does not ask permission to disrupt our normal routines. It comes in like a shadow, surrounds us, and the pulls the carpet out from under our feet. Or so it seems.
I'm not sure which stage I hit first. I might petition for a sixth stage to be entered: shock. This was possibly the first emotion. It's that incredible second that feels like hours between the question (Please tell me you are joking? Not him?!?) and the answer you are so dreading but somehow know to be true (Yes. It's true. No, I'm not joking. I know. I can't believe it either.). The shock was short lived that first day and I transitioned (quickly) into anger. The whole ride to school I yelled at God. And I mean I really yelled! I "explained" things to God, told Him the way I thought things should have gone, questioned why others succeeded where I failed/ lost where I won. How was any of it fair?
Tuesday night was full of tears and comforting. What stage is that, huh? There is no name for the full out mourning we had that night. People I didn't know clung to me as sobs wracked their body. Could they feel extra tremors (mine) through the hugs and soothing pats? Friends held me close as exhaustion and dehydration set it along with utter sadness as the tears came afresh and my body started to shake. There were moments of calm, when we all took a breath and were verbally comforted by a member of the pastoral staff. Then, another wave of grief hit one person. It was like a ripple effect, slowly touching every one until we were in another group hug, soothing backs, patting heads, wiping tears, comforting teenagers like they were children. And I'm not pointing fingers at an age group; it was hard to tell where child, teen or adult stopped, so widespread was our grief.
Wednesday was bargaining day. As I watched his best friend realize all over again that his life would never be the same, I wondered if I could have done something more. If I could have done anything. Not even "more," but did I do enough? Would I ever know? Maybe I did. But if I didn't? This whole week brought back my insecurities, my failings, my pain, my depression. It seemed like he was free of that suffering now, right? For about 10 seconds, I really believed it worked. But a youth leader, with tears streaming down her face, forced me to look at her and this is what she told me: "Don't EVER think that! Do you hear me? Look around you--does it look like the pain and suffering was avoided? " No. There was pain and suffering all around me. Could I have done more? Maybe. But I know I did what I was meant to do. I didn't realize it all then. But I think I do now.
I woke up Thursday morning with at least twenty people on my heart and mind. As I'm texting them all, telling them how much they are loved an appreciated, the anger set in. Well, technically it set in after I got to class late and found they had finished early and I had to wait two hours for work. The class bit I was okay with; the sitting for hours by myself, not so much. But anyway, I'm helping people through their grief, just being there for them, and I'm so angry I could spit. (Isn't that from Little House on the Prairie? I forget.) I won't type the words I thought or names I called him. They were not Christian. All I saw was the suffering. And I was angry at him for leaving us to deal with it. Later that night, I was babysitting and my darling girl started to cry. Usually the hip-shake-sway thing works well, but last week I tried singing to her and so I thought I'd give it another go. I opened my mouth and spoke two words and stopped. I couldn't sing. I burst out crying, upset for my loss, upset that I felt it so keenly that I lost my joy to sing. So sprinkle some depression on top of that anger, and that was the day.
Then it came. The end to a very long week. Celebration of Life, we called it. Celebrate we did. I was finally able to sing, which was a gift given at the right moment. But we also mourned. I say "we" like I was in every bit. I wasn't. Friday felt off, but it was almost like every other day. Why were my eyes puffy? Why did I feel it was a crime to laugh? And then, I would remember. And it would hurt. A member of the pastoral staff used this illustration: "think of [it] as being immersed in a 10,000 piece jig-saw puzzle. There is no box top picture to go by, and each piece of the puzzle has razor sharp edges. They’re (the youth group/young adults/ anyone involved) trying to piece the thing together and make sense of it while they are grieving,but every piece will punish and hurt them. " Yes, those razor sharp edges. I knew them well. But today, the day of "celebration," they were dulled. And it almost felt wrong. And when the service was over, what then? We turned around and had punch and cake. Told stories. Laughed. Was this allowed? Could it be allowed?
By Sunday, I had been to the church 5 days, 6 if you included Sunday, over the course of a week. My car could very well find it's way to the church by itself, and to my gas tank, this was not a happy thought. I attended the early service. I hardly ever do that. I sang. My voice was weak, my throat scratchy, but I sang. I saw through the service, listening to our pastor tell us that Jesus does care. He's in the boat with us, he knows the struggle and he cares. But all I heard was "the events of last week," "the tragic loss of a brother." And it felt wrong. It felt wrong to talk about the life that had been lost. It was almost as if talking about it in the past, somehow made it in the past, instead of so very near to the front of my mind. Almost like I should be happy it was "in the past." What a place to be, the past. Hidden behind moth-ball smelling quilts with holes in it. I wasn't ready to put it in the past. Not yet.
I walked through the next day in a fog. A haze. I could function, but my mind kept questioning: could I have done more? I know the answer. I really do. But sometimes I doubt myself. And until I can trust what I know God wants me to know, I don't think I will fully reach acceptance. It still feels like he might walk around the corner and make a face at me. Almost.
Anger, bargaining, depression, denial, acceptance. They don't all happen at once, and they don't happen in order. The repeat of one particular emotion (denial, and perhaps depression, in my case) throws you off. It's a nice guide to follow, to remind yourself your crazy emotional roller coaster does have validation. But what do you do when the immediacy wears off?
So now I hug people tighter, kiss them when I can, tell them how valuable they are and how much I really do love them. Then I look them in the eye and say, "Don't forget. But when you do, come back and tell me you forget. And I will tell you how much I love you until you can't forget again."
And I think, that is what Grace is. That is what Holy Week is all about. Jesus says, "I love you. But when you forget, look to the cross. It's my way of making sure you never forget how much I love you."

my grief observed

"No one ever told me grief so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep swallowing.
At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. "
~A Grief Observed by C. S. Lewis~

Grief. It's the moment of disbelief and, as Lewis points out, something close to fear. It's the moment where you think, "Dear God, it can't be true." The moment when your mind goes utterly, completely and totally blank. It's the half second between acceptance and rejection, when you pray the news you heard is a really, really bad joke because you'd rather forgive someone of their morbidity than actually have to believe the devastating news. It's the moment between breaths, after you gasp in shock and then exhale in a scream. It's moment when time stops. And you pray like hell it never starts again.
But it does. And then you realize those agonizing moments that felt like eternity were mere seconds. The real pain is only just about to begin.