This was our last hike together. We were at Panthertown (http://panthertown.org). The wind had ripped up the oak tree in our front yard and the power was off so we vacated the house and took the dogs for a hike.
I saw photos on facebook where one of your old friends and his wife had gone on a hike there. Some of the photos were in the exact same spots where we stood and walked.
We are missing you so badly during this beautiful Spring.
Love you so very much.
Forever,
Mom
Is there sin in sorrow? I cannot fathom this could be believed in Christianity since Isaiah 53 says in the foreshadow of Christ that he is a man of sorrows. Yet in the world at times we who dwell in sorrow are sometimes singled out for unwarranted criticism.
Yes we still get hit with the phrase from (I assume) well meaning folks that we should be able to “get over it.”
I have thought about this a lot. I don’t think I have “gotten over” any person who had an impact on life. Not even those with whom I had a short acquaintance but who also imparted something that helped me grow. No, I have not gotten over any of them.
Why then do people feel so uncomfortable about those of us who have lost a beloved child when we cannot “get over it.” The discomfort comes from some other source that our sorrow triggers in them. Anyone who has experienced trauma as I have, and as so many others have, seem alien in many ways. We are outside of what most people think is normal or the way things should be.
Perhaps those who believe that God is punitive believe that we are being punished. Something we have done has warranted the tragedy and therefore association might bring about something bad in their lives. Perhaps they like Job’s friends want to warn us away from our path less something else befall us. Well, from experience I can tell you,sooner or later something else will happen. It is the way of aging, the paths all of our lives eventually lead to and the chance we take in living in a world where there are natural laws.
It was not God’s will that my son died.
On the news there was the report of a beautiful young lady who recently died as a result of a lightening strike. She was about to graduate and from the report was an amazing young woman with so much to contribute to our world. Her dad was quoted as saying, “it was God’s will.” As you can imagine under the comments section many weighed in to express their outrage at his statement. I felt a little incensed myself.
But then I realized, he has the right to view this tragedy in whatever light helps him to cope. Perhaps it comforts him to think that God wanted his daughter at this time. If it helps him, then it is none of my business. I did not view his statement as one in which he was trying to force his view on anyone. Rather what I pictured was a situation much like what happened to us, where reporters from a local news station showed up unannounced to interview us concerning our son’s tragic accident. Being in shock, it is hard to figure out what you should and should not say.
I know others who have lost loved ones recently – other than their children. People of faith who indeed have a great faith and who are also working through their loss. I remember the early days when I tentatively touched the gaping sore of loss. On days when the pain subsided a little I would have to test it – and part of me wonders if I wanted to keep it sore. It was, after all ,the only vestige left of my son.
At this point I would say sorrow is like groundwater, flowing always just below the surface. Sometimes when the rain of stress , other’s sorrow and just the general everyday “missing my son” happens it still floods. Yes I am feeling sorry for myself. If you had met my son you would feel sorry for yourself too. He was an amazing person.
I feel sorry for myself when I talk to other grieving parents and realize I will not get to meet their wonderful children in this lifetime. What a huge loss for this world. Who knows the volume of the potential that has been lost?
As for the grieving, those who are learning to cope with the sorrow they will carry in one form or another all their life – give them a break. Even if you have experienced something similar you have your attempts at answers, but you do not have ALL the answers. If you want to take time you can figure out what would provide encouragement for them. If you can’t do that then just be with them and listen if you can. Written words are nice, but the spoken word, fitly spoken and perhaps followed by a gentle touch or hug if you are close enough to the person helps more. But I am speaking for myself, as each person has a right to do. Though there are similarities and points in which all grieving people can relate but we are individuals and our grief and sorrow is ours to endure.
Lately I have been considering the fact that death is not the mystery – yet we treat it like one. It is that point when bodily functions cease. Life is the mystery. Confusing, contradictory and full of twists and turns that still ultimately end in death.
There is (for me) no sin in sorrow. There is a call to empathy without judgement.
I am repeatedly surprised at how raw my grief is. I have no gauge by which to measure it. I talk with other parents who have experienced a loss. We do not compare our feelings as such but we do reassure each other that “everyone must go through this at their own rate in their own way.” I am sure that probably seems self-evident. In a world where almost everything is rated and quantified we find ourselves wanting to have a chart to tell us when we can expect to feel differently. I was going to say better but I don’ t really know what that means.
When I was in shock ,reminders-triggers sometimes slipped past me. Absolutely everything seems to remind me of my son now. That sounds impossible even to me yet, it is true.
I have plantar fascists in my left foot. I’ve had it for months. It hurts at varying degrees and nothing I have done so far has worked for long to stop the pain. It has prevented me from doing some of my normal exercise and it always makes me hesitate when I first wake in the morning and put my feet on the floor. I wish I didn’t see analogy in everything, but this is how grief seems too, in a nutshell.
I am constantly on guard trying to avoid anything that will make it hurt more. I do the exercises, I wear the prescribed guards and do-dads that are supposed to make it better. It flares up and settles down intermittently. I am aware of it every evening when I go to bed and it is something I think of when I rise. I guard my steps.
I miss my son. I can’t believe he is gone. Watching his contemporaries continue through the stages of their life journey is so bitter sweet. Family gatherings are tough. I see the pain and grief in my husband and realize it simply reflects my own. I still get lost in photos of my son. I want to hear his voice, feel his arms around me, see that face. I know I am not the only one doing this. I know, unfortunately, there are so many of us quietly going about the day – keeping this to ourselves as much as possible. We get weary of it, but fear that others will tire of us or withdraw from our company and we desperately need company.
I keep thinking I should have come up with something – a mantra? by now to tide me over during those intense bouts of pain. Scenes replay. Thoughts I don’t want – invade. Images based on imagination taunt. Second guesses turn to third and fourth guesses. Wishing, futile futile wishful thoughts tease. None of which make any difference to the current circumstance. He is gone.
When I married I did not know then how much of yourself you must invest in that relationship to make it work. Not having been married before or even having been in anything that resembled this relationship was all new and I learned the hard way. The man I married was an adult and so we as adults had to butt heads and negotiate and compromise.
Then the children came. Tiny and helpless we cradled them thinking that this was trust, a gift, an endowment for the future. We marveled over every aspect of their development and were amazed at how quickly they learned, developed and became individuals – so separate yet so intwined with our own being.
The June before my son died, when a storm came through and split one tree and ripped up another I took photos after the event. In one picture my son is there with his back to me as he goes to examine that uprooted tree. The tree is on its side with a huge rootball covered in wet earth. The workman cut the tree and the root ball dropped back in – but the tree was lost. Where it once stood there is no evidence it ever existed.
This loss can’t even be compared to that tree, yet I feel like something has been ripped out of me. And the evidence that he ever existed? It is right here all around me, in me and ever present.
This was not supposed to happen. This was not something I ever expected. I don’t want this to happen to anyone ever again.
The conflict rages in our heart and head while we remain. It makes no sense. It has changed everything and yet the world seems to go on unchanged around us. It cannot be resolved or cured or mitigated.
Memorial Day has passed. There were movie marathons which may have made grieving families cringe. There are concerts whose music brought tears. There are articles in the papers where grieving parents said “the right things.” The radio station had a memorial pause for one minute while TAPs was played. For those parents and myself – memorial is minute by minute, day by day, month by month.
If it changes, I might share that insight. For now, things are the same as they have been for the past twenty three months. I’ve stopped trying to imagine it any differently. I will continue to guard my steps.
I’ve got a lot of different trails to run down in my mind. Having been with my sisters for a couple of days, visiting relatives and revisiting memories makes you begin to examine your perception. It also makes you examine how you are perceived.
I came home from my short visit and a friend who I have known only a short time passed away. She was a year older than I am. She had pancreatic cancer. The obituary in the news from the University where she worked spoke of her life and work. She accomplished so much and had a lot more to do. Her illness claimed her three months after her diagnosis. I helped a little during her illness. There is not much one can do and everything seems inadequate. The family is on their way out west to bury her body. I have their dog.
While with my sisters I was at times more silent than I may have been in the past. Talks of children, babies, families are full of emotional barbs for me. My sister showed me the funny picture of my nephew that pops up on her phone when he calls her. I have one of my son that he too put on my phone. He did it secretly so that when he called there he was – his nose looking like a giant pickle and his eyes wide. It annoys me when funny memories make me sad.
My sisters have every right to talk about their children, laugh about them, lament about them, worry over them. I talked a little about my daughter, but it felt like it was all just falling short of something that I could not put my finger on. I would draw back into my shell, keep my hands busy and listen.
There are days when I feel like I could fly apart, explode into a million pieces and scatter across the universe. I felt like that yesterday when I dropped my sister off at the bus station to return to her home, and later when I found out my friend had died. I felt that way when I watched my friend’s husband gently, tenderly remove her jewelry. I parted with my friends mother yesterday too. She is ninety-five and I am afraid too easy to fall in love with. I don’t know if I will see her again.
There is a commercial where a little girl explains about wanting “more of less stuff.” That’s me, always left wanting more of “less stuff.” Wanting explanations about past events that have no real evidence except in my memory which is flawed. Wanting explanations about present situations that I have no control over.
My mother and dad are both gone so there is no working on that relationship any more. My sisters and I talked about our own individual relationships with our parents and our own perception of the relationships we thought we had observed. It was interesting to discover the flaws in our perception. What we thought was going on at times was not all that it seemed. Not one of us escaped unscathed and I am sure it set us all on our heels as we considered our relationship with our own children.
It is difficult to really get to know anyone. Maybe it is impossible.
I wish I had gotten to have more time time to get to know my recently deceased friend. I wish I had more years with my son. With one, I had only a few months and with the other 29 years, neither amount is enough – I want more of the less stuff.
The moral, I think is probably cliche and obvious. You need to make the most of every little thing you have. Gatherings and visits, road trips and late night conversations. So many little things – so much of the things you only get snippets of to piece together to make a picture you can live with.
I drove my friend to her chemotherapy appointments. We talked about the mundane and then at times she would talk about the things she was concerned about. She was so very sick and weak. I could see her weaken and knew she was not getting better. She knew it too, but she was willing to try. She was also able to recognize when it was time to stop. I was not able to take her to chemotherapy because of a class I was teaching two weeks ago and by the next appointment time she went to have a CAT scan. It was then they recognized the reality. A week later to the day – she was gone.
The last time I saw her I told her I loved her and she told me she loved me. We kissed. That will have to be the less I can have no more of.
I hoped I helped her mother feel confident – at least for the moment – about her decisions to go back to her home town or near her nephew. She will probably return to assisted living. She does not want to be a burden.
Life is messy and death it seems- lasts much longer. We are blip on the radar, making our important plans, overestimating our influence and fading into memory.
The family members of my friend have hard days ahead. It feels like trying to run through Jell-o. Everything has changed. I wish it could be easier.
My friend was quiet and intelligent, she had an inner strength and a strong moral compass, a lot like my son. I really do hope for heaven or something after this life – where spirits meet in the Love that is God’s will. I hope they celebrate having all the “less stuff” like a great sea to swim in till we meet again.
River
What is in it for me to try and control everything – especially people? For the most part it leads to feelings of resentment because they won’t do what I want. The bigger question is “why do I think I am the one who knows best?” Who made me the expert?
I will admit I know some things, but if measured it would probably be surprising little. I can bluff fairly well. Based on past experience I can guess.
I can guarantee you that if you touch a red hot stove directly you will get burned even if you are one of those people with no nerve endings to feel it. Your skin will burn. That’s it – that is about the sum total of my knowledge.
I see other people frustrating themselves by trying to control others. I wonder if they think it is easier than trying to be in control of themselves. I can vouch for that. It is really hard for me to control me. Hard to control what I put in my mouth and what comes out of it. Lately some of the stuff that has been coming out of it is fairly embarrassing. Just FYI.
Control is different from concern.
Concern says I love you and it worries me when, it frightens me when, I feel so uneasy when . . .
Sadly you probably won’t even voice those things when you love someone. You kiss them goodbye and they go rock climbing. You give people their freedom when you love them. Be honest as best you can, but give them their freedom to experience the world on their own terms.
When they were little you could buckle them into their car seats. You made sure the stove was turned off and that pot handles were not sticking over the side of the stove. You put covers over the electrical outlets and childproof locks on cabinets. You turned the cap on your medicine bottles to the side that was childproof. You could control those things – but you could not control gravity or the need for little ones once they learned to walk to try to run and subsequently fall down.
They haven’t put me in charge of rainfall or earthquakes or landslides or avalanche’s yet either. They haven’t allowed me to voice my concern over people who don’t drive well, though you will probably get an ear scorching lecture if you drive with me anywhere for long.
Then there are the small insidious passive-aggressive attempts people make to control others. The barbed comments used to side-swipe or hit and run. Manipulative comments meant to make the person walk away and stew the rest of the day. Guilt inflicted or self doubt or insecurity reinforced. Isn’t there enough of that?
We measure ourselves against impossible expectations sometimes without consulting our own inner voice. Even in our grief among those who are grieving we look to each other to see “how we are doing.” There is no gauge.
My son was often self-conscious. In a crowd I could sense it in him. He could be easily embarrassed and his sense of propriety could be easily stepped on. He didn’t like me to draw attention to him. Funny somehow, he was tall and lean and very handsome. You could not help but notice him. And when he opened his mouth to talk, you wanted to listen. He was a man who had something to say. He exercised a form of control over me that I permitted. I liked the fact he thought he could wrap me around his finger. Maybe that softened the sense of control – I don’t know. I have lots of time now to think about it, though I doubt I will figure it out.
My daughter is tall and beautiful. She struggles with self image which is a shame because it takes precious time from other things her beautiful mind should be dealing with. She is a writer and a musician – an artist in mediums that I do not use. She is a creative problem solver. She is an overly generous spirit and gets taken advantage of. She loves to please people. She is also obsessive and can make it difficult for others to help her. I wish for a moment both my children could see themselves as I see them. I wonder if they would recognize themselves.
I know I am prejudiced – totally biased – and totally head over heels in love with them. I don’t regret one minute of the adoration I lavished on my son. I intend to make sure I don’t grow weary of lavishing it on my daughter. Spoiled? yes – why not – in what I consider a controlled manner. And having covered control previously in this entry – you know what that means.
It comes with some thorns. My feelings get hurt. I pull back from others I would like to learn to love the same way, but their behaviors and my own fear of pain of loss prohibits me.
Influence. Now that is something I want to work on. How do I influence others for good, to be wise, to make good decisions. Influence I might develop, control – I do not have.
When you assume you have control you might need to bring the whips and chains. You cannot make anyone do anything – not really – not for long and certainly you cannot change their spirit. You are fighting the wind.
It is not easy after the death of my son to make the best of things. It takes a lot of work. Maybe it always did but I just didn’t notice so much. The new days dawn and I face it with the stark reality that I really have no control – except for the illusion of those things concerning myself.
Still a work in progress.
In eleven weeks we will experience the 2nd anniversary of our son’s death. That means we have been walking this path for ninety-three weeks. This week others started this journey. They are in shock.
Right now they are gathering their loved ones possessions, planning memorials and sitting blankly with their head in their hands. They are having trouble going to sleep. They are reliving the moments of when they got the news. They are worrying over the pain their loved one might have suffered, the fear, the confusion. There are families in Connecticut doing this on this very morning as they watch the news about Boston and now the town in Texas and in Pakistan where loved ones lie buried under debris from earthquake damage. They are weeping for their own family’s horror and the the pain in the places just mentioned.
Religious leaders are scrambling to sooth the grieving. And the big question that echoes around the globe is “why?” There are no answers.
There are no solutions to ease the grief. It takes its own time. It works its way out day by day like thorns and splinters – and they come again and again.
God is not behind this. He didn’t mandate the destruction nor is he pulling puppet strings.
There are people He can work through if they let Him. They will provide the arms that hug, the ears to listen, the hands to hold. It is hard work for those people too, because we are very scary to them. You and I are proof that this can happen to anyone. Anyone.
The world is not a safe place.
Often overlooked in my religious tradition is Mary. I have been thinking about Mary again, Mary the mother of Jesus.She had a beautiful son who loved her, looked after her and made her proud. She tried to get him to stay away from dangerous situations but he was a grown man and had his own choices to make, had a higher calling to fulfill.
She was there giving birth in the stable and she was there at the end. She saw him brutalized and hung on a cross and for the rest of her life she had this image emblazoned in her mind. God had come to her when she was young and put her in a potentially deadly situation by making her an unwed mother. Now, the babe grown to be a man was being put to death right before her eyes. Did she ask herself “is it my fault?” Did she question God, “Why? Why after you have put us through so much already?”
I think she did if she was human.
“Why” uttered to the wind falls down like leaves around us. There is no answer.
There is no good answer to why life ends in death- period. And to my thinking it makes no sense if people truly believe there is something better waiting why we cling to life so desperately.
But I do. I still cling. I utter the prayer, “I believe, help my unbelief.”
I am as raw as I was ninety three weeks ago. Each new blow to life chips away at the carefully constructed facade I inhabit.
Then a box comes from a friend. A lovely book she wanted me to have. Yet another box arrives in the mail – some candy – a favorite candy from a friend. God reaches down through the arms and minds that He can and the message says “I haven’t forgotten you either.”
Just a reminder.
So many of the people directly affected are in shock. It will serve as a cushion for a little while but it will wear off and there will be anger and deep, deep grief. Don’t be afraid of them. You won’t catch their grief. You can tell them how sorry your are and that you don’t understand (and please don’t pretend you do unless you have lost a child or loved one) Don’t say “It was God’s will”. You can’t speak for God in that way. Don’t say it was part of some larger plan – you can’t see that far. Today really stinks for them and that is where they are.
It is not going to go away, they are not going to get over it. They have a lot of work cut out for them and they may need to borrow some of your energy.
The memory of this will fade quickly for those not directly affected. The human mind just can’t hold on to that much horror for that long. Those directly affected are now changed – irrevocably.
I really hate having to go over these things again for myself. I hate that these things continue to happen.
No one has figured this out. No one, I don’t care what they say – it is best guess or self soothing Whatever you must do is yours to choose. Based on your personality there will be some things that work better than others. My husband seems to find some semblance of order by keeping very busy with tasks both important and mundane. I seem to function best when my hands are busy with anything from puzzles to knitting. Nothing works all the time. There will be huge waves of sadness.
Sometimes you won’t be able to function at all – at times that make no sense because there is nothing obvious that should be making you feel the way you do – at least on the surface.
And then something horrible will happen to someone else. Some other tragedy, accident, illness or act of aggression. It will happen because we are in an uncontrollable world. As much as you want to help you may find yourself unable, unwilling and your actions may appear cold or uncaring. Right or wrong by whoever’s standards it is self preservation.
There are places to go where there are people who understand and can lend a sympathetic ear. The days, however, are yours to work through and I am sorry. I wish there was a way to make it easier, clearer, more manageable. If you find a way please let us all know.
We are all here still asking why, still struggling, still missing, missing, missing the one we love.
Dear Son,
I am a broken record when it comes to thoughts of you. They cycle around and around and always come back to the same hard place. I’m doing it, your dad is doing it, your sister is doing it. We roll along and hit that quarter space on the wheel that is missing and go off track. Progress is not the word I would choose. We move, but I am not sure in what direction.
When we used to go to the beach at Surf City we walked and picked up sharks teeth. It always seemed to take a while to see the first sharks tooth and then suddenly I realized they were everywhere. It was as if by seeing that shape once or twice they suddenly all came in to focus.
Apparently that is the way it is with everything. Now it seems that all I see in the world around me is grief and sadness, loss and futility. Doom and gloom – that’s me.
I know you experienced it during your life – the loneliness of being with other people. Lack of connection.
For me it is a lack of joy, enthusiasm, energy, focus, direction,meaning, a flattening and fading of life. It seems like all the pain and loss and grief have come to press their faces against my windows. It is everywhere in this world and it takes too much work to tease out the joy anymore.
In Isaiah 53 – I always assumed the writer was talking about the coming Christ. “Man of Sorrows” it says. One of the songs we sing says “man of sorrows, what a name for the son of God who came.”
It makes me wish I had no way of understanding that.
I can’t avoid the pain and sorrow, the grief and loss, so I wade around in it.
I watched “Call the Midwife” last night. In the story a baby died soon after its delivery. The midwife was called into question concerning the birth and the physician was to perform the inquiry. In one scene the physician is at his desk being asked by one of the nuns at the hospital if he will stay for supper. He says he must work on the report.
“Is there anything else I can get you Dr. Turner?” the nun asks.
“Some of your faith perhaps,” he replies. “Its at times like this, I wish I had one.”
“Its at times like this I wish it made a difference.” she states.
All my faith, sweetheart, every part of it that I thought would shore up my time here on earth makes no difference in any of this, except when I read again Isaiah 53.
I think you had greater faith than I. Faith in the living of life without fear. The overcoming of ignorance with knowledge, the faith of a man who trusts the gifts he has been given and the courage to use them.
Man of sorrows – I used to not know at all what that meant. He saw and in seeing there was nothing to be hidden, nothing to spare him. No wonder no one was attracted to him. He knew too much.
Sweetheart, the flowers are blooming on the pinnacle trail. Your shared dogs, Asa and Sadie are here with us this week while your sister works in Florida.
It is in the simple times, quiet and mundane I miss you most. It is not faith’s job to fill that gap. It is not capable of making a difference.
If anything I have shed the guilt I have carried for not having enough faith to put this grief at bay.
It is not faith’s job.
Day piles on top of day. At night in the dark I look out at that pine tree that I always thought had the shape of Tyrannosaurus Rex -another association with you. I still hope that this is just a dream and that I will wake the next day and you will still be here.
I suspect I do still have a form of hope. I hope so much things taught by people of faith are true and possible. I want to see you again. I miss you so much. If that time is to be then we will have so much to talk about or maybe just time to be.
Forever
Mom
The footprint of every day leaves a deep impression on my heart.
Strangely, paradoxically, when I turn to see where I have been the events of each passing 24 hours has disappeared, no trace.
I look for meaning.
I hunger for meaning.
When it comes, if it comes – presented like a proud chef on the plate it has much less taste than expected.
The world is upside down and every unsecured thing is falling out though not all things at once.
It makes for hazardous passage.
I am diminished in spirit. Held against the whetstone too long. My anger is my sharpest point and it flares.
I am angered by the trivia. I am angered by the repetition in myself and others of foolish ideas. I am angry over wasted time and am the queen of waste.
One of the people I counted on to take my hand, to hold me close, to tell me the truth when no one else would is gone.
We shared an affinity for each other.
Thoughts and opinions as different and as much the same as any one; we respected each other.
I depended on him in ways I did with no one else. There is no replacement. The investment of trust is irreplaceable.
Just when I think the gap is narrowed the footing crumbles and I stand at edge unbalanced. I feel vulnerable. I want to be able to trust the feelings of affection I have for others but they frighten me. The pain of loss makes me draw back.
Sadness drapes a damp and heavy blanket over me while telling me to move on all the while, move on.
So I move, but not onward. I circle back when no one is looking.
I live and relive, shuffle and reshuffle the cards dealt to me. They come out the same every time. He is gone. I am still here.
Those I love still with me are suffering too. They hurry just like me to try to fill up with something. We do not and cannot fill up that empty space for each other. It is not our place to fill. We each occupy our own space in each other’s lives and it becomes its own work.
Every bit of logic cries to out us that we should be sure to make the most of every day, to waste no time and appreciate what we have. But we fail to heed the cry.
The healing demands our time and energy and focus, if there is healing to be had.
Healing seems to me to be the wrong word.
Adapting? Is that what we are doing, adapting to the change?
Swift, sudden, unexpected, unanticipated, ripping everything up by the roots – change.
I’ve used up all my metaphors for the day, for the year, for my life and I don’t think it has helped. They won’t stick.
I’m not even sure who beyond myself I keep trying to explain this too.
Life has become such an effort. It has never been easy but my perception was beautifully flawed while my son was alive. I long for those days.
The grief is rising like flood waters. It is threatening to engulf me. I look for my son everywhere. There is no safe place.
I am watching others. They are in their own stream of pain and sorrow. I see brave faces and stoicism and tears. This world is such a scary place, I’m not sure why we cling to it so hard.
How did this happen?
I’ve been seeing posts of practical jokes. They always involve the element of surprise. It requires the victim to be caught off guard. Some of them seem pretty cruel and dangerous. None of them seem practical and I’m not always sure the victim appreciates the joke. Life dishes out its own surprises that bring along potential devastation. I really don’t want there to be any more victims.
Everyone has their own take on it. People want to explain why things are the way they are. They reference their beliefs and things they call their “faith.” It makes no sense. There are major contradictions that begin to make their idea of a deity seem cruel. I find no comfort in their words.
The strange fact is that I talk to God all the time. Sometimes it is just “oh God,” gasped out with a lot of tears to follow.
I believed in God from childhood. I wanted God to be. I prayed a lot. I talked to Him in every circumstance and felt His eyes were on me. I so wanted to have Him answer a few things, but I figured if He didn’t it was because He is God and I am not.
I have come to realize that the things people say who claim to be believers in God are really words to self sooth. I accept that they are said with good intentions. But they are not God. And since I have come to the stark recognition of the fact that I know so little about Him, I assume they are in the same boat. Best guess – the very best. It it gets them through the night, so be it.
I really do want God to exist, and not the God I was taught as a child. He was scary, fickle and vindictive. He played with matches. He held you to a bunch of rules and just waited for you to cross the line. He was the embodiment of my most feared parent, and he loved conditionally.
I don’t like what people have done with letters written by believers, turning them into a bound volume that has become an idol. As if a leather binding could hold God, if there is a god.
I am so grieved that the death of my son could take a sledge hammer to my faith. I had so carefully constructed it. Which points out the main problem.
I’ve been sitting at ground zero now for 20 months without much forward progress.
Before I often explored outside my comfort zone, but that zone has been demolished. It is in shreds and I sit in the smoking crater.
Had my son been a man of faith, professing to embrace the things I had been taught all my life, perhaps I could still . . . no. No, it doesn’t add up. It makes no sense. He had so much he should still be doing.
Gravity. That is one of the only things about this that I understand. It is a force I can see the effects of on a daily basis and it is gravity that claimed him. It is gravity that keeps me from drifting off into space and it is gravity that pulls my tears down my face.
If you believe God created everything then God made gravity with all its consequences and benefits.
And the human body is frail and subject to failure, and if it is not gravity it is illness or aggression or carelessness or purely being in the wrong place at the wrong time. So we will all die.
Humans.
I envy my dog’s lack of introspection.
I’m here for the duration, hoping -oh so hoping that God is nothing like anything man has constructed – the god made in man’s own image.
Oh here go the tears again, because I have to make a confession.
Even if God is just like the tradition I have grown up in says He is – I love Him anyway. I loved Him before I grew up and married, before I had a child. And when that first child was born and then the next I thanked Him. I thanked Him every day.
I really believe in Love.
I just really miss my son.
I am in search of a soft day
where I land easy
where the morning is warm
that my heart fills with light
where promise comes in a whisper of hope
I wake to the day and look for it
among the scattered sorrow
the memories I fear will fade
the longing holds my hand
the empty space is silent
But when you speak to me
about my loved one – now gone
I feel a spark, a warming from within
Not found among the dust or
stored possessions.
I see his face and hear his voice
I remember his reactions and actions
and they echo within me
till I ring like a bell
nudged by the wind of hope-a sweet breath
He was and is and will forever be mine
and I forever his
For this is the truth of life if we choose to love
that in it and by it, we are willingly inextricably bound
interlaced , intwined by love
ofmenandmountains 