Tag Archives: grief

The Empty Chair

Leave a reply
541110910_0735e7ab66_o

Photo by Stefan Bucher

After a somewhat harrowing drive, I arrived a few evenings ago in the college town I hold dear in my heart.  The next day started a new journey for me as I had an official (pinch me) book signing and talks.  I walked the hallowed halls and shared with the current scholars and community members about my journey to become an author.  Although achieving a new found passion is as idyllic as it sounds. Trust me, the road of my dreams of becoming an author was paved with the sadness and tears of the greatest heartbreaks in my life.

This was illuminated for me as I stood in line at the post office last Saturday waiting to ship a large order of books to my uncle who behind Mom and Daddy is probably my biggest fan.  Like Rick Bragg says, “Your first critics should definitely be ones you have in your pocket.”  But while I stood in the long line (yes that happens in small towns) proud of my accomplishment, I suddenly realized the gentle soul who entered in behind me belongs to a friend who had recently endured the loss of a son.

My friend, who is one of the most amazing teachers I have ever met, was the same one for whom I sent many little prayers on Thanksgiving Day asking God to wrap him and his family, another set of dear friends, and the families of the Chattanooga bus crash tightly as they dealt with the first of the holidays without their precious children.

And there he was.  The man I had prayed for.

Those that know me personally know exactly the first thing that came out of my mouth.

Can I give you a hug?

We shared the small talk of the grieving that only the bereaved truly understand.  I was blessed to be in his presence because we acknowledged the unique journey of grief and how it comes with its own blessings and curses and blessings that feel like burdens.  I agreed that I don’t subscribe to the sentiment that had been shared with their family that “it” gets better with time. I shared that for me the all the firsts (birthday, Christmas) were hard, but the seconds and the understanding there would always be an empty chair were intensely more difficult. In the conversation, I shared how much I had prayed for his family for the first Thanksgiving without their son and brother.  And he imparted his own wisdom regarding loss.  His words touched me deeply and helped me to process this bittersweet feeling with which I have been struggling for the last week.

Pride and sadness had co-existed, intermingling with every beat of my heart all week.

From the moment my book was released, I was elated that the stories God placed on my heart would be able to help others who are grieving or to assist those who want to comfort those who have experienced great loss.  And lest we forget, the writing of this book was a part of my personal mending of the holes which will be my lifelong scars.

But please don’t misunderstand that I have never forgotten that the reason this book exists is that my son had to die for me to speak grief fluently.  It is the one literacy skill that I wish I had never developed. Every time I share (even though I know I am helping others), I have to relive the thing that I thought would kill me.  It is a delicate tightrope balance to revisit the pain of yesterday’s memories while remembering the hope that carried us through those darkest days.

With the holiday season upon us, existing (and I mean that in every nuisance of the word) are those among us who will attempt to celebrate for the first time with an empty chair. There also those like me who cannot, simply cannot, remove the extra chair from the table because it seems disloyal, and then there are those who want to take that same chair and smash it into a million pieces.  The pain is real and universal and yet unique to the bearer.  It is debilitating and exhausting.

Be kind and gentle to grieving people always . . . but especially during the holiday season.

As for me, with God’s strength, I am going to keep on acknowledging my empty chair and my broken heart that has been supported and, at times, filled with the incredibly amazing, wonderful, grace-filled, completely undeserved, and restorative hope that has come from family, friends, and strangers alike.  Although it hurts, I will keep telling my story about our boy and his empty chair and God’s enduring faithfulness as long as our story continues to touch the hearts of others.

 

 

What the redbird means to me

Leave a reply

Perhaps it was the perfect storm of emotions that left me feeling elated one minute and deeply grieved the next on Sunday, which happened to be my birthday.  I was happy to celebrate with friends and family and was ecstatic that my book is published as I had a book signing in church earlier that day.  But perhaps the sharing of the story of my life and how grief has created its scars left my heart aching for the boy who can no longer be here to give those sneaky come from behind bear hugs.

My book is hopeful and uplifting, but the education of love through loss centers on our son dying at only twelve years old.

I miss him. 

For life’s celebrations, there will always be the empty chair.  On that day, I was riding the high of friends loving my book, but my heart trembled with sadness still because no phone call from college would come from the boy gone too soon.

I’ve been asked a few times about the title of the book – the redbird sings the song of hope: and other stories of love through loss and why I chose that title.  Simply put, the redbird is our love note from God. I am not trying to be cheeky, but the rest of the story is in the book.

But I do know the redbird and a friend helped wipe away the tears of longing of what will never be on Sunday night.

To start the story right, here are two things you must know:

1). I love birds.

2). I have never met a stranger.

Many years ago, a dear friend asked if a friend of hers could come to my house to photograph cardinals.  In one text message her friend (whom I had never met) became my friend.  Bill had fallen on some hard times and he like me discovered solace in the winged friends of God’s creation.  From the moment I met Bill I adored him.  He was genuine, sincere, and oh so real.  I love people who have endured life’s scars and are willing to share them with the world. These are the people who embody hope and I admire them. They give me strength to take the next step and on some days to get out of bed. Our littlest thought he was the greatest guy ever because he has many tattoos and a kind heart and she was enamored with his ink and his realness.

Bill was welcome at our home, or more importantly for his career as a photographer, our backyard any time.  There would be times, he would quietly come and park on the street then set up to photograph the birds in our backyard.  His presence became a staple, and when the timing was right we would quietly ask if he would like to stay for supper. Those were blessed days of hearts intertwining – especially over the redbird  he was so hoping to photograph.

We have remained friends and despite his moving a couple hours away, we stay in contact.  A message here or there and an occasional in person meeting always leaves me wishing for more time.

And yet it was time or rather timing that filled my heart with a birthday greeting that seemed divinely appointed.

Sunday evening, I received a message from Bill not realizing it was my birthday. He sent me a sweet message, remembering the times spent in our backyard, with two of his pictures attached.  My tear filled response thanked him for sending what appeared to be birthday greetings straight from heaven.

birthday-cardinal

birthday-cardinal-2

Both photos used with permission from Bill Van der Hagen

His response filled my heart with such hope and such love. Through tear filled eyes, I told him that he was the messenger of Reed’s birthday greetings for me.

Wow! Happy birthday! Crazy! I walked around for 4 hours with a friend at sunrise and we didn’t get any photos then he left and within 5 minutes the male cardinal was literally sitting 15 feet from me and never left. Closest and most patient they have ever been, the female perched as seen in this photo at about 20 feet.  I knew there had to be a reason for their friendly demeanor this morning.

My friend, Bill, reached out because he was remembering a lovely time in our lives we shared, but I believe that God divinely orchestrated that birding moment.  He put the right person in the right place at the right time and then he stirred my friend’s heart at exactly the right moment to send me a message I so desperately needed as I rode the roller-coaster of joy and sadness.  It was the greatest birthday present ever.

As I write this, my heart is again reeling after learning of the news of the Chattanooga school bus crash.  While I don’t know the depth of their personal pain, I know what it is like to lose your child and to have your children severely injured on a school bus. In an instant, the world changed forever.

Some might wonder how you can survive a pain so deep that the scars will always be a part of your existence. For me, my answer is a whole lot of faith, a bunch of amazing friends, all kinds of prayers, and one redbird singing the song of hope.

redbird

Note: If you live locally, I have copies of my book I would love to sell and personally sign one for you.  Otherwise, my book about my journey through grief and healing (and the redbird’s part in all that) is available thru Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She was her own boss

Leave a reply

Leave it to grief.

Well that and an aptly timed phone call to change things around.

I have been experiencing a bit of a writer’s block.  Wait, that isn’t exactly right either.  I have been doing plenty of writing, just not the kind that appears here.  I began taking courses this summer in pursuit of my dream to earn a doctorate in education.  So I’ve been writing oodles of papers, video critiques, and discussion posts as a graduate student.  Back to campus happened and between lesson plans, emails to my students, and grading assignments, I have been doing plenty of writing as a teacher too.  Then there is that wonderfully amazing thing known as my book (to be released in November) for which I have been doing all kinds of behind the scenes writing with marketing and publicist teams. As excited as I am about my first book, this kind of writing is not fun.

So instead of writer’s block, I guess I have been experiencing blogger’s block.

But leave it to grief and a phone call last night from the dearest of friends to bring me back to the place where I have laid bare my heart.  Journaling on Caringbridge is where this crazy journey to become a writer started, and it was grief (that wretched beast) that taught me my hurts and my ability to share them bring comforts to others.

So am I back and I thank you for your patience.

My corner of the world grew a bit dimmer this weekend as my grandmother, Mama, passed away peacefully in her sleep in her own home.  She was one of the lights of my world and she was the last of my grandparents still alive.  Trust me, I don’t for one minute forget how blessed I am to be into my forties and still have my grandmothers.  My Nannie passed away four years ago and there isn’t a day that I don’t miss her either.

 

me-and-mama

The last day we spent together in June.

 

My friend, Karla, called last night just to check on me.  God bless her because she listened to me cry and laugh and cry while laughing for more than an hour.  She is a true second mile friend, the kind that just keeps on walking when everyone else dropped off at the first mile marker.  I am blessed to have several.

At some point in the conversation, she asked me to remind her how old my Mama (which is pronounced maw-maw) lived to be.  When I said, “ninety-two”, her immediate response was “Wow! And she lived at home essentially on her own all that time.”  That was just the way it was so this didn’t seem all that odd to me.  But what my sweet friend said next is where I started to see the light breaking through my heavy grief fog.

Kan, how many 92 year olds do you know who lived that successfully on their own?  You know, your Mama really got to live as her own boss.

I am sure she knew she had “released the Kraken” because after that statement I burst into laughter.  Having lived through many grief trials of her own, she had to know it was either a weirdly placed grief reaction or a true Southern story coming on.

Thankfully for me it was the latter.

I asked her if I had ever told her the “boss” story.  Even if I had, she let me retell it to her again.

My Mama Cloie loved gospel music.  By loved, I mean LOVED gospel music.  She and her friends and family would travel to gospel singings every chance they got.  Her all-time favorite was the “Dixie Echoes”, but with her Alabama twang it always sounded like the “Dixie Eckels” to my ears.  My mom always says my dad had a few of those language nuances when they met too.  The apple doesn’t fall far in Alabama.

Well a few years back, Mama, some of her cousins, and my Aunt Charlotte (my Daddy’s sister and Mama’s daughter) started attending the Gatlinburg Gathering for a weekend of gospel music and good ol’ fashioned preaching.  One of the cousins, who are closer in age to my Daddy, had a time share up in the mountains and this flock of Cunningham girls would travel to Tennessee for their annual get-away.

In between singings, they would sometimes hit the shops in the mountain town. On one trip, Mama had enough of shopping and told the younger ones to go on ahead; she would just rest on the benches outside the stores on the main street.  Every time, the shoppers would come out the stores, there she would be . . . sitting with another little old man.  As they moved down the strip, the scene replayed itself over and over.  Mama would be on a bench with a different little old man who had grown tired of shopping with his wife.

As the day went on, the cousins and Aunt Charlotte took to teasing her about how “they brought her all the way all to Tennessee for gospel singing and she was more interested in finding a boyfriend.”  True to our family’s style of teasing, the picking continued well up into the evening.  At some point, my Mama became like Popeye and she took all she could stands until she could stands it no more.

She let them all know what she thought of their boyfriend accusations.

Let me tell y’all something.  My Momma and Daddy bossed me for eighteen years.  Then Reed bossed for more than 60 years.  If it is all just the same to you, I’m going to be the boss of Cloie for now. 

Stealing a line from a Reba (who Mama adored too), and I guess she did!

I sincerely wish it wasn’t grief that brought me back here to the place of my roots. (Okay my writing roots because only my hairdresser knows exactly what color my other roots truly are.)  But I promise you that if this story about my grandmother touches you there are plenty more in my heart and definitely some about her and all my crazy people in my book.  And yes, grief gets a mention there too.

So for now I will be writing love notes to her in my prayers while my heart works to live without my “bossy” Mama.

 

2-cloies

My two Cloie’s – Mama and our youngest child

 

 

 

He’d like to be a Pepper too!

2 Replies

Every week, I call my college aged son.  I think it goes without saying, but I will say it anyways. I miss him. To play down how much I miss him, I always end the phone call with some snarky bit of wisdom akin to “Sawyer, just in case you didn’t know I have not changed my number.”  Otherwise, I might end the call in tears begging him to come home.  This of course, would be purely for my own benefit and definitely not his, because he is making a life for himself and establishing how he wants to be a powerful force for change in the world.  And while he is much like his paternal grandmother who isn’t much of telephone conversationalist, our chats are brief. Outside of that, when talking with him, I would say he errs on the side of understatement of how much good he has brought to the world so far.

Well, not his momma! I will gladly wear the hyperbole banner . . . because I can. I’m the mom!

There are things on social media that blow me away – like the Olympic moms’ commercials and other inspirational videos, but then there are the ones that make me shake my head. Usually they are in the “Are you sure you realized that you hit post?” category because I wonder what their mothers are thinking when and if they see it.

I know I was in that category last week, when I saw my sister-in-law liked a post on said college boy’s page.  What I read simply took my breath away.

In a really GOOD way.

My son, my version of the Boy Wonder, is vying for a full tuition prize through a contest with the Dr. Pepper/Seven Up Corporation. In the competition, he has to describe how he would change the world.

FIND A CURE TO AD USING PLURIPOTENT STEM CELLS

First and foremost I don’t know what kind of future I can have other than one devoted to helping others. When I was a young kid I was severely injured and spent many months in the hospital. This experience has given me the drive to devote my life to using medicine to help improve the lives of others. Specifically by researching ways to combat AD. ~Sawyer S

MELT. MY. MOMMA. HEART.

I am sure my son was limited on space, but one can never discount his proclivity to understating the story.  So let me fill in the details.

In 2008, three of our four children were riding home on the school bus when the bus was hit.  In the aftermath of the crash, four children died (including our oldest son) and fourteen others were injured.  One of the seriously wounded was our Sawyer.  The crash left him with a head injury, bruised lungs, a lacerated spleen, a shattered left femur, a broken and dislocated right hip, and severe nerve damage.  That year alone he spent twelve weeks in and out of the hospital before he was well enough to attend the last five days of the school year . . . using a wheelchair because he was unable to walk for several years afterwards. He never complained and when they wouldn’t let him play football for the next 3 years, he took up guitar to keep himself busy.  He has endured more than most adults and is still a beacon of positivity.

Prior to the bus crash, we had been adopted, so to speak, by a sweet gentleman and grandpa in our church.  This gentleman designed and made elaborate woodworking creations.  When the Boy Scout Pinewood Derby rolled around, Sawyer asked Grandpa if he would help him and his dad with his car.  Let’s just say, I am not sure who was more proud of that winning car, Sawyer or Grandpa! When the bus crash happened, Grandpa was distraught over how he could help our family and asked his son and daughter-in-law to arrange to pay for the hotel room that we stayed in for the nine days we were there.  In the next year, Grandpa started to slowly fade away from us as Alzheimer’s disease – that cruel and wretched disease stole most, but definitely not all, of the amazingness of the man who loved us as his own. And in the final days, Sawyer never missed a chance to visit him.

So there is the AD piece, but let me tell you about my son.

When he says that he cannot imagine a life not devoted to serving others. This isn’t just lip service.  He means every word.  He hasn’t forgotten a single kindness extended to us or to him specifically since that awful day 8 years ago.  He has used every opportunity to give back and to serve as much as possible (even after having had over 30 surgical procedures since that awful day).  I know I’m his mom, but I would be following in his footsteps, if I didn’t use the word inspirational in the same breath as I use to speak his name. Some of my favorites of his kindnesses are inviting a special needs student to attend the prom with him and his date, writing letters and personally inviting every single responding unit to the bus crash (there were over 30) to attend his graduation, and taking time in the hall ways at school to high-five, hug, or “wrestle” around with elementary students. Once he enamored a whole passel of children at the community gardens so the parents could finish up harvesting.  There sat a big group of children mesmerized by the wonders of my Boy Wonder.

I’m his mom.  I can boast.  But remember I started with he’s not perfect, he doesn’t always call his mother, and I am not sure that elementary teachers enjoyed seeing him in the halls due to the melee that often ensued.

But now you see a piece of his heart and his love for serving others.

Then there is the aptness of the corporation sponsoring this contest.  About a week after the funeral services for our other son, we were trapped in a fog of grief, medical treatments, and generally being overwhelmed.  Add to this the nerve damage that Sawyer endured, we had a young man who writhed in excruciating pain 24 hours a day. Exhausted was the understatement of the century.  Thankfully, we live among amazing friends and neighbors who kept a vigilant watch over how to best help us.  One such evening, a neighbor popped over to check in on us.  She asked numerous times if there was anything she could do – right then – to help us.  What I lack in the trivialization department, I more than make up for in “I can do it myself” pride.  Several times, I assured her that we were fine.  As she got to the door, stepping into her winter boots and parka, she implored one last time, and just as I was about to stop her, my – at the time – little guy spoke up.

I could sure use a Dr. Pepper. 

As Paul Harvey would say, now you know the rest of the story.

And Dr. Pepper he had! I should probably apologize to the truck driver because I think she perhaps hijacked a delivery truck. It was a moment that I have never forgotten.  Of all the things, he could have asked for to bring comfort, it was a Dr. Pepper.

fullsizerender-1

I am including this picture – just in case he has forgotten what I look like. I am the one in sunglasses.

But in all seriousness, even on his moving back to college day, he proudly wore the shirt from the night he danced all night to support two little boys who require extensive medical care and he hates dancing.

This sweet boy of mine needs your help.  Please go to the link below and vote for him and ask your friends and neighbors and Boy Wonders to vote too. Help him to shine his light and use his potential to truly find a cure for the disease that took away one adopted grandpa so that no one else has to endure that pain.  And like the commercial from my youth used to say, I am pretty sure my son would love to “be a Pepper too!”

http://www.drpeppertuition.com/profile/Sawyer-S-8

 

 

 

 

 

Just don’t.

6 Replies

Like millions of other Minnesotans and Midwesterners, I spent much of my weekend in tears and when I wasn’t crying, I spent the rest of my time on my knees praying for the family of Jacob Wetterling.  Much like other moments in history, I remember exactly where I was when I learned of his disappearance.  I was a college junior in North Dakota, eating supper with my family.  We prayed then and we pray now for his family. At the time, my sister was just a month shy of her seventh birthday. Around that time a little girl went missing from our neighborhood.  Unlike Jacob’s story, hers had a happy ending.  She, at three years old, decided to ride her tricycle to the Dairy Queen about 8 blocks away.  I stayed behind with the neighborhood kids while the adults formed a search party.  Long before the advent of the cellular era, word finally came back that she was found.  After all the kids had gone to their respective homes, I held my baby sister really tight and made her promise she would never, never, NOT EVER, do something like that.  In her naivete, she responded with I don’t even know how to get to the Dairy Queen. Through my tears, I laughed, but the reality was the carefree days of letting your children play and run about the neighborhood were gone.

Because of the actions of one, the innocence of a child, a family, and an entire region were stolen.  We sang along to the Jacob’s Hope song, we looked at every child’s face hoping he would be Jacob, but mostly we cried and we prayed.  Jacob’s story and his beautiful full-of-life face were burned into our collective psyche.

It would be many years before I would be married and have a son of my own, and through all this time, I have admired the quiet, displayed strength of Jacob’s mom, Patty.  I would shake my head and wonder how she goes on each and every day with such a gigantic hole in her heart.  To me, and I am certain to countless other moms she was the pillar of strength, of which I am equally certain she never wanted to have that label.

Every time a new “break in the case” would occur, I would pray for peace and for answers, knowing both had to be in short supply for the Wetterling family.  At some point in time, Patty’s face to me became as personally iconic as Jacob’s.  She was the face of every mom’s worst nightmare and selfishly, I thanked God that I wasn’t her because I never wanted to walk in her shoes.

This isn’t a message about being careful what you wish for, but I now know what that prayer of thanks looks like on the countenances of other people.  While my story and Patty’s are not at all similar, I know the deep grief of losing a son in tragic circumstances, and I know grief is never comparable.  I know what it is like to be today’s news story, and I know what it is like to have news media camped out on my lawn and at the hospital where my other son was fighting to live. I know what it is like to lose friends because they just can’t stand to think that their children might die too and I know the pain of someone asking “Aren’t you over that yet?”. And I know all the wrong things people say when they are trying to comfort grieving people.

I know the days where if someone told me I was so strong one more time, I was going to punch them because what they don’t see (and probably what we don’t see of Patty’s life) are the days where tears are all I have to offer the world. There are plenty of days where getting out of bed seems like an insurmountable task. But like what I hope for Patty, there are the days I can physically feel the prayers and well wishes sent our way, and I go on.

With a huge hole in my heart and with scars of pain that sear deeply, I go on. We go on.

I am sure Patty saw our news story of four children dying in a school bus crash and thought about us too.  She just strikes me as that kind of mom and dynamo in this world.  And even though, she and I have never met and quite possibly never will, when I was crying or praying this weekend, I had a burning desire to want to protect her from all the things I know are coming her way.  While I cannot do that, nor would I want to disrupt their private grieving, I can do one thing.

That one thing is to be the antithesis to Nike’s “Just Do It” campaign.  My message today is all about don’t.  As the news broke about the possible discovery of sweet Jacob, social media and news media went bonkers. And with each posting and reposting, my heart broke for Jacob, for Patty, for his brother and his friend, for his dad Jerry, for his sisters, and for all the rest of his family.  In my own quiet momma corner of the world, I wanted everyone to just stop saying one word. Closure. Don’t.  Just don’t.

The word was used often after the trial and the conviction of the woman in our story, but let me tell you there was absolutely not one ounce, not even a scintilla of closure.  My son has been gone for 8 ½ years now and I am NEVER going to have closure. Neither are my husband or our kids or families.  Patty and Jerry won’t either.

We will all go on, but this side of heaven, we won’t find this elusive closure.

Just don’t say it. Don’t post it. Just don’t.  The Wetterlings have endured more than what most people could and they have done so with grace, going on to fight to save and protect all of our children.  Let’s not diminish their courage and fortitude with the word closure.

We can close on a house.  We can close the door, literally and figuratively. We close on business deals. But we don’t ever CLOSE on our children.  The love a mother has for children is a love so deep that it doesn’t have an ending.  Ever. Period. Amen.

Closure – Stop saying it. Refrain from posting it. Don’t think it. Don’t utter it. Do not even breathe it around grieving people. Remove it from the vernacular. Don’t. Just don’t.

I know I am not the only one who has cried and prayed for the Wetterlings this weekend.  I also know I am not the only one who has bristled at the flagrant use of that awful word.  I believe a small educational lesson can go a long way to help all grieving people, and I am simply sorry it has to be for Jacob.

Yet, his mother has taught us so much about grace and dignity and hope.  So, even though I will most likely never meet her, I had to smile when I saw her message for us all as her words echoed the message I gave shortly after the bus crash.  I shared a statement that was read on my behalf about the amazingness known as my son, Reed, and asked everyone to go home and hug their children.

As much as I desire for people to “don’t say the word closure”, we can all DO something.  Patty’s message to all of us is something we can and should do for the Wetterlings, but mostly to honor the boy we have all grown to love.

jacob-wetterling

Photo from KSMSP Fox 9 News

And as for me and my house, we are going to hug the mess out of our kids and believe in the good in the world.

 

 

 

 

Olympic sized memories

Leave a reply

It may take a while before I settle back into the normal rhythms of life on the heels of the two weeks spent watching the Rio Olympics.  Every day found me tuned to the television to cheer on the American delegation and if they weren’t participating, to root for the underdog. I have been glued to Olympic viewing size Nadia Comaneci wowed the world in gymnastics by scoring a perfect 10 and in the same year but during the winter games when Dorothy Hammill spun magic on a sheet of ice.  I have watched every Olympic competition since those days of my childhood.

I have seen them all.  Mary Lou Retton, Shaun White, Flo Jo, the Miracle on Ice team, Greg Louganis, Mia Hamm, Serena Williams, Kerry Walsh Jennings, and Michael Phelps to name a few.  I have cried tears of joy watching the triumphs and tears of sadness over devastating losses.  Mouth agape at the records being shattered and at Olympians defending their titles from previous games, I have soaked in everything that a television viewer can while watching the coverage from afar.

But of all the Olympic moments I have seen, the one that will forever hold its special place in my heart is the Summer Games of 2004.  This was the summer that a rite of passage was passed from mother to son and it is one etched deep in the memories of my soul.

PD_3333

Reed was nine years old and ready to start staying up a little bit later. Watching the games return to their roots in Athens created the perfect atmosphere to introduce to my son my secret passion for Olympic viewing.  After the other kiddos were fast asleep, tucked into bed much earlier, he would come and nestle in next to me while we cheered on the American team. It was during these games that we discovered more than just I could feel the little girl God was knitting together in my womb. Simultaneously glued to the T.V., Reed would lay with one hand on my belly to feel his baby sister kick away, swimming in her own in utero version of the games and the other hand would be busily cheering on his team.

Reed was a bigger fan than I could have ever imagined.  The son of a soldier, he defined what it was to be a patriotic fan of your home country.  The thing about Reed’s viewing was that he forgot he was in a tiny bedroom in southwestern Minnesota and he would cheer and yell and wipe away a tear or two as if he was in the Greek coliseums and arenas and natatoriums. Our pillows would shield his eyes if he felt the excitement was too overwhelming and at times a full out face plant into the mattress was the only way to calm his nerves or effervescent enthusiasm.

Wrapped up in a favorite quilt we would stay up way past his bedtime.  While his siblings had been out for hours, for one summer the delectable taste of growing up and having new freedoms was tantalizing.

Reed’s fanom knew know bounds, and after watching Michael Phelps commanding performance he convinced me to help him create a costume honoring his favorite Olympian.  That Halloween, we did and Reed was so proud to emulate the athlete that wowed his imagination and stirred his heart. The crazy thing is that Reed was a super fan long before the repeat performances in Beijing, London and most recently Rio.

 

Perhaps like many things in life, Reed knew that Phelps was destined for greatness long before anyone else.  Sure Michael has had his ups and downs in life (Who hasn’t?), but I have to believe that Reed would have loved him anyway.  Unlike the way many Christians view the world, Reed’s way of seeing people was through a lens of viewing them as perfectly human in need of Jesus.  Stumble and fall, no judgment would have come from him, rather a love would have emanated saying “pick yourself up and learn from this”.  Knowing that is exactly what Michael Phelps did following the London games would have caused my redheaded wonder to beam with pride. To him, that would be the definition of greatness – someone who overcame a challenge and tackled it head on.  Of course, a little help from the man above didn’t hurt at all.

So while the rest of the world joined me in watching the Olympics, I don’t think anyone viewed the same way I did.  Wrapped up in a quilt, I carried the memories of a boy who died in 2008 months before the Beijing games  began.  Watching Michael Phelps wrap up an amazing career in perhaps his final Olympic performance, I envisioned that same little guy jumping up and down on the bed hooting and hollering for his favorite athlete one last time. The games became more than the greatest athletic competition in the world, they were a beloved trip down memory lane.

While my efforts didn’t earn any gold medals, I still believe they would have made Reed proud.

Love goes on

Leave a reply

A couple weekends ago, we made a trip to see our family in North Dakota.  Sadly, the reason for our trip to my sweetie’s childhood hometown was to say good-bye to our former brother-in-law.  He had always been good to us and we wanted to be there to support the rest of our family.  Since Reed is buried there, we knew we would go and tend to his grave.  I would rather be spending money on some great adventure for what would be his college years, but instead we make sure that he has flowers and mementos to commemorate his life.

IMG_2038

FullSizeRender (8).jpg

Neither reason for our road trip are ones that make me just giddy to get out of bed. Seeing our family – yes, dealing with another life gone – never. Tragic endings are rough on families.  Of this, we are living proof.  The journey is hard when “so long for now” comes much, MUCH sooner than we had expected.  These thoughts swirled through my head with each wheel turn of the more than four hundred mile journey.

IMG_2049.JPG

On the day of the service, I watched a morning news show where an interview with a mother-daughter author team caught my attention.  The daughter shared about how her mother’s resilience in the face of difficult circumstances really shaped much of her life. She summed this up in one sentence and as an educator, my interest piqued, wanting to paint her words on all the walls in school.

“Failure is an event, not a definition.” ~Francesca Serritella

Trying to keep my emotions in check throughout the day, this thought continually swirled around in my head as we plunged forward through the tough stuff. I could numb my pain thinking of these words and how I might apply them to the doctorate courses I am taking. Then I thought, “Wait a minute!  Teaching children to be resilient and persist when the going gets tough applies to when tragedy hits a family too!”

“Tragedy is an event, not a definition.” ~Kandy Noles Stevens

This has been my driving force since the day we woke up after the bus crash.  This horrible, terrible event would not define our family.  We weren’t sure how life would go on, but one thing was certain, love would. Our love for each other, including Reed, would endure and faith would carry us through all the tough stuff.  Life wouldn’t always be pretty, but we weren’t going to allow sadness to be our forever garment. And through it all, God would be with us.  That knowledge alone was more than enough.

When one defines tragedy as a moment in time, it becomes second nature to see that like the refiner’s fire life’s hardships shape and prioritize much of life.  But the parts often unseen in the struggle are the unabashed moments of praise are wrapped up in unexpected glimpses of joy even when we are mired in the muck.

While I was understandably sad about the circumstances of our weekend, God still has joy in his repertoire.  The first of which arrived in the form of a text from a young man, whom we have adopted through an “adopt a college student” program through our church.  The e-mail was to tell us that our now “adopted granddaughter” had arrived.

taylin

The next moment of joy came when our nephew and his family stopped over and I finally got to hold our great nephew who has Reed as one of his middle names.  Humbled, thankful and awed is the best way to describe how it felt to hold a little boy who has carries forward my sweet son’s name.  A blessing greater than I had ever dreamed possible!

FullSizeRender (6).jpg

In both cases, the joy and the heavenly praise ascended were preceded by God’s unfathomable love for us.  The same love that picked us when we weren’t sure if we would be able to do this hideous thing called grief.  Every time the pain was overwhelming there would be some small God sighting that would remind us how incredibly loved we truly are.  Even though Reed and Scotty were no longer with us, our love for them wouldn’t end.  So it was on the long drive home from our not long enough visit.

My sweetie remembered a local casino always has an amazing fireworks show annually on July 3.  Although a little bit out of our way, he rerouted our path home to take in the celebration.  Part of his reasoning was to remember and honor, Scotty, who loved putting on fireworks shows for the kids each year. We tuned into the radio channel where patriotic music is timed to the lighted brilliance. We “ooh-ed” and “ah-ed” at the show, enjoying one American tune after another.

And then it happened, Reed’s absolute favorite song of all time, Toby Keith’s Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue, began playing and this was the firework that went off exactly as it did. In my imagination I can only dream that maybe in some corner of heaven, Reed, Scotty, and Jesus said, “That ought to get their attention.”

FullSizeRender (7)

 

Sure! Plenty will look at this and say it was purely coincidence.  I know differently.  A single moment of illuminated display over the windswept prairie was God’s way of reminding us that love can and indeed does go on.

 

Shine On!

8 Replies

PD_0085

Dear Reed –

I cannot believe that today would be your 21st birthday.  How could it be that I have been a momma for twenty-one years now?  How can it be that eight of these birthdays we’ve spent away from you?  It doesn’t seem possible, and it definitely isn’t fair.

Last night, I got a serious case of the giggles.  I was thinking about how enamored you were one day with your Grandpa Earl.  I vividly remember being snuggled up with blankets on the cold, leather couch in the air conditioned basement, watching Land Before Time for the umpteenth time when out of the blue you told me how much you loved your Grandpa Earl.  You professed your admiration because your bar-owning grandfather worked at the candy store and eats fire. (Because who doesn’t go visit their grandfather at his namesake tavern and get sweet treats?)   I will never forget how hard I had to stifle my laughter.

grandpa and reed

Reed (around age 1) and Grandpa Earl

Yet, it was a defining moment teaching me: love sees only love.

Your ability to see the love (and many times hurt) in any situation is why I feel so profoundly sad on a day like this where I miss you more than ever.

The world lost an amazing kiddo the day you died.

While you were our sunshine, you were truly a beacon to the world.  You loved with abandon and you reminded us often if people hurt you they were most likely hurting themselves.  I will never understand how someone so young could have such wisdom.  I was truly blessed to walk this earth with you even if it was for too brief a time.

In the last few years, there has been so much hate spewed in this world, I grieve simply turning on the television or radio hearing all the awful ways hate and hurt can perpetuate themselves.  I often catch my breath because it all seems so intimidating knowing I am but one voice.  Then I remind myself you never diminished the power of a single person showing up to be someone’s beacon.  With that hope, I steel my resolve and know shining a light may be all I have to offer the world, but today and every day that will always be more than enough.

We need more of what you had in this world – right now and always.

After my late night giggles imagining fire eating grandpas at candy stores, my heart traveled down a lane that I don’t like to traverse.  I recalled our last heartfelt conversation. In a busy family of four young children, small talk abounds, but deep connections are sometimes fleeting. After picking you up at the local caucus (an incredible decision for a 7th grader), we drove back to our house where a Mardi Gras celebration was well under way.

Quietly, you once again amazed me.  It isn’t going to be much longer, Mom.

Perplexed, I inquired as to what in the mayonnaise you could have been referring?

Mom, there is so much hurt in this world.  It cannot be that much longer before Jesus comes back to make this all right again.  We cannot go on hurting each other like this.  We just can’t.

I will never know what you heard at that political gathering, but whatever it was stirred your heart and called you to love fiercely as you waited for the embodiment of love to return.

At the time, I thought it was a strange conversation, but to be honest, I was more worried about whether I hid the baby in the Kings’ Cake well enough.  Seemed so important then, and now I see how absolutely insignificant it was to the lesson you were trying to teach me. Little did I know that exactly a week later, we would be returning you to heaven to bask in the eternal light of love.

All this time, I have wondered if somehow deep inside, you knew that you would not be here for much longer, and you wanted to make sure I understood that like your favorite superheroes we can never give up hope, we can never stop fighting for those less fortunate, and we can never stop believing that good will conquer evil.

Well, I listened and in my heart, I carry your legacy with me wherever I go. 

Love is a powerful force.  No matter our differences, and I daresay, despite them, we must always be willing to love and show light where darkness tries to wipe out hope.  We must be willing to come to the table with hearts open enough to recognize we don’t know everything we think we know about someone else’s story.  We must always be willing to be a helper – at all costs. Finally, we can never, never, NEVER, give up on the hope that the world can be a place filled with love.

I cannot imagine what heaven will be like, but if just for a moment, I can believe that you and Grandpa Earl will find a bar stool in a quiet tavern there today to sit together.  When you two raise a glass “to love”, maybe just to make your momma smile, put a few quarters in the jukebox to sing along like we would at a campfire.

And for the rest of us, we will raise a glass (mine will be sweet tea), and go out shine our lights of love brightly, now and until we can hug you again.

Loving you every day until then – Momma

And then this happened . . .

4 Replies

 

After the death of a child, life does go on.

But it will never be the same.

There will always be the BIG moments. Milestones, such as graduations and weddings, will always have a quiet undertow which pulls at our tsunamic joy as we wistfully imagine what Reed would be doing if he were here.  Yet it is the quiet moments of everyday, ordinary life that often sneak up and seemingly choke the life out of us.  The sweet aroma of our loved one’s life creates olfactory wisps in the simplest of situations.  The inside jokes, the around the back hugs, the smile that could light up a room, the love of all things superhero, and just the passion for loving others are the ones missed most often.  But then there are the silly things like when someone uses the wrong side of the Parmesan cheese that bring a smile to my face and a tear to my eyes simultaneously.

Life goes on, but there is always that nagging reminder that if Reed were here, he would love (or in some cases, detest) this.

Life does go on, but missing him never ends. So it was at a recent event for me.

For a period of time years ago, our children were enamored with the thought that we were once children ourselves.  This epiphany popped into their collective consciousness about the time we explained that you only had one shot at the It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown annually.  At the time, videotapes were the rage and our children could not fathom that we were not able to watch, rewind, and watch over and over our favorite shows.  They were crestfallen when I explained that the airing of the beloved Schulz creation often corresponded with my Wednesday night church obligations.  They wept for the little girl now grown up to be their Momma.  How tender were their hearts!

When they discovered that, at first, neither parent’s families owned a VCR, but rather rented one from the movie store if they wanted to watch a movie, they were hooked on learning all things family lore.  Every night at supper, our sweet kiddos would beg us to tell them a story about our growing up years.  We would tell and retell stories of ourselves, our parents (their grandparents), and our siblings/aunts/uncles/cousins.

Travelling down yesteryear’s memories was a great time for all of us, but it was eye-opening to our children because we live so far away from our immediate families.  This dinner table trend continued uninterrupted for many months – until the day the tables were turned.  Getting into the spirit of swapping stories, Reed blurted out, “Sawyer, remember that time we parachuted off the bunk beds!”  Even then, second son did not suffer fools lightly and shot his redheaded older brother a look of painstaking agony, across his plate of ravioli.

Of course as the parents of these two Wright brother wannabes, our ears were definitely perked.  My calm response was, “No Reed.  We don’t remember. Do tell.”  Sawyer’s dramatic slap of his hand on his own curl-covered forehead did not give the storyteller the indication he should perhaps just move on to another subject.  Eventually, we learned the truth.  The boys sneaked grocery store plastic shopping bags into their room, proceeded to stick their arms through the holes, and promptly jumped off the bunk beds hoping to glide effortlessly to the floor.

Considering they only ever had junior style bunk beds, with the tallest being only four and half feet off the ground, they weren’t very successful with their adventure.

It was our first indication that our boys led a secret life to which we were not always privy.

Since that moment, I have never been able to look at a plastic shopping bag or a parachute without a small smile pursing my lips.

But how does this cherished memory have anything to do with grieving a boy gone much too soon?

One of the things he loved was Children’s Theatre – both watching and participating.  Recently, his baby sister (who it pains me to admit is almost as old now as he was when he passed away) was involved in our local stage company’s production of Peter Pan, Jr.  Sitting in the seats she had preselected, I felt the tug of grief spreading its icy tentacles up to my heart.  Thoughts of “Reed would love this” swirled in my mind. I could feel the sadness begin to emerge from my eyes.

Suddenly a flash of white plastic took my breath away.  A few rows below us was a little girl playing with her stuffed dog and yes, you guessed it – a store bag.  I watched as over and over she fashioned a parachute for her stuffy and let it rip, gently falling to the ground next to her seat.

IMG_1601

My tears of sadness quickly changed to lighthearted laughter as I could practically feel one of his signature hugs enveloping me in my theater seat.  Much like Tinkerbell’s tiny voice, if I listened closely, I could almost hear my red-headed wonder whisper to my heart.  I am right here Mom.  I am right here.

 

 

 

When mommas fail, but schools don’t

7 Replies

Last week, we had a really rough morning.  It was not my finest moment as a momma.  My youngest whose normal routine for getting ready for school can best be described in one word – poky – was trying to rush us all out the door.  Even when the stakes are high, she is never in a hurry to get all she needs to have accomplished before it is time to leave.  This particular morning was different, she and her best friend wanted to arrive at school early because they wanted to be ready for the state tests.  (Honestly, in all my years as a teacher, I have never heard of anyone who was excited to take the state standardized tests. Hats off to their Language Arts teacher!)

Unfortunately the best laid plans of mice and enthusiastic test takers often go awry. Our entire house overslept.  I’m not sure how four people could sleep through four different alarms, but it happened.  Needless to say, we did not start out on a great note.  By the time, we finally loaded into the truck, I was leaving without packing a lunch and felt under-prepared for a day of inspiring young college students.  I realized I had forgotten something critically important and went back to get it.  In an effort to be helpful, Sally grabbed my bag off the driver’s seat and placed it in her lap, not realizing that she knocked over the glass of sweet tea I had precariously sat inside the bag. When I returned, every item I had in the bag was covered in two inches of liquid.

Because I had electronics in the bag, I couldn’t just leave the mess for later.  I stormed into the house, dumped the whole bag into the empty sink and tried to salvage as much as I could.  By the time we left, I had one girl in tears and another on the verge because her friend was hurting, and I was trying my very best to give them both a pep talk about how they were going to rock this test.  No one in that vehicle believed the speech – including me.  As we stopped in the carpool lane, I tried one last ditch effort to no avail, and watched in the rear view mirror as my littlest sobbed walking up the sidewalk to the school.

After quick trip home to recover what could be saved,  I made a tough decision.  Even if I was late to work that day, I was going to the school to hug my girl and to tell her I loved her.

marshall middle school

Upon my arrival in the office, the administrative support person was delivering the daily announcements.  I listened intently.  The last announcement left me with more tears than I already had experienced that morning.  My sweet carpool girls had already told me about the significance of the day, but in our haste to get out the door, I didn’t ask too many questions.

The final announcement explained that a sweet young boy,  a former student who passed away from a mitochondrial disorder the year before, would have been 13 years old that day.  Students were asked to wear green (in support of those affected by mitochondrial disorders) and for a one dollar donation to the UMDF foundation  students could wear hats in school for the day.  This was all fine and dandy but it was what happened at the end of the news that made me incredibly thankful for the Pledge of Allegiance to regain my composure.

At the conclusion, the sweet lady announced that after a small countdown, they (the entire school) would be collectively wishing Alex a very “Happy Birthday!”

3 – 2 – 1 – “Happy Birthday Alex!” was loudly and cheerfully echoed from every hall and every corridor.  As the momma of a child who died at a similar age as Alex, my heart was breaking for his parents.  I was also so sad that they probably didn’t get to hear this amazing support for their son.  I was never so incredibly proud of a school that did not fail the memory of this young man, especially since due to his condition many of those well wishing voices perhaps never had the pleasure of interacting with him. 

Looking back now, alarms not alerting and spilled tea might have been a bigger part of God’s plan for me to realize a few ruined papers and one crazy morning are not the ruin of a day. He gently set me straight with an amazing reminder for us to celebrate – not just after loss – but in the small magical moments of the ordinary, because it is in the little stuff that the BIG stuff really matters.

And rest assured. When my little girl came down to the office, I hugged her even closer while thanking God I got the joy of sharing in Alex’s big moment with her. 

To learn more about mitochondrial disease and to support families like Alex’s, please visit:  http://www.umdf.org/site/c.8qKOJ0MvF7LUG/b.7929671/k.BDF0/Home.htm

Special note:  It has been a while since I have given this reminder, but make sure to hug your children today.