Long-ish Recap of the Crapiversary Weekend With Photos to Hold Your Attention?

Last Thursday night was the worst. Even though Thursday, the second day of school, wasn’t the actual DATE of the crapiversary this year, it felt like it was. It was like one big flashback from hell.

Every moment of that day took us right back to that Thursday a year ago, but we were helpless to change the outcome. A rainy morning. A day of work. Conversations with colleagues. The drive to the school carpool line. The humid air was heavy, as were our spirits. As five pm turned to six, I thought, “Why couldn’t we have been eating dinner like we usually were? Like we are now? Why did the electricity have to be out? Jack wanted to upload his Lego projects from the camera! Didn’t the other kids have homework that day?”

We went to bed remembering how it felt to climb into bed a year before, little Margaret in between us, hoping that sleep would erase the horror of the previous hours and bring our kid back to us.

Friday was hard, but not as brutal.

When Saturday and the actual date of September 8 arrived, we felt much better. Peace surrounded us. I’ve learned not to question this, but just to appreciate and accept pockets of peace when we get them.

Cards, flowers, new blue ribbons all over town and even on our local boys’ football helmets, emails, and many acts of love like Jack’s dear friend Courtland coming to mow the grass let us know that no one was forgetting what day it was.

When I stepped outside to get the paper, I saw hundreds of origami birds in the tree in front of our house. Our bird feeder tree. Our Easter egg tree. Cranes, geese, and many other birds swung in the breeze, celebrating our own Rare Bird and taking us back to his first word—uttered at a freakishly young age--when he saw the origami birds above his changing table.

The day felt covered in prayer, and indeed, so many of you were praying for us. My lovely Monkee sisters at Momastery wrote Jack’s name on their hands as a reminder to pray all day long. Photo after photo of “Jack” on hands of all ages and colors lifted us up all day long. I wanted to grab the tiny chubby ones and give them kisses and squeezes. It felt like the burden was spread out and shared all day long.

I’ve thought so much about this communal aspect of suffering.

If we—Tim, Anna and Margaret-- have to suffer no matter what, being separated from Jack, does it make sense to have others suffer with us? Would it be better to spare them? Saturday we experienced what it feels like to have a part of this burden carried by someone else and someone else and someone else all over the world. And although it may have felt a little like we were asking too much of others, it also felt right and holy.

We went to the cemetery to see the newly installed bench. Which turned out as well as something so crappy could. We laughed, we talked, we said a prayer. After that we made a run for the border to sit in “our booth” at Taco Bell. And yes, I tasted my first Doritos Locos Taco in Jack’s honor.

If you saw us, joined by my sister and her kids, you would have noticed a lot of laughter and silliness and fun. His name came easily. We remembered him with love, not pain, which has been an inexplicable blessing since day one of this nightmare.

We headed home right before a Tornado warning kicked in. Yep. Seriously. Out of nowhere, the sunny day turned dark and windy and violent rain poured down. And even with that, our shitty neighborhood creek remained empty, just as it has been all summer. Well.

Hunkered in the basement playing Apples to Apples, of course we kept thinking of that storm exactly one year before, but still we laughed and played. We did a puzzle in Jack’s honor.

Afterward, we started an early movie. While we were inside watching “The Hunger Games,” our neighbors were preparing a stunning surprise for us. Luminaria lined the long driveway. Each paper bag had a note about Jack on it. His teachers, friends, and neighbors shared memories, and it was beautiful to read that others could see what we saw in him.

We walked up and down the driveway reading, enjoy the now crisp, cool weather and feeling the LOVE. The love of so many people. The love of God. Jack’s love. And then, our neighbors showed us photos they had taken while setting up our surprise. Photos of a beautiful sunset -—pinks, purples and blues--right over the creek.

In the other direction, directly over our house, was an enormous double rainbow.

Yes, while we were inside watching a movie about kids competing in a match to the death, our dear friends were being lifted up and encouraged by God. We don’t get a lot of rainbows in our town. I’ve rarely if ever seen one here in my 40 plus years. Photos flooded in from friends across the country, of amazing sunsets and rainbows. Reminders of God’s faithfulness. Reminders that life does not end. And we felt grateful.

A Beautiful September Day

On this gorgeous Tuesday, it is impossible to forget about that beautiful Tuesday morning 11 years ago, and I don't want to. I don't want to forget the lives lost, and how each life represents a family, a story. I want to remember what it felt like to hug my babies close that day, brought to my knees by the weight of pain for the families left behind. I want to remember how off-kilter the world seemed with the bright sun shining in my windows as I watched the black smoke billow into the air on tv. I want to remember the full parking lots at church that Sunday when folks showed up to love on each other and ask God what the hell was going on.

It's just too easy to forget. And a lot more Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays came and passed and life moved on and on and on.

I think about this with Jack's death too.

I know it's not possible or even advisable to live in a constant state of remembrance. Life and soccer and jobs and hunger and homework and money and the internet and poo get in the way.

But perhaps it's not impossible to live in a state of heightened awareness or compassion that comes from a tragedy. Somehow to stay just off-kilter enough that we don't forget that something significant has happened...and what, if anything we've learned from it.

Sending love and prayers to all hurting people today.

p.s. Cemetery is officially off our backs. Jack's bench was installed 1 day shy of the one year mark. Yes, it's ok to sit on his face.

A Life's Design

We did it! We made it through the first year. You were praying like crazy for us over the weekend, weren't you? We could tell. THANK YOU! Still processing the hardness and the goodness of the weekend, but I have something special to share with you today.

Here's what Tim had to say on September 8th, the one year Crap-iversary of losing our Jack:

When Jack was in first grade, his teacher asked the kids draw a picture of one of their favorite things. I did not see Jack's drawing until his sweet teacher gave it to Anna and me last year. She said that all of the drawings were what you would expect from first graders: puppies, flowers, candy. And then she showed us Jack's drawing, neatly labeled "Designs." Looking at the picture filled my heart and broke it in the same instant. That's my Jack. A six-year old who dreams of designs and is thrilled by their arrangement and patterns. That's the boy who captured my heart with a fierce love that will never die.

As I have been cherishing this memory during the past week, the idea of "designs" reminded me of the imagery of the Tapestry of Life, reproduced here from a daily devotional:

The sages teach that our world is like a tapestry. Every tapestry has two
sides; the front where everything is neat and orderly, and the backside
where threads are cut and tied. Even though both sides are made with exactly
the same threads, the pictures they produce are completely different.
On the front side, there is a beautiful design. The other side, however, is a mess.

All of history is producing one enormous and gorgeous tapestry. However, at
this time, we are only able to see the backside. Nothing makes sense, and
everything seems chaotic. The picture is ugly, and we wonder, "What in the
world is the artist thinking?"

But there is another side to the tapestry, yet to be revealed. On that side,
nothing is out of place and every thread is where it ought to be. The
picture is clear and perfect. If we were to see it, we would stand in awe at
its beauty and brilliance. We would understand the artist's intention all
along.

Jack, I don't understand why you were taken from us at such a young age, leaving a permanent, gaping hole in our lives and in the plans we had for our family. But now I wait, impatiently at times, to see the other side of the tapestry. To see God's beautiful design and your smiling face.

We love you, we miss you, and we'll never forget you.

Dad.

LTYM Videos are Up

Who Has 2 Thumbs and Is Going to Have a Great Year in 6th Grade?

THIS GIRL!

Yes, I'm a PROUD Mama!

Passing the Torch

A new era has begun.

Tim taught Margaret how to touch up my roots.

It takes a village to cover this gray.

Feelings

I used to say that I was as shallow as a puddle. My friends would disagree, and I knew shallow wasn't really the word I was looking for, but I meant that I just didn't seem to experience things as deeply as others did. Sure, I cried at the drop of a hat from any perceived injustice-- an over plucked eyebrow, or another Friday night home in front of Falcon Crest-- but I also felt a steady undercurrent of hope and stability running through my life.

When I observed my friends, some of their highs were so high, their lows so low. They were SO! IN! LOVE! Everything mattered. They seemed passionate about guys, God, and life in general, which made me wonder, again and again, if I was missing something.

I never craved drama or excitement; in fact I tended to run the other way. Jerry Springer was certainly not a show I could watch...far too nervous-making. I felt like I needed an Advil and a Silkwood shower after seeing that kind of raw, shouting, chair throwing emotion laid bare.

Binge drinking, college drama, or jealous girl fights? No thank you. Just take the guy-- please-- it's not worth it to me.

I think I was drawn to an equally Steady-Eddie in my husband Tim, because although I was pretty sure we'd never wear each other's blood vials around our necks a la Angelina and Billy-Bob, or engage in all-night love fests, we were also unlikely to have all-night screaming matches or engage in name calling, unless the occasional whispered "Ass" out of earshot of the kids counts.

It seems weird to me that parts of my life story are dramatic.

But even in that drama, the way I've faced things remains pretty compatible with how I've always been. So, I often wonder, am I too restrained and repressed, or is this just how God made me?

Because I don't want to try to circumnavigate the pain of life by just quietly plodding through it! When my mom dropped dead so many years ago, I bought new pens and immediately started writing thank you notes. My siblings and I did not cry or moan together. We held it so far in as if merely saying the word "Mom" would transport us to a scary place of despair from which we could never return.

And when Jack disappeared into the creek, just seconds beyond my grasp, I knew I could scream and rail, but I didn't. Not really. Because what else is there to do as you sit in your dark kitchen with your friends, knowing in your heart that your son is dead, except put out cheese and crackers for your neighbor with low blood sugar because everyone missed dinner and it's going to be one hell of a long night?

Call it shock, call it denial, call it peace. I do not know.

I guess my biggest fear as an even-keel person, is that I will somehow plod, plod, plod through life like a robot. I DO NOT want to be this way simply because it is more socially acceptable, less messy, and quieter!

I want to make sure I let myself feel, if I even know how to.

At least on some level, I'm certain I do.

I know how it felt to have Margaret's dimply, toddler arms wrapped around my neck, giving my back an extra little pat because she knew I liked it. The world felt calm and safe and delicious. I know how it felt to mother Jack-- and how my delight in his depth and character made my heart grow larger in a way I can still feel when I think about him. How after 20 years I can still conjure a rush of love when I remind myself that a man who handles raw chicken for you, puts feta on your salads when you would have just settled for lettuce, and hands you two vitamins in the morning is far sexier than someone who lives life on the edge.

And I realize that writing is one way I let myself feel.

I may be doing ordinary things on a given day-- shopping for school supplies, doing time in the hell that is Abercrombie, working, or sweeping up dog hair in the kitchen (again!)--but through pausing and writing I'm letting myself "go there" in my grief.

It may not be dramatic. But it helps me. I just know does.