Monday Musings...

So I’ve come to realize that PMS and Profound Grief are not a winning combination.

Of course I’d gladly embrace the former every day of my life to be spared the latter, but that’s not a choice that’s mine to make. Last week I found myself silently railing, to no one in particular-- random cars driving down the road, strangers in the grocery store-- “Blank you and the horse you rode in on!” I don’t really even understand that expression, except, of course, its intent, but I was spewing it, inside my head, again and again. I found this slightly troubling yet liberating at the same time.

I remember reading “The Green Mile” years ago and being taken aback by the warden’s sweet wife, who was dying of cancer, as she spewed out every epithet in the book. Such was the depth of her suffering. I wondered how she could have the thoughts to formulate those words, when she had probably not used them in her entire life.

Now I realize I do not even know what the vocabulary of my grief will be. Ugly words? Ugly thoughts? Soothing words? Edifying thoughts? We will see, day by day by day.

When people say how strong I am, I don’t know how to respond. Because all I am doing is getting out of bed and trying to function through the day. I am eating. I am laughing. I am crying. I don’t feel that I am any stronger than someone else who does stay in bed. And, really, who knows what tomorrow will bring?

23 years ago, when my mom died suddenly, I was 18 and had just come home for summer break. Three days later, I got a job hostessing at the local restaurant where our family had eaten 3-4 nights a week ever since Mom decided she was fed up with cooking.

So that summer I pulled on my jean miniskirt, laced up my Keds, and smiled and joked my way through my shifts. I stayed busy during the days and wandered the house crying at night. It’s just what I did. My father, brother, and sister did things differently, and that was okay, too.

Tim, who misses Jack terribly, has found comfort in being with people. Watching baseball, football, playing cards or going out for a beer. Getting together with a group of neighbors to discuss where God is in all of this. In the first days and weeks after the accident, I couldn’t understand why my normally shy husband was becoming a social butterfly. He went to museums. He wanted to have people over. He had a catch with friends. I wondered, ungraciously, “Does he miss Jack or does he miss having a catch?”

He took another friend geo-caching, which was our family’s favorite hobby. Huh? When we talked about it, it became clear that Tim likes being in a group because it is a welcome distraction. Being with friends buoys him up, even when they aren’t talking about Jack. And doing the things he did with Jack, such as going to a cherished geocaching spot or watching a baseball game, helps him feel closer to Jack.

Me? I don’t want to be in a large social setting right now, even though that is more in my nature than Tim's. It's too hard to be with people talking about toenail polish, standardized tests and the like. I know that will get more bearable, but for now I would rather be with just a few people who are willing to talk about Jack. I want people to know that talking about Jack isn’t going to “remind” me of what we have lost. Believe me, we know.

I also find great solace in messages on facebook and comments on this blog letting me know people are praying for us, even when I don’t have the energy for face to face contact or to write back. These gifts from you are accessible to me any time during the day or night.

In the week ahead, with lots of “firsts” coming up, such as our treasured Halloween parade and trick-or-treating, we wonder how we will navigate them. Tim suggested maybe standing at a different parade spot with different people, while I want to say at “our” parade spot of 12 years. Who knows what we'll do?

Despite our different personalities and grieving styles, which we are grateful to be able to understand and express to each other, both Tim and I LOVE to hear how God is working in people’s lives as a result of Jack’s life and death. If you have something like that to share, I hope you will.

Sometime in the past year, as we were getting out of the car, Jack said to me, “I think I may want to be a missionary, but I might be too shy.”

Margaret replied, “I don’t ever want to be a missionary. They have TERRIBLE toilets!”

Fairly accurate statement, I suppose.

I told him there are ways of being a missionary even if you are shy.

Perhaps, through the way he is still touching people’s lives right now, Jack is getting to be a missionary without ever having to say a word.

I'm a Belieber, Part 2

Thank you for all you are doing to help put a smile on Margaret's face by somehow connecting her to Justin Bieber. I am humbled and grateful.

As several of you have pointed out, Justin Bieber will be on the Today Show November 23! I am convinced we can get Margaret invited up to see him perform. If you are willing and able, please send emails, tweet, call in connections, and cajole.

Thank you so much for your continued support.

And please keep praying for us...we can feel it!

Rare Bird, Part 3

At the end of 6th grade, Jack's class had dinner at the Olive Garden. The highlight of the evening came when the parents read a "charge" they had written for their child. Tim and I took turns reading ours to Jack as we stood in front of the group, each with a hand on Jack's shoulder. We got choked up, of course. There's a lot of inside information in it, that only Jack's classmates will understand, but Tim suggested you might like to read it anyway, especially since our friend wrote that beautiful poem, Rara Avis, for us a few weeks ago:

"Jack, we remember the day we dropped you off in 1st grade, a shy 6 year old kid coming to a brand-new school. Even though you were sad to leave your other school, you grew to love DCS.

Each year we would say you could stay as long as the school didn’t move. I wonder if the main reason DCS never found a new location was the strength of one boy’s prayers.

From day one, you excelled at your schoolwork, teaching us more than a thing or two along the way.

You particularly enjoyed the chance to be creative with special projects. If they could incorporate legos, drawing, or acting, even better.

Some highlights included:
The Vine Snake
The Hill of Difficulty
The Hobbit Map and Paper
And of course, playing Edmund and Macbeth.

Non-academic highlights included:
Cricket races on the playground
Challenging your classmates to “The Game” in which they had to travel the world to figure out where something was hidden
AND developing a private language between you and your classmates.
Hello? Who is Stebe?

You grew a lot during these years, dealing well with personal challenges. When we think about you, Jack, we realize you are one of the strongest people we know.

God has given you gifts, academically, spiritually and creatively.

We pray, as you go forward into middle school, that you will strive for excellence, not because God wants you to be perfect, but because He wants the BEST LIFE FOR YOU and wants you to use your gifts for His work.

That includes putting in full effort, and respecting your teachers, your fellow students and yourself enough to make great choices.

God wants people to see there are many facets to you—not just an entertaining guy—but also someone who is bright, someone who stands up for what he believes in, someone who OVERCOMES obstacles, and someone who has a heart for God and people.

We hope you will continue to share with us what is going on in your life, and if we don’t understand at first, that you won’t give up.

It reminds me of the cardinals we witnessed hatch and fly away this week. Their parents were with them every bit of the way, protecting them, providing for them, and encouraging them. This is what we want to do for you.

As the fledglings found their wings and flew away, you said, “They just grow up so fast.”

So true.

Jack, parenting you is an honor and a privilege, and we know the day is coming soon when you’ll be flying on your own.

When things get hard, and they will, please remember:

Nothing is impossible with God.

We are proud of you, Jack, and we love you very much."

Wednesday "Wramblings" and Walmart

Today was my first trip to Walmart since the accident. I’ve been dreading it, because the last time I went was with Jack, just the two of us, to do some last minute stocking up on back-to-school snacks. He was in a great mood. You would have thought my willingness to buy pudding and two flavors of goldfish made me mother of the year.

We were in a bit of a rush, so I let him stay by himself in the toy aisle looking at Hot Wheels cars (an interest he and his friend had recently renewed from early childhood) as I ran to the refrigerated aisle. He rolled his eyes as I said, “Don’t talk to ANYONE!”

I felt panicky that he was out of my sight, and I made a mental note that even though he was about to start 7th grade and was probably more than ready to be on his own, I wasn’t ready . I wasn’t yet ready for him to be apart from me. When I told him I’d buy him 3 cars just for the heck of it, something he didn’t ask me to do, he was thrilled, even though it only cost me a whopping three dollars. Later that night he ordered another car off the internet, which arrived the day after he died.

Jack and I also searched unsuccessfully for a Latin/English dictionary, since he couldn’t seem find his old one, not that he looked very hard. After the accident, when I emptied his backpack, I saw it zipped up in one of those little-used front pockets where it had been since June. Sheesh.

This past weekend I read Elizabeth Edwards’s account of a colossal meltdown she had in the grocery aisle when she came upon her dear son’s favorite soda. Brought to the fetal position, on the floor of a public place, by Cherry Coke. I get it, Elizabeth. I get it.

For me, at Walmart today, it was a little bit of everything. I avoided looking down the toy aisle, or at Halloween costumes, but the truth is, our kids are everywhere, in every aspect of our lives.

Dill pickles, picante sauce, Resees Puffs, and goldfish. Pudding, school supplies, and a favorite yogurt flavor. Each felt like a stab to my heart.

On Monday Margaret and I donated our “Jack Food” to a food bank, because what’s the point of keeping unopened boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats or cans of Spaghettios as a shrine to my kid?

So today I was restocking, trying to find something that would appeal to us, when very little seems to. It was hard.

After the food aisle, you could have found me among the soap, sniffing all the varieties of teen-boy body wash, trying to find Jack’s smell. You see, the cleaning lady came the morning before the accident and stripped his bed, so no smell of him lingered there. His other clothes were clean-- sweatshirts washed and ready for the new school year.

So today I bought some Old Spice “Pure Sport” for a kid who can no longer use it. Damn, he smelled good. I still can’t believe he didn’t get the chance to get old and stinky. Over the summer he informed us that he did, indeed, have B.O., but Margaret and I checked him out, a face in each pit, and begged to differ.

Even the cleaning products got me down today. I couldn't locate our laundry detergent or any of our "green" cleaning products. "Must EVERYTHING change?" I thought.

So today is hard, as was last night when my hand reached instinctively for four plates to set the table. I realized that for years there’s been no counting, just a connection between mind and body to grab the perfect stack of four.

And we went to cheer on his baseball team, which was brutal because those gorgeous young boys were having so much fun. There was such a sense of learning and camaraderie, and very little pressure. Just boys playing their favorite game under the lights. Tim and I kept looking at each other saying, “He would have loved this!”

And there were the binders. The “new to you” thrift-store binders filled with only 2 days worth of middle school work. A friend emptied out Jack’s locker and brought them to us. I had avoided looking at them for a while. You see, in classic parent style, Tim and I had micromanaged the school life of our eldest. Oh yes we did.

He always had stellar grades, but we were even more focused on the non-academic areas of “self-control,” “works well with others,” etc. In 6th grade we noticed that Jack’s handwriting, which had become pretty sloppy over the last few years, was completely illegible! We considered this a sign of disrespect toward his teachers and Tim, in his usual “chart-loving, self-improvement” fashion, was on it. Middle school was a big deal, and Tim wanted Jack to start out on the right/write foot.

He printed out cursive sheets for Jack to practice on this summer. You know, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.” Yep, at 12 ½, Jack was back to first grade penmanship sheets, but he did them.

When I opened those binders, representing just two measly days of school, I wasn’t sure what I’d see, and whether the pages would be sloppy or neat. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to see.

But nothing prepared me for the loss of breath and rush of tears when, upon opening the binders, I saw page after page of the neatest, most deliberate handwriting I’d ever seen.

I can’t explain it, but it kind of killed me just a little bit more.

Rare Bird, Part 2

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

I am amazed and grateful at how gifts of comfort come at just the right time. While this post may come across as long and convoluted, I hope you’ll hang on for the ride.

First of all, I feel as if the poem I posted on Friday was divinely inspired. While my friend’s son and Jack hadn’t played together since preschool, and she and I had only seen each other a handful of times in recent years, she chose a bird as her primary image to beautifully convey Jack in the poem. It could not have been a more perfect gift to us. We treasure it.

I had already written the “Rare Bird” post but was unable to publish it Thursday night because the electricity went out, shutting down my computer. As you know, Jack died on a Thursday evening during a terrible storm, and the lack of electricity was a big factor in his death.

So here I was on another shitty Thursday, shortly after 6 pm (the exact time Jack disappeared), alone in my dark house, a crazy storm raging outside my window. I asked God, “Seriously????” but was filled with a sense of calm, knowing that many, many people were praying for me at that instant. Instead of replaying the horror of that night in my mind, as would be my nature, I was able to sit calmly for hours until Tom and Margaret got home. One of the reasons I could be so calm was a little bird.

As had happened in another part of the house one week before, I heard a bird singing, so loudly and beautifully that it seemed to be inside the house. The first time it happened, I was in the family room. It was sunny and calm outside, so I didn’t think much of it except, to note, “That is one LOUD bird.”

But how a bird could sing during such a storm was beyond me. I just cherished it as I sat on the living room couch in the dark, a little smile on my face, knowing that when the electricity came on I already had a post ready to share with you about my boy entitled, “Rare Bird.” I loved that.

What could have been a horrible night was the opposite, because of many prayers and the visit of a little songbird. Margaret and Tim eventually came home and the three of us tucked ourselves into our queen-sized bed, the electricity still out. We were able to laugh and talk before falling asleep, which was far different from the moaning sobs that stormy night 5 weeks ago.

The next morning I told them about the bird and as I did, the loud singing began again. We looked around and found a cute brown songbird sitting contentedly in a flowerpot on our screened porch. He must have gotten trapped inside and ridden out the storm there. We let him out, and I smiled again. Bird.

What I hadn’t told you yet was that a different friend, whom I have not seen in 20 years and who, therefore, had never met Jack, had been lifting us up via loving emails each day. Several of her emails over these past few weeks, in addition to prayers and hugs, mentioned sending a little blue jay my way. Well, umm, okay. Not sure what that meant. And I’ve never really liked blue jays, but I decided I’d take all the love I could get.

It wasn’t until she read Friday’s blog post, that this friend let me know what she meant in those previous emails. She had seen a particular bird often since the accident, and each time she saw it was filled with a sense that my Jack was MORE THAN OKAY. When she would look at the blue jay, the words, “Rare Bird” came to her, again and again, which she found odd, because blue jays are not rare. After reading the poem on Friday, and seeing the title, "Rare Bird," she immediately KNEW that the “rare bird” she had been thinking of was not a bird, but was Jack.

She was able to pass along to me many comforting assurances about Jack, and because of the beautiful poem, and the bird that had sung to me Thursday night, I was able to hear her and be comforted. Wow.

Well, there’s more:

So yesterday, while we were getting ready to go to go to a school picnic, something we dreaded because Jack wouldn’t be there with his friends, my cell phone started playing music. I say cell phone, because even though it’s an iPhone, I am not a music-girl, and I didn’t even know it had music on it. Turns out, Tim loaded some songs when I first got the phone, but I had no idea.

The song playing, “The Solace of You,” was one of our favorites when were dating many years ago in our Mix-tape days. Tim and I were able to smile, hug, take solace, get in the car, and do something hard.

The music would not have touched me if all of these other things hadn’t happened to help me be open to the idea of COMFORT coming to us through varied ways. I would have just thought-- “Wow, my cell phone is jacked up!”

So, I realize I’ve been being eased into accepting this comfort, from the Bible verse showing up on my phone that first terrible night, friends telling me they sensed Jack was reunited with my mother in heaven, and the prescient Bible verse Margaret found last summer. It goes on and on.

Just as God has used numbness and shock to NOT let me feel the weight of this grief all at once, he seems to be giving comfort in just the right doses, lots and lots of doses, to bring me solace.

So later last night, when I heard music playing on my phone inside my purse, I wasn’t all that surprised. It was another song from our dating years. When I asked Tim what it was called, he said:

“’Song Bird’ by Fleetwood Mac.”

Of course it was.

Thanks, God! Thanks, Jack!

I'm a Belieber!

Okay, I need to admit I will have very little understanding of some of what you are about to read in this post, but the lowdown is that thanks to your comments and enthusiasm after reading Margaret's sweet, poignant "grocery list" last week, I'm now starting to believe there will be a chance my little girl will get to meet Justin Bieber!

Why? Well, you have emailed Ellen, you have called in favors to your brother's ex-girlfriend's college roommate's mom. You have tweeted. No stone is left unturned!

You have pulled together to put a smile on Margaret's face, and I have to believe that something great will come of it.

Here's the thing. I don't tweet. I don't even understand it. I tried to understand it for about 5 seconds before doing what I usually do-- throw up my hands and ask my sister to figure it out for me. I may only be 18 months younger, but I know how to be the youngest child.

Then, I asked her to try to explain it in simple terms for me (and anyone else out there who might be a tad technologically challenged).

Those who are seasoned tweeters can laugh at my cluelessness-- laugh away as long as your tweeting fingers are moving! If you have any tweeting advice, like about hash tags (?) and key words (?) please let us know in the comments.

So, without further adieu, here's my sister:

How to Tweet:
Go to www.twitter.com and create an account. You do not have to use your real name. If you have a business account and want to create another just for this fun project, that is also easy to do.

Once you have created your account, use the search button (like a magnifying glass) to find the following people to follow. Click the person, then “follow.” You can also start from one of my tweets and click on the other names to follow from there. Easy peasy.

@JBLiftMargaret (our semi-official, Go Margaret identity)
@justinbieber (the real person!)
@scooterbraun (his manager)
@studiomama (his mom)
@bieberarmy (huge fan club)
@theellenshow (Ellen does lots of fun things like this to help people)
@tumblegrom (family friend)
@tumblegrommom (the brains behind this operation)

Unless you have followers, no one will see your tweets. SOOOO, tweet directly to the people above by starting your tweet with “@justinbieber” or whoever you want to have see the message. Please also include “@JBLiftMargaret” in your tweet to tie them all together (see Heather’s tweet below). You only get 140 characters so sometimes it is a challenge to get the size down. I have tinyurls for some links to the blog (Yes, I found out how to do that, too! See above) and the Fairfax Times article (Thanks, Heather! See below) that you can copy, or you can just re-tweet (RT) our posts. To do that, click the little thing that looks like recycle arrows. Except square. And only two arrows.

Heather's sample tweet: @justinbieber please hlp ease Margarets pain, her bro Jack was killed in a flood last month tinyurl.com/3gkdc2 She<3s U! @JBLiftMargaret

I included the link to Margaret’s shopping list in most of my tweets. Every time I read it I long with all my heart to give her what she really wants, Jack.

Since we can’t do that, let’s try to do this. Justin Bieber gets tons of requests on his time, so it will really take an OVERWHELMING amount of attention for this to happen. I think we can do it.

In the meantime, I am just thankful for something to do.-- Auntie

Rare Bird

Jack did not nap until he was 14 months old. That was not fun. But he made up for his crabby, exhausted babyhood with early development in a few areas that amazed and delighted us. For example, he used baby sign language from a ridiculously young age.

Above his changing table was a mobile made of origami cranes. Every time I changed his diaper, I would give the mobile a swing, and the paper cranes would swoop and swirl above his head. Jack made up a sign for “bird” that let me know he wanted to see his birds, or any bird for that matter. It was a little wave of the wrist, hand held high, and he did it OFTEN.

On that same changing table, at 7 or 8 months, he spoke his first word, “bird.” I videotaped it for daddy at work so he would believe me. No worries there, because once Jack started talking, he never stopped. And spelling, and rearranging the letters of the alphabet forward and backward, and sounding things out—like the word “semaphore” in 3-year-old preschool. At the time, I had no idea what a semaphore was. Jack filled me in.

Thus started the circus act of “Mommy and Jack,” as I proudly showed people all the amazing things he could do. He seemed so mature for his age, doing intricate puzzles and mazes, and building things. It wasn’t until later that I realized that while those things came so easily to him, other things didn’t, such as transitioning from one activity to another, handling disappointment, or staying quiet in class.

The realization that my beloved wonder-child was not perfect rocked my world. It helped me to quit being so smug and judgmental of other people’s parenting, to consider that other people struggle in ways we cannot see, and to be more accepting when baby #2 came around with her own distinct personality.

My inward celebration that I had hit the jackpot (the jackpot!!!) with my 2 particular kids never once slackened, but my heart did grow bigger, and I’m thankful to Jack for that. And so grateful that time and perseverance helped Jack grow into himself-- a smart, funny, caring, likeable 12 year old boy who loved God, his family, and his friends.

In those early years, we spent a lot of time bonding with babies and mommies in our home and at the park. This daily time together kept everyone sane. One of those dear mom-friends, in setting out to write our family a sympathy letter, instead wrote us an incredibly beautiful poem, and I’m honored to share it with you here:

Rara Avis
for Jack

“Bird” he signed,
Pudgy fingers fluttering.
We marvel and clap.

“Bird” he spoke,
“Starts with B”. So smart, so young.
We wonder and smile.

”Bird!” he yelled.
Too loud for the classroom rules.
We correct and sigh.

“Bird”, he imagined,
In stories, games, and colored bricks.
We admire and dream.

“Bird”, he joked
With apt and joyful humor.
We recall and laugh.

“Bird!”, he declaimed,
Confident upon the stage.
We bravo and beam.

“Bird” he became.
Why must he fly home so soon?
We call out and grieve.

“Bird” we weep,
“Come back here! You’ve flown too high.
We cannot see you!”

“bird”, he whispers,
“Let my wings enfold your heart.
We will meet again.”