When Your Son Turns 17 in Heaven

Jack's birthday this year was terrible.

He would have been 17.

I don't write this to try to bring you down. If anything, the full-on crappiness of that day reminds me that most days are good, very good, which would have seemed like a ridiculous notion a few years ago. Good days? Without my child? Really?

I would have guessed that even 4 plus years in, each day would be a slog through the muck and mire of sadness and grief. Instead, the grief has wound its way through all aspects of my being like a vine I can't shake off. It shapes me, but does not choke the life out of me. It is now integrated into a life where I no longer want to die young. A life where I have hope for the future, and laughter every single day.

Except, I guess, Jack's birthday.

I was hoping to go to the drugstore and buy small chocolate Crunch bars to give out to the little kids in the neighborhood when they got off the school bus that afternoon-- a birthday tribute to a boy they had never met.

But not too far into the day, I said to myself, "Screw this shit. Screw candy bars. Screw trying to celebrate anything when all I feel is LACK."

The tears started early, and I was grateful for them. I hadn't cried in so long, and I needed the cleansing power of release, of salt water, of feeling all of it. I've only cried once, maybe twice in the almost 9 months of this crazy blessed pregnancy journey, which I would guess isn't that much even for a non-bereaved pregnant lady.

But they didn't stop.

Tim and I drove across town to pick Margaret up early from school, not because it was Jack's birthday, but because they were heading to Florida for Tim's parents' 50th anniversary. Because of my pregnancy, and my desire not to have a preemie out of state, I was staying home. On the short 6 minute drive, in the middle of the day, I managed to see two separate people who sent my longing and anger and loneliness into a downward spiral. You never know when grief triggers will spring up, and after that, I could tell today was going to be a doozy. In my head, I cried out to God, "How much, Oh Lord, how much? How much do you think I can take? I am tired of taking it and being strong!" All that came out of my body was snot and quiet tears.

Tim sat next to me in the car, and I wanted him to touch my knee, or put a hand on my shoulder while I sobbed, but I think my emotion scared him, so he drove on silently. I wanted the one who had lost just as much as I had to reach across the widest 12 inch gap in the world, because I knew he must be hurting, too. He would have been more comfortable organizing something to commemorate Jack's birthday, such as a race or maybe buying the stupid chocolate bars. Anything other than sitting with me in the car, uncomfortable, silent. So I cried some more. When Margaret got in the car and heard the remnants of my snuffles and nose blowing, she asked if I was sick. "No, I just really miss Jack," I said. I. Miss, Jack. Even in a small car with my closest family members, I felt so lonely.

Before long, I'd dropped them at the airport, taken a wrong turn in DC, and seen some of the nascent cherry blossoms. It was predicted that that very day, March 18, would be their peak. But the blooms were lackluster, the wind chilly, and it would be another week before they hit their full beauty.

Good.

I spent the rest of the day taking in an outpouring of love from friends and family on the blog, through Facebook, texts, and emails. Hundreds of people lovingly tried to lift the burden, not even aware that I'd be alone all weekend, greatly pregnant, sad, and with two diarrhea-afflicted dogs. It meant so much to me, even as it barely made a dent in the pain.

Barely a dent? Does that mean it's pointless to remember a friend's loss on important days like birthdays, anniversaries, and the like?

Absolutely not.

I can't imagine HOW MUCH WORSE that Friday would have been if no one had acknowledged our loss of Jack. If everyone had stayed away. If you are lonely with messages of love pouring in from around the globe, lonely on a bright spring day with buds bursting in the trees, how much more devastating would it be to have nothing but silence? We need each other.

Our dear friend Brian's 40th birthday is tomorrow. He died in early December. I don't know what this first birthday without him will be like for his wife and three kids, because I am not in their shoes. It is theirs to experience, to navigate. To cry or not. To share stories or not. Regardless of how Brian's family marks the day tomorrow, I'll be here, remembering, bearing witness, saying his name out loud,  reaching out through helplessness and discomfort, hoping that my tiny part can be a pinprick of light through the hazy darkness.

Cherry Blossoms, spring 2011

In Deep

Two years ago I wrote a post about our potential new neighbors. Every night the kids and I would pray for the people who would soon move into two houses on our street, “Lord, help us to bless our new neighbors, and help them to be a blessing to us.” Those empty houses held the promise of play dates, friendships, and casual pizza dinners in the cul de sac. Maybe even future prom dates. They were ideals, pristine-- not yet marred by the hurt feelings, awkwardness or conflicts that often arise when living in community. You can read that post here.

The houses made me think a lot about myself as a friend. I realized that while I wanted to roll out the welcome mat and be an ultra- friendly neighbor, I had grown accustomed to being more of a drive-by friend than a steadfast one. I leaned away from people whom I considered “needy” or who pushed intimacy on me.  I also think I put unspoken, internal limits on how long it should take for people to “get over” things, and how much of myself I’d offer up to them if they needed me.

I realized I might be an okay friend to have during a sprained ankle, but chronic depression? Probably not.  Ouch. You could have described my friendship style as wide, but not really deep. I think, with the exception of a small group of friends, I kept myself a little closed off from others. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to let them see the times when our family was annoying, ungracious, and our lives were… messy.

 Less intimacy = less mess.

Seven months after the new families moved in, 3 young friends knocked on our door, and Jack and Margaret went out to play with them, huge smiles on their faces.

Jack never came back.

One new neighbor, Jane, whose daughter had been playing with my kids in the rain, held my hand as I knelt in the wet grass, cursing and praying as rescue workers tried to find our son. And the other new neighbor’s son, Joe, was the one who called out, “Let’s go look at the creek!” and led the kids into his back yard.

I can and do wonder about the way God chose to answer our sincere prayers about our new neighbors. He’s the same God I prayed to for guidance on buying this house 10 years ago.  What’s up with that? Jack is dead! This is not a blessing! I ask Him, “Why did you lead us to this neighborhood in the first place?” Why? Wouldn’t any other f’ing town, neighborhood, or even street have been a better call? I don’t have the answers.

But I do think it is interesting that the woman who avoided conflict and intimacy, and sometimes missed out on true community, the woman who wrote these words on her blog, “Of course in my shallowness, I must admit I want to be needed in the "Where's the grocery store? or "Let's hang out on my porch" kind of way, not in the walk with me through a major life crisis sort of way,”  is now immersed in a messy struggle for survival that is truly long-term and has left few in the neighborhood,  town, or our internet circles untouched. There is no clear-cut end date or exit strategy, and no evaluation form to complete when the healing is “complete!”

And I have been cared for by people who have bravely rejected the idea that surface level friendship is enough, including my friend Jane, who hasn’t quit holding my hand.

It’s all so very interesting.

I now need what I was reluctant to give, and that is humbling.

And I can’t wash off or run away from the mess, even if I try.