April Is the Cruelest Month. Except.

Every April 23, I’m struck by how full and complicated this day is in my life.

A ridiculous number of beautiful friends celebrate their birthdays or anniversaries today. David and I went on our first date 11 years ago. My oldest little brother, my son’s namesake, was welcomed into Jesus’s arms 26 years ago. This year, as Jack is alternately chirping and growling in the background, the shades of grace are in full color.

My mom was big on “counting up” each day–April 23 is my annual reminder that grace is a shape-shifter I don’t always recognize, but has never really left my side.

I choose the hopeful complexity of thankfulness.


Phase 4: Meeting Motherhood

No, we didn’t actually name our baby Ebenezer Dragonsbane. His name is “Jonathan Lee,” and he goes by “Jack” for now. He’s exhausting and adorable and everything a new baby should be when his mom describes him.

A Facebook friend recently asked why parents feel the need to refer to themselves in the third person, and I now have an answer. It’s because we’re still trying to remind ourselves that, oh yeah, I have a kid and I’m supposed to be the responsible one. For me, a self-proclaimed “not baby person,” this strange feeling of Jack’s constant presence is a little baffling. I can’t help but compulsively check my baby mirror when we’re driving in the car, but I can’t say I’ve stressed about leaving him with family either. But just like in pregnancy, I’m always aware now–if nothing else, by the fact that I finally have cleavage for the first time in my life. Everything changes, everything stays the same.

Jack was born nine months after Mom died, and his beginning will always be tied to that time. The name “Jonathan Lee” speaks to that, actually. One of the meanings is “God has given a healer,” because this baby reminds us that God makes all things new and brings life even as another draws a dying breath. This isn’t to put pressure on Jack’s future role in our family–like a lot of prophecies, there’s a “now” and “not yet” aspect to his name. He’s already brought healing in the short time he’s been here, by giving us light in dark times and things to look forward to. There’s a “not yet” because I have no idea what God’s plans for him are. But I already know he’s been a healing influence in unexpected places–he was just nine days old when we went to Papa’s funeral. My dad has lost the two most important people in his life this year, and yet, here’s Jack. A new grandson to gentle the sea change.

As for me, well, how do you become a mother without constant thinking of your own? Of course there are moments of “Oh wow, she was more of a saint than I realized.” And for me, there are many, many quiet moments in which I wonder what wisdom she would’ve given or when she would’ve just laughed. I never knew my mom except as a daughter–now, I’m keenly aware that I never knew her as a mom, and it’s hard to guess what she would say for that reason.

My friends and I don’t really talk about this except in passing, and usually I make the references. Maybe that’s for the best, since I think I probably am functioning pretty well and those conversations aren’t meant for the group. Nonetheless, I wonder. I wonder if they have any idea that I feel my mom’s absence even more acutely than I did in those first few months. Because before, she hadn’t been part of my everyday life in a long time since I was an independent adult with my own life. But now, every smile Jack gives me is one I wish she could see, one she should’ve seen so frequently since he’s her first grandson. I feed Jack and wonder how in the world she managed to feed twins, and see his weird rash (yay food allergies) and wonder if she’d tell me straight what she thought.

There are still pictures of her all over my house. I look at them and smile, but I can’t look for too long or else I cry. And I guess that’s how it goes, on and on, as each new phase brings a renewed sense of loss even as it brings life. Look, remember aloud, and smile. But sometimes, look harder, remember there are no new memories to be made, and cry.

Welcome to the world, Jack. You are loved. You have so many people who love you, including an amazing Grammy on your dad’s side. We’ll tell you all about your other grandmother when the moments present themselves. You make me go deeper, and remind me that life will never be the same. Even so, life is good.

One Sentence. Every Day.

I didn’t mean to say, “Oh hey, world, I’m gonna have a baby” and then disappear for two months. It kinda happened, and based on the drafts I have stored up, it’s clear I haven’t been slacking. Just not finishing.

Worthy of sharing, though, is a concept I was introduced to last year and have habitually practiced since then–the one-sentence journal. I’ve become even more consistent since the early winter, so I thought it’d be appropriate to share. Although I guess the original idea should be attributed to the Happiness Project, I’ve found it particularly valuable as a writer. Part of what keeps me from writing regularly is the desire to express ALL THE THINGS ALL AT ONCE, and, well, that’s a bit overwhelming.

Meanwhile, in my day job, I’m constantly fighting to boil ideas down to their core benefit or concern, which forces me to hone my commercial writing. In a journal, that same idea makes me think before blathering, while also eliminating the pressure for precision and expansiveness. It’s a beautiful thing, and probably spares ye old blog a few posts. A few insights since March in lieu of a post follow.

March 22: Gram’s memorials service was today–made me wish I had known her in her prime. Also, there’s a total difference in the memorial services when someone was almost 102 versus almost 53.

March 23: Felt definite baby movement after my 2 a.m. trip to do what all pregnant women do in the middle of the night. So there’s that.

April 9: “Ran” the Monument 10K as usual, though I stuck a “Baby on Board” sticker to my back as an excuse to the people who passed me (never mind that we really didn’t train). Why? Stubborn. Tradition. Fun. Commitment to continue doing things I love–even if they’re a bit harder–with baby in the picture. If not now, when?

April 15: I got tested for Celiac exactly one year ago today–on the same day as the Boston marathon bombing. Perspective.

April 19: We took the “big” bike trip today across High Bridge Trail in Farmville as part of Dad’s birthday present. It was so wholesome to see him laugh freely for a little while. He pranked us into thinking he’d sneezed his glasses over the edge of the 75-ft bridge. Bless him.

April 23: Today is such a loaded date. My little brother’s early death, a friend’s birthday, other friends’ anniversary. And today is actually the 10-year anniversary of our first date, when David somehow talked my dad into the idea of prom. Awkward, sweet, and still memorable. April is the cruelest month–but not every year.

April 25: We challenged ourselves to spend zero dollars except on essentials this month (because taxes, tuition, and new car last month). Resetting habits is good, but April, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

May 5: For the last time, my dear Facebook friends, I’m pregnant–not disabled. Your unsolicited comments on my fitness ability are gratuitous, though well-intentioned. In other news, hormones seems to have lowered my tolerance levels significantly. Bah humbug.

May 6: I want to welcome doubt as adolescent truth finding its winding way home.

May 15: Blessed is the man who greets his wife at the door with macaroni and cheese.

One (or two) sentences to remember and crystallize. And give me an excuse not to practice anything resembling long form.

Phase 3: Juxtaposition and Joy


Well, well.

Well, well, well.

There is a time for everything. And we know not the time.

This is both unnerving and comforting, depending on how you look at it. From where I sit today, it’s both at once–just one of the many paradoxes and funny juxtapositions I’m learning to live with and faintly smile at.

A few months ago, I wrote that I’ve stopped believing in answers, especially simple ones, and have instead hung my hat on certain truths that go beyond mere answers. That’s never been truer than this week, when David and I finally announced that, oh hey, just btw and in case you wanted to know, we’re going to be parents in August. The ironic beauty/day-late timing is not lost on us in the least.

You see, this little life made itself known mere hours before my mom’s memorial service. I never dreamed I’d be telling David, “I’m pregnant,” under such circumstances. But there it was, as mundane and miraculous as a double line on dollar store stick. An immediate pang at what we missed telling her and what she’ll miss, and an immediate purpose for the next eight months… eighteen years… life.

We had so many reasons to bite our tongues for the next two months. There was a necessary season of mourning that everyone around us—and we ourselves—needed to pass through. There were other babies that needed their moment in the sun. The most uncertain weeks of the first trimester to get through. So, I carried this secret, and David kept it with me, wondering when the “right time” to tell the world would be. Good thing the baby bump is pretty easy to hide thus far (did I really just type that?). And we landed on my dad’s birthday as the moment to out ourselves, despite multiple opportunities before then, because it just seemed right to say, “Hey, there are still things to look forward to this year. Maybe there are still good things about getting older.”

And it’s true.

God is still good. Grace is still real. We still have raison d’être.

After holding in our secret for forever, it’s suddenly strange—wonderful, but strange—to bring other people into this personal narrative. Babies mean community, especially when two of your cousins and multiple friends are all due within six weeks or less of your own due date. There are grandmothers that have waited years to hear their grandson say it’s his turn to be a dad. There are parents that have a claim on this kid—a different claim, but a real one. And suddenly this narrative monologue that I’ve been holding with myself for the last few months is part of a bigger narrative that’s still mine, but not just mine. I’m sure there’s some literary theory to expound on, but I neither remember nor care particularly right now. It’s funny to watch how futures collide and expand.

So. Here we are, aren’t we. Smiling to ourselves and waiting for yardsale season to begin so we can snag baby stuff below cutthroat prices. Looking at the still-unfinished bathroom and finding ourselves with, ah, deadlines. Reevaluating priorities left and right. Feeling incredibly thankful that our “five year plan” included the important memories we wanted to make. Renewing our commitment to do the hard things even—especially—with baby in tow (go ahead and laugh, you might be right). Continuing to live everyday life intentionally because life doesn’t pause or suddenly “happen” with one announcement or arrival or departure.


Well, well, well.

Phase 2: Permanence

Life in transition continues. A coworker recently caught herself saying, “Life is beautiful” to me and thought it might be hurtful, because life isn’t okay. But I had to tell her, honestly, that “okay” and “beautiful” are two different things, and I will forever believe, as my mom did, that every day is a beautiful gift. Cliche? I happily admit that you’re right.

We’ve entered phase two of the new normal, which I will call the, “Oh **** this is permanent and not a novelty anymore” phase. Not all crap, but certain family members don’t laugh as much, certain family members just miss  afternoon debriefs with Mom, and sometimes we’re all prickly. I’m juggling new developments constantly, and trying to learn how to just BE PRESENT with my family. Given how independent my life was before, and how well I sit still (not at all), you could say it’s a growing experience.

A friend who lost his dad last year wrote me an email with advice I needed to hear about not running away (it’s much easier to be at my house than my parents’), and I’m trying to take it to heart. The question is, how do you know you’re “dealing with things” and not brushing issues into a corner? Seems like the only course is to wait for the unwatched issues to spring out from the dark and catch you in their teeth.

Funny enough, I only realized a week ago that I was trying to facilitate a MAJOR CHANGE in my own life, when I’ve read so many times that you just shouldn’t in the first year. Surely it’s obvious that my theology has shifted and morphed in the last six months, but that’s no reason to run. Not yet. I do have a burning desire to READ ALL THE THINGS and find a holistic hermeneutic for understanding my faith. When will I find the time? Whew, who knows. For now, we’re safe–and we can love and serve–the people who loved and served us so well.

I understand now when people say the pain never goes away–but I see glimpses that it becomes more manageable, like the chronic physical pain people learn to deal with and compensate for.

We’ll get there, and all I can say is I can’t WAIT for spring. I know a break from the cold and the ability to get outside and hike and exercise and enjoy fresh air will go a long ways towards healing. I’m hoping for a family hiking/camping trip, since that was one thing Mom never particularly enjoyed but Dad has always loved. I’m hoping new routines and new adventures make reality more manageable.

* * *


Thank God only a couple people have said “Your mom is in a better place.” I’ve gone cold each time–I may hate this phrase most of all. How it ever became a benign cliche is beyond me, as all I hear when people say that is, “Well, she didn’t really belong here anyway. It’s better this way. She deserved better, and now she’s got it.”

Of COURSE she deserves the best, we loved her. But you just bulldozed all of us left behind. Apparently, we weren’t enough for her, she needed more. Or are you saying that God whisked her away to a “better place” knowing the personal costs to her family and friends?

“Better place” for WHO?!, I want to shout. Fine, if you want to get academic, although I think the presence of God himself is on such a different plane that “better” is weak. But is she in a “better place” when she has kids who are still to graduate high school, go on their first date, have their first kid? When what broke her heart most was acknowledging that she wouldn’t be here for those moments? For us, it seems “better” that she were here. How can you possibly say it was “better” for a life to be cut short? Death may be merciful, and I believe my God has redeemed death to become a gateway. But a gaping hole in reality, and you say it’s so she can be in a “better place”? Death is still the enemy. Death is defeated, but no. There are only two separate places with a great chasm between. It won’t be a “better place” until all things–all things–are made new.

Following the Blog Blow-Out

Wow. I never expected a simple post on a personal blog I don’t promote to generate the traffic I’ve seen over the last week. It was astounding and incredibly humbling, because all my thoughts are just that–my personal experience traveling through this shadowland. Nothing I shared seemed remarkable, and yet the content resonated across multiple social networks and sites. I’m no expert, so… wow. Thank you all for the kind words and support. My heart in writing that list really was to give people practical insight as they try to assist and love during difficult times, and my continuing hope and prayer is for that result.

Of course, the strange thing about articles emanating farther and farther from their source is how people change their filter when commenting. A couple folks thought the whole idea of “7 things not to say” was mean-spirited, as I was calling out people who were “just trying to help.” And that’s a fair point, though (I hope) a misreading.

I want to reiterate once again that every single statement was probably intended to be kind–that’s why I wrote the list in the “well-intentioned” but “better” format. The last few months, even before Mom died, have been an exercise in learning to hear people’s hearts rather than their words sometimes. Because people do care, above and beyond what I could ever have imagined, and I have been blown away by people’s emotional and physical support–and that includes people who have said/done things that collide with my personality/circumstances.

I’ve always tried to write every blog post, random comment, and Facebook status as if everyone on the Internet can and will read it. Moral of the story? Keep doing just that, because you never know how far words will travel!

7 Things Not to Say to a Grieving Person (As Written by One Grieving)

“I see people, as they approach me, trying to make up their minds whether they’ll ‘say something about it’ or not. I hate if they do, and if they don’t.” – A Grief Observed

I’ve been that friend–the one who sees grief and blurts out something before running away. Trying to find the “right words” when nothing can make reality right is bound to result in some flubs, and yet silence is hard to manage.

Now I’m (figuratively) wearing black, and I’m on the other end. People are so well intentioned, and so badly want to help. I appreciate the sentiment so much–simple acknowledgement that life is irreversibly different is more helpful than you can imagine–and yet the expression has sometimes made me shake my head. I have to laugh at the sometimes hilariously wide difference between the good intention and the bizarre outpouring.

I’m sure many people are simply clueless, as I was before this paradigm shift, so I try to focus on people’s hearts. But you know, ignorance can be helped. With that in mind, here’s a short catalog of some common, very well-intentioned comments I’ve received… and why I’ve cocked my head at the people who utter them.

*Addendum: Please, please, please know that my intent isn’t to stop people from saying anything, lest it be the “wrong” thing. Rather, that empathy and understanding may grow so that the next person may be comforted.

* * *

Well-intentioned: “If there’s anything I can do to help” and “Let me know what I can do.”

Why it doesn’t work: A couple reasons, actually. First, I appreciate the assumption that my brain is still functioning on all cylinders, but… it’s not. Right now, I have the mental energy to answer yes/no questions, but open-ended questions that require more processing from me? Not so much. Secondly, I didn’t realize til now how much grief consumes the immediate and hampers your future planning skills. For instance, I probably do need something from the grocery store. But I won’t realize it until the exact instant that I need it (e.g. milk for tomorrow’s breakfast) and the only thing to do is run out at 11p.m. at night.

Better: “Hey, I’m going to the grocery store right now, can I pick up some staples for you? Milk? Eggs? Bread? Do you have a list?” or “Hey, can I come over and clean your bathrooms? Does Tuesday work?”

My brain has much less pressure in this scenario–the onus isn’t on me to call you and hope you’re still willing to do a nebulous “anything,” and I can latch onto something concrete with easy answers. I’m eternally grateful for the people who really did clean my bathrooms and bring my family groceries–that was huge.

* * *

Well-intentioned: “Hey, you look sad.”

Why it doesn’t work: Maybe I do, and I know you’re trying to tell me that you notice my hurt and carry it with me. But… um, trying to live my life here. The place to bring this up is over coffee, not at random (or at work or in the middle of church). I’m pretty sure I’m only at half-mast but bringing it up doesn’t help me focus on what’s at hand.

Better: “Do you need a hand with that project? I’m happy to help.” Or send me a note that I can read in my own time.

* * *

Well-intentioned: “I’m a safe person. You can talk to me anytime if you need to vent or scream or cry.”

Why it doesn’t work: I have to preface this by saying why this sentiment doesn’t work FOR ME, as maybe others do need it. I’m incredibly blessed to have strong friends and a strong community, and I’m also a relatively private person. I know that when people say this, they really just mean they want to help. But if I didn’t have a strong relationship with you before this, why would I pour out my soul to you now? Understand that unless you have been through similar circumstances and have special wisdom to give, a grieving person is not going to take you up on that offer. When someone I barely know says this phrase, it can sound downright opportunist. If you really want to help, offer something concrete, like a meal or a notecard with encouragement/prayer.

Better: “I’ve been thinking about you guys a lot, and I love you.” You’re honoring my boundaries while telling me you care. This means the world.

* * *

Well-intentioned: In this scenario, you’ve just seen the person for the first time since the death/the big news, and you’re both in the middle of a larger event. You go up to your friend and say, “I’m so sorry about [blank]. How are you holding up? How was the funeral?”

Why it doesn’t work: I can’t stress enough how important it is to choose the timing of your condolences. I understand that you want to know, but I’m in the middle of a party, a Christmas celebration, a big get-together after work, and you want me to conjure up my grief in a completely incongruous situation, on the spot, for you? Sometimes, it’s just nice to enjoy a kind of normalcy for a little while. Of course I haven’t forgotten the pain–rather, I’m choosing to focus on something else for a little while, because that’s healing too. Let me.

Better: “I’ve missed you over the last few months. It’s really good to see you again. Hey, would you want to get coffee soon?” This lets the person know that you’ve noticed their absence, and you care. Plus, it offers a gateway to a private conversation, without the stress of answering pointed questions.

* * *

Well-intentioned: “I know how you feel. My mom died when she was 80.”

Why it doesn’t work: No two griefs are the same, and assuming you know how another person is feeling/processing is just that–an assumption. We all know death, but not in the same way. For example, my own mom died at 52, leaving behind four kids still at home and three in highschool. I’m sorry your mom died at age 80, but please understand that I’m grieving decades of lost time and unmade memories, as well as trying to step up to help meet my younger siblings’ practical needs. No, you don’t know how I feel, and I’m trying hard not to feel insulted by your comparison.

Better: “I’m sorry for your loss” and “Hang in there. I promise someday it gets better.” If you’re not so close, the tried-and-true line is a good one. If you’ve been through strong, close grief, then maybe an encouragement that someday the weight lifts a little is appropriate. It doesn’t assume the griefs are the same, but it does offer some hope.

* * *

Well-intentioned: “God is in control.”

Why it doesn’t work: Closely aligned with “God will use this for good somehow,” statements like this fall into the really-bad-timing category. Maybe they are true. But in grief, we want a God who is close and immanent and feels our hurts. A big God in control of the whole universe (yet a loved one died) working out some distant good (my hurt is now) is quite frankly irrelevant at the moment. I need a Jesus that weeps with me, who knows my sorrow because he carried his own.

Better: “God himself mourns with those who mourns. Death is still the enemy, and I’m so sorry you met it now.” Remind me that God’s heart breaks with mine. Remind me that even in God’s grand plan, death is still an inherent wrong that needs to be righted.

* * *

Well-intentioned: “[Blank] lived a full life, and is with Jesus now.”

Why it doesn’t work: This one isn’t so bad, actually, but it’s pretty incomplete. First, you don’t know if a person lived his own definition of a full life. And we miss them here, with us. I fully believe that my mom lived every moment of her almost-53 years to the brim, but the days are empty now. What you’re saying has a cognitive dissonance with my new reality.

Better: “[Blank] was always so full of life. I remember that time…” Share a memory you hold dear with me. I don’t get to make new memories now, so the shared ones are much dearer. I love hearing them.

* * *

There are no perfect responses to loss. But thanks for listening and trying to say the less-bad things, all the same.