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 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!

(Fragments of) The New Normal

“What do people mean when they say, ‘I am not afraid of God because I know He is good’? Have they never even been to a dentist?” – C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Maybe it’s too soon to write this post. Maybe there’s never a right time, like there’s never a right time to die. Where, O Death, is your sting? Here. Now. Not eternally, but now.

How do you meet grief? Some people slam the door in its face, and some people smother it in their arms as a type of memory worth holding fast. No one exactly welcomes it. I wrote Mom’s obit and held people close and took two weeks off work–one for funeral events and travel, and one for Christmas that followed it. I have done things that affirm the very clear reality of my mother’s absence from the body, and even so I catch myself waiting for her to come down for dinner.

I haven’t had trouble sleeping, but the dreams did suck for a couple weeks. I know some people welcome their loved ones in dreams as a bit of remembrance or reprieve, but I couldn’t. The woman in my dreams kept denying the reality I and my family live in, and was nothing but an imposter. As Lewis wrote, this phantom was merely a fragment of my own imagination–some fashioning of my mom in my own image, not who she really was. It was an image perverted, and some of the dreams woke me up with their twisted reality.  I’m glad the dreams have ebbed, as I found no comfort in them.

On the other hand, we all find ourselves drawn to her images in the photo albums. She was the family photographer, but thankfully she never shied away from having her picture taken when her hair wasn’t perfect or she looked tired or her body was recovering (hello, seven kids). I’m so glad she didn’t. It’s hard to comprehend how someone so absolutely alive in the photos could be dead now. Still, it’s good to remember her as she was–cautious, but mischievous and full of life in the everyday circumstances. Some days the slideshow is easier to watch than others.

We’ve had genuinely good days, and good moments. Parts of Christmas Day were better than I could have imagined, and seeing the cemetery the day after we buried her was healing and calming and beautiful in its own way (though I hadn’t wanted to go). I hadn’t realized that one can be surprised by the good moments as well as the bad.

“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.”

I understand now why people call death a “loss.” Not just something has been taken away and gone on a trip, but something is actively missing. On the easy days, it’s a bit like tasting tomato soup and finding someone left out the tomato flavor. Or, in keener moments, realizing your leg has been cut off and you’ll never run the same way again (thanks for the image, Jack). When the twins turned 18, just a few days after Christmas/Mom’s birthday, her absence was its own presence. When I found the birthday card I had optimistically bought for her weeks in advance, I found myself contemplating how she wouldn’t ramble a bit after she answered some question over the phone and update me on daily life at their house. I’m thankful her birthday and Christmas are the same day, so we don’t relive some things twice.

I feel a slight hesitation, a nervousness, when I’m away from loved ones. The nervousness grows much larger when someone runs later than they tell me. There’s a small, not at all irrational bit in me that knows they may never come back. Losing someone in three months, almost to the day, is almost instantaneous relative to a normal lifespan, and you realize how quickly it can happen. Perhaps, in this sense, I have truly “grown up,” for I have intimately realized that neither I nor anyone I love is invincible.

Day-to-day is easier at my own house than at my parents’ (it is still their house, because they built it together) since the change isn’t so obvious in that place. My own life was at least a little separated from hers, while my dad and younger siblings have no such refuge. You realize how many little habits and little jokes your parents had once one of them is no longer there to fulfill the routines. I’m thankful Dad is a talker, not a bottle-upper, though it means the moments are always fraught with something. I’ve been encouraged to keep my own life, but it’s clear how much we all need to be together constantly. It’s exhausting, like every other aspect of grief. “No one told me that grief feels so very like” … exhaustion.

2013, you were truly the very best of times and the very worst of times. I look forward to getting outside again, hiking and camping and doing things Mom wasn’t so apt to do. I know the exercise will at least make us sleep well, and I look forward to being surprised by joy via blue skies, though I expect to find the “still point of the turning world” all over the place. Slowly, slowly.

“Aren’t all these notes the senseless writings of a man who won’t accept the fact that there is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it?”

Advent: Or, Longing in Hope

I intended to write about Advent today. However, some other folks beat me to it with wonderful words and frank exposition. So instead, I’ll link to their pieces, knowing that my heart echoes theirs in this season of twice waiting–once with Israel, once with longing hope that He will finish making all things new. Enjoy.

Advent, a venir at Wine & Marble

When It’s Hard to Believe in Miracles at Christmas at A Holy Experience

In which Advent is for the ones who know longing by Sarah Bessey