When The Moments Are Shared . . .

Grief can feel so selfish sometimes.  I spend a lot of time focusing on my own situation and a lot of energy trying to figure out how "I" can feel better.  It's even been difficult to have empathy for others who are hurting because I tend to compare those situations with my own.  Yes, we have the kids to worry about, but even then I get overwhelmed at times because Amy and I shoulder the responsibility of seeing them through all of this . . . thus making it about me and how much burden "I" carry.  I write these entries because it's helpful for me.  I guess that's okay.  I don't know.  I'm still working through all of that.  I just know that grief can feel very self-centered sometimes.

Tonight I caught myself in one of those moments of selfishness.  I had just begun getting changed into my jogging clothes to go for a run this evening when my oldest son, Samuel, asked if he could go running with me.  

"No way," I said.  "I need to get a good workout in so I can get ready for this half-marathon I'm going to try to run in October.  My knee's been hurting me and this is the first time in a few days that I've been able to get out.  If you run with me I'll have to go really slow, walk here and there, go a lot shorter distance, and it will be a complete waste of time!  Not only that, but don't you know that this is my time to think and reflect?"   

Luckily I said all that in my head.  But honestly, that's what I was thinking.  

I was hesitant but I decided to let him come with me.  He's been talking about joining me on my runs and for the first time he was the one who initiated the idea.  As much as I was looking forward to having some time to myself, I thought it would be good to just get it out of the way.  He would realize how boring it was, how much energy it took, and he'd never ask again.  Plus, if I really wanted to I could bring him back when he tired and then go out later for my "real run."  

We began jogging down our street and slowly made our way through downtown Eudora.  He was doing a pretty good job and I was pleasantly surprised that he had run those entire 7 or 8 blocks.  As we came upon 7th street I could hear him breathing heavy and noticed that his running had turned into more of a plodding as his shoes began stomping the pavement with each stride.  

"Daddy, can we walk a little?"  He asked . . . or more like a gasp.    

We slowed down and began walking down 7th street.  By this time it was starting to get dark.  I hadn't planned on going much further, and even opened my mouth to say, "Let's turn around here," when he asked, "Where's the grave from here?"

Now Samuel is a pretty smart kid.  When he was 3 years old he could tell us how to get around town.  While riding in the car he could point the way to every park in town.  All we had to do was tell him which park we were going to and he could literally give us turn by turn directions.  

He knew where the grave was.  He knew it was just a few blocks down 7th street.  

Not only is Samuel pretty smart, but he's a thinker.  If he does talk it's pretty well thought out.  When he's not talking we know he's thinking.  In fact, during these months since his little brother died we've wondered a lot just what he's thought about this whole process.  He'll talk about Thomas here and there, but we've just had a hard time getting a read on how he's really doing.  

At first I wondered if he knew I jogged there last week and was just curious if we were going to try to go that far tonight.  I was fairly certain he had no idea, but I just left it alone.  I also wondered if going further was just a ploy to stay out later and avoid the dreaded bedtime, but I also left that alone.  So we headed toward the grave.  

By the  time we arrived it was dark.  We came upon the hill and could see the light near his little brother's grave marker.  

"Can we go over and see it," he asked.  Of course I was in agreement.  By this time I knew he had something on his mind.  We walked just a short distance from the gravel over to the front of the grave.  We both stood there for several minutes.  I wasn't sure what to say or if I should even say anything at all.  Knowing the gears in his head were turning, I took the opportunity to try to get a little insight on how an 8-year-old is dealing with the sudden death of his little brother--a brother who meant the world to him.  This whole thing has rocked our world and we're supposed to be "seasoned veterans of life."  He's eight.  

"Do you think about Thomas a lot?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"What do you think about when he's on your mind?" I inquired.

"I don't know.  I've had some dreams about him."  He offered.

Now, I've been waiting over 8 months to have a dream about Thomas.  Every nightwhen  I lay my head on the pillow I'm thinking about him, but I've yet to dream about him.  I want to, but I haven't.  At this point I was very curious.

"What are the dreams about?" I questioned.  

His tone perked up a bit.  "My favorite one is the one when I'm walking up the stairs and Thomas is at the top of the stairs and throws a ball to me and laughs his silly laugh like he's really happy.  There's another one where Thomas is walking and talking [something he hadn't done prior to his untimely death] and comes over while I'm sitting on the couch and sits next to me.  We are watching a football game and he's asking me about all the players . . . and he even knows some of them."  

"Does thinking about Thomas make you happy or sad?" I asked.

"Both," he said, as he changed to more of a somber tone.    

"What makes you happy when you think about Thomas?"  By this time I'm just savoring these moments, and trying as hard as I can to get into his world, yet not push too hard.    

He replied, "I'm happy for him because I know he's in heaven."

Then I asked him what makes him sad when he thinks about Thomas.  His response:  "Because he's not here."  

His voice cracked when he said that.  It took him a few short pauses just to get those four words out. 

Samuel and Thomas had a very special bond . . . they still do.  It was a bond that was so special that only a parent could understand.  That little boy meant the world to Samuel and I'd give anything for them to have the opportunity to play together again. Samuel meant the world to Thomas too.  I can still see that look in his eyes when his "Bubba" would walk into the room.  He would immediately look for a ball so he and Samuel could play.  Samuel was such an incredible big brother to him.  Man, that's tough to think about . . . 

It was dark in that cemetery so I couldn't see the tears.  He couldn't see mine either.  But it was one of those moments standing out in that open field surrounded by grave markers, that I will never forget.  My son and I were sharing a moment when words were not necessary because we knew exactly what each other was feeling and thinking.  We were both happy and sad for the exact same reasons.  I don't know how much longer we stood there, but we didn't talk anymore.  My mind wandered to a memory of Thomas and Samuel throwing the ball together on the floor.  I could tell Samuel's mind was wandering too.  Perhaps it was the same memory.  I don't know.  I broke the silence by telling Samuel that Thomas was so lucky to have such an awesome big brother.  He remained silent.  

I needed tonight way more than I needed a workout.  I almost missed it.  I almost told him "no."  

Eventually we decided to jog back (well, mostly) home.  Come to find out, Samuel had no idea I had run to the grave last week.  He just simply wanted to be there.  I can relate. 

The run/walk home was mostly full of conversations about sports and school, while the conversation about Thomas seemed a distant memory to Samuel.  It wasn't to me.  I thought about it the entire way home.  

As we approached our driveway I said, "Buddy, I'm so proud of you."  

"You mean because you didn't think I could jog that far?"

Well . . . that too.  

When The Pavement Turns to Gravel

Why is it that our past can be so paralyzing?  Sometimes it's something we've done that's so bad--a mistake, a lapse in judgement or outright rebellion--something so "bad" we just don't think there's anyway way we can be "good" again. Other times it's something we've experienced, that when we go back to that moment in our minds, we remember the agony, the helplessness, the fear and the hopelessness.  Those feelings are so vivid in our memory that they can paralyze us even now.

Maybe you've experienced those emotionally paralyzing moment or events.  They are the times in life where we feel like all we can do is just sit there.  Taking a step seems impossible.  Moving forward isn't even on the radar.  Living can seem hopeless, let alone living life to its fullest.  It's easiest just to sit there because nothing else is even plausible.

I go there often.  It's hard not to.  I try not to, but I find myself there.

Tonight I decided to go for a jog.  Now I've never been a dedicated runner.  I go through spurts where I run regularly, but those spurts seem to come between significant lulls where I don't jog for several weeks and sometimes months.  Tonight was the first time I jogged in 251 days.  The last time I ran on the road was December 11th, 2012.  I haven't really wanted to run since then.  I don't know if I associated jogging with those paralyzing events of the next day, or if it's just been a good excuse not to run.  Either way I just haven't done it.  Jogging is also a time that allows me to just think.  When I have time to think I tend to go to that paralyzing place.  It's hard to avoid thinking, but I've done my best for the past 8 months.  I don't like going to "that place."

Tonight I decided to run again.

I also haven't visited Thomas' grave in awhile.  The day we buried him I had in mind that I wouldn't go another day the rest of my life without visiting.  I think I've made some sort of similar declaration when it came to jogging too.  But visiting the grave is tough.  It's peaceful and somewhat comforting at times, but it always seems to take me to that paralyzing place.  I don't forget that my son is gone, in fact it's on my mind constantly even 8 months later, but his grave often takes me to "that place."  Why?  What happened?  Is this seriously real?  Am I really looking at my son's grave?  When will I wake up from this nightmare?  How will everything turn out?

I go there often.  It's hard not to.  I try not to, but I find myself there.

So tonight I decided to run to Thomas' grave. If I know I'm going to "that place," I might as well go all out, right?  It's only about a mile or so from the house.  I left at dusk and arrived at the cemetery as it was just getting dark.  As I ascended the hill--slowly plodding along--I could make out the outline of his grave marker.  We chose his particular location for a couple of reasons.  First, it is the Eastern-most plot in the cemetery and was located by itself, and away from some of the more crowded areas.  Second, it is also the Northern-most plot in the cemetery and is located closest to where the road next to the cemetery turns from pavement to gravel.  Thomas loved to hold rocks.  He would rarely throw them.  There was just something about holding them that made him happy.  It made us happy to bury him as close to the rocks as we could.

As I approached his grave from the road, I decided to go ahead and run to where the pavement turns to gravel.  I like to have certain points to run to when I jog.  This just seemed like a logical stopping place.  When I reached the gravel I had every intention of then stepping off into the grass and making my way to the front of his grave marker.  But, there was something about that gravel tonight.  Being in the rocks reminded me of him being happy, and I wanted to stay there.  I couldn't get out of the gravel.  My mind went to "that place," and I just stood there in the middle of the gravel road looking at his grave.  I stood there for several minutes.  As my mind replayed the events of December 12th, and the ensuing days after, I all-of-a-sudden realized that at some point, I had to go home.  Standing on the gravel, I knew that my only way home was to get back on the pavement and go home.

I stood there for several moments staring at the pavement in front of me.  A couple of times I actually lifted my foot, only to place it back down in the gravel.  It's like this when I drive to the cemetery too.  It's hard to be there, but it's even more difficult to leave.  When I'm in "that place," sometimes it's easier just to stay there.  In some ways I want to experience the pain.  I want to think those paralyzing thoughts.  I want my heart to break again.  For some reason I feel like it honors the memory of our precious boy.  I don't want to leave him.

But I can't stay there.  I have to go home.  As much as it hurt, I finally got the courage to get back on the pavement and jog home.  It was like jumping into a cold swimming pool.  You want to do it, but you know it's not going to be pleasant, and at some point you just have to jump.  When I got home tonight I went to each of my other kid's rooms and prayed for them, thanking God for three incredible reasons to come home tonight, and to face the day each morning.  I also thanked him for Amy and the incredible wife and mom she is.  I love coming home.

Staying in the gravel is tempting.  Continuing to allow yourself to be paralyzed by your past is a choice, but so is deciding to get back on the pavement again to head home.  Try getting back on the pavement again.  Look for reasons to head home again . . . I guarantee you'll find them.

 

When The Light Creeps In . . .

Have you ever noticed how things seem so far away in the dark?  If you're reading this at night, just look out your window and take notice of the objects you can see in the darkness.  You may be able to see the outline of a tree in the distance or some other familiar object.  Look at those same objects in the morning and notice how much closer they seem.  I went camping recently and was reminded of this phenomenon.  Sitting around the fire, I found myself gazing off into the distance at a row of trees barely visible by the light of the moon.  In the darkness those trees seemed to be hundreds of yards away.  When the sun shown on that same row of trees the next morning it became apparent that the darkness had hindered my ability to calculate distance, as that same tree line, in reality, was only about half as far away as it seemed in the dark.

Things in the dark just seem so much further away than they do when revealed by the light.  Darkness has a way of almost tricking us into thinking things are further away than they really are.  Even lights seem further away when it's dark.  Look down your street at night and find a light.  It might be a neighbor's porch light or a street sign that's lit up.  Look at it again in the daylight and it will seem so much closer.

Notice I keep using the word "seems."  The distance doesn't change.  The distance only "seems" to change.  The "seems" is my own perspective.

Today is August 12th, 2013, and it marks 8 months since our world was turned upside down and inside out.  It's been 243 days filled with uneasiness, accompanied by moments of excruciating and unbearable pain.  To be honest, there have been days when the darkness sets in with so much intensity that there doesn't seem to be light anywhere.  Forget trying to make out objects in the distance, it seems so dark sometimes that even the possibility of there being objects in the distance doesn't even cross my mind.  Trying to live life day by day is sometimes so overwhelming . . . so . . . dark.

The darkness is unsettling.  In fact, it's been months since I've written anything here because when I have time to sit and dwell on it I feel like I'm almost ushering in or giving the darkness permission to settle in.

But then the light comes.  It's like the rising of the sun each morning.  When the sun rises it doesn't all-of-a-sudden turn from complete darkness to full light in an instant.  Slowly but surely, moment by moment, the sun begins to rise and darkness fades.  But darkness doesn't really fade, it's really that the light appears . . . again . . . just like it did the day before.

I share about the darkness because it's hard to appreciate the light without experiencing the darkness.  Yes, the past 8 months have been difficult, but I'm telling you the sun rises every morning.  Darkness has its way of making things seem far away.  They "seem" far away because the darkness is only my perspective.  Things seem far away because all I can see is the darkness.  The Bible tells us that God is Light and that in Him there is no darkness.

From my perspective Thomas is lost to us for the remainder of our time on earth (darkness).  From God's perspective Thomas has found Him for eternity and has avoided all the hurt and pain of this life (light).

From my perspective it's sad that Thomas is somewhere without his parents (darkness).  From God's perspective Thomas couldn't be happier (light).

From my perspective this pain is unbearable (darkness).  From God's perspective . . . well . . . I don't know . . . but I know God knows what He's doing and sees way more than we do (light).

The darkness limits our view and makes things seem further away than they really are.  God is light.  He sees more than we do and  is so much closer to us than we can ever hope or imagine.