Grateful

A few days ago a kind man shared some advice with me. The advice was given in love, and came from a place of understanding.  This man lost his son to suicide a few years ago, and was trying to comfort me in my grief.  He shared with me some advice about a mother who lost her child and sought counsel from a religious leader.  The leader listened to the mother in her mourning and grief and then said she should be grateful that she had a child, and to think of those women who are unable to have children.

I have been thinking about this anecdote all week.  I'm not sure what the source is, or if the story was told correctly, but I understand the point. The point, I think, is to be grateful.  Be grateful for what you have...to recognize that you are blessed even in the midst of trials.  Gratitude is a principle I believe in, but true gratitude seems somewhat twisted by this story.  I keep thinking about the story because it feels wrong to me on some level.

Gratitude is not born of comparison. Teddy Roosevelt said that "Comparison is the thief of joy." I believe that is true whether we are comparing ourselves to individuals we consider to be "above" us or those who seem to be "below" us.  Comparison robs us of joy because it forces us to rank ourselves on some imaginary scale of happiness, when no such scale exists.  Happiness is not linear, it's not a ladder to be climbed.  It is more fluid like water.  It moves around us and through us.  Sometimes it fills us, and sometimes we thirst for it.

When I traveled to Africa with a humanitarian group I was unprepared for the abundant joy I found among starving women and children. These children would be considered at the bottom of the happiness ladder by many.  They were experiencing the trials of death, and starvation, and sickness.  Yet they sang when they greeted us and smiled freely.  They were simply grateful, and their gratitude was not tied to the prosperity and health of others.

I don't believe we can rank life's adversity.  Sometimes I find myself trying to evaluate someone else's pain in comparison to my own...would it be harder to lose a child to an accident in infancy, or to a drug overdose in adulthood? Is it harder to miss someone after a lifetime of memories, or to be left with only 14 short months of joy to remember?

People often tell me that losing a child is the hardest trial. I have come to the conclusion that it is all hard.  Wanting children and not having them is hard.  Being alone is hard.  Nursing a parent through old age and death is hard.  Cancer is hard.  Divorce is hard.  Watching your child die is hard.  It is all hard, it is all pain, and finding respite in someone else's suffering is short lived and ultimately extremely unsatisfying. As I grow older and understand more fully the pain of others my heart aches more, not less. 

Since losing Jonah I have discovered that it is possible to feel gratitude in the midst of darkness.  Gratitude brings with it a light and recognition that my life remains full of mercy and grace, even though I have lost someone so precious to me. But gratitude should be able to stand on it's own two feet.  I am grateful for food, because it nourishes me and gives me strength.  I am grateful for my home because it is a refuge and place of safety.  I am grateful for Jordan because he strengthens me and loves me with all of my weakness.  I am grateful that I had the chance to feel Jonah grow inside me and to be his mother because it was a transcendent experience.

My gratitude for these things is not increased in the lack of others. On the other hand I'm learning that my gratitude is not, or should not, be diminished because I desperately want things that others have. 

Gratitude is an illogical response to a world that never had us in mind as an audience; but it is the fitting tribute to an original Creator who anticipated our joy and participates fully in it.  from The God Who Weeps.

Rebuilding

I know it's been a while...months even.  I have writer's block.  Every so often, mostly on lazy Sunday afternoons, I sit down at my computer to write.  For the past year writing has been my solace and, more importantly, free therapy.  I have craved your comments and support, and my heart has been soothed by your kindness.  While typing I have released all the messy emotions and complicated thoughts that tend to crowd my brain.  But lately, when I sit at my computer, that is all I do.  I just sit...and stare...and then I get up and do the dishes, or vacuum.  Sometimes I think about an idea all day.  I roll it over in my mind.  I sit and wait for my fingers to move, and they wont.

Its not that I don't have messy emotions anymore, or that I'm not thinking about God, or life, or death. I have not forgotten Jonah or the pain that punctuates my quietest moments, but I can't seem to share it with you. I feel hesitant.

I've been trying to pinpoint why. Why has this once intensely personal free-flowing river diminished to a trickle?  I have shared everything on this blog, my deepest pains, my regrets and my sorrows. What is different now?  I think that fear is at the heart of it.

I realize that I am moving into a new stage of grief now.  I don't cry everyday.  Sometimes I go a whole week without crying. I am distracted by work, and entertainment, and making dinner. My thoughts have shifted from the past, through the present, and now they spend most of their time in the future; worrying and dreaming. My grief is transforming from mourning to rebuilding.  Honestly, I don't know which one is harder.

Mourning is exhausting.  It is a constant physical and emotional struggle. In the depths of mourning I desperately needed help. I needed people to hear me and carry me and cry with me.  The initial stages of grief are so visceral.  It is all about survival.  My daily goals included trying to eat and to get out of bed. When you are in the depths of sorrow all effort and improvement feel impressive. You can't help but be proud when you put on makeup, or go to the store.

Rebuilding is different.  Rebuilding is about faith.

Rebuilding reminds me of playing with Jonah. I used to stack his colorful wooden blocks while he stood anxiously waiting beside me. As the blocks rose higher Jonah's chubby hand would reach wildly to swat it down.  When they crashed to the floor he giggled with delight and waited for me to build again. On my darkest days I wonder if God is like a destructive toddler, waiting to topple my flimsy towers.

That fear compels me to confine and qualify my dreams with the possibility of pain. The possibility of toppled towers. I think to myself be prepared...sometimes things fall apart.

But there is something brighter in me that responds...sometimes miracles happen.

I long to believe that God is a God of miracles.  I want to believe that life is not just about pain and endurance, but it is also about joy. I having been praying lately that God will help me have faith. Not faith that he can heal, because I have felt His healing.  And not faith that he loves me, because I have felt His love. But faith that He will make miracles happen in my life. I want to believe that God cares about my desires. As I have prayed I have felt a growing confidence that He not only hears my prayers, but that he cares about what I want most in life.

Rebuilding is far more personal that pain and grief.  It is the essence of hope.  In order to start again, to try again, I have to let myself dream of brighter days and taller towers.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. Psalm 30:5

September 29

The year anniversary of Jonah's death was September 29th, and here we are two weeks later, without a single commemorative word written about his passing or his life.  The thing is that I have felt pretty good for the past month.  I felt somewhat normal, even happy.  As his death date approached I felt an external pressure to dive back into grief.  I felt compelled by some sort of unspoken rule to relive his funeral, to release balloons, to be some sort of death party planner.  Honestly, I just didn't have it in me, which made me feel like a bad mother.

For me that "bad mother" feeling is a little funny.  When I was a full-time busy mother I rarely felt like a bad mother.  I know that is unusual.  Mothers are supposed to be riddled with mommy-guilt.  But I wasn't.  I knew I was doing my best.  Even the day Jonah died, the day I gave him a fruit snack that killed him, I didn't feel like a bad mother.  I tried so hard to save him and loved him so deeply, I could not feel the guilt of motherhood.

But on his death day, as friends and family remembered Jonah and came to comfort me, and I went about my normal business without tears I wondered what kind of mother I am.  Maybe a mother in denial.  Maybe a mother who has cried all her tears.  Or a mother who is trying to be brave and move forward.  Perhaps a mother with a heart that is hardening to keep pain at a safe distance.  It is hard to say.

As I turned my heart over for a deep analysis I recognized that the date, September 29, meant very little to me.  That sounds strange I know.  How could the day my only child died not hold significance.  I'm not really sure.  To me it felt just like a number on a calendar.  What significance is there in 365 days passing...why not a nice round number like 350 or 400.  The countdown seemed somewhat arbitrary because I have mourned Jonah's death each day since he left us.  So today, 380 days since his passing, I'm writing to tell you that I miss him deeply, daily, like a good mother should.

I missed him as I sat in a cheap motel room in Sheridan, Wyoming reading the journal I kept of his short but beautiful life.  I discreetly wept in the "happiest place on earth" as I soared through the air with my niece Lilah on Disney's Dumbo ride.  All I could think about as we dipped and flew was how much Jonah would have loved that ride.  I mourned when I saw my grandma's black office chair, where he once spun in dizzy circles with his dad.  And as I watched my two sweet nieces play in a tiny stream I ached to see him splashing and playing at their sides. 

My days are filled with memories and moments and missing.  I mourn his loss each day, and don't expect that to change.  When I feel his absence the most I often turn to Jordan and say "Jonah would have loved this."  I have learned in loss that grief does not come on scheduled days.  It does not understand anniversaries or special occasions.  It's fullness comes in the quietest moments: when my head finds the softness of my pillow, when I catch a glimpse of a drifting blue balloon, or when I hear the sweet giggle of a child.

My daily prayer, as I miss Jonah's smile, is that joy will come in the same way. 

I testify that because of Him, even our Savior, Jesus Christ, those feelings of sorrow, loneliness, and despair will one day be swallowed up in a fullness of joy. Shane Bowen, Because I live, Ye Shall Live Also

Related

The other day an old lady tried to touch my face at the DI (thrift store).  Somewhere between the abandoned Health Riders and vintage suitcases our paths crossed.  She slowly shuffled toward me in her red house dress, and I noticed her wispy gray hair and the almost transparent nature of her skin.  She seemed too fragile to be wandering such a junk cluttered aisle.  I pressed myself into the exercise equipment so she could pass by me, but instead she reached for me.  Not in a creepy way.  Her hand gently moved toward my face in a slow, loving way; as if I were her child. 

What should I do? I thought. My brain tried to process the appropriate reaction to being touched by a stranger at the DI.  Honestly, I'm surprised it has never happened before.  Anyway, before her hand reached my cheek it was caught and gently retracted by the young woman who walked beside her, and apologies followed.  No need to be sorry, I said and they continued their tedious journey.

I instantly felt a twinge of regret, really strange regret.  If only she would have said something to me, I thought. 

When Jonah was a few months old I had a similar moment while we waited in a hospital.  I wrote the following about it in my journal:

We went to see Dr. M today and had to wait for a long time in the hospital hallway.  This elderly woman was wheeled by and it was clear she had some dementia.  She kept asking if she knew the people in the hallway and her son said "no mom...you don't know any of these people." 

Then they went further down the hall.  A few minutes later while her son was distracted she made her way back down towards us, slowly using her feet to move the wheelchair forward.  She stopped right in front of us and smiled at Jonah.  He gave her a big smile.  I told her his name and asked her what her name was.  She said "Beverly." 

Then she said, "Does he (Jonah) have a hole in his mouth?"

A little taken aback I said, "yes...he does...how did you know." 

She said, "Because I know him, he is my relative."

It was pretty crazy.  I don't know how she would know that or even ask about it.  You can't see it from the outside.  I like to think that Beverly does know him! 
 
As I continued my search through second-hand clothes and mismatched dishes I thought, What if I missed a Beverly moment?  What if this seemingly senile woman in her red dress had something important to tell me; something that she could see that I could not.  I wondered if she could have given me a message about Jonah, or about God, or about my life.  I find that in my grief I am constantly looking for experiences to reinforce my belief in an afterlife...some sort of evidence that can transform my hope into faith and understanding.  

I like the idea that those who seem to lose their grasp of this life have a greater understanding of the next.  I loved that even if she did not have a message for me, this sweet old woman felt moved to reach for a stranger.  Perhaps she craved the softness of human touch.  Maybe she could see the invisible heartache that is buried in me and felt compassion.  Or maybe she knew me...like Beverly knew Jonah.  Maybe we are related.
 

Hard Things

Last week I made my way north to Salt Lake, curved around the east side of city, and arrived in the foothills of the Wasatch Front.  It is a familiar drive for me.  My grandparents lived in those foothills for most of my childhood, and the neighborhood still reminds me of picking warm summer raspberries, and enjoying my grandpa's homemade apple juice.

But last week as I drove through the familiar, the warm sun seemed to melt my nostalgia leaving me with the underlying uneasiness it temporarily masked.  I arrived at Primary Children's Medical Center for an unexpected interview, and felt afraid.

Whenever I visit a place that is charged with memories of Jonah I feel nervous. I just don't know what to expect, or how I will react.  The pain I feel is so lightly buried.  I never know what breeze of memory will uncover it.  

Our last visit to Primary Children's was when Jonah had his cleft palate surgery.  He was 9 months old.  I felt prepared and relatively calm as we entered the hospital as a family.  Jonah was as curious and energetic as ever.  We laughed as he charmed the pre-op nurses with his dimpled smile.  We took pictures of him in his baby-sized hospital gown.  Then we tried to entertain him - and ourselves - as we waited and waited for his surgeon.

The doctor and our anxiety arrived together.  We looked at each other as if to say, "this is really going to happen."  Jordan and I gathered Jonah and his things: blanket, binky, and diaper bag.  Then we slowly made our way down the long sterile corridor. When we could go no further, we squeezed him and kissed his sweet cheeks as we handed our precious child to the anesthesiologist.  Jonah didn't seem to mind.  He always loved new people.  He smiled and admired this new face, while we tried to maintain our brave ones.  As the doctor walked through the operating room doors she said, "don't worry, we will take care of him."

We did worry.  What if he was scared?  Would he feel abandoned and alone?  At the time it was the hardest thing I had ever done.  We stood for awhile peering through the flapping doors, until they finally shuttered closed and came to a rest.  Jordan and I immediately fell into each other's arms and wept.

So last week as I sat in the parking garage of Primary Children's - working up the courage to walk inside - I thought about that moment, and all of the others we experienced within the walls of the hospital; the helplessness of watching our child in pain; the joy of his quick recovery; the carefully considered follow-up visits and consultations.  This place represented for me a physical manifestation of our plans for Jonah, of all the heartache of ever having to make such plans, and the pain of a future that would not be. 

I took a moment and said a prayer that God would give me strength and I stepped out of my car.

I smiled when I walked past the garden where we wandered last summer as we waited or an appointment.  I read the familiar plaque above the doors.  It reads, "the child first and always." I breathed deeply and walked through the revolving doors.

Once inside I instantly felt the pain of memory. But I also felt the peace of being in such a special place.  I felt gratitude for the kind people who helped us.  I felt proud for choosing to face my fears instead of avoiding them.  I felt brave and reassured that I can do hard things.

In the last two years I have done so many hard things; some that are very public and some that happen within the sacred space of my heart and mind.

I never thought I would have a child with a genetic disorder. I never thought I would have to learn to feed him in a special way and help him learn sign language and put him through painful surgeries.  I never thought I would watch him die in my arms.  I never thought I would sit in a mortuary discussing the details of my own child's funeral.  I never imagined I would have to dress his lifeless body.  I couldn't anticipate that I would have to try so hard to be happy.  I never thought I would have to work so hard to preserve my marriage.  I never imagined how hard it would be to answer the question "do you have any children?"  I never thought it would take so much courage to visit my friend Katie in her home (we were at her home when Jonah choked), or to go see my mom in the hospital, or to have a simple meeting at Primary Children's.

And yet, in the past two years I have found the strength to do hard things.  I have found it in the generosity of my family and my friends.  I have found it in the kindness of my husband.  I have found it in the charity of my neighbors.  And most of all I have found it in the knowledge that I am a child of God.  I am his daughter, and he loves me as much as I love Jonah.  He is my strength, and I believe I can do all things through him...even hard things.

I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me. Philippians 4:13