Strength

Six months ago I sat in the front seat of a speeding ambulance, astounded.  I would have expected shock, but instead I felt keenly aware of myself and my circumstance.  I felt so very present.  I held my head in my hands, as I listened to the paramedics carefully, and methodically work to save Jonah's life.  I reflect often on the words that floated from my lips in that ambulance.  I prayed, while I sunk deeper into the life altering chaos that was unfolding around me.  I believe deeply in the power of prayer, but I found as I spoke to my Heavenly Father that I could not ask him to save Jonah.  The words would not come to my tongue.  I knew, from the center of my soul, that Jonah would leave me that day.  I could not pray for him to stay, and I did not pray for a miracle, although I wanted nothing more.

Instead I cried out, "Heavenly Father, I cannot do this.  I am not strong enough.  I cannot do this.  I cannot handle this. Give me strength, please give me strength."  I wondered as we drove, and the EMTs rushed around me, if God could hear me.

Then my sweet boy died.  I held his precious body in my arms, until my physical strength was gone.  As Jordan and I returned to an empty house, I felt as if all the strength I had ever possessed or attained had been ripped from me, in one violent merciless jolt.  The next morning, I stood in my kitchen, starring out the window, and I felt my knees give way.  I was nothing more than a pile of emotions on a crumb littered floor.  My weakness felt infinite.  I prayed again for strength, for understanding, and for God to let me know He was there.

Three days later Jordan and I lay motionless on our brown vinyl couches, exhausted by the continuous work of grief.  The angelic rush of friends and family subsided, and we were left alone, listening to General Conference on the radio.  Normally, I love conference.  I love the opportunity to feed my spirit, and to listen to inspired messages.  But, as I lay on the couch, and heard the messages, I felt nothing.  That isn't true.  I felt pain, pure pain, and hour after hour the words rushed over me.

Until in a moment, I came to myself, and heard a message that was meant for me.  Elder Robert D. Hales gave a talk called "Waiting upon the Lord: Thy Will be Done." This talk pricked and revived my waning soul.  Elder Hales spoke of the Savior, and how he waited on the Lord as he prepared himself to make the ultimate sacrifice for each of us.  He spoke of the pain, suffering, and humiliation, inflicted upon God's only begotten Son.  He explained that even the Savior of all mankind cried out in his pain, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"  Elder Hales said he often wondered why good and honest people must each face heartbreaking trials and tribulation.  My heart agreed and also wondered why.

I felt the spirit confirm the truth of the words that followed:

As we ask these questions, we realize that the purpose of our life on earth is to grow, develop, and be strengthened through our own experiences. How do we do this? The scriptures give us an answer in one simple phrase: we “wait upon the Lord.” Tests and trials are given to all of us. These mortal challenges allow us and our Heavenly Father to see whether we will exercise our agency to follow His Son. He already knows, and we have the opportunity to learn, that no matter how difficult our circumstances, “all these things shall [be for our] experience, and … [our] good.”

It became clear to me that although my heart was broken, and my strength seemed annihilated, one day my heartache would become a source of strength.

In the last six months I have had a lot of people say they are impressed by my strength.  I usually take this to mean, "I am impressed you are not crying all the time."  What they don't know is that I cry a lot, so much that I don't put on makeup until just before I leave the house, if at all.  Despite all the crying, I do feel unusually strong.  Inexplicably strong.  As I have contemplated the manifestation of strength, and the source of my strength, I have only one explanation.  I believe in God.

I have a deep and abiding faith in a God who loves me.  I believe that I am in his constant care, that he sends angels to lift me up, and to care for me.  I believe I am His precious daughter.  I believe that His will for me is greater than my own.  I believe that He sent His only begotten Son to die for me, that I might live again. I believe that he sends me messages and revelation to help me on my way.  I believe that He lets me experience heartache and sorrow so that I can become more like Him. 

I thought I believed all of these things before I lost Jonah, and now, after the excruciating pain of his loss, I know what I believe.  In my moments of greatest weakness, and intense sorrow, that knowledge gives me incredible strength.

Distraction

When I sit down to write this blog I usually just type my thoughts.  I try to capture what I have been thinking in the recent days and hours.  It is easy for me because I tend to have a lot on my mind.  I just transfer my thoughts and conversations to the computer.  But this month I have felt distracted, and my thoughts feel halted.  When I sit at the computer to type nothing comes.  I blame Pinterest.

I'll be honest I haven't felt much like thinking or feeling this month.  I think my heart and mind are exhausted, and I have moved into the easy complacency of distraction.  Instead of thinking, I mindlessly browse the internet.  Or when I'm feeling more productive I organize things.  I rearrange my cupboards, file papers, vacuum everything, refold clothes, and then I sleep.  Even now as I type I am also responding to emails and glancing at my phone.  I know that distraction pulls me away from the things that strengthen me, like praying and reading.  My time seems to be swallowed up in meaningless consumption, as if I'm on some sort of self-inflicted diet where you only eat lettuce.  Let's be honest, you can't be healthy when you only eat lettuce. 

So I find myself asking why.  Why would I distract myself when I know it drains my strength, and I desperately need to be strong?  Why would I spend time in the meaningless, when I am so buoyed up by the meaningful?  Shouldn't my intense heartache make me immune to distraction?

I seriously just looked at Facebook again...its almost a reflex. 

I think the problem for me is two fold.  First, I have way too much free time.  And my free time constantly reminds me that I am missing Jonah.  When he was with me I didn't know what free time was.  He was the purpose of my days, and the work of my heart.  My free time constantly reminds me of my sorrow, that something is missing in my life.  I miss the work of motherhood, but most of all I miss having my baby in my arms.  I ache for his smile and his laugh and his dimpled cheeks.  I see little boys that are his age and I know I can either cry or play words with friends...so I try to think of a four letter word that uses a Q and a Z.  Each day when I wake up I wish I was waking up to work, to make breakfast, to change diapers, to do something important.  Instead I wake up and immediately grab my phone, and let the distractions begin.  It makes me so sad if I let myself think about it.

Second, I am tired of crying.  It is hard to maintain the appropriate level of deep emotional angst.  It requires energy and effort.  It is physically draining.  I know that I have been shutting down the tear factory, little by little, by filling my mind with emotionless stuffing.  I am becoming "comfortably numb" just like Pink Floyd promised.

The problem is that I don't want to feel numb.  I want to miss Jonah and I want to cry sometimes.  I want my time to be meaningful.  I want to think deep thoughts and find peace and understanding, but I also want to be able to live a "normal" life.  Maybe the problem is that I don't know what a "normal" life is anymore. 

Again my struggle is about balance, and I know that sometimes I have to feel the instability of life before I pull myself back to the center.  I feel that instability now.  So I am trying to push away the distractions, and to carve out some peaceful quiet moments in my day.  I believe there is a time for mindless escape, but not all of the time.  I hope in the coming days and weeks I can embrace my heartache instead of ignoring it, and that I can avoid losing myself in distraction.  


I love this quote...I found it while mindlessly surfing the net:)

Not knowing how to feed the spirit, we try to muffle its demands in distraction...What matters is that one be for a time inwardly attentive. Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Tantrum

Jordan was working out of town this week.  When he is gone my sadness settles in, I am left alone with my thoughts, and my too quiet house.  Although there are times when I soak up the silence, at night my instinct is to cling to distraction.  So Friday night I played Words with Friends and watched Downton Abbey until my brain was mush.  I hoped this mindless distraction would lull me to sleep, but the episode ended and I was wide awake alone in my dark room.  I sat in my bed and looked at Jonah's cradle, the beautiful wooden cradle my dad made for him.  It is still right next to my bed, but instead of holding my little one, it has become a repository for books and journals.  I looked at that misused empty cradle and suddenly life felt so unfair.  I felt my heart break again.  In my isolated room I had no one to impress, no one to be strong for, and I fell apart.  No, I threw a tantrum.

David, a little boy that comes to my art class has taught me a lot about tantrums.  He loves coming to my class, not so much for the art, but for the toys, and for the other children.  He especially loves the wooden train.  He laughs aloud as he plays and seems to experience pure joy.  When the time comes to leave, his joy seems prematurely and arbitrarily severed.  He doesn't understand.  Sometimes he collapses to the ground, and sometimes he clings to the toys.  He wails and moans.  His tears and snot flow freely.  When I watch him I am sure he believes that he will never be back, that he will never see his train again, and that there is no reason to leave.  Of course his wise mother knows better and tries to soothe him.  She says calmly "I know you love your train," "It is time to go, but we will come back another day," "This is really sad, but it will be okay." Eventually, David submits to his mother, sometimes by persuasion, sometimes by bribery, sometimes by gentle force. 

I thought about David as I threw my own tantrum, as I wailed and moaned and wallowed in my grief.  I cursed the seemingly arbitrary nature of life.  I felt myself perpetuating the emotion as if to prove to my Heavenly Father how upset I was.  I pounded on the bed, I clung to Jonah's blanket, and wept bitterly pleading for God to somehow change the laws of nature, to reverse what has been done, or to at least give me instant and perfect understanding.  And yet I knew those demands were irrational.  In the aftermath of my breakdown, surrounded by crumpled tissues, I began watching videos of Jonah.  I don't do this often, because it is painful.  As I watched my boy, and sat with my heartbreak, I felt the intensity of the moment gradually distill into peace.  I thought about what a gift Jonah was to me.  I could imagine my wise Heavenly Father speaking to me, like David's mother, saying "I know you love your boy."  "It was time for him to go, but you will be together again." "This is really sad, but it will be okay."  Gradually my heart softened, I accepted my sadness, and I fell asleep. 

I am still trying to make sense of the difficult things that happen in life.  I am trying to understand why this has happened to my beautiful son and my family.  But even as I question, I believe that God is a loving parent.  I believe that he sees the big picture.  He knows the end and the beginning.  Those things that seem arbitrary and unfair in my eyes, have purpose in His.  When the tantrums pass, and I return to myself, I find incredible peace in submitting my narrow perspective and stubborn will to His, because He is a kind and wise and loving parent. 

John 14:27
Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

My Boy

I miss my boy so much today. 

I miss his dimples, the brightness of his eyes.  I miss his funny little laugh.  I miss seeing him climb into his little arm chair to watch a movie.  I miss chasing him around the living room.  I miss holding him close and dancing with him.  I miss taking him to the park and exploring our yard.  I miss seeing his eyes light up when he saw other children, or animals.  I miss him handing his blanket to me each morning before I pulled him out of his crib.  I miss Jordan's joy in holding his little boy.  It is all too much to miss.  Today life seems so unfair.  The grief and longing is too much sometimes. 

Today I feel like I'm treading water.  Waiting to drown or to be rescued.  I continuously kick to keep my head above water, and at the same time try to conserve my energy, because I don't know how long I will have to tread.  My grief feels as endless and lonely as a vast ocean. 

Most days I can look for a silver lining.  I can find things to be grateful for.  But some days, days like today, I hate the impulse to try to find joy in such pain.  There is no way around the pain, no sugarcoating it.  I am left with the constant jolting realization that I have experienced something so traumatic.  It can only be felt.  I can only go through it. 

I share this with you because I don't want grief to seem easy.  A friend told me a few weeks after Jonah died that I was making grief look good.  I understood that she was trying to compliment me for handling the situation well.  I appreciated her kindness.  But grief is a horrible messy business.  The compliment would not have been given today.  A day when I quickly left the house, unshowered, with crinkly bed head hair, no makeup, rosy puffy cheeked from crying, seeking the comforting arms of my mother.  Even when my outward appearance is pleasant, the grief is still messy inside me.   

I don't ever want to make you think that losing a child is easy or manageable.  That would be a lie.

I'm sorry there is no hope in this blog post.  I don't want to give the impression that I am hopeless or desperate.  I am neither.  But, today all I can do is tell you how much I hurt, and how much I miss Jonah.  Maybe tomorrow I can return to finding perspective and truth and beauty amidst the heartache.  But today I will just miss my boy and continue to do just enough to keep my head above water. 

Balance

3 months today. 

This morning I went to the chiropractor.  I treat him like a therapist.  He asks me how I'm feeling (referring to my neck or hips) and I tell him that I'm tired, that I don't feel like running, that I lack motivation.  Today he asked me what my new year's resolutions are..."to try to be happy" I said.  He is a kind man.  He listens, sometimes we talk about Jonah, and then cracks my neck in a horrifying way.  I always feel a little better emotionally and physically when I leave.  It is amazing to me how our bodies are tied to our emotions.  Right after Jonah died I found that I was so sad I couldn't eat, and I felt like throwing up all the time.  That feeling returned to me two nights ago.  I felt overwhelmed by grief, by self-pity, by the world, by the subtle reminders that in an instant my life transformed from joyful to devastated.  I felt out of control.  

Grief is full of metaphors.  Some have said its like sinking in quicksand, like bubbles coming to the surface, like a roller coaster, like climbing a mountain.  In this third month it feels to me like learning to walk a tight-rope.  Each step forward is timid, unsure.  There is fear and adrenaline.  I am constantly seeking balance.  But how do I balance remembering my sweet Jonah, while moving forward?  Each step forward seems like a step away from him, from my life with him.

I look at his picture on our fridge and stare at his beautiful blue eyes, and at the same time I feel the need to look away.  His eyes, for me, carry such intense pain and joy.  I long to remember his smile, his laugh, his hair, his dimples, the way his body rested on mine.  But when my mind drifts to these memories, they are followed by a memory of the panic I felt when his body was limp in my arms.  How do I balance remembering and forgetting? 

There are days when I cry a lot, when I search his room for his smell, when I read the journal entries of his short life, when I talk of him joyfully.  Then there are days when I shut down.  I can't talk about anything, especially Jonah.  To me these emotions feel like the rapid sway of a tight-rope under my balancing body.  My fate lies in my ability to regain my balance, to stay centered.  I try to gain control, and I fear over correcting and falling. 

I am trying to find balance in slowing down my pace and in being deliberate in my steps.  I breathe deeply, and try to focus on the things that are within my control.  I have never been to alcoholics anonymous, but the serenity prayer runs through my mind. 

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

If only my heart and mind could find the balance of this prayer.   That would be beautiful, peaceful.  Instead I find myself feeling more like Frank Constanza yelling "Serenity Now!"  A little frenetic.

I guess I will have to accept the frantic sway of the tightrope until I learn to balance.  I will make subtle moves, simple steps.  Maybe someday it will become second nature to me.  Until then I will continue to miss Jonah deeply, to be blown off course by the slightest breeze of memory, to freeze momentarily in fear, and to slowly move forward. 

Jordan

I think one of the things I miss most about having Jonah with us is seeing him with Jordan.  Watching them together was one of the greatest joys of my life.  It seemed like Jordan always knew what Jonah needed and what would make him happy.  He is such a kind and gentle father.  No more words are needed, these pictures say it all. 

Hope

This message contains my greatest hope. I want to live with Jonah again. I want our family to be reunited. I want to hold his body and kiss his belly. Some may say it is a foolish thing to believe in, but it is a belief that gives me purpose and energy and fills my heart with love. So I will keep believing.

Beautiful Boy

I'm so grateful for the videos and pictures I have of Jonah. This video makes me smile even when I'm crying.



"Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." Steel Magnolias