Doubt

I have discovered a secret chamber of my heart.  Most of my heart is reserved for beautiful ideas, for love, for joy, for optimism, for God.  But this tiny hidden portion is set aside for doubt.  I keep it there for protection, as a hedge against uncertainty.  When Jonah died my heart was shattered, so vulnerable, so hurt.  I fear the intensity of those feelings.  So I let doubt in.  Part of me believes if the rest of my hopeful heart is poisoned by disappointment this small doubtful portion will be saved.  It will be right if all goes wrong.  I often hear doubt whisper "you believe that you will have more children, but I know you might not", "you believe that you will find joy again, but I know that is impossible", "you believe the rainbow was a sign, but I know it was only sunlight and rain", "you believe in God, but I know he is only a figment."   Lately I have been clinging to my safety doubt to stop myself from expecting too much from life.   

This week I feel my heart changing.  I was blessed with an epiphany, a moment of clarity.  In a fog, I watched my niece and nephew scamper around their house, running and laughing, and occasionally bursting into tears.  I watched them and my heart ached for Jonah.  I imagined him in their midst, full of life and joy.  He was the epitome of joy.  I pictured my former self and wondered how I could have prepared for the devastation of losing him. 

If I had known Jonah would die, and if I had doubted my potential for happiness, it would not have changed my heartache.  I don't think it would be any easier.  My heart would still be broken.  The only thing that would have changed was my journey.  My 14 months of happiness and joy would have been smothered with fear, anxiety and hesitation.  I would have been a shadow of myself.  I loved Jonah with my whole heart, I didn't make room for doubt or fear.  A sprinkling of skepticism would not have lessened the pain I feel today.  My pain is intense because I loved absolutely.  

My epiphany is echoed in the inspired words of Lance Wickman, who also lost his son.    

Please know that grief is the natural by-product of love. One cannot selflessly love another person and not grieve at his suffering or eventual death. The only way to avoid the grief would be to not experience the love; and it is love that gives life its richness and meaning.


As I look toward the future I realize that the difficulties of life will happen.  My small, or large, reserve of doubt will not save me from disappointment, but it may handicap my ability to love.  It may stop me from feeling God's love for me.  It may blind my spiritual eyes.  It may keep me from playing with my beautiful niece and nephew.  It may halt my dreams and ambitions.  It may dull and deaden my heart. 

Belief is the only antidote for doubt.  I want to  renovate this small chamber in my heart.  Little by little I plan to excavate the doubt from my heart, and replace it with belief.   I will remind myself that doubt is a hinderance, not a protection.  I will prepare myself for future, for the potential depths of grief, with the knowledge that I have loved completely, without reservation, and with no more room for doubt.  

Mark 9: 23-24

Jesus said unto him, If thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth.

And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.

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. 

Silence

As Jordan and I walked away from the hospital the day Jonah died I remember being afraid.  I had just experienced my greatest fear and yet I was hesitant to go home.  I didn't know how it would feel to be in my own house, to be with Jordan, to be without Jonah.  I wondered if it would be painful to be surrounded by his things. I imagined a suffocating silence, a constant reminder that he was gone.  It was horrifying to separate our bodies from Jonah's and step into this new uncharted territory.  

As soon as we got home I gathered up Jonah's blankets and his favorite monkey. His smell became like a drug to me.  I crawled into bed, and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon.  Afternoon faded into  night.  All I could do was cry.  No. Wail.  My sobbing left no room for the silence I feared. 

For the next week we were surrounded by friends and family.  We talked, we cried, we listened, we remembered.  As soon as one person would leave, a new person arrived.  It was truly a blessing and made those first difficult days go by more quickly.  But eventually everyone returned to their own lives.  Back to work, to school, and to families.  I soon found myself surrounded by the silence of my own home, the experience that terrified me.  Yet when all my distraction disappeared I discovered the silence was so beautiful.

In the silence my mind wandered to memories and moments I had forgotten.  I pondered my purpose.  My thoughts found clarity.  I read.  My tears flowed.  In the silence I tried to ask God real questions and seek answers. 

Earlier in my life I think I would have filled the silence with music, television, or conversation.  I was one of those college students who would say "I study better with the T.V. on."  Definitely a lie I told myself.  Silence seemed like the poster child of a uninteresting life.  Things are different now.  I want to guard my silent moments and keep them for myself.  To me it is peace. 

Each morning I wander into Jonah's room and open the blinds.  I kneel in his room and ask God for strength.  I ask for opportunities to feel Jonah near me.  I ask for revelation.  I stay in there in the silence until I feel ready for the day.  I don't think I will receive these things, or feel his lightness upon me, if I busy myself in distraction and noise.

Of course I would trade these peaceful moments to hear Jonah's little voice, or his giggle. I would love to hear the repetitive music from his favorite videos.  I wish I was dancing with him in our living room right now instead of typing this.  I long to hear him say "Momma" one more time.  But I know those things will not be part of my life today. 

I know that some silence and stillness are required of me now.  Not all the time.  There is time for laughing and conversation and music and TV.  We are not living like monks, although I'm beginning to understand them.  I want to be ready for inspiration.  I want to make room for silence in my day.  I am not afraid of it anymore.

 Jonah's first word.