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Stuff

 

You know, it is coming across stuff that was either Christopher’s or special to him or simply a part of our life together that can most reliably stir up the pain in my heart. I did a lot of going through stuff (feeling compelled to simplify by de-cluttering around the house) last night. I came across stuff that I had never seen before, notes from when Christopher in high school, papers he wrote. Just seeing his goofy handwriting makes me thankful and sad all at the same time.

I still live in the same house where I lived with Christopher and I still work at the same job where I worked when he died. I suspect that until I move, I will forever being dealing with “stuff” that makes triggers intense emotion. I absolutely dread dealing with the garage because that was his domain and practically everything in it is connected to Christopher in some way. It will only be when I move that I will be done going through everything. But then there are still the pictures.
Through the years, thankfully, I was faithful to have taken Christopher to an amazing photographer. Pictures of him are throughout the house. I used to joke that I was sure that there would be days that he would wonder why his biological family didn’t want him, but he would certainly be able to look around our home and know that he was wanted and is cherished.

Lately, I’ve realize that people deal with the loss of a child in vary different ways. I have met two people who lost a child 20 or more years ago and it seems to me that the pain is just as real to them, but they keep it very personal and private, There are times that I am not ever sure that people around them even know of there loss. Then I got to thinking. . .
It makes me wonder if when I move – home/job – if I will be inclined to put out all the pictures that I have out now. It feels weird even now to put up new pictures. I don’t know the answer to that. It is so natural to add to the wall as he grew up, but I am so afraid of creating some kind of memorial that I will forever have to sustain.
(This reminds me of a friend who lost a young daughter and she immediately took down all the pictures from the walls of their family home. They have since moved away from the area and I suspect that their new home is void of evidence of this precious child. Please know that this is in no way a reflection of their love for their child, but rather they way of getting through the pain.)
Having said that, I can’t imagine that there will come a day, even when the stuff is all gone, that I won’t want people to know about Christopher. This is such a difficult balance because I don’t want Christopher’s death to define who I am although it will forever be a part of who I am. Oddly, his life and his death make me who I am, but they don’t define me.
This serves as my reminder that the stuff is a part of who Christopher was, but it isn’t him. As I let go of the stuff, it is not a reflection of my determination to put him behind me. Christopher is and will always be a part of my life and for that I am very thankful.

Tough, but good week . . .

 

This has been a rough week on so very many levels. There was an issue that came up involving my family that angered me and tempted me to think that that is the family that defines me. There has also been a struggle with disbelief that my life is really going forward without enjoying watching my son move forward, living a full life. I have reverted to old habits to try to manage the recurring anxiety and I have made some significant decisions. Add to that, I donated a haul of stuff to a fundraising sale at Camp Charis, but that “stuff” came out of some painful time spent coming across and going through things that were all about Christopher. “Stuff” continues to be a source great pain.

Last Sunday, I actually attended church for the third week in row. This is a new record, probably since Christopher died. I had stayed in bed until the last possible minute, really not wanting to go. Then I couldn’t find my car key! I looked and looked all the time, reminding God that He was pushing it, because I didn’t want to go as it was. Funny thing is that after I continued to look, I realized (and was “forced” to admit) that apparently I did want to go to church. That was a turning point.
Because of this revelation that I really did long to enjoy fellowship with my God, I took the risk of meeting with a friend on Tuesday. She and I talked about the disbelief and I wanted to understand where disbelief slips into unbelief (i.e., sin). Ruth is such an encouragement as she reminds me of the pain that Jesus felt, reassuring me that she didn’t see this as an issue of faith as much as an issue of grief.

Church

 

Well, I went to church this morning. First time I have chosen to go since September, and before that May. All three “visits” were at three different churches. One, which is very small and full of ministry opportunity, is where I had been at the time of the accident. One, I had attended before Christopher and I became a family. Today’s, I was attending when I adopted Christopher and we were there together for about 10 years.

I need to get back to corporate worship. For that matter, I need to get back to private worship, too. Church is hard. It is hard to ignore God when you are in His house; seems kind of rude. Today, I realized that the words to the songs are so much more personal that I ever remember them being. To sing them is to speak them to God and that is hard.
I’ve never been good at lying. I credit my parents with this as they always told me I wasn’t a good liar and I believed them. (I tried to give this gift to Christopher. I always made sure that he knew I could tell when he was not being truthful. I can remember when, someone must have told him that parents could tell you were lying when you wouldn’t look at them in the eye. After that, he would star intently at me when he was lying. It actually made his lies much easier to detect, I must say!) The thought of lying to God is a tough one to consider and it feels like singing these songs/hymns is lying to God because, while I believe what they say, I don’t feel it right now. That’s why prayer is difficult right now. On the other hand, church is good for me right now. It forces me to expose myself to the truths I believe.
I have to say, however, that I am encouraged to realize that the difficulty with prayer is the same as the difficulty with taking to a friend who cares deeply; in both cases, I am free to feel deeply. However, rather than do that, I tend to isolate. My fear of feeling the depth of the pain is bigger than my hope of comfort which might be available in relationship.
It is times like this that I think about how I would respond as a parent. It would make me terribly sad if Christopher were not willing to come to me for comfort when he was hurting. I suspect that my unwillingness makes God sad as well, as if I can’t trust Him to provide comfort to match my pain.
As Dr. Phil would say, “How’s that working for you?” I need to think about this. It is a choice that I am making.

Need to start living

 

Just last night, I heard someone who had experienced a very challenging circumstance related to her one and only son with her only son. Long story short, in spite of having been the ideal child well into his twenties, her son is now serving a life sentence. I am envious of this woman’s faith and how it continues to sustain her. She obviously knows God in a way that is not familiar to my experience . . . at least since December 2007.

In an interview, this woman talked about the daily choice that she and her husband have to make to live, in spite of having to give up the hopes and dreams that they had for their family. Although they are able to see their son, they have no hope of him every living the life that they had always envisioned. Obviously, we share this loss even though the circumstances are very different.

I’ve said from that first night that Christopher would be so angry if I let his death ruin my life. He never would have wanted that power, to effectively take my ability or willingness to live. And yet through my own decisions, perhaps in response to his death, but my decisions nonetheless, I am reluctant to live fully. Oh, I am moving forward and, by all appearances I am doing well. Nobody, however, knows how much energy goes into getting through each day. It is a lot of work to keep the emotions and the fears and the doubts in check. I worry that if people see how I really felt then they would try to fix it, confirming my concern that there is something wrong that I still hurt so severely. Then you have the issue of faith. I want so much to be a person who trusts God and I have concluded that the depth of my pain reflects a lack of faith. Therefore, to be a good witness to the power of the gospel, I can’t let anyone see how much I hurt.
This all leaves me isolated because that is the only way that I can ensure that I can keep it all in check, nobody to answer to.

On being comforted . . . .

 

One of my recent thoughts regarding church was my lack of appreciation for people who try to comfort me. After all, what could they, in fact, do that would provide any comfort for the loss of a child. I had come to the conclusion that I prefer to be with people who, instead, just “let me be.” That’s well and good, especially if they know of my loss. Besides, peoples efforts to comfort, just evoke in me a lot of emotion and I’m pretty much tired of the tears, if you know what I mean.

Then as I roaming a friend’s kitchen, while she was sleeping in, I realized that this might well explain my reluctance to spend time with God. I know that God understands the loss of a son (in ways I can only imagine), He loves me (more than I dare to hope), and He knows what He is doing (even when He knows that I am not going to like it). I really know all that stuff to be true, but it doesn’t make this all “okay.” I think that’s it; I am waiting to feel “okay” with the death of Christopher. I just don’t foresee that ever happening.
In the meantime, I know all this stuff to be true, but it doesn’t change how I feel. I just realized that part of my discomfort with the emotions, especially at church is because, to me, the emotion make it look like I don’t believe the truth about God, His love and His plan.
It is hard to be before God or in presence of His people and act like He can’t be trusted. It seems to me that if I trusted Him, His love, and His plan, then I should be okay with this and there were no longer be tears.

On Doing Church – Moving on or working through

 

I need to get back to church, but it is so difficult. When you know the Bible is being taught under the inspiration of a God who loves you, can you expect that He will speak to you. This is good, but when you have wounds still so raw, it is painful. Touching this pain often brings tears. That’s okay; I’ve grown used to tears. What is difficult, other’s reactions to the tears.

There are people who totally ignore you and there are people who briefly acknowledge the pain and loss. Those are both just fine. It is the people who try to comfort that drive me crazy, bless their hearts. I know that they are well-intentioned. In some cases, I know that they are people who just can’t stand people hurting so deeply. The problem is that when people react in an effort to comfort, I feel like they are trying to get me to move on or past the pain ASAP. People who ignore or simply acknowledge seem to understand that this is something that I need to work through.
I have found this same issue in trying to find a place for worship. I love the church that I was attending before Christopher died. It is a small mission work. I so want to serve through that church, but to do so now, would be in my own strength. Further, there are just a few who know me or know of my loss. Most will never have known of Christopher. Actually, there are just a few total which makes me so very self-conscience about my emotion. To worship there would provide the perfect opportunity to simply move past all this pain and the resulting relational stuff with God. The same is pretty much true of the church that I have visited where I had attended in my young single days. They know me, they know of my loss, but they can’t really, because they never knew Christopher.
I visited the Church that I had attended when I adopted Christopher and for many years after. Different building, different staff, but many of the same people. They knew Christopher, they knew Christopher with me. There are enough people that my emotionality will not be an issue (if I am strategic about my seating!). There is just the issue of hugging.
The weekend that Christopher died, let’s be honest, should have been all about me, his only immediate family member. I have never hugged and been hugged so much in one weekend in my life. It got so “bad” that I had to explain to friends how to help me manage this. There were those hanger-on-ers who didn’t seem to understand that when I put my hands down, we were finished with the hug. I asked (in jest . . . . sort of) for friends to keep an eye out for these people and to peal them off of me. Even when we went to the cemetery, I sat in front of the casket much sooner than I would have liked because I knew that if I didn’t that they would all start hugging me again! Even my brother, Jim, commented that he had never seen so much hugging!
Hugging issues aside, I need to get back to church; I need to be exposed to the people and teaching of God in community. I need to see that, relationally, with both God and his people, I an move forward. My loss of Christopher has been a betrayal in these relationships. I need to work through it, with all the emotion the there is, and not simply move on or past it, which feels like it would be so much easier.
Truthfully, I miss God’s people. I hate to say it, but I need them. Sometimes, the betrayed needs to take the first step to heal the relationship. This appears to be the case for me. I know God is waiting, patiently and lovingly.
Deep breath.

Fear of Church

 

2009 has been a year where my church attendance has been spotty, at best. I think that I have been 3 times since the beginning of June, and that includes Christmas Eve! Prior to that, I “happened” to attend a church on the day after what would have been Christopher’s high school graduation. The small church recognizing their graduates was so very painful that I decided that I wouldn’t take that chance again for a while.

There are other risks in church attendance. Yesterday, was a good example. I am out of town, visiting a friend who works at a church; makes for kind of a “must go” situation. Truthfully, I didn’t have to go, but it would have been awkward to not go. Anyway, all was fine. The sermon title was, “A Buzz in Bethlehem” which seemed benign enough. As it turned out, it was all about being comforted in your situation and examples of refusing to be comforted. Tears just rolled down my face. Fortunately my dear friend knows me well and just left me alone. She said nothing and she didn’t offer comfort and she didn’t hug me!
I was caught off guard by the sermon; I was once again, not in control and I didn’t like it. The pastor’s points were true, based in Scripture (maybe with one exception, but that’s not the point). He was emphasizing that there is comfort in knowing that God has a plan and that we are part of a bigger eternal plan. Knowing this can provide comfort. I agreed wholeheartedly, but he left out one detail, the detail that is my ongoing battle.
I am so thankful that over these past two years, I have never doubted the love of God. I have never doubted that in Christ, I am his beloved child. From the beginning, I have believed that God spared Christopher a difficult life (aren’t all lives difficult) and was good to Christopher in taking him home early. I believe all the big truths. My struggle is that I don’t like how this all played out for me. No matter how this all is supposed to fit into God’s grand plan, I am convinced that there was another way for Him to accomplish his purposes. He didn’t have to take Christopher and leave me here to try to get through another thirty, forty, or God forbid, fifty hears. No matter what “good” comes from this, it is not enough to offset this pain that I have been left with. There is no justice that I will feel is sufficient.
Now, I know it is not really all about me, but, you lose a son, and tell me that it doesn’t feel all about you.

The need for control, or so I thought

 

I am so far behind on documenting my reflections through this process. Doctoral work will do that to you, I suppose. December 7-8 marked two years since the accident and Christopher’s death. Last year, the first year, I was able to totally manage the day by taking a personal retreat at a camp up in Pelham, GA. It was a glorious weekend. This year, however, these days fell on a Monday and Tuesday, the last week of the Fall Semester. I had significant papers due Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of that week.

Because I don’t have a lot of practice marking such things, I had been quite stressed as to how this was going to all work out. I had great intentions of finishing my school work early just in case I found myself not functional. As I said, I had no idea what to expect. I had conversations with professors and even one of Associate Deans. One thing that I knew, however, is that there would be no excuse in turning anything in late because the due dates of the assignments were known well ahead of time. There was no excuse.
Is I should have expected, I got nothing turned in early, but that was the greatest blessing. Monday, I didn’t have class so I worked on my paper. I did get to work for the afternoon. I made it the full time, but I could feel myself falling, emotionally, as the hour of the accident approached. I had plans that night for dinner with Christopher’s best friend, my amazing Daniel (he had sent me a text about midnight the night before suggesting that we do dinner; he might have save my life.) I gave him an out because I wouldn’t be good company, but her persisted and, together, we got through those difficult hours.
It was a hard night all around. As the hours passed, I could recall exactly where I was, unknowingly, in the process of losing Christopher. Eventually, I slept.
Tuesday, the actually date of his death, was not as significant somehow. I suppose it is because he died shortly after midnight and, for me the day had not yet ended until I left the hospital. This day passed without much anxiety. I was busy with papers, had an appointment with my academic advisor (which is a whole other story of unexpected blessing), working, and picking up a dear friend from the airport, a “favor” that morphed into a wonderful blessing. Betty, you see, had been in the judges chambers when Christopher’s adoption was finalized. She and the folks in my “life group” at the time had thrown a shower for Christopher and me. Betty knew the son I lost and those people continue to provide the greatest comfort to me.
Lessons learned: I don’t have to control everything in order to survive it. I tried to control this and wasn’t able to keep with the plan and survived. I learned that December 7th, the date of the accident, and not the 8th is the troublesome day; that is the day that everything changed. I was reminded that I am certainly not the first to go through this kind of loss, but I am the one-and-only who has lost my Christopher, making my experience totally unique.
It is odd. I would love to forget that night, have it removed my my experience, but at the same time, I want to now every detail. I’ve asked friends who were aware of what was going on that night to write what they recall. I don’t want to read it now, but I have a safe place where all the details of the accident and Christopher’s death are being held for if and when the day comes that I want to know. I fear that by the time that comes, the information won’t be available.
From the beginning, I have cited so many examples of ways that I can see that God was preparing the way for me to lose Christopher; I take comfort in that. I was totally out of control through the whole thing; there is nothing that I could have/should have/would have done differently that would have changed the the outcome. As this second year passed, I was reminded that I can’t control everything, but I will survive. God is more than able and willing to prepare the way for me to survive as I move forward.

Very odd day and not in a good way.

 

Today, I had been dreading a conversation that I was to have with my boss, but that wasn’t the difficult part of my day (that actually went quite well). The difficulties started when I was watching Regis and Kelly. They did a make over of a women in anticipation of her being reunited with her family for the holidays. Regis and Kelly by bring her son, Christopher to her as a surprise. Oh, to be that woman. I so want to be reunited with my son . . . sooner than later.

Then tonight, I was out to dinner with a fellow Marching Chief (nice time, I must say) and we were approached by our waiter, who was wearing a neck brace. When he introduced himself as “Chris”, I was instantly concerned for him. As it turned out, six weeks ago, he was in a car accident from which he survived with a broken neck and broken ribs. I told him that I was so glad that he was up and okay, having lost my son, Christopher two years ago as a result of a car accident. He described a very painful six weeks, but he is up and appears to be doing well. Oh, I so wanted that to have been my Christopher’s experience.
During dinner, my mom called. My 15+ year old Golden Retriever was having some type of convulsion. We know that her days are numbered, but neither of us are ready to say goodbye again. You see, I got Abby the same year that Christopher came to live with me. Since his death, I have recounted an episode of Home Improvement where Tim is talking to his wife, Jill, about the death of his beloved boss. He is explaining that, as a result of his dad’s death when Tim was just a child, he didn’t handle death well. He goes on to say, “that’s why we have kids instead of dogs; They last longer.”
Of course, in my case, my dog, Abby, outlived my son. Further proof that this is not the way it is supposed to be. Abby was our family dog as Christopher was growing up. Even when we got the little dogs, Abby was always the dog. Teddi and Grizzley were always kind of fake (being toy poodles). It is hard to consider saying goodbye to Abby. It feels like saying goodbye again to another piece of the the life that I so enjoyed.

People are so, so different . . .

 

. . . and I don’t know which I prefer.

I was in Publix this evening. I ran in to two sets of friends that I haven’t seen since Christopher’s death. The first two, a mother and grown daughter, were so sweet. Denise, the daughter, just before we parted told me how sad she was for my loss. When I saw her mom, Linda, she just had that look in her eyes that communicated her pain on my behalf. These are both people who just knew Christopher in passing from years ago when we all went to the same church.
The other friends are the parents of an only son who played baseball on the same team back when the boys were in 3rd or 4th grade. We exchanged pleasantries and I asked about Kevin. I was excited for them to hear that he was a freshman at UCF as an aspiring engineer. They asked nothing about Christopher so I am certain that they knew of his death and, yet, they said absolutely nothing about it.
I wasn’t upset about either encounter; I was just struck by the contrast. I am not sure that I would have noticed either extreme had it not been for the two different types of encounters within minutes.
A friend recently told me that she thought that people’s reactions often reflect their need to believe that this could never happen to them. I guess I saw that with Kevin’s parents.
I’d never want to think that this could happen to Christopher . . . even though it did.