Death

Here’s a Weekend Roundup that wasn’t pulled together at the last minute or late at night. A real shocker, I know. It has everything to do with the kids being back in school. Hello regular writing time! If I’m being honest, it’s more like semi-regular writing time. Come to think of it, this could be the first thing I’ve thrown together since the start of school. I’ll take what I can get.

Moving on.

Before I dive into sharing the wonderful words of fellow Hope*Writers, I’d like to thank you for praying for Steven and our family as we settled into first, third, and fifth grades. I was greatly encouraged by the comments you left on my Facebook page.

By the way, Steven had a great first week. It’s nothing short of a miracle; and I am thankful, so very thankful. While I was blow-dying my hair on Wednesday morning, Steven came into the master bathroom.

“Mom,” he began, “It took forever for me to fall asleep last night, and I’ve been up since 6 o’ clock!”

“Why were you up late, Buster?” I asked.

“I was sooooo worried about school,” he answered.

Of course he was.

Six o’ clock is a solid hour before Steven’s LEGO Ninjago alarm clock grants him permission to get out of bed. Not a good start for the first day of school, especially for a boy who needs his beauty sleep. But then he zipped off to feed the dog, as happy as can be. Later my friend Dana pointed out that it was a huge step for Steven to articulate his worries in the first place. Actually, it’s a GINORMOUS step in the right direction. Is that even a word?

Steven-in-the-middle went on to have an excellent first day. Our guy adores his teacher (so do I). It doesn’t hurt that he likes several of his classmates and is already comfortable with them. Since the night before the second day of school, he’s been sleeping well and happy each morning. He’s hasn’t been in so much as a bad mood, which is usually the first sign that worry is taking over. If you are wondering what the fuss is about the start of the school year, I have two words for you: childhood anxiety.

I’ve been around the block enough times to know that anxiety is an ongoing hurdle. We’re working through it. There will be battles ahead. For now, however, we get to breathe a sigh of relief and offer up our hands in praise and thanksgiving. He is good to us, so good. And because of his tender care and affection, he’s helping Steven be brave when life is hard.

The girls also had successful first days. Overall, it’s been a good week, and we’re excited for fall. Well, it was a good week minus a few meltdowns from the Tiniest Tiny, and the whole sequin-covered cat ear headband debacle with Emily. Did you know cat ear headbands are even a thing? Apparently so. But this isn’t a tween fashion blog. You’re welcome for that, by the way. Because I could write all about my first experience at the teenybopper store, Justice, otherwise known as Boutique de Rainbow Glitter and Unicorn Vomit.

I opened up a bit about childhood anxiety last week. Here you go, you can read about it here. But if you’ve got an older child, like a high school-er, then I highly recommend Lindsey Hausch’s essay, To the Kid in High School With Social Anxiety. It was featured on The Mighty last week. Honestly, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for those struggling with anxiety in late elementary to middle school to give it a read.

I loved this essay by Greer Oharah. It’s about living now and writing later. I really love the name Greer, which has nothing to do with anything. I’m not sure that I’ve heard Greer as a first name. It’s safe to say there will never be a fourth Twedtling. But I love coming up with hypothetical names for another child. Speaking of names, now that the big 4-0 is approaching in the not-so-distant future, I decided it was high time I put away my copy of The Best Baby Name Book in the Whole World. Perhaps I should reconsider. Just this morning I gave our plum-colored BOB Revolution jogging stroller to a family at school. In terms of baby gear, we all know what happens when you give away the good stuff. Anyway, Greer is a lovely name and she wrote a lovely essay for all you writers out there. As someone who’d rather spend time writing before cleaning the toilets and paying the bills, this was a refreshing and encouraging read. And beautifully written. I definitely struggle with balancing writing time and taking care of my family and home, and being a functioning member of society in general. I’d rather just write.

The next essay is titled The Day I Screamed at God: My Messy Awakening to Kindness and it’s by Hannah Savage. It’s about the day Hannah basically screamed at God and learned that her stormy emotions could not shake God from his steadiness. Stormy emotions? Now who does that remind you of? Don’t say it.

It would hardly be a Weekend Roundup without an essay from Dorina Lazo Gilmore, don’t you think? Her essay, Celebrating a Heaveniversary: 10 ways to honor a loved one’s death came at just the right time. I’m usually not one for advice-style essays, but this one is dear to me. You see, earlier in the week I had the guts to finally publish something I wrote after my dad’s 21st heaveniversary back in March. It’s a few blog posts back. I’m not going to link to it because I really want you to read Dorina’s essay. Her words broke my heart and offered hope at the same time. I identified so much with Dorina’s experience. I have to say that I was challenged to look at and approach next year’s heaveniversary a new way. If you’ve lost a loved one, or if you know someone who’s living a new normal without a loved one, please head over to Dorina’s website.

Edited to add: I haven’t checked my email since this morning. Which means I missed out on most of the blog posts I subscribe to via email. Lucky for me, Jody’s essay was also on Instagram. Jody is a champion encourager and an eloquent wordsmith. I have known her less than a year, but Jody is a true friend. And in case you didn’t know it, she’s the midwife of this blog (her words, not mine and, yes, there’s a story behind her claim to fame). I wouldn’t want you to miss this stunning tribute to September Eleventh not 9/11.

Well now, that’s about it. Have a glorious weekend. I hear we might actually get a bit of rain. At least it’s my hope and prayer. I know, I know, how often do you hear a Seattle girl praying for rain? But the wildfires continue to rage in my beloved home state. We really need rain. Please hope and pray along with us. We’re miles and miles from the flames, but it’s heartbreaking all the same.

Someone I know lost a parent over the weekend. Her father’s death was unexpected. I can’t say I’m super close to this person, but my heart aches for her and her sweet family. The Bible teaches that in Jesus’s resurrection, death has lost its sting. Yet as I write, someone I care about is experiencing loss like nothing she has ever known.

This can’t be happening.

I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent unexpectedly. But I know grief, I know it well. I find it next to impossible to untangle what I’ve tasted and seen from what she’s experiencing today. After all, I’m an INFJ in the realm of Meyer-Briggs, heavy on the F which stands for feeling. I’m starting to think I lack the skills needed to set my feelings aside, at least for a while. I can’t seem to remove myself from the situation and focus on something other than grief, hers or mine.

Knowing that another family is experiencing grief is like an emotional tidal wave, as suffocating today as it was twenty-something years ago. I’m drowning in it as I fold clothes, unload the dishwasher and prepare an afternoon snack for the Tiniest Tiny.

I can’t stop thinking about dad.

Dad suffered six years. When his life came to an end we knew it was happening. There were no surprises. We had more than enough time to say good-by, everyone did. Sanguine to the end, his life wasn’t over until practically every one of his neighbors, friends and family members stopped by for one last visit.

The song If You Could See Me Now, not Eminem’s version or the 1980s cruise jingle, but the one by Truth, was playing on the CD player in the living room when he died. It was rather loud because these hard-of-hearing ears of mine needed help unraveling the lyrics from instrumentals. It was the middle of the night.

The song speaks of walking the streets of gold, of no longer being broken, of no more pain. It is a song about releasing a loved one from a place of suffering to come face-to-face with Jesus, strong and whole. I was seated next to dad, but almost missed that splendid moment when he took his last breath and slipped from his cancerous shell of a body into Jesus’ arms, victorious and cancer-free at last.

I’m thankful dad is with Jesus, I really am. But I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t want him back for a little while.

Dad knew I loved children and wanted to be a teacher. I would’ve given anything for him to see me graduate from college and set up my first kindergarten classroom. I wish he’d been the one to walk me to meet Greg at the end of the aisle on our wedding day, though I will always cherish the moment I spent with Dave. He was dad’s best friend.

And our three babies, his grand-babies. It kills me that our kids will never meet their Grandpa Steve. They will never hear his hearty laughter or sit through one of the many tall-tales from his childhood on the farm near Mt. Spokane. On this side of heaven, our son Steven will never know the one he was named for.

One Father’s Day, when Greg and I were newly dating, our pastor preached a moving sermon. He charged the fathers of our congregation to rise up, to be strong in the Lord and lead their families well. That’s the kind of dad I had. He loved the Lord with all of his heart and all of his soul, and oh, how he loved his family.

I’m a private person by nature. But even I could not contain the desire after church to ask Greg, my then boyfriend, to take me to the cemetery. Greg was as distant as any one of his Norwegian ancestors would have been. He kept his Oakley shades on and stood aside while I had myself a little moment. I’m not used to breaking down in front of others. The vulnerability of that afternoon was as new to me as our relationship.

Even though I shouldn’t have, I remember turning to Greg afterward and apologizing for the awkwardness of my crying fit, the grief that came out of nowhere.

“Yeah, that was awkward,” was Greg’s response. The cruelty of his statement was out of character with the man I knew so swell, or as well as I could after only a few months dating.

He then removed his sunglasses and revealed a face streaked with tears, tears for a man he’d never met and for a woman who really missed her dad. I knew for sure that afternoon that Greg loved me, and in his arms I could grieve.

I started a blog last June. I love to write. It’s the most tangible way I know to praise God and better understand my world. In my mind’s eye, I saw my blog as a place to write about life and to bring the hope of Jesus to others. An encourager by nature, it’s what I do best. I didn’t really want a mommy blog, but I knew I was going to sprinkle a few kid stories into my writing from time to time to keep things light and entertaining.

The thing is, I’ve been running from writing lately. I’ve been running because he (and by he I mean God) is prompting me to explore grief and write about the hard things in life. It’s not a fun subject to tackle. But I have to say, this little corner of the internet is serving its purpose. I’m learning to be brave in this place. I’m learning to air out some of the grief I’ve kept hidden all these years, grief I didn’t realize I had in me because everything was fine except it wasn’t.

I’m starting to think maybe, just maybe, I’m honoring God and giving him glory as I learn to take his hand and let him unpack the beautiful mess that’s called mothering in the midst of grief.