Amy Johnson

The Journey…

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The process by which Good Grief?!? came into being was just that…a very long, difficult process. It started with the death of my first wife and meandered through the dark mire of confusion, pain, and grief of which no one is really prepared. It took nearly 2.5 years to write.

When I sat across from Carolyn on what I hoped was our “first date,” I asked her to paint the cover scene of my soon to be published book. God had given me a clear picture in my head the day before and I was excited to find out that He’d given her the same picture. (Some day soon, I’ll post about that first date!) I had no idea that progression of the cover picture would show the process of grief and my book in stages.

It began with a fog. The trepidation of not knowing what was lurking in the fog is similar to the trepidation of looking into the heart of fear and wondering what horrific thing awaits along the road I must travel.

As death lurks, the breath of life is gone. The beauty of life is gone. The color of life is gone. “What’s hiding behind that next tree?” “What could be waiting for me at the end of this path?” “Why must I travel this path… seemingly alone?!?” Questions that bring anxiety and stir up more fear.

Hope only happens when we turn our eyes toward God’s promises. And, just like life, those promises sprout up near the end of the path, illuminating the world, while driving much of the fog and darkness away. Just a bit of Hope seems to bring with it the light that previously was absent.

Through the witness of a few different family and friends, I was reminded that the story I’d lived was one to help others find that hope amongst the terrors of the walk through grief.

It was also at that time when I knew life had to begin living again. I couldn’t continue to walk numbly through everything. God gave me a new job. God paved the road for Micah to go to college. And God was beginning to pick up the pace of life again. The dreary was slowly departing, not completely, just slowly.

Once a few of those promises come into sight, the darkness recedes even more, and true sight begins to take form. The path gets clearer and easier to follow. The looming question of the fog no longer is in view. Yes, death is still present, but the pain brings memories of beauty, the memories of warm laughter, and the memories of hope begin to take shape. You realize that the memories are a gift. Yes, they are often painful, but God turns pain into beauty quite regularly. If that’s a hard pill to swallow, contemplate childbirth.

The day before our “first date,” after having purchased the “Streets of Gold” painting, I woke to a clear picture of a man walking down a path through trees in Fall, leaves of all colors and shades. My heart heard it as plain as day: “Thom, grief is like Fall.” God’s whisper might as well have been shouting. It all made sense.

In the Fall, when the leaves turn, our world erupts in beauty. The once beautifully bright, vibrant world becomes more cozy as leaves turn to darker shades of reds, and oranges, and yellows.

The work of grief is hard. It’s time consuming. And, I’ll clue you in on a secret people don’t like to talk about…it doesn’t just go away after a few days or weeks or months…the season of grief, like the season of Fall, stays around for what sometimes feels like an eternity.

When the trees release their pretty charges, our yards are filled with a beautiful mess. I’d never thought of it that way before God showed me the picture for the cover of the book. If we want our yard to be healthy, and the neighbors to not hate us, we take the time to rake the leaves. Then there’s the task of getting rid of them. It’s hard work, but at the end of the day, there is satisfaction.

We go to bed knowing we worked hard, but we took a shower and went to bed. When we wake up, we find that there are a few leaves that have wandered into our well manicured lawn. It’s a bit irritating, but we quickly pick them up so that our home looks pretty again, so no onlookers see anything out of place.

A couple days go by, a windstorm alights in the night, and we wake to more leaves on the ground than when we initially raked leaves at the beginning of Fall. It’s seemingly a never ending cycle, never knowing how many leaves we might have to deal with when we wake in the morning, or come home from work, or see swirling while we stare out the window during dinner.

Those leaves are like memories of our dearly departed. They are beautiful and rich with color. But they are also decaying, falling around us, causing painful work to be done.

When I shared my vision for the cover of Good Grief?!? with Carolyn, she understood it immediately and the picture in her mind was instant. Had she stopped at the above picture, I would have been happy. It would have been missing someone, but it would still carry the metaphor. When I saw the end product (below), it was as if I’d stepped into a vacuum of time and sound.

I was overwhelmed and instantly in tears.

When Carolyn unveiled the final picture, I felt like the horse blinders had been removed and I could understand more of the message God was using us both to portray, one in black and white print, and one in vivid brush strokes.

I was the one in the picture! Not a random man. Me. ME! That is actually my shadow walking in that picture.

The irony is not lost on me. I teach English to Middle Schoolers. Irony is part of my daily language.

It had never dawned on me that the person I “saw” walking through the grove of Fall trees was me. I often, like many romantics, look at the world with a bit of rose colored glasses. Why insert my actual image? That might tarnish the picture. That might awaken more pain. That might be a little too much reality. I’m sure that sounds absurd, especially since I’m the one who walked through the season of grief written about in the book.

I can’t imagine what you’re thinking right now… I had never let myself be part of this space before (the space of oncoming blessing), yet I’ve encouraged many others to do just that…I mean…I’ve had a relationship with Abba God for a very long time. I know how good the God of Creation is. I know how much our Father God wants to bless us, I’m a father myself. I know how good Heaven/blessing sounds, but I’ve always pictured myself as a stable boy, worthy to only clean the stables of Heaven, and happy to be allowed to have the opportunity.

I stood for a beat. Then the tears began to roll.

Looking at the finished painting for the first time, it dawned on me that “I” was walking into the sunrise… into Streets of Gold. I wasn’t walking into death. I was walking away from it into the life that is brought with Spring. Me. Carolyn didn’t paint me at the bottom of the picture, just entering a dark and dreary Fall, with Winter in the background.… and she had painted ME!

When I first showed “Streets of Gold” to one of my best friends, she said to me, “Thom, look at the leaves.”

“I know,” I said, eyes downcast, looking at the ground covering.

“No, not those leaves,” she said. “Those are blessings God’s already given you. Look at the ones in the trees!”

Time seemed to stop. The ground covering seemed like a meager amount to the limb packed trees!

I’m still struggling to wrap my head around all this. If the leaves on the ground represent the miracles I’ve seen while walking with Abba God through many decades, the lifelong friends He’s paired my life with, the nearly 19 years of a marriage to Amy, 3 beautiful souls who call me dad, an incredible career, and many more things too numerous to talk about here, and that number pales in light of the blessings to come?!? Peace. The book. New life and new love. Carolyn. A future with my boys and the families God intends for them. Prior to the day I first saw the finished picture for the book, I’d never before felt this loved by LOVE Himself! I’d never really known Abba had blessed me and love me that much. I had just claimed it as a promise… that one day I’d finally FEEL like I hope my boys feel about me as their dad.

The book has finished the first editorial round. There are about 10 weeks before Good Grief?!? will arrive in stores on real and virtual shelves to be purchased, and it finally feels like it’s actually happening. Thank you for walking this journey with me!

Spring is coming!

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“Streets of Gold” by Carolyn Walker

November 17, 2019, I woke to an incredible painting posted on Facebook: “Streets of Gold”. When I first saw “Streets of Gold”, God told me to buy the painting. It was to “represent the blessings” He’d given me “and the blessings I would be walking through.” Two days later I was picking the painting up from the artist.

When I woke the next morning, God gave me a picture of a man walking through a grove of trees in Autumn. Then He whispered in my soul, “Grief is like Fall.” My world exploded. I’d been struggling with the book’s introduction. I also knew the ending wasn’t quite right either. But the revelation about grief CHANGED everything… including the cover.

I contacted Carolyn and asked to meet with her the next evening. Exactly a week after picking up “Streets of Gold”, we were engaged.

It’s not the typical pattern we’ve all come to expect in dating. That pattern usually takes a lot longer. But God… There’s that phrase again (I wrote a post about it a year ago.) But God… in His infinite wisdom, overwhelming love, and endless fatherly gift giving… made it clear He was pushing the time table, not us.

Many have wondered how God took me from overwhelming loneliness and grief and turned my world around in literally the blink of an eye. One minute I was standing in a Starbucks, meeting the artist who painted “Streets of Gold”, and in the next… while still standing in that same Starbucks during that same meeting… I was talking with the woman God intended for me… and I knew it in that moment. (She didn’t, but I did.)

As we began sharing our whirlwind love story with our inner circle of mentors, family, and friends, the questions and worry presented to us melted away. Each time we met over coffee, tea, or a meal, we had confirmation – God was directing this love story and that was clear to all. One of my closest friends remarked, “Thom, look at that painting. Many blessings are on the ground, but look at the trees!” I got lightheaded. I’ve never known this level of blessing and favor.

On top of the confirmations, God has made it abundantly clear, many times, that March 20th is to be the wedding date. It’s been overwhelming at times and peaceful at others as we plan this wedding. Learning to “do life” together while living in two different zip codes, evaluating stuff (what do we keep, donate, or sell?), and finding time to date each other has made our schedule a bit of a whirlwind in and of itself. But God… Just acknowledging His divine hand changes it all.

Which brings us to the present. Last night while driving home, my son asked, “Dad, when does Spring begin? ” I was sure the equinox was in April, but just to make sure, Carolyn opened her phone to check.

“The first day of Spring is March 20th,” Carolyn whispered.

“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.

“It’s March 20th,” she repeated, a little louder. Her revelation stunned me. “There’s your next book,” she added.  I found myself completely flabergasted.

There’s another part to God’s revelation from last night though. Twenty-seven years ago God told me to “Be a child” in a moment He burned into the fabric of ME. A wise man told me, “Thom, don’t grow up. People who grow up on the inside tend to get in God’s way. Be childlike in your faith and devotion. God will always be able to use you.”

I have attempted to be childlike for the last 27 years. Sometimes I’ve grown up and succumbed to stress and worry, especially since March 2013 when Amy was first diagnosed with kidney failure. Sometimes God has reminded me to play and the years of worry began to melt away.

Last night, Carolyn told me she refers to me as her “playmate.” Her mom has even counseled couples in the past two weeks, encouraging them with the concept of playmate – to play as a couple, to remember the joy of play, to be childlike, and to laugh.

We’d been talking about a realization God gave me in the car after learning when Spring started. I simply said, “I have forever felt less than… that people have settled for me.” From friendships to romance, I’ve thought people could have done better, including Amy. “I have often felt I could have been a better husband, father, and friend.” (I don’t need the sermons or the accolades, and I’m not fishing for compliments. God blew my mind last night.)  As I listened to Carolyn tell me about how her mother was using our story, I no longer felt less than. Last night was the first time I truly believed I was someone’s perfect match. I truly understood my worth in the eyes of others and in the eyes of God. And for once, I didn’t feel like I needed to apologize for wanting to play.

This morning my heart was overwhelmed to realize once again that God has been at work to bring this family into a time of unrestrained favor and blessing. The metaphor of Fall became the introduction… or rather… the beginning of the book. Since many people don’t read the Introduction, I named it “The Beginning.” Carolyn finished painting the picture of Autum God had given me. He’d given her the same picture.

“Fall of Grief” by Carolyn Walker
To be the cover of my book Good Grief?!?

The last addition to the book was to add a final chapter to complete the metaphor. It explains how the Autumn of Grief turns into the cold, often lonely, dark Winter of the Soul. But it doesn’t stop there; it briefly talks of meeting Carolyn and leaning toward the future. Spring is coming. Truly. On March 20th, the day God picked for me to marry Carolyn is the first day of Spring literally and figuratively. This family is being ushered into New Life.

I’ve already started outlining the next book, titled Good God?!? It will further look at the metaphor of the Seasons in life. I will continue to update this blog as Good Grief?!? gets closer to store shelves. Thank you for continuing to support me and this book.

Flowers, Peace, and Joy – even today

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“Amy’s Flowers”

I purchased these flowers on a whim today…well, not actually a whim. It all started last night. The Plan that is.

When I got home last night, I had already been worrying about what to do today, on this the 3rd anniversary of my wife’s journey Heaven-ward. I was worried I’d wake up at the same time I’ve woken up for the last 3 years: 5:46 a.m. I was worried 1 or more of my sons would have a terrible dream or meltdown or anxiety attack. I was worried one of them wouldn’t go to school today and the day was be a roller coaster of tears, and sobs, and Why God? prayers. I was worried.

So…what do I do when I’m worried? I ask for prayer. Last night at my men’s Bible study, I asked the guys who keep me accountable in my daily life to pray for peace. Then I came home again. To my surprise, my worry was gone. I thought about my plan for the day (I’d already secured a substitute teacher and had taken the day off). I’d take whichever boy who wanted a ride to school; I’d have coffee with my close friend who came to my house that fateful morning (to check in and to say thanks…again); I’d catch a movie, maybe get a rose and lunch at Applebee’s – the site of our first date. Plan made, I fell asleep. When my alarm woke me at 6:00 a.m. I was at peace. Anxiety and fear of the day was nowhere to be found. It was as if Abba God was saying I got you, Thom – just like He did on that morning. I woke the boys and went about the morning.

No one wanted a ride to school. I had to pick up my car from the repair shop (that’s a whole different post), so I headed out for my day. After picking up the van, I swung into the grocery store to get ingredients for a special dinner for tonight with my boys. When I walked into Trader Joe’s, there were the flowers. I remembered my “plan” and looked for a long stem, white rose. There weren’t any, but that didn’t matter. Stareing me in the face was this bunch of flowers that took me back to my first date with Amy. I’d stopped to get her flowers late that morning, 22 years ago. Not knowing if I was actually going out for coffee or actually going on a first date, I wanted to be prepared. I decided to pick up flowers but didn’t want to send the wrong message. I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in an old folks home!

I knew not to pick red roses; those stand for impassioned love. I was head over heals for Amy, but I didn’t want to drive her away.

I knew not to pick pink roses; those stand for admiration and joy. They are too close to red roses and I still didn’t want to spook her (especially if it wasn’t a real date – which is a longer story for another time).

I knew not to pick white roses; those stand for purity and weddings.

And yellow roses meant friendship, but I didn’t want to be in the “friend-zone”.

So I prayed; right there in the florist shop, I asked God what flowers to pick up for an I’m-pretty-sure-this-is-a-date date. A boquet caught my attention. It was more colorful than what I bought this morning, but it had a white flower in the middle of it that looked amazing.

When I handed the flowers to Amy, she said, “White roses are my favorite!” I panicked. Really panicked.

After a sharp inhale, I replied, “…but I didn’t buy white roses…”, trying to sound sure of myself and not fall apart like I’d done on all my first dates in college. (To sum up…all 4 of them were TERRIBLE! I was nauseous all day and too afraid to talk to my date! Each one was a bigger disaster than the last!)

Amy inspected the flowers and unwrapped them. Sure enough, I hadn’t bought a bouquet with a white rose, but the flower, all bunched up in the florist plastic could have passed for a rose. I don’t know the name of the flower. I think it’s a mum. But it’s the same flower that was staring me down at Trader Joe’s this morning. So, I bought them. They are in my house right now. A man from church once told me, “I think men deserve to have flowers in the house now and then. Guys deserve beautiful things to look at too.” I’ve been looking at these flowers off and on today. Each time I’m filled with a warm sensation, a mixture of peace and joy. Amy would have loved them.

I chose to punt my idea of a movie until after my boys got home. I found a “second run” theater showing the live action Alladin tonight at 6:30. If you know our family, you know we always took the boys to the new Disney films. And we, Amy and I, thoroughly enjoyed them along with our boys – maybe even more (I mean, we did go see Cars 2 without them on opening night!).

I’ve texted with my oldest – only because his day is so jam packed (we talked last night) – to make sure he was doing okay. He’s nervous, but for good reasons. He’s casting his first musical with auditions today. His mom would have been so very proud of him.

When my youngest two got home from school today, they were peaceable. No one looked as if they’d had an emotionally haggard day. They changed clothes and are now at the swimming pool. They’ll be home soon, ready to make homemade pizza like Mom started making with them a year before she passed away. It’s a family favorite. In fact, when my oldest was home from his internship last week, he’d requested it. I’m going to prep for pizza and then a movie. Tonight’s ending with the same warm feeling I was blessed with at the beginning of the day. Abba God, You are so incredible to smile down on one so insignificant as me and make my day so wonderful. Thank you!

Mother’s Day…without any mothers

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Fun with “scarves” and Mom at Ikea

Mother’s Day comes as a wonderful day of celebration for most, or maybe only for many while the rest glue plastic smiles on and pretend the day is one of celebration. There are three ladies in my life who I’ve celebrated on Mother’s Day, and this year, not one of them is here to celebrate.

My mother still lives, however, by her own choices, is no longer part of my life. I’ve struggled since childhood with the “Ideal of Motherhood.” I’ll be the first to admit fault and broken humanity makes for trying times; however, the woman I knew to be my mother did not exist. I could deal with the duality when we were apart – it’s easier to hold onto a dream when there’s distance – but, each time our paths crossed, each time we were in the same room, the pain was undeniably immense. When my own children began to experience pain with which they never should have had to deal, I sought pastoral counseling. It was a difficult process, a difficult time of soul searching, and a difficult decision. We laid ground rules. I reached out with an olive branch. It was clear she didn’t want a relationship with me or my family anymore. I mourned that day almost as if the angel of death had come to visit.

A few years prior, my mother-in-law was on the angel’s pick-up list. Ten years prior, on the eve of my wedding night, God told me we would only have a brief 10 years with Amy’s mom. A few months later, Susan was called upon to pray over a family friend’s son who had been in a severe skiing accident that should have taken his life. Susan asked Amy and me to go with her. We gathered at the friend’s house and prayed. I learned how to pray that night – to really pray – at the knee of a warrior woman of God. That night I became Elisha to Susan’s Elijah. In my spirit, I knew I wanted a double portion of her blessing. At the end of the night, when we’d returned to Susan’s house, I asked her for something I knew I had no right for which to ask, but I also knew I couldn’t NOT ask.

“Mom,” I started, searching for the courage to finish the request, “can I have your Bible when you’re finished with it?”

“Thom, you don’t know what you’re asking for,” she started. “I mean…I won’t be finished with it until….” Her words fell away. She looked me straight in the eye, put her hand on my shoulder, and said, “Today you have truly become my son.”

I didn’t really realize the gravity of that statement for a very long time. Nine years later, while she lay in a hospital bed after her first of many heart attacks, I stood trembling.

“Mom…” Amy stepped out of the curtained area to give us privacy. She knew what I was going to ask, and she felt she needed to leave us alone. “Mom,” I started again, “I’ve come to ask for that double blessing,” I finished just above a whisper.

“Thom, it’s not up to me, but I’ll ask,” she said with a slight smile. Then she lay her hand on top of mine and prayed. A little over a year later she was gone. That loss rocked my world. It rocked Amy’s world. It rocked my boys too. The realization of my request has grown inside of me in ways I had not anticipated…especially in the past two years.

The last woman I’ve celebrated on Mother’s Day was Amy, my dear wife. Two years before we’d even met, I’d been diagnosed with a pituitary tumor and a disfiguring growth disease. The doctors told me I would never sire children. When Amy and I began dating, it was one of the first things I disclosed. For many, it would have been a deal breaker. We began talking and planning for an adoption…five actually. Eight months after we were married, Amy was told she could never carry a child. Three months later we learned that doctors only “practice medicine” – they haven’t perfected it.

It was my 25th birthday, and I was standing in the bathroom of our little apartment holding the pregnancy test strip Amy’d used in the night. When she went to bed, it was negative. When I pulled it out of the trash, it was positive. Fearing a false positive, Amy used the second test strip and then we headed to the doctor’s office for confirmation.

I never saw Amy happier than when she held each of our three sons for the first time. She was a natural at motherhood; she made it look easy…very easy. The first time she held each one, Amy prayed an incredible, warrior mom prayer. I wish I’d had a way to record those prayers so my boys could hear her voice and remember her fierce determination for their souls to know God. Each prayer was unique. Each prayer was expertly fashioned for the child she held. And each prayer was prophetic, asking God to watch over her son(s) through trials, specific trails, she intuitively knew were looming in the shadows of each boy’s future. The only similarity between the prayers was the admission, “God, thank you for loaning us this child, Your child, to raise. Help us do so with Your wisdom and Your Word.”

A tremendous gap was created in our family when God took Amy away from her physical pain and sickness.

Yesterday, I was overwhelmed with the “looming onset” of this matriarch holiday. I didn’t know how I would navigate the day with my boys. Our first Mother’s Day without Amy happened to also be my oldest’s 18th birthday. We spent the day celebrating the women in my boys’ life who stepped into the vacuum left by their mother. It was a happy and sad day. Last year was an awful fight between one child and the rest of the family. This year, I wanted a different day. But I didn’t know what that day would look like. My youngest wanted to bake a cake and then hole up in his room after church on Mother’s Day…to “get through it.” My angel with Autism wanted to watch his mother’s memorial service and then “do everything Mom would have loved to do with us!” My oldest would still be on campus in Southern California, spending Mother’s Day with an empty dorm and a few other RA’s stuck on campus for the 48-hours-after-checkout duties. I couldn’t think of a plan because I couldn’t think of a way around re-watching the memorial service and walking around with a shredded heart for the day.

When I find myself up against a wall, unable to move, in this season of parenting, I’ve learned to reach out for help. I sent a text out to a few of the women God’s firmly planted in my sons’ lives with my dilemma. The result was astounding. I found myself marveling at God’s miracle. The Mom Mafia spoke – many of them replied to my text – with the same message: this year is to be about making new, fun traditions – Amy wouldn’t have wanted us to all be locked in the house sobbing, unable to keep on living.

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Pig ‘N Pancake (Seaside, OR)

So today, this Mother’s Day, without any mothers, my youngest two headed to the beach to laugh and make new memories.

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On the beach together

Tonight, I marvel at the wonderful day that was had (even by Micah). I want to celebrate the Mom Mafia who, nearly three years later, are still offering wise warrior mom prayers, who are still seeking ways to love on my boys and speak into their lives, and who are continuing to impart wisdom and encouragement to this tired dad, in spite of the parental load they already carry. May God richly bless this army of women (and their brave and wonderful husbands).

-C, -J, -J, -K, -L, -M, -M, -M, -N, -S — “The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace” (Num. 6:24-26).

What does love look like at your home?

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I know it’s an odd question for many, and the picture below might confuse you a bit, but I hope I’ve got your attention.

When answering my question, many of you probably think of lovers kissing, a couple holding hands while taking a leisurely walk, or exuberant hugs from little children. Others of you probably think of diamond rings, beautiful weddings, and watching a movie while snuggled on the couch with a loved one. For me, I have a pretty different view of love.

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Notice the glove?!?

Friday, February 22, was the 22nd anniversary of my first date with my wife Amy. It was a crazy day. We were getting together for coffee to talk about youth ministry (honest!). That was all the 1-hour meeting over a cup of joe was supposed to contain. Then God intervened when a mutual friend changed both our expectations of the appointment – just 20 hours before it was set to take place. A 1-hour coffee meeting turned into an almost 13-hour date (complete with flowers, a movie, and 2 meals). I’m waiting to hear if it breaks the Guinness Book record as the longest first date!

Shortly after picking Amy up for the date, I recognized things felt different than any other first date I had ever had. In college, when preparing for a first date, my stomach was in so many knots, food never stayed long in my stomach. This time was very different. By the end of lunch (a 5-hour event because we’d lost track of time), I knew I’d found the love of my life. We’d been talking every night for the 3 weeks prior, so I already had an inkling on my way into Applebees.

For the next 19 years, I held Amy’s hand, brushed hair from her face before kissing her, and washed the dishes. Yes! I washed dishes because I loved my wife. Amy had sensitive skin that broke out with horrible eczema if her hands were submerged in water for long. So, because I loved her, I washed dishes (until my kids needed to learn how to do this chore).

Shortly after we were married, Amy wanted to take a cake decorating class. Then she wanted to take a “Stamping It Up” class. Then she wanted to take a Creative Memories class. We did them all together. Did I really want to do those things? Eh. Did I want to do them with Amy? YES! She made those classes fun. We had a blast together. I got to spend time with her and learned some wonderful skills that I now get to pass on to my kids…her kids.

Many years ago, it was popular in the church to find your “Love Language”. Since then, it’s become a trend outside the church as well. Amy’s love language was Gifts, followed closely by Time. When I found out, I was mortified. We were living on a Christian school teacher’s salary. Every penny was accounted for before the check was cashed. I didn’t know how I would ever be able to afford to give Amy gifts. Amy saw the terror unveiling across my face at that couple’s retreat.

“You have given me so many gifts already, Thom,” she whispered. “You gave me this,” she said, pointing to her wedding ring. “You gave me a beautiful baby boy.” Our oldest was only 6 months old at the time. “And you wash the dishes every day.” The last one puzzled me, but she didn’t explain; she just turned around and continued listening to the speaker. It took God many years to help me understand… and accept that my dishwashing was a gift, a real gift.

With Valentine’s Day not so long past, and the 22nd anniversary of our 1st date just days ago, the question “What does love look like in our home now?” has been playing in my head. Maybe it’s because I miss her. Maybe it’s because I got used to giving Amy gifts and spending time with her. Maybe it’s because I’m finally on the other side of the heart-crushing pain of loss.

When thinking of dinner two nights ago, I thought of Amy. What would she have made for dinner? Then I remembered, they loved her spaghetti, but because of my allergy to tomatoes, my boys don’t get to eat it often. Take a gander at the pic. See the purple glove? What you can’t see are the long sleeves pulled down with the gloves pulled up over the cuffs. It was fun. The hardest part was not tasting my creation. Isaiah was happy to taste it for me when he got home. It needed a little more salt and pepper.

I made enough for the boys to have 3 different dinners of spaghetti. They didn’t jump up and down when they ate it, but their plates were empty in minutes…no complaints. I call that a win.

So, what does love look like at your house? In mine, it’s washing dishes, homemade gifts, and making spaghetti.

 

Everyday Heroes…without Capes

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Within hours of my wife passing, the vacuum my children experience was immense. Since that day, a small group of godly women have stepped up, joined what I call “The Mom Mafia”, and have honored the memory of their dear friend by loving on my kids in ways only a mother could. At times, that has looked like simply praying, or giving a hug or phone call when God prompted them to do so. Other times it looked like sending care packages to a freshman in college, taxi-ing my younger two to youth group or doctor appointments, or even helping out a single dad (who happens to be a teacher) by taking the kids school supply shopping while I was busy setting up a new classroom (which I’ve had to do for the last two years because my school moved buildings).

Each time my children have spent time with one of the Mafia Moms, whether it was with their brothers or by themselves, they have come away with their cups full to over-flowing. Each woman God has put in their life at this time who is helping to fill the vast void left by their mother’s death has a unique talent set which speaks to each of my kids individually and corporately.

At times, I’ve reached out to the Mom Mafia to request prayer. You want to know why I dubbed them “The Mom Mafia”? Get between a mama and her child, especially if that child is hurting. You won’t be standing there for long. These women do not fight an earthly battle with earthly weapons to leave temporal wounds. They fight a spiritual battle with stakes that make those earthly battles pale in comparison. They are each Generals in God’s army, who stand tall and don’t back down from a challenge. Many times, these women have each reached out to me to inquire about specific prayer needs…and other needs.

One of the members of this group of godly women has a standing date with one of my sons. Once a month she takes him out and gives him an hour or two of her undivided attention, usually over ice cream or some kind of meal. Monday was that day. When I dropped my son off at school this morning, I began to pray for that encounter. It’s been months since I’ve seen him glow. It’s been a difficult season for him. When I left work, I texted like I usually do, however, today I asked, “Where are you?” The reply I received was coy. It piqued my interest. Then the dummy light on my dashboard reminded me that I was driving on fumes and the thought left my head.

One of the only houses on my street in shadow this Christmas Season, I’ve been feeling guilty, trying to push myself to be more festive, trying to find more time and energy to continue decorating the inside and outside of my home so that it would look like a HOME. That feeling vanished when I pulled onto my street. The sight of my front lawn was hard to miss. When I parked, I was met by one son who was trying to hold in a bigger surprise, but his Autism makes it difficult for him to hide anything. I grinned at the sight. It warmed me that he met me at the driveway, albeit, he wanted to see my reaction. Nonetheless, he’d met me at the driveway and offered to help me bring in my things from the van. My youngest son was nowhere to be seen. As I entered the house, I locked the front door behind me and began the evening’s debrief with my son’s after-school caregiver – a good friend of the family, a good friend of my wife. Something was off, though. When I tried to walk the caregiver to the door, my son was blocking my path. He grinned, a bit mischievously and threw open the door. There stood my youngest, beaming from ear to ear. Then he began caroling!

When we piled into the car for the evening’s events, I listened in rapt attention as he explained his afternoon date with one of his surrogate moms. He was giddy. He was so full of words; they were gushing out of him almost faster than I could comprehend them. When he told me of the incredible time he had shopping at the Goodwill for something to brighten up the yard, he was nearly glowing himself. They had found the string of lights, the net of lights, and a “fake wreath” (I’m allergic to evergreen trees) and were heading to the register when he tripped, literally tripped over the box containing the nativity. The two of them found a plug-in to check the lights and purchased it all…”for $25, Dad!”

This Christmas Season alighted with a darker cloud than last year. We’ve only managed to get one tree up and decorated. (We usually have 3 trees because I love the Celtic tale of The Three Trees.) Pulling into my driveway on Monday and seeing the beaming child responsible for the light show, I realized that this Christmas Season just took a turn for the better. All because one of the Mafia Moms took an hour and a half of her busy schedule to spend with my child. I am truly blessed to get to work with these women who give me support in a vast sundry of ways. I could not parent half as well as I’ve been able to parent these past two and a half years without their help.

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“Of Whales And Of Malaga I Sing…”

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It’s been a while since I’ve stopped myself long enough to sit and write. Somewhere in the midst of the last 2 months, I decided that I didn’t have time to grieve. There was too much to do. Too many late nights finishing lesson plans, folding laundry, and picking up the house. Too many long afternoons filled with appointments for the “dad taxi”. Too many weekends filled with catching up on sleep and taking care of my boys (whatever I could pack into the day so I wouldn’t have time to think, to ache, to cry).

It all started with my decision in August, on a plane back to Portland after returning my oldest son to college for his Sophomore year. There was a commercial for Ralph Breaks the Internet. I decided to boycott Disney. The last three Disney movies have left me in a puddle of my own making. It started out as an inside joke…with myself. Then it became an unfeeling reality. It was easier not to feel, or rather, not to tempt my heart to feel deeply. So I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong. It bubbled out every 5 or 6 weeks, but I was usually alone or in a setting where I could blend in and not have to deal with it. Sadly, along with the decision to stop grieving came a less conscious one…I put my book on hold. I allowed the busy-ness of life to come in and push aside a dream and a calling.

Once school started, I began treading water, trying to get everything done. It took nearly 3 months for me — the unstoppable force that is single-parenting — to hit the proverbial wall — the unmovable object with which I had a divine appointment.

I am truly tired of tears. They take too much time. They’ve been present so much in the last two and a half years. Amy and I made so many happy, joy-filled, ecstatic memories. Where were those? The truth? They were there, but the joy was marred by grief and the laughter was replaced by a small smile, followed by tears.

Somewhere I bought into a lie: It gets easier, Thom. Once I’d swallowed that destructive lie, it was followed by another one, more maniacal, more evil: It’s been long enough, Thom. It’s time to stop dwelling. It’s time to move on. Somewhere in our culture, we’ve accepted that everything fits into tidy timetables. Right? Don’t believe me? Get out your planner and begin to fill every half hour slot with the things that need to get done. When the slots are all full, that which doesn’t have room sits in the waiting room awaiting its “assigned appointment”.

Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy CoverThe immovable wall came in the form of a novel I was set to teach this year. I’ve taught it before with great success. It’s one of my favorite “YA” author’s books. Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, by Gary D. Schmidt, has won many awards, including the ever-coveted Newbery Honor. My 6th graders and I began reading it during the last week of October. The curriculum requires me to read the book aloud with the students and not to let them take the book home. Why? To teach them to be active readers. To teach them how to understand literary devices. To teach me a very difficult truth.

It’s a book about a boy living in Phippsburg, Maine, in 1912. He meets an incredible girl his own age, and the two become more than friends; they become soul mates. Along the way, he encounters loneliness and loss, severe loss. Near the middle of the book, the main character comes within a few feet of a whale while he’s struggling against the tides and the waves to steer a small rowboat, with little success. For the remainder of the book, he is spurred on by the spiritual encounter he had with the whale. He longs to know “What was in the eye of the whale?”

The boy’s schooling requires him to read of the adventures and bravery of Aeneas as he leaves Troy and heads into the unknown to a destination, not of his choosing, in order to found an Empire he never imagined. The boy has his own adventure, his own unknown destination, and quite possibly his own Empire to found.

During the chapter where a significant character dies, I was not at school; I had a sub. I was relieved. I wouldn’t have to come anywhere close to that emotional part of the story. I could discuss it later with the students, no problem. But reading it aloud…well…I didn’t want to test my fortitude and my wherewithal to stay the course and not grieve.

On the last day of reading to the class, I broke. The thirteen-year-old boy was wrestling with his new normal. Instead of demanding he was done grieving, he vowed to never forget “to look at things straight” and he broke down in grief — he would never forget. At one point the main character says he has no one to talk with about the state of his heart, but he turns to a new friend a few lines later and bears his soul. Life continues. Grief continues…and may not ever go away. Life can only be lived through the grief, not avoiding it.

I stood in front of my class, silently crying, unable to read aloud as the realization hit me. I’ve been trying so hard not to feel. A colleague came into my next class period and read the end of the book with my next class since I was unable to do so.WIR2_Poster2

That was last Monday. But it wasn’t until Thursday night when a new friend of mine asked me about the state of my heart. I opened my mouth and I consciously realized all the things I’ve just described. On my way home, God reminded me of a memory from many years ago. It made me laugh, then cry, then laugh while crying.

I’ve dusted off the book and will begin seeking the help I need to get it published. And I might swing into a theater and watch Ralph Breaks the Internet. Who knows…maybe it’ll remind me of an incredible memory with Amy. It does center around a unique friendship: a beautiful young girl befriends a clumsy oaf and they go on life-changing adventures together. Now, why does that sound familiar?

The Boys Next Door

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Having the opportunity to watch my oldest son’s theatre talents usually leaves me in awe…and tears. This weekend was no different. The Boys Next Door is a play about 4 adult men who have differing mental disabilities, and their caretaker who, in 7 months, is pretty burnt out by the daily struggle to teach, “raise”, and keep safe little boys in man sized bodies. It addresses some interesting issues.

Micah’s character, Norman, was a 30 year old man with Autism. Having used his younger brother for his research study, Micah was incredibly convincible in the role. From the character’s obsession with keys to his repetitive tics, from his social awkwardness to his obsession with donuts, and from his giant heart for people to his crush on a girl, Micah nailed the role. He asked me to laugh loudly during the performance because my laughter in a theatre is infectious, but I found it very difficult to laugh through the overwhelming understanding and camaraderie I found in another character – Jack, the burnt-out caregiver who tries every day to direct his charges, to keep them safe, and to help them conform more to the world around them, because the world around them will not bend to their needs, or their unique disabilities. Each day ends with his frustration of things continuing to be the same, no matter what “Jack” does. I found myself drowning in grief, in guilt, and in anguish as I watched my son and this other actor playing out the relationship I struggle to have with my middle son who desperately wants to be seen as “normal” – not special, not unique, not Autistic.

There were times in the play when I wanted to bolt from my seat and hold one of the characters while they cried, while they struggled with their fragmented understanding of the bully-world around them, while they struggled to understand the trials with which they were dealing, or while they fought to understand the feelings they were having about people in their lives. My heart broke when “Jack” took a new job because he could no longer deal with his mistakes and frustrations caused by working with the disabled population. I wanted to scream, “Don’t quit! You have no idea just how much you really are accomplishing! You have no idea!”

I can’t say that God was telling me I was doing something wrong; that I needed to change how I approached my son; or that I’ve completely made a mess of things since Amy’s death; but I can tell you that it was sobering to look at my possible future when my son doubles his current age; to see my son’s future struggles with girls, and roomates, and weight; and to hear my own words echoing around in my head. “Don’t quit! You have no idea just how much you really are accomplishing! You have no idea!”

Amy – after Jesus – was the center of Gabriel’s universe. Everything he did needed to be somehow connected to her wants, desires, or permission. It wasn’t always like that. From birth to three and a half, my little Gus wanted no one but me if I was in the room. There was a day Gus’s choices radically changed; I can see it in my head, and have replayed it over and over in my head. It wasn’t because of anything I did, honestly. It was a turf war among siblings. From that moment on, Gabriel no longer wanted much to do with me, many times saying, “Why is Dad still here. I don’t need him.”

Two years before Amy died, she consciously began distancing herself from our son, suggesting, nudging, and finally forcing him to talk with me, to problem solve things with me, to ask for my opinion or permission. Not that I hadn’t tried to build that relationship, but because, by the time Gabriel was ten, I was a complete irritation, an annoyance, a distraction to his mother. He didn’t even want to share her with his brothers. It was a difficult two years, for which I am eternally appreciative of God’s leading Amy and I both through that frustrating exercise, day in and day out…often without change. When Amy died, there was a sobering question to which I had to have an answer. “Can I do this alone?!>” There are a few more questions related to that overwhelming black hole: “Can I reach through this barrier? Will Gabriel let me parent him? Will I be able to do this without sending him to live in a facility?” But as is often God’s design, I’ve had to wait quite a while for an inkling of an answer while He was changing Gus and me, not our situation.

This morning I woke to a text message from my little Gus: “I miss you and love you.” Has he said that before? Many times. But this time, in light of the play I experienced yesterday, I found a whole deeper meaning in his words. Yes, my little Gus still misses him mommy – the topic comes up at least every week or more. Yes, he still wishes she were next to him, to guide him, to hold him, and to love on him. And yes, my little angel is connected to his daddy, no matter how flawed I am.

For me, The Boys Next Door to me, in my house, have taught me much. Maybe change isn’t an impossibility, even in the face of Autism; it just sometimes takes the unexpected to remind me what God’s been doing in me and in my boys. I may feel like “Jack” from time to time – worn out by the adnauseum and exhaustion inducing Autism – but I’m not giving up! It’s not in my make-up to quit…any of my kids.

If you ever get the opportunity to see this play (there’s still another weeked of performances here at Biola in Theatre 21) go! The team here at Biola is phenomenal! You won’t be let down. You will be challenged regarding how you interact with people whom God has created “differently” than those of us who are neuro-typical, but you won’t be disappointed. Nor will you think you wasted money to experience such a moving and life changing play.

“So, it’s not my fault?!?” finale

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After each of us battled through the horrible weight of guilt and self-loathing, there was yet one more battle that had to be waged. I had asked too much of my oldest, and the repercussions of that event had a ripple effect I did not foresee.

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Source: lessconversationmoreaction.com

What follows is the final excerpt from the chapter in my book, Good Grief?!?, by the same name – “So, it’s not my fault?!?”

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Right around the time of Gabriel’s incident, Micah grew incredibly anxious. One Sunday morning I was trying to get everyone up and out the door for church. I had minutes to get out the door when Micah came down the stairs.

“What’s wrong?” I was able to ask in spite of the irritation I was feeling.

“I didn’t get to sleep until around 4:00 a.m.”

“How come?”

“When I close my eyes, I keep seeing Mom’s body. Then I open my eyes and I can’t fall asleep.”

“How long has this been happening?”

“For a few months.”

I was stunned. Immediately I felt guilty for not knowing, for being an unfit father, for not having expected this problem. Then a crushing realization hit me. I had caused this.

“I’m sorry I had to wake you up and ask you for help,” I managed.

“It’s not your fault, Dad.” I could tell he believed what he was saying, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. We talked for a couple more minutes, then I hugged him and sent him back to bed.

At church, I reached out to Miss Michelle, asking for prayer. She’s a counselor who specializes in working with teenage girls, but I knew she’d know how to pray. What I didn’t know was that God had a plan to fully relieve me of my own, self-imposed guilt.

Michelle texted me back to meet with her after the service ended. I filled her in on my conversation with Micah.

“It’s funny, Thom,” she began, “I was just in a class about the brain this week, and I learned something that I think was meant for this moment right here. Micah’s self-conscious is trying to deal with the trauma. While we sleep, our brains deal with the events of the day and file away each event for future recall. When trauma happens, it can prevent that process from happening correctly. Micah’s brain is trying to file away the pictures of his mom, but as soon as he sees the pictures in his head, he wakes up and can’t get back to sleep.”

I listened raptly as she was talking, trying to take it all in. The anxiety building in me, however, was threatening to take over my vision and hearing.

“There’s a way you can help his sub-conscious file these pictures in his memory banks and move past this. Let me show you. While we talk, I’m going to tap on your knees. Keep talking. The action will help, I promise.”

I was nervous, thinking This isn’t going to work. Michelle is a good friend, so I decided to at least hear her out and “go with it.”

“Close your eyes, Thom,” she began. “I’m going to ask you to get a picture in your head, and then I’m going to begin tapping. Are you ready?”

I closed my eyes and nodded.

“Focus on the moment you first saw Amy the morning you found her dead.” I fixed the picture in my mind, wincing a bit. “Tell me what you see.”

I explained the scene to Michelle, including all the details I could, including Amy’s purple fingers.

“Now, how do you feel?”

I opened my eyes, startled.

“Close your eyes, fix on the picture again, and tell me how you feel.” Michelle’s tone wasn’t demeaning or correcting. She was simply compassionate. I closed my eyes again, slowly, and brought up the picture.

“I feel guilty,” I managed meekly.

“Why?”

“Because I wasn’t there. She died alone.” The words came out of my mouth before I really heard them. Then I fought to keep my eyes closed. My epiphany startled me greatly. I hadn’t really known I was still holding on to this guilt.

Michelle prayed.

“Now tell me what you see, Thom,” she directed.

I refocused on the picture in my head. It had changed drastically. Amy was no longer alone in the room. Standing just behind her, with His hand on her shoulder, was a man in a white tunic. He was glowing slightly. I couldn’t see Him clearly, but I knew immediately who He was.

I stumbled with my words, continuing to stare at the picture in my head.

“Um…Jesus is standing behind Amy. She looks at peace. Her hands are still purple, and she’s still leaning up against the wall.” I paused. “But she wasn’t alone,” I finished.

Time stopped. I couldn’t hear the many people still milling about in the church sanctuary.

I never left her side, Thom.

Rivers began cascading down my face. A weight I had not realized was crushing me lifted in that moment. I exhaled a breath I seemed to have been holding on to for nearly five months. Then I opened my eyes. Michelle had stopped patting my knees. She was grinning.

“Sounds like Abba wanted to heal you too,” she said.

I stood up and hugged her. I was overwhelmed with Joy and Peace.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I managed quietly.

“No, Thom, it wasn’t. And Jesus was with her the whole time.”

 

That night, after the younger boys had gone to sleep, I sat Micah on the couch and walked him through the same process. He was as hesitant as I had been. I reminded him that Miss Michelle was a counselor with a PhD. I also reminded him that she loved us greatly and she loved God too. He finally agreed to the “odd therapy” (his words). That night, both Micah and I slept soundly. Relieved of guilt and night terrors.

It always astounds me when God uses every day, “non-holy” things in our life to move us from point A to point B. For each of my boys, what moved them from point A to point B through the battle with guilt was different. But each vehicle God used was specific to each boy’s needs, personality, and maturity level. I don’t think they’ve all “made it”; grief doesn’t just vanish. The loss of loved ones stays with us for life. We miss them. We remember them with tears and with laughter. We wish we could talk to them, and we sometimes do, as we go about our day, as if they were still right next to us. The pain doesn’t go away. I don’t think it lessens either. I think God teaches us how to grow from it, and live with it, without it destroying us completely.

“So, it wasn’t my fault?!?” part 4

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Two months would pass before the last member of this now all testosterone filled home wrestled with a similar question. With the added layer of Autism, Gabriel’s battle looked quite different than the rest of our battles, but it was a battle none the less. What follows is yet another excerpt from a chapter of my book, Good Grief?!?, in which Gabriel battled the demon of guilt.

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ASoUEvents
Source: NETFLIX

Friday, January 13, 2017, was a day I had been waiting for. The first season of A Series of Unfortunate Events had been released on Netflix. I read the books a few years prior and thought they were genius. I had tried to get my boys to read the books, but none of them took me up on the charge. I knew if they liked the show (which only covered the first four books) they might read the books. Everyone was going to be home and we were going to watch it as a family. It never donned on me before we watched the first episode (spoiler alert) that the parents die in the first two or three pages of the first book. What happened that night, was heart-rending, but I don’t regret watching it with them. It was the first time my “little man of great faith” began to ask the questions that would lead him to healing.

When the second episode ended, Gabriel bolted for his bedroom. It was a little odd for Gabriel to act that way so I followed him.

“Why did she have to leave ME, Dad?!?” He was screaming. He had emphasized the word ME; I did not.

“Honey, it was time for Mommy to go to Heaven. She’s not in pain anymore. She’s not sick anymore.” I was trying to be calm and reassuring. What followed was a cacophony of questions, sobs, tears, screams, and more questions.

After each question, Gabe sobbed while I tried to answer calmly and compassionately. I struggled with words. Amy was the Autism Whisperer. She always knew what to say. She always knew what Gabriel was trying to say, even when he was frustrated and his speech was coming out all jumbled in fits and starts. At first, I thought about trying to explain the “5 Stages of Grief” – a.k.a. D.A.B.D.A. Denial. Anger. Betrayal. Depression. Acceptance. After a quick thought, I realized I didn’t know how to deliver that information filtered for an added layer of Autism. I was struggling with my answers.

“How was she sick?”

“Why did her sickness have to kill her?”

“Why did Jesus have to take her?”

“Was it my fault?”

“Why wouldn’t she wake up when I saw her? I tried to wake her up! I tried! Didn’t she want to talk to me?!?”

“I kissed her on the cheek. Isn’t true love’s kiss supposed to wake the princess?”

The last two were the hardest to answer. Gabriel’s goodbye to his mother, before the mortuary attendants took her, was the most painful thing I had ever witnessed. He had kissed his mother on the forehead and on the cheek. Now I knew a little more. I thought he had just been saying goodbye; he was actually begging me to help keep his world together.

Unlike his brothers, Gabriel never blamed himself. He blamed Amy. She had been his world. He would have taken her place if it meant he would get to talk with her one more time. To him, Amy knew his orbit centered around her. How dare she leave him? How dare she?!?

I was struggling to calm him down. Each answer to his question brought more pain and more volume. Finally, Micah stepped in with a rescue.

“Gabriel, I got the new Hillary Scott CD for Christmas. It has mom’s song on it, the one we played at the memorial service during the slideshow. Do you want me to get it so you can listen to it?” The album is titled Love Remains, and it deals with some difficult topics, always reminding the listener that “Love Remains” – that is “God Remains”.

Micah retrieved the CD and put it into Gabriel’s boom box. I was sitting on the bed, holding a still sobbing little boy. He cued up “Thy Will”, the song Amy had listened to at least once or twice a day just before she died. As the song played, Gabriel began to calm down. When it ended, he was only sniffling.

“Can you play it again, Daddy?” he asked. Gabriel rarely called me Daddy anymore. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the term of endearment meant I had helped him understand, even just a little bit. I got off the bed, turned off the light, and re-started the song, this time pushing the “repeat” button. As the song continued to play, I stood there in his room, by the bed, holding my little miracle’s hand. I was taken back to the concert of prayer we had in our living room when we thought Amy’s pregnancy was not going to end with a healthy baby boy. The emotion coursing through me was similar in both places. Through the first three times the song played, Gabriel cried a little bit less each time.

After the fourth play, he asked, “Tomorrow, will you tell me Mom’s whole story? Everything you know about her, I want to know. Would you please tell me?” He was pleading.

When he woke the next morning, Gabriel was happy, really happy. For the first time in months, I saw true Joy in him again. Later that day I was driving the van and he was with me.

“Daddy, I have five questions today. Would you answer my five questions, and then tomorrow answer five more?” I smiled and nodded. His five questions:

“What happened on your first date with Mommy?”

“Were you nervous the night before you married Mom?”

“What was it like being married to Mommy?”

“How was I born?” (He liked hearing the story of his birth and his mother’s heroic battle with her body to keep the pregnancy.)

“Do you have any fun memories of Mommy?”

The whole car ride – nearly an hour – we talked and laughed. He was a different kid. It was nice having my “Gus Gus” back (as Micah had nicknamed him at birth – it’s a Cinderella thing). The fount of Joy that is Gabriel was again flowing freely.