Single Parenting

The Journey…

thomjohnson732 Comments

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!

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).

“We all churn inside.”

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My students and I read the short essay “Joyas Voladoras” by Brian Doyle last week. The first time I read it (Oct. 2017), it put me under the pile. Doyle had died just months before I read it, and Amy had passed away a year prior. The irony and profound message were not lost on me. This time, the lesson for me was a bit different.

The essay begins with Doyle talking about Hummingbirds and hummingbird hearts.

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Andrew E. Russell/Flickr                                                                           (as found on The American Scholar: Joyas Voladoras page)

He’s not really talking about the hummingbird but using it as a metaphor for a much closer-to-home issue. It’s not until near the end of the essay that the reader realizes Doyle is talking about the human heart.

Speaking of the hummingbird, Doyle states, “They can fly more than five hundred miles without pausing to rest. But when they rest they come close to death: on frigid nights, or when they are starving, they retreat into torpor…their hearts sludging nearly to a halt, barely beating, and if they are not soon warmed, if they do not soon find that which is sweet, their hearts grow cold, and they cease to be.” (emphasis mine)

Later in the essay, Doyle switches to the heart of the majestic blue whale, the largest animal to live on the third rock from the sun. He admits that we know “nearly nothing” about this magnificent creature once it finishes puberty. “But we know this: the animals with the largest hearts in the world generally travel in pairs, and their penetrating moaning cries, their piercing yearning tongue, can be heard underwater for miles and miles.” (emphasis mine)

Taking a moment to run through a list of animal heart types, Doyle then surprises the reader with the third profundity: “No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churn inside.” (emphasis mine)

I found myself churning in the middle of a room full of 6th-grade students. I was gasping for air, desperately trying to stamp down the flood of emotion threatening to pour out of me…having lost my “pair”…having reached torpor.

What happens to the Christian who is exhausted from “doing too much for the kingdom” and is giving more than they have to give? What about the teacher who stays up late to grade papers so his students can get their essays back within a day or two? Or the single parent of three, desperately trying to keep all schedules straight, deliver kids to the right place at the right time, go grocery shopping and clothes shopping, pay bills, and fill out taxes let alone keep tabs on each of the delicate hearts left solely to him to shepherd? Torpor? Yes, utter exhaustion, sometimes maybe even “come[ing] close to death.”

This lonely father of three hit Torpor many months ago. The last seven months being the darkest months to date. Standing in that room, with 6th graders staring at me, having heard the hitch in my voice, I realized that God – and a few godly friends – have been at work to warm my heart so that I can once again “soon find that which is sweet.” I pray my heart doesn’t completely grow cold and that I don’t settle for Spenda when God’s sweet nectar is within reach.

I’m a parent! My job is to take care of you, not me!

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Retrieved from: https://www.reddit.com/r/QuotesPorn/comments/2tu02v/i_used_to_say_if_you_will_take_care_of_me_i_will/

The last 4 months have been a whirlwind. Learning to balance single parenting, a full-time teaching career, volunteering at church, and taking care of me has been a steep learning curve. At the end of September, I hit a wall. There wasn’t any margin in my life. I was skimping on sleep. I was skimping on taking the time to prepare healthy food for myself. I was skimping on the things I knew I needed to be doing.

“God!?! How do I fix this mess,” I think was my actual prayer. The answer wasn’t an easy one to swallow.

“Take a break.”

“I don’t need to take a break!” I retorted. “I’m doing just fine. Besides, I’m doing all this stuff…this good stuff…and…what are they going to do without me?”

I see the folly of my thinking now, but at the time, I was sure I had to convince God I was doing so much for the Kingdom, for His Kingdom, and “Who would do it if I weren’t doing it?” What a shot to the ego, right? How dare God ask me to step down from things I loved doing?!? How dare He tell me to stop doing things for Him?!?

If you’ve never argued with God, you should try it – just to say that you’ve experienced it and can then understand those of us with thicker skulls.

God began to show me where my over-commitment was hurting more than helping. I was Sleepy. I was Grumpy. And it didn’t look like I’d ever be Happy. My students were driving me nuts. Why? Because they were acting like typical 6th graders. I mean, how dare they?!? My friends were asking, “What’s wrong?” more often than I thought was normal. And my kids, the sweet ones God gave Amy and me to raise, were wondering if I actually lived at home anymore. They never saw me. And when they did, I was mimicking one of the 7 Dwarves, and not the fun ones. When I realized just how impactful my absence at home had been, I made an appointment for the very next day to take a break. It was hard to look into the eyes of a very close friend and tell him I had to stop volunteering under his ministry for a time. It was excruciating to look my youngest in the face and ask for his forgiveness.

“I haven’t been taking care of me,” I said one night. He was a bit surprised, having expected a rant to come out of me. “I used to get on your mom a lot to take care of herself. She was so good with her diabetes while she was pregnant. Then after each pregnancy, things would slip and she’d get busy and she’d forget to take care of herself.”

After she was diagnosed with kidney failure, Amy said to me, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that taking care of you and the kids meant taking care of me.” Sitting in front of my 14-year-old, choking on that realization was humbling.

I spent 2 1/2 months in hiatus from my volunteer positions at church (both of them). I resigned a tutoring job I’d taken “to help make ends meet” – a tutoring job for a student who really needed the help. And I signed up for a Bible study focused on being healthy in a non-healthy world. Each decision was extremely difficult. However, I’ve spent more time with my kids. I’ve been there for my kids when they needed me. I’ve even been there for my kids when they wanted me to be there.

I was reminded this week, in the midst of a very dark set of circumstances (none of my doing, but none that confidentiality will let me explain), that it is very important I continue to take care of me. Why? Because I can’t take care of my 3 boys if I don’t have the energy, time, and space to take care of them. And to get that energy, time, and space…I have to say “No” sometimes, even to “good things”. A wise Couples Bible Study leader once taught me that. I’d forgotten. Here’s to getting sleep, eating well, and laughing much!

“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?

Eating my words

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humble pie
Picture from: https://dribbble.com/shots/1695927-Humble-Pie-Type 

Not too long ago, I hit a wall…a pretty big, soul-shaking, attention-grabbing, painful wall. And the month that has followed has been a difficult one. Why? What caused the sudden stop which threw everything into the air, only to slowly fall around me in a jumbled mess? A conversation with my youngest. I was apologizing for failing as a dad for the umpteenth time. In the busyness of life, I’d not been home much, nor had I the time to really speak into my sons’ daily lives.

In the conversation that ensued after the apology, we began talking about physical health.

“I used to beg your mom to take care of herself when you guys were little, but she didn’t take care of herself until it was too late.”

With the wisdom, tact, and honesty of a child, my youngest prophet said something only he could. I had just told him he needed to take care of himself and not overcommit to the various things in his life clambering for his attention and focus. “But you don’t,” he replied. I opened my mouth to protest, to deflect, to blame being a single parent, but nothing came out. I simply closed my mouth again.

Usually, when my youngest “parents me,” I retaliate and push back, reminding him, “I don’t need a parent.” But in that moment, I felt the Holy Spirit say, “He’s right.”  Realization flooded me. It was time to eat a slice of humble pie.

“You’re absolutely right. I’ve been working 7 days a week, for 3 jobs, and volunteering at the church every weekend for the past 6 weeks, I’m never home, and I’m only getting 5 hours of sleep a night.” My mind was racing with the other ways I was not taking care of me.

1. I’ve needed new glasses for 7 years, and have had a new prescription for a year, but haven’t prioritized the purchase; someone always needed something, or Christmas was coming, or…or…or…

2. I hadn’t talked to my close friends in weeks, not actually talked, voice to voice.

3. I hadn’t spent much time in prayer beyond short prayers of blessing and “God…help!” in almost a month.

4. I hadn’t been in “big church” for 6 weeks. I’d been volunteering in children’s ministry each week, but hadn’t made it to the sanctuary for one reason or another.

5. I hadn’t spent any individual time with any of my kids.

6. I’ve gained all of the weight I lost and then some.

My heart was spent. After my son went to bed, I tried to figure out the reason behind my lack of self-care. After texting a few friends (it was almost midnight), I blearily came to the conclusion: I’m lonely, and I’m way in over my head. I’ve been spending so much time “doing” and trying to make ends meet and trying to help everyone else around me and trying to not deal with the physical loss, or rather the loss of Amy physically being here.

The first year, I was numb. The second, I spent focused on helping my kids find a new normal…and paying bills. In the deepest dark of evening, after my kids went to bed, I’d fill the space with anything that kept my mind from the loneliness: television, movies, books, cleaning until I fell asleep, sometimes in the recliner, among others…because the bedroom is the place I feel most alone. It was where Amy spent her last moments…and many of her last days. It’s where I expect to go talk to my wife after a long day. It’s where we talked, and planned, and dreamed together side by side, shoulder to shoulder, or spooning. It’s where I still expect (in that moment between opening my eyes and actually waking) to wake up next to my beautiful bride, watching her sleep, holding her hand. When I sleep in my room, I lay across the bed, with my head on Amy’s pillow, hugging another pillow, watching television until I fall asleep from exhaustion. I’ve not been taking care of me; something I swore to Amy I would never do. Some of the filler was simply filler, some sin, some depression, some simply spinning my wheels to expel all energy before having to feel alone.

This morning, sitting in service with friends, our pastor spoke on Peace using Philippians 4:4-7. The Apostle Paul was in prison, writing a letter to the church at Phillipi. “Rejoice in the Lord always,” he said. We’ve all heard the sermons about adversity and rejoicing. But this morning was different. Pastor Keith highlighted something I’ve never seen before: “The Lord is near” (v. 5b). A significant part of the sermon dealt with loneliness. Referencing Isaiah 7:14, Pastor Keith reminded us that God would send a savior whom we would call Immanuel — which means God with Us! “The truth of the matter is NOT that we draw near to God but that He is seeking us out. He is near to us. We are His sheep who what? We are his sheep who are going astray and He is seeking us out.”

“We often forget, in the midst of the circumstances of life, Jesus is near.” And where have the circumstances of life caught up to me? Missing the physicality of doing life with my soul mate – being so lonely I was filling every minute so as not to deal with the void. Losing a spouse is extremely lonely. That’s obvious. It never donned on me that God is near to fill that void.

I left church this morning with a smile only to pick up a book God led me to a week ago that told the story of the prodigal son. In it, the author explained that the towns in which the parable was set would require the prodigal son to take a “walk of shame” in returning home, past all the neighbors and villagers who would have known he’d left and all the juicy bits. The Father chose not to let him walk that shameful walk…alone. The Father ran to his son and walked that road with him…and walked his son, whom he loved, back home.

A month ago, when I was hit by that immovable wall, I began the baby steps of taking care of the things I should have been taking care of for a while. I’ve been back in church – three weeks in a row. I’m wearing a new pair of glasses and can read what I’m typing without blowing up the text on the screen. I took at least a month off from working in children’s ministry, after bearing my soul to my close friend – the pastor of children’s ministry. And I’ve been stealing every moment I can to spend with my boys. In the next week, 1 of my 3 jobs will end and I’m curbing the hours on the second so I can be available to my boys and to rest and learn to allow God’s presence to fill the void.

In my search for Joy, through grief, I was reminded of true Peace.

“And the Peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 4:7, NIV).

“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.

Ripple effect
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.

“So, it wasn’t my fault?!?” part 3

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It would be a while after both Micah and me allowed the guilt we felt to be removed from our shoulders before either of my other two sons fought a similar battle. What follows is the excerpt from the same chapter of my book, Good Grief?!?, in which my youngest realized the crushing weight he’d been carrying.

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We’d spent most of the Thanksgiving weekend with family. It had been awkward. We all felt like someone was missing. We were still in the phase of ignoring the feeling, but holidays made it especially more difficult. Emotions around the house were high. Micah had been in a car accident the day after Thanksgiving. That added to the stress in our home. It was a couple days into December when Isaiah hit the same wall, or rather the wall hit him.

Isaiah had started grief counseling shortly after Amy’s death. But it wasn’t working. He wouldn’t talk about anything of consequence for any length of time. Every time his counselor or I would bring up the topic of Amy’s death, Isaiah got jumpy…He would try to change the subject, often to something “funny”. Whatever it took to not have to talk about Amy’s death, he tried it. Sometimes he said what he thought we wanted to hear, but it was clear by the actions he was just talking for our benefit. Isaiah has a tell, however, that makes it easy to read him. When he’s overwhelmed, Isaiah runs away…or rather, he hides. When he’s hurting, he often lashes out at those close to him, for very petty things.

On a Sunday night in early December, Isaiah could no longer keep everything bottled inside anymore. It was after dinner. Isaiah and Micah had a loud verbal disagreement over something minor. I knew what was happening.

“Micah, just drop it. Isaiah’s in a mood. He’s just going to say hurtful things.”

I was trying to get Micah to break away from the fight and cool off. It didn’t work. Now he was just as mad as Isaiah had been. Micah felt slighted. He thought I was siding with his youngest brother. He didn’t think I was being fair; he was clearly right. When I realized my attempt had failed, I switched tactics. I apologized to Micah and told him he was right.

“I’ll take care of it,” I reassured Micah. “Let me talk with him.”

“You ALWAYS choose him over me! You ALWAYS take his side,” Isaiah retaliated. That’s when I knew the wall was near.

“No, I don’t,” I stated quietly and calmly. “I’m not choosing sides. I’m saying Micah’s right. Usually, I defend you, but you’re not right this time.” I knew that by talking quietly, calmly, Isaiah would be pushed over the edge. He wouldn’t calm down until he truly blew his top. Helping him reach that boiling point would lead me to the heart of the problem.

Slammed Door
Source: https://ubisafe.org/explore/dorr-clipart-slammed/

“It’s not fair!” He was screaming. “Just leave me alone!” Isaiah was enraged. He stomped up the stairs, louder than he had ever done in the past. I climbed the stairs slowly after him, further pushing the boiling point. He stormed down the hallway and slammed his bedroom door behind him. I took almost twice as long to climb the stairs and make my way to Isaiah’s door.

I knocked.

“Go away!”

“Isaiah, what’s wrong?”

“I said, GO AWAY!”

I reached down and opened the door. Isaiah was lying prone on his bed. His face buried in his pillow. When he realized I had entered, he screamed into the pillow.

I took my spot on the side of Isaiah’s bed. I put my hand in the middle of his back.

“Isaiah,” I began, just above a whisper, “what’s wrong? I know this isn’t about Micah. What’s really wrong?”

“Just please go away,” he said through the muffle of the pillow.

“I can’t, Isaiah. I need to know what’s wrong, and I’m not leaving until we get to the bottom of this.”

 

I sat on that bed in near silence, hand upon my son’s back, for nearly three hours. Every once in a while I would ask Isaiah “What’s wrong?” He never answered. Midnight had come and gone. I was tired, and I had to teach Monday morning. I needed sleep. I could have justified leaving and going to bed, but I knew the situation would multiply by morning.

Isaiah and I are so very alike. I usually know what’s going through his head in any given situation. It’s the closest thing I have to telepathy (which I’ve asked God for many times). This time I knew he was angry about something related to his mom. There had been so much stress in the house. Everyone had cried buckets, that is everyone but Isaiah. He’d cried…briefly. He witnessed my breakdown over Amy’s “missing” wedding dress. He’d listened to conversations Micah and I had while Isaiah was supposed to be asleep. He knew Gabriel was an emotional mess. I added everything up and realized Isaiah had decided not to feel. He saw everything falling apart around him and decided he’d be the stable one of the family.

I finally broke the silence.

“Isaiah, you’ve got to talk to me. I’m not going to bed until this is settled.”

He finally rolled his body a little to the right and looked up at me.

“What’s going on in your head?” I asked rhetorically.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered.

“Are you talking about Micah, or something else?” Isaiah sat up in the bed.

“It’s my fault,” he repeated. “She didn’t have to die,” he whispered.

“Honey, it’s not your fault,” I said, still rubbing his back.

“I should have heard her. I should have woken up. I could have helped her.” Each statement got a little louder.

“Isaiah, there was nothing you could have done.”

“You mean I didn’t do anything.”

“No. You couldn’t have done anything. When God calls someone Home, it’s their time. We can’t stop death.”

“But…” he didn’t finish.

“Isaiah, listen to me. The doctors believe Mom died of a blood clot. There wasn’t anything that could have been done to prevent it. She would have died if I had been upstairs in the bed. She would have died if you or your brothers heard her and tried to help. There was nothing you could have done.”

“Really?” he asked feebly.

“Really,” I replied, arms outstretched. Isaiah fell into my arms and sobbed. I cried with him.

When I finally got to bed that night, four hours had passed since I followed Isaiah into his room. I got a brief amount of sleep that night. Teaching the next day was easy; I was ecstatic Isaiah was no longer believing a lie, that he was free of guilt. It would be another month before Gabriel hit the wall.

“So, it wasn’t my fault?!?” part 2

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Just hours after helping Micah deal with his overwhelming guilt, I faced the pain of my own. What follows is a continuation of the chapter of my book, Good Grief?!?, I shared yesterday.

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burden of guilt
Source: http://www.uploadinghope.com/

I completely understood Micah’s feelings of guilt. I was struggling with my own. When I had talked with Amy’s family on that fateful morning, I left one small detail out of the story, and that detail was sitting on my chest causing panic to rise.

What will they say when they find out? I had asked myself.

They won’t forgive you!

Lying in bed later that night, I began to really wrestle. I knew my family, Amy’s family, loved me. I knew they knew I loved Amy and was doing the best I could to take care of her, that I always had.

I don’t want to give undue credit to the devil, because I think he gets blamed for many things in which he has no part. Not that he minds, I’m sure. But sometimes I think Christians find the devil in the details of many things, even when he isn’t there. This time, however, I’m pretty sure my boys and I were right in the middle of spiritual warfare.

One of the names for the devil is “accuser”.[1] He is also called “the father of lies”.[2] I know that “He walks around like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.”[3] I also know that his lies are usually subtle, but deadly. If he could entice Micah to believe his mother’s death was his fault, he could cause a lot more havoc and possibly pull Micah away from his faith. If he could get me to continue thinking Amy’s death was my fault, I would end up a shallow, defeated man. My faith would be shaken, and I would most likely begin pulling away from God and the church as well. I’ve seen it happen to others.

Upon realizing the battle my boy was fighting – that I was fighting – I decided to talk with my father-in-law right after I talked with Amy’s sister. If Lisa forgave me, Gary probably would too, I reasoned.

It was an awkward conversation that Friday.

“Lisa, um…I need to tell you something.” It sounded ominous as I heard myself say it. The two of us were going through photos for the slideshow of Amy’s life. Lisa stopped and looked at me. “I missed the last alarm on my phone to go check on Amy.” I had set an alarm to check on Amy every two hours through the night, like any other night. She’d gone to bed with a migraine. “I wasn’t there with her when she died. She was alone.” I paused.

“Thom, it’s not your fault.”

“I was afraid you’d be mad. I haven’t told Dad either. I don’t want him to be angry.” In truth, I didn’t want him to blame me for his baby girl’s death. Typing it brings revulsion. Gary took on the role of being my dad when I entered this family. He loved me like the son he never had. I didn’t want to tell him, but sitting there, talking with Lisa, I realized that if I didn’t tell him, I would hold on to the guilt. I would also be holding on to the assumed anger I expected Gary to have toward me.

When I finally talked with Gary and Mary, I could let go of the guilt crushing me. He was not angry with me.

“Dad, I thought she had a migraine. I slept on the couch so I didn’t disturb her while she slept. I checked on her every two hours, but I slept through the 3:00 a.m. alarm. She died alone.” I paused to let it set in. “I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d be mad.”

“Thom! It’s not your fault. I know that. I know you loved her.” Gary hugged me. I broke down. The irony of him hugging me like I had with Micah is not lost on me.

[1] Matthew 12:24. [2] John 8:44, NIV. [3] I Peter 5:8, NKJV.