Amy Johnson

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).

It’s Time.

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The last “two-candle” candlelight service

December 23, 2018, was an important night for me. I was in the middle of the Candlelight service at my church. I was holding two candles like I’ve done each Christmas Candlelight Service since my wife died. While waiting for the rest of the candles in the room to get lit, I asked God, “Abba, how do we move on into this next year?” It was a prayer I’ve asked many times when a new year is staring down the barrel at me. Usually, I feel God direct me – sometimes immediately, but most times, as the days go on, His plan falls into place. This time was different.

“Put out a candle, Thom.”

It wasn’t audible, but it was distinct. I shook my head. That can’t be right. I’ve been holding on to two candles since Amy died, to honor her. I’m sure that wasn’t God. 

“Yes, Thom, it’s me. I said, put out a candle. It’s time.”

Not wanting to give myself time to talk me out of God’s directive, I licked my forefinger and thumb and pinched out the flame. There was a finality to it. I immediately felt a difference, as if something tangible inside of me happened when I snuffed out the flame.

I remember shaking my head slightly, looking down at my hand that held a lit candle and a used candle. I wasn’t sobbing. I was at peace.

“It’s time.”

There is a lot of meaning in those two words. I’m wondering what all God has in mind, but He didn’t take long to start me down the path of change.

A few days later, I was asking my sons’ counselors about the process of redecorating the house. I’ve been very antsy about helping my boys and me move out of the season of grief caused by the daily reminder of loss.

“It’s high time for a Bachelor Pad,” one of the counselors said. “Don’t do it all in one weekend, but be intentional. Have a box ready to store things you and your boys do not want to give away. Put the things of Amy’s in the box that you all want to keep, but that really don’t have a place in a bachelor pad. Put the box somewhere safe so everyone can go check on it when he needs to make sure Mom’s things are still there. Then put the lid back on the box and put it away. Tackle one room at a time. It’s time.” The other counselor agreed and said something similar. She too ended with “It’s time.” I felt confirmation in the continued reminder.

One week after the candlelight service, I was talking with some close family friends. I filled them in on God’s directive and told them I was praying the boys’ transition would be positive, even if it was painful. A week later my phone rang. One of the same friends I’d been talking to was on the other end.

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Out with the old… (complete with 2 dressers, an armoire, and 2 side table dressers)

“Thom, my mom’s getting rid of her solid oak bedroom set. I sent you an email with pictures. Check it out and let me know if you’re interested.” I opened the email to look at the pictures. I was overwhelmed. The bedroom set I’d been using was the one Amy and I purchased two weeks before we got married. Climbing into it each night brought with it a sense of loss, a reminder that I would wake up alone in the morning. I’d been wanting to purchase a new set, but knew it would be too costly. I was trying to figure out how to purchase a new set, but God had a different plan.

When the arrangements were made for the new bed to arrive, I offhandedly asked another friend of the family if she knew of anyone who might need a bedroom set. She did. It was another confirmation of God’s divine plan. The following Saturday morning, the new bedroom set arrived after the old one had been brought downstairs. Two hours later, a packed U-Haul left my home on its way to bless someone God wanted to bless. I slept soundly that night for the first time in years.

had no idea God was going to start the “Bachelor Pad Makeover” in my bedroom, but He did. For the last three weeks, I’ve slept in a new sanctuary. Little by little, the rest of the house is changing too. And my boys…they are helping to create the Bachelor Pad.

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In with the new…

Two Sundays ago, one of the pastors at my church said, “God is never late, but he sure does miss many opportunities to be early.” I remember chuckling, thinking about my impatience, but tonight, I realized that I’d rather be in God’s timing than mine. If it had been up to me, I’d be making payments on a new bedroom set for the next three to five years, struggling to figure out how it would all work out financially. The next time I’m impatient, I pray I remember to be patient and listen for “It’s time” from on high. God’s timing is truly perfect.

 

“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?

“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.

“So, it wasn’t my fault?!?”

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The grieving process is a difficult one. And no two people enter or travel through it on the same path. In our house, I had lost my wife and partner; my 17-year-old lost his mother, champion, and mentor in the mischievous; my 14-year-old lost his mother, world, and Autism whisperer; and my 12-year-old lost his mother, baking mentor, and cheerleader.

All of us have wrestled with this question. Although the outcomes have been similar, the path through the guilt-ridden darkness was nowhere near the same.

What follows is an excerpt from my book Good Grief?!? It is the account of when my oldest first faced the harrowing guilt.

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Fault“Micah, why’d you skip so much school already?” a boy in one of his classes asked him that day. They knew each other from the previous semester, but they weren’t really friends. (Micah had transferred from a private school to an Arts focused, option, public school in the middle of his junior year, and it had been rough.

“There was a family emergency,” he replied, not wanting to get into an emotional loop that might send him home.

“Yeah, right!” the kid snarked.

“Um…right,” Micah mumbled.

“You just didn’t want to come that’s all. Right? Be honest.”

“I am being honest. There was a family emergency.”

“Right!” came the sarcastic reply. “Who died?”

Micah left the room. He didn’t respond to the boy’s taunts. He was upset, and he didn’t think it was anybody’s business he was dealing with his mother’s death.

 

It had been ten days. Ten days full of numb, full of tears, full of silence. My boys had been acting “fine”, telling me a little bit about what was going on at school, but I knew there was something deeper, much deeper happening within them.  I just didn’t know how I was going to get it out of them.

I began praying their faith would strengthen through this nightmare. That they would not walk away from the truths on which they had been raised. I began praying they would have opportunities to honestly deal with their feelings and their pain. Then it donned on me: God, what’s going on with the boys? What am I missing? The answer didn’t come in a whispered response like many had come in the past ten days. It came later that evening, almost twelve hours after I asked, at least for Micah.

 

After his brothers were in bed, Micah and I often talked. It had been a whirlwind type of day. For him, it was the end of his first “week” of school. After five days of school, he was exhausted. He hadn’t talked much to anyone about what had happened. His school guidance counselor knew. His teachers knew. His only friend at the school knew. That was all.

“What’s bothering you?” I asked Micah. We were both standing in the kitchen. It was after 10:00 p.m. His brothers had been in bed for over an hour, and we’d got up from watching some mind-numbing television show to get something to eat. I kept forgetting to eat. Micah had missed dinner, having returned to work.

His response to my question was just raised eyebrows and a cocked head. It was as if he was saying, ‘What do you think is wrong with me!’

“You’ve been acting a bit off tonight. More off than usual for these past few days. Did something happen?”

That’s when he told me about the boy in his class.

“Why didn’t you put him in his place?”

“I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“Why?” My tone was probably a little irritated from the boy’s comment.

“Because I don’t want everyone to look at me with pity and feel like they need to feel sorry for me.”

“But, he was being kind of a jerk,” I pressed.

“No, Dad, that’s how last year was. We would harass each other in class. It’s how it’s done at this school.”

“I can sic Lexy on him if you want me too.” I was only half kidding. Micah gave me a faint smile.

“No. If it comes up again, I’ll take care of it.”

We returned to the family room – Micah with a sandwich and I a bowl of cereal. We watched something else that was supposed to make us laugh, and then decided we should try to get some sleep. Walking to the kitchen with my dirty dishes, I felt unsettled.

“Is that all that’s bothering you?” There were immediate tears. I wish I had pressed harder earlier, I chastised myself.

“Um…I just…um…” and then there were more tears.

“Micah, it’s okay to cry. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I just keep thinking…um…well…” He looked me in the eye. I could tell he felt guilty for something.

“It’s okay, Micah. It’s okay to feel. It’s okay to be mad. It’s okay. But it’s not okay to hold onto things. You need to tell me or someone what’s going on.” I was trying to be as gentle as possible. I knew my boy was fragile. Who wouldn’t be?

“I just keep thinking, what if I had checked in on her in the middle of the night.” He paused. “I mean I did get up to use the bathroom. I could have checked on her. I could have called 911. I could have saved her life.” The gravity of that revelation hit me full on in the chest. My eyes watered.

“Micah,” I took him by both hands and stared him straight in the eyes, “when I talked with Mom’s specialist on the phone, he said, based on where your mom was and how she died, he’s pretty sure it was a blood clot. There’s no way to know for sure because there was no autopsy, but he’s pretty sure.” Micah started sobbing, heaving at the shoulders. He covered his face with both hands. I wrapped my arms around him.

“Then it’s not my fault?” he whispered.

“No, this isn’t your fault. There’s nothing that could have been done. If it were a blood clot and she was in the hospital, she would have still died. The monitors don’t usually scan for blood clots. It’s not your fault.”

Micah’s legs ceased working. He began to crumple. Being over three inches taller than me, and a few pounds more, I was struggling to keep us both from falling onto the floor. I didn’t let go. I flashed back fourteen years. Micah was three and he’d been injured pretty badly. I was holding him while he was sobbing. I picked him up and cradled him in my arms for a long time. Then I returned to the present. I couldn’t pick him up. He was a full grown, extra-large, man sized boy with a broken heart.

“I can’t hold us both up,” I whispered finally, wishing I didn’t have to.

It took a minute for Micah to regain his footing. But he didn’t stop crying. We stood in the kitchen for a long time, me still holding my “little boy” in my arms.

“There’s nothing any of us could have done,” I whispered again. We stayed up talking for another half-an-hour. I wanted to make sure Micah had let go of the guilt. I knew it was too much for him to handle. He wasn’t guilty.

2 Years Ago…Today

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It’s hard to believe that two years have passed since Amy’s memorial service. Today has been a difficult day – surprisingly – for me. Two things have kept me going today. The first is the song God woke me up singing: “Even If” by MercyMe. The second was the memory of my boys honoring their mother at the service. To honor Amy and my three boys, below are the parting words of each of my three boys to, and about, their mother. Isaiah went first, Micah followed directly after him, and Gabe spoke right before the final worship song. I hope these words move you as much as they’ve moved me today.

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ISAIAH

14324483_10210808805555894_1872310915559200635_oThe first thing that I think you should know about my mom is that she changed me through her ministry to other people. Mom taught me many things and gave me many qualities of herself to continue on in her memory. She taught me to be creative and to try new things; she taught me how to cook; she taught me how to be nice to and serve others; and she gave me a passion to work with kids.

Besides the many creative things I’ve attempted and enjoyed with my mom’s encouragement, she taught me how to cook like she cooked. I am glad I know how to cook her chicken, make her version of slop, and bake her amazing chocolate chip cookies.

When I was 5, Mom let me really help her bake chocolate chip cookies for the first time. We had fun, even though there was a big mess to clean up. The best part about that day was that it was the first time I got to do “quality control”, something my dad usually got to do.

Over the years, I have watched my mom volunteer at many Beaverton Foursquare camps. This past 4-5 Camp I got to volunteer with her for both my first and her last time. Every year, even when she was tired, she didn’t stop working at camp because she wanted to serve the kids and staff, thinking of their needs, not her own. I want to go back to 4-5 Camp as a volunteer though and help honor her legacy of love and care of others.

The second thing I want you to know about my mom was that she loved everyone she met. I want to live up to her example. You may not know that there were many people who loved and trusted my mom with many different things. She loved everyone, and hardly ever said “No” to serving others, even us kids.

I loved crawling into her lap – even just a few weeks ago – and she would hold me until I fell asleep in her arms. I may have surpassed her in height this summer, but I will have to strive to come close to her supernatural height and her model of faith.

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MICAH

14310560_10210808805995905_5256768924942963016_oMy freshman year I went to my school’s graduation ceremony, and every single graduate had the opportunity to give mini-speeches and thank the people they love. Mom leaned over to me and said, “20 bucks says that you couldn’t fit song titles into your speech.” So, instead of a graduation speech, I decided that for the circumstances, maybe we could make it this speech instead? Besides, she owes me 20 bucks already. But I guess I should just “Let It Go.”

From the time that she watched me do the “Single Ladies” dance that I have regretted since, to her pummeling me with a stuffed shark because I couldn’t understand the lyrics to “Hit Me with your Best Shot”, to her trying (and succeeding) to make me crumple to the floor by tickling my earlobe, mom was always mom.

Over the last two weeks of her life, Mom persistently pestered me about college applications, particularly, an essay for one specific college. They wanted a paper on my Jesus story, and how I have grown in Him. And although I know there was “Something to Believe In,” I struggled to find a way to write about my faith story. “How can I help you?” she kept asking me. I didn’t know what help I needed, so I didn’t answer my mother’s question. I spent so much time upstairs in my room or with my friends to avoid her bugging me. Today, I wish I hadn’t. For those of you wondering, I have not finished that essay, but I know who it will be about. Don’t worry, mama. I’ll make you “Proud of Your Boy.”

Two weeks ago, to this day, I was at work for an 8-hour, on my feet, being nice to people, shift. I was having a no-good, very bad day, and I called home. My supervisor was going to let me go on a meal break soon, and I felt like I just needed to come home. So I came home and had dinner with the family. It was a bit chaotic: I felt like a rushed mess, and they all had finished their food already. Mom made them wait at the dinner table for an extra 45 minutes just for me, but it felt normal. I didn’t even remember that mom was sick. “I Want the Good Times Back. That Would Be Enough.” We were laughing and playing games until I had to race back to work.

“How can I help you?”

Mom always asked that. To everyone.

I asked, “Are you okay?”

The day before her passing, we were having a great time. We went bowling to celebrate a final day of summer as a family of five. Little did we know, that was our last celebration as a family of five. About halfway through the game, Mom started feeling sick. We thought it was just another bad night.  She has had so many over the last 2 years. When we got home, Dad and I helped her upstairs. I wish I remember the last thing she said to me. But I remember what I told her: “Are you gonna be okay, Mom?”

So many people had no idea how sick my mom was.

You see, she didn’t want all the attention on her. She didn’t want everyone to treat her differently. So, instead of complaining, she changed the topic. She chose to focus on her gifts, rather than her sickness. My mom served in ministry for 30 years. Knowing her state of health, it “Blows Us All Away” how continually and unfailingly hospitable she was.

IMG_90661I’m wearing those bowling shoes now. We called the venue, and they let me borrow them to honor the last time Mom was Mom, focusing on celebrating with us. I kinda wish I could just click my heels and we would be together again. She taught me to laugh, she taught me to love. So much of me is made of what I learned from mom. And it will stick with me “For Good.”

As Christians, we don’t have to be eternally sad because we know that we will someday meet again in the Presence of the Lord. So, I get to say “Goodbye Until Tomorrow.”

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GABRIEL

14409486_10210808859717248_1674417536705584557_oHi, everybody. I’m Gabriel, and good afternoon. Amy was my mom and I just miss her so much. I wish she was here with me right now. I just want her with me. What made me really happy was how she just loved me. And I just wanted, for all of us, if we could just love on her and wrap around her heart.

I’m going to miss her because she was there. But I’m excited that she’s stuck in Heaven right now. She always sung me, “How great is our God.” That was the first lullaby she ever sang to me. It took me forever to learn her. It took me years to figure out why she was my mother. And then I got it. She loved Jesus very much. I hope you do too.

Our last song is “10,000 Reasons.” Some of you know it by heart. It was one of my mom’s favorite worship songs when we were a family together. In this whole memorial service, we have been just loving her. Thank you all for coming. Let’s sing together her last song.

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Amy gave my boys a passion to be servant warriors in her footsteps, to be a spark of joy in someone’s day, and to be someone who loves for no other reason than because God put the person into their lives. I married this incredible, amazing woman 21 years ago, and even though she is stuck in Heaven, as Gabriel put it, she is also stuck in our hearts.