The Timeline of Grief

 I wrote the post below on March 27th, AJ's birthday. Actually I wrote in my journal. But it was one of those entries that I thought about sharing on here. And then I just didn't. But I went back and reread it again recently. And once again, I considered if this was one of those entries I should share. And now it's after 11pm on a Tuesday night and I just got off a phone call with some amazing friends.

And during our conversation, we talked about grief. We talked about the importance of grief. The importance of recognizing and owning your own grief. We talked about how grief has no timeline and no rules but your own. And we talked about how our society's view of grief is just generally f-ed up. And once again, my thoughts were back to this journal entry.

And so I'm going to share it with you now. Because maybe it's something that you need to hear too. Maybe it's something you need to work through some of your own feelings. And if not, writing it down was something that I needed. 

March 27, 2022

Generally when/if I don't journal for a while, it means life is good - no big events, no big struggles, no big emotions. And that's been the case. Things have been good. Really good. 

Brandon and I enjoyed a trip to Las Vegas over the New Year and then another trip to Florida in February with Jacob. 

I was happy. I was good. So much so in fact that I had a therapy appointment in January and after discussing my general happiness with my current life, my therapist asked me "Have you thought about how you're going to prepare for February this year?" 

I kid you not, I had to pause and think - what happens in February?

February. This month that I had come to hate, to loath, to dread with every fiber of my being over the past four years. And yet this year, it had basically skipped my mind. What?! I hadn't even been thinking about February, that's how good of a place I was in. 

And you know what, I was feeling really good about that. I was feeling proud of myself. Over the past year I have put in a lot of hard work on myself. I spent some time examining my relationship with AJ, the end of that relationship and his death. I had some hard but necessary conversations with AJ's family. I had put in this extremely hard work and here was my reward. I didn't have to fear the dread of February. It was amazing! 

Until it wasn't. 

Until I started feeling... guilty? Maybe? People would tell me they were thinking of me, knowing that February was a tough month for me. But I'd shrug and say, "I'm doing good actually!" It made me start wondering what kind of person did this make me? Is it okay for the grief to feel so absent in just four years? Was I a bad person for "moving on" that quickly? 

I started thinking back to a conversation I had with my mom. It was this conversation that really had me examining myself. She asked me, "Do you think you deserve to be happy?"

When she asked me this question, I immediately thought NO. Why should I get to be happy when the life that I thought I was going to have was taken from me? Why should I get to be happy when AJ is gone? That didn't seem fair. But really, I wasn't being fair to myself. 

I finally started to accept that. It was that realization that finally made me move to make things official with Brandon. I deserved to be happy. I wanted to be happen. And then I was! 

But now, I find myself questioning it all again. Not necessarily whether or not I deserve to be happy. But maybe if I deserve to be happy right now. 

I started to think that the absence of grief meant that I was losing that last connection to AJ. Like he was starting to disappear. And I'll admit, that scared me. How is it possible to keep someone you've lost close if you aren't grieving for them?

Today's is AJ's birthday. What should have been his 35th birthday. And honestly, I wasn't expecting to feel much emotion, I wasn't expecting to have any real sadness or grief because of the day. I thought I was losing that. 

Jacob and I spent the weekend in Iowa with AJ's family, eating his favorite foods and just enjoying our time together. We had such a fun time and I never get tired of watching Jacob play with his cousins. And I'm so grateful to still feel a part of this family; to be loved by them. 

When I woke up this morning and started getting ready for church, there was something... shadowing me, lurking close by. It felt foreign. Strange. I couldn't put my finger on what it was or why I was feeling it. 

And then I was reviewing my Facebook memories from this day. Two years ago on AJ's birthday, I posted a picture from a page in a book my mom had shared with me. I'll be honest, when she first shared this message with me, I didn't connect to it. I recognized it was a good message regarding grief, but it didn't really hit home for me. 

But when I read it this morning, it was like the lightbulb turned on in my head. 

Yes. This is what I had been doing. Clinging to my grief so I wouldn't lose my love of AJ. This is why I was keeping myself from being happen. In a way, clinging to the grief was easier. It was what I knew, what I expected. Letting it go meant navigating a new path forward. And what if the love I have for AJ doesn't stretch that far? 

It was also reading this passage today that made me realize it was grief that I was feeling today. Grief over AJ and the fact he had missed another birthday. Grief that AJ is gone and missing out on so much. Grief over the relationship Jacob and his dad will never have. Grief of missing the person AJ was before the mental health problems and addiction. Grief over this fear that I was forgetting who AJ was. 

And yet, at the exact same time, wrapped up in all that grief, was just a bit of relief as well. Relief that I was able to feel this grief so intensely again. Relief that my connection to AJ is still there. Relief that my love of AJ is still there. 

I hate that he is gone. I hate what was taken from him, from Jacob, from me. I hate that it's easier to remember the person AJ was towards the end of his life instead of the person I fell in love with and who he really was - this goofy, loving, kind, talented, caring, smiling, amazing man. 

And at the same time, I'm back to wondering how to live with this tether to my grief over AJ and being happy in my life, with my life now. Will it always be a struggle? Will it get easier in time?

I don't have the answers right now. But that's okay. 

My Therapy Experience

For so long, it seemed that the topic of therapy was one of those hushed subjects. Yeah, it's happening, but we don't talk about it. We don't share our experience about it. Maybe people were ashamed to admit they were in therapy. 

I'm sure there is research out there on why this was, but I'm not really concerned about that. What I do want to focus on is that this point of view is turning. 

It's becoming more and more common, more mainstream, to talk about therapy. To share that you're in therapy, to share how therapy is helping you. To not be ashamed about the fact you're in therapy. To encourage others to seek therapy when necessary.

This has been my own personal experience as well. I have been in and out of therapy since I was a teen. I don't think it was anything I really talked about much, especially while in high school. But throughout school, after college, in my marriage, through a divorce and a sudden loss, raising a kid as a single mom, I have been in therapy. 

But here's what I've recently realized... 

A majority of the time I was in therapy, I was doing it wrong. I was in therapy because of some event or series of feelings I was struggling with. And when whatever that thing/feeling/event was done, I would stop therapy until the next time I felt I needed some extra help. And maybe saying that this was the wrong way to do therapy isn't fair, maybe it's what works for some people. But for me, I realized I wasn't reaching the full potential of benefits from on and off therapy. 

This on and off version of therapy was especially prevalent when I moved back to Minnesota and started therapy. In that instance, it was supposed to be couples therapy for AJ and I, to do together. To help work through the issues we were facing in our marriage. Very quickly however, it became a mostly solo therapy experience. AJ would still come to a few sessions, but it overall it was my therapy, not our couples therapy. 

There are many reasons we didn't follow through with the couples therapy and they're really not important here. However, I am glad I continued to seek therapy because while we had issues in our marriage, there were still plenty of things I could work on by myself - to help with our marriage and just on myself in general.

But here's the pattern I fell into: something would happen; I would schedule a therapy session immediately/soon after; I would attend a few weeks of therapy, mostly discussing whatever that event was that triggered the first appointment; I would stop going to therapy; something would happen; I would schedule a therapy session immediately/soon after; I would attend a few weeks of therapy..... You get the picture. 

I started joking with my therapist the first time she would see me again after a break in our sessions - "Well, you're never going to guess what happened now." 

But over the past year or so, I stuck with the therapy. I quit waiting for some bomb to drop and instead scheduled regular sessions with my therapist. And this truly has made all the difference in the world. 

I still have events that happen in life or instances where I get triggered, and I absolutely discuss those in therapy. But in between all of that, I have really and truly begun to work on myself, to learn how to be a better version of myself and live a more full life. And it has been the most rewarding experience. 

I have committed to putting in the hard work to examine myself, to process every single one of my feelings and to determine what it all means. Instead of just focusing on techniques in how to respond to trauma, I have focused on techniques to change me as a person and one better prepared to walk into those trauma-inducing situations. I have learned and discovered things about myself that I either forgotten or didn't know. I feel better about myself as a whole. I can recognize my various feelings and emotions on a different level. I can appreciate the fact that sometimes you gotta push through those really hard feelings to get to the other side. 

Now when I get done with a therapy session, I often feel accomplished. I've either had a great discussion about some sort of revelation or I walk away with the next item on my to-do list of personal things to work on. It's like I can look and see this future me. Someone who is happier, someone who is more free, someone who is prepared to handle whatever life throws at them, someone who loves the me I am. 

Don't get me wrong, there's plenty of work ahead. And a lot of that is probably a continuous journey. But it's not a journey I'm afraid to take. I only have this one life here on earth. I want to make sure that I'm doing everything I can to make this life a good one. 

Therapy gives me a place to do the work and the tools I need. And I'm grateful. 

The Month of February

 February is here. Never in my life, before 2018, did I hate a month. But I hate February. 

Stepping into this month, flipping the calendar over, starting the new month is something I dread. There is a physical, emotional and mental shift that takes place in me. And it's not some small change, it feels very large and heavy and black. Suddenly I'm carrying around this 50 pound weight of grief and it's like I've been switched on to an ultra-sensitive mode. Everything seems to be a trigger. 

I can't concentrate, I don't want to be around people, I can't focus on my work, I'm short with Jacob, I can't fall asleep at night and I want to sleep the day away. It feels like there's an iron ball in my chest, making it hard to take a deep breath. I feel like I'm perpetually hunched over with the weight of grief on my shoulders. And my mind is constantly running through thoughts while at the same time, being stuck on a static channel. I can feel the tears, right behind my eyes. 

This February will be three year since AJ left us. 

--- 

I wrote that top portion at the beginning of the month. I knew what was coming. I knew February 23 would arrive, whether I wanted it to or not. I spent all of February dreading that day.

And then it was here. After much debating about what to do for the day, I finally decided on some self-care. About mid-morning I found myself thinking "you know, maybe this day isn't so bad. Maybe I put too much weight on this day. Why should I let it have this power over me? Why don't I just change my mindset?" I could hear my therapist cheering me on in my head. :) 

And for most of the day, I was able to keep that mindset. I really started to think that maybe this day didn't have to be so bad. And if this day didn't have to be so bad, that meant the whole month of February doesn't need to be that bad. 

Until about 4pm. And it was like suddenly, I hit a wall of grief. I can't remember exactly what time it was three years ago, but I know it was late afternoon when I was told at my office there were some sheriff deputies waiting to talk to me. I know it was late afternoon when I was told that AJ had taken his own life. 

I was done with the day. I wanted to crawl into bed and let the rest of this awful day pass me by. And I am so grateful to my parents who one, not only made this possible by taking over Jacob duty but two, allowed me to do what I needed in this moment. 

I'm going to be real honest here and say that the month of February has been really shitty as a whole. I spent the month struggling. I was sad, I was depressed, I was angry. I struggled through what my therapist pointed out to me was probably a depressive episode. I struggled with the fact that AJ killed himself. I felt overwhelmed by stress at work because of the combination of the shear number of projects I had going and the fact that it took every ounce of energy I had to concentrate enough to do those projects. I ended up at urgent care one day because of a rash on my arm just to be told that I had shingles. And I had to make some hard personal decisions. 

It's been shit. I spent most of the month off social media because I already had so much anger and sadness inside of me that I couldn't handle to know what else was going on in the world. I couldn't handle the nonsense and ignorance. I had no energy to argue with people on Facebook about politics - me! (haha) 

Slowly I've started to reenter the world of social media. And that anger is only burning brighter. Maybe it's because I'm grieving and mourning the injustice of losing someone I love in such a horrific way that I feel so angry at all the other injustices our world is facing. I feel so angry that people seem incapable of choosing love over anything else. I feel so angry at the shear lack of empathy and care. I feel so angry at the ignorance and hate. I feel so angry at the stupid political and pointless posts from our elected leaders. I feel so angry that we have to fight so hard for what should be basic human rights. I feel so angry that the world is such a broken place. I feel so angry that we have the capabilities and power to make things better, but for whatever reasons, we aren't doing it. I just feel so angry at it all. 

And I feel torn about how to find a place in-between that keeps me angry enough to want to continue to fight for what I believe and to not let the anger drown me. 

I do know I need to spend some more time with God. I need to make the time sit in His presence and let the quiet in. Fortunately, Lent is a good time to start doing this. 

I realize this post took a completely direction from when it started. But this is where my thoughts have been lately. These are the things I'm struggling with. This is where my heart is. 

March 27, 2020

I wasn't going to post anything today. I haven't felt much like sharing. Today was hard. Today I felt distracted, unfocused. I wasn't present or on top of my game by any means. I was probably pretty close to the bottom of my game. I struggled. All day. Many times I felt on the verge of tears. 

Today was Austin's birthday. It's hard to believe this is the third birthday we've had since he's been gone. 

I recently saved an article on Facebook that I saw pop up on my newsfeed. Full disclosure that I have not read it yet. But the title was "That Discomfort You're Feeling is Grief". And it was like something clicked in my mind. Yes, that is what I've been feeling these past few weeks. There is much to grieve about our current situation. Our lives have been uprooted, they've changed so quickly with so little time to prepare. We must adapt quickly to this new life, this new normal. And so of course, we grieve how life was. We grieve the lost of normalcy. We grieve what has been taken from us. 

And so I think that all of that grief only intensified my grief for Austin today. Because in many ways, I think the grief of COVID parallels the grief I've experienced from the loss of Austin. 

He was gone too quickly. It was so abrupt and we were not prepared. All normalcy was suddenly gone and we were left to figure out how to adapt in this life with Austin gone. And two years on, I still struggle. I still grieve what was taken from us, I still grieve that life will never been the same without Austin. I grieve that Jacob has to adapt to this world without his dad. 

It's been a rough week all around. We continue to watch this pandemic grow. We watch as some of our leaders are working hard to do what they can in the situation and we watch as some of our leaders continue to fail us. We watch as we see how this pandemic has thrown into view much of what is not working in our current system and we struggle to agree on ways to address the growing needs. 

In Minnesota, we received a shelter-in-place order for two weeks and extended closure of many businesses, including the Y. So we struggle with what this means, how we will make this work, we struggle with the enormous amount of questions that arise and so few answers. 

At the Y, we struggled this week to quickly prepare ourselves to work remotely from home. This meant upgrading and adding new technology that many are not familiar with and must learn on such a short timeframe. We struggled with how the organization will look after being closed for nearly two months. We struggled as we try to make sure we're staying as connected to our members as we can be. We struggled. Or at least, I struggled. 

And damnit, as I write this, I find myself needing to find some good in all this. Is that what happens when you have two pastors currently living the the house? In the midst of all the struggle, I can see how people are coming together, how people are supporting one another, how people are connecting with one another. We've always had this technology to keep us all connected but it's not until it's our final option that we seem to finally be using it. I've had video happy hours over the past week with friends that I don't connect with nearly enough. I've been able to connect with church members with live Facebook videos and groups to keep us connected. I've felt connected to different communities as we come together to help those in need. 

So yes, the grief is strong. But there is still much to be grateful for. There is still good to be found. But I'm also going to give myself some grace and know that it's okay to feel that grief. It's okay to let that grief consume you, but only for a little bit. 

My mom read this devotional and made me a copy a few weeks ago. And I think that's how I'm going to end this post. Today I am grieving. Today I am sad. Today I am missing someone I love. Today my coin is grief-up. 

February is my least favorite month...

February sucks. I've never really had a least favorite month, but I think February is rising to that spot. 

Two years ago, in February, Austin took his life. That day will forever be one of the worst days of my life. It changed everything. It altered our future. 

Leading up to the start of February, I could feel this thing lurking behind me, something big, dark, heavy. It would move closer every day. I could feel a physical, mental and emotional shift happening to me. 

I can only assume this is grief. 

And this grief feels like it's literally clinging to my back, weighing me down. I can feel the extra weight, exhausting my already drained body. It sits in my brain like a heavy fog, making my mind think a mile a minute of all the 'what ifs' while at the same time, think nothing at all. It's wrapped around my heart, constraining it, leaving me feeling on edge and on the verge of a hundred different emotions at any one minute. 

Add in the fact that February is generally cold, dark and cloudy, well, it's not a good combination. Add in any number of the other worldly events/challenges/disasters/bad news, and it's almost unbearable. 

It's only February 4, and it feels like this month has been dragging on forever. 

So, I could do what sounds easiest, comes easiest. I could write my blog. Pour out my feelings of grief. Sit and wallow in my grief, stay lazy and not doing anything, ignore my real world responsibilities, let things slide for the month. And oh boy, believe me. That is what I would love to do. 

But I shouldn't. I can't. It's not fair to Jacob and it doesn't help me. So what am I going to do? 

I'm going to plan some mini-adventures for Jacob and I. A hotel stay or maybe a visit to Aunt Meg. Get us out of the house on the weekends. Visit new places. Or old places. Spend more one-on-one time with Jacob, playing together or reading together. (Not just allowing screen time while I nap...)

I need to take some breaks from social media. Or at least spend less time on social media, fretting over the state of our nation. I need to start using my Y membership. I need to start using my lunch breaks to walk. Bring Jacob to the Child Watch or Pepsi Rec Room while I start working out. I should start a bedtime yoga routine to help me sleep better. 

Let's see if I can start making some of these changes to get me through the month. And if I do, what's stopping me from continuing them after this month is over? 

One Year Later

It's been one year since you left us forever. 

There was no warning.
No goodbyes.
No explanation. 

When I think about this date one year ago, it seems that the year went by incredibly quick. But when I think about the past year, it seems nonexistent, like time stopped all together. 

When you left, it brought a painful end to a number of struggles. But it also brought a painful beginning to new struggles. 

Over the past year, I've had thoughts and feelings and emotions that I didn't know where possible to have. I experienced grief on an entirely new level. I've been reading books and articles on grief and they comfort me because I don't think anyone can truly understand what it's like to really understand grief until they experience it personally. It's a strange thing. 

One year ago, our lives changed forever. One year ago, I can remember clearly when I found out, yet the next few days, weeks are fuzzy. One year ago, I started asking questions knowing that I would probably never find the answers. One year ago, I had to tell the sweetest four-year-old that you were gone forever. 

There is not a day that goes by when I don't think about you. Probably not even an hour. 

Sometimes I still feel shocked that you're gone. There is always sadness and pain. And I've also felt a lot of anger. The grief can be all-consuming. 

I've waited over the past year, prayed, hoped, wished for some sort of closure. Maybe a letter from you will show up in the mail. Maybe it wouldn't provide all the answers to the questions I have, but would give me something. I'd be lying if I said I still don't pray for that some days. 

I've struggled to understand. To understand why. To understand what you were feeling. To understand why you felt this was your only way out. To understand if there was something more I didn't know. To understand how you could leave Jacob and me. One year later, I still don't understand any of it. 

You've been gone for one year. Although, if I'm being honest, in a way, you were gone long before then. Yet I couldn't tell you if that makes the physical lost of you harder or easier. 

One year later. I'm still not okay. This is not okay. I'm not sure this will ever be okay. 


--
I believe that the first anniversary* of a death is always going to be extremely hard, yet this week has been more than I imagined it would be. In some strange, cruel twist of fate or irony - I don't know - I have been forced to essentially relive these three days or so from exactly one year ago. 

That Thursday night one year ago, it was Kindergarten Round Up at school. We had pretty much decided that Jacob wasn't going to go to Kindergarten but planned on attending the evening to learn more about the Knights Plus program. This Thursday night, Jacob and I attended the Kindergarten Round Up as he prepares to enter Kindergarten next fall. 

Last year, I don't remember exactly, but Jacob stayed home. I think he wasn't feeling good. When I talked/texted Austin, he decided he wasn't going to come or I told him it wasn't necessary since Jacob wasn't with me. He also might have been stuck working later than he originally thought. I think that was the last time I talked to him. I can't remember if he called later that night to say goodnight to Jacob, as was our ritual. I want to say he did. 

I can't stop thinking about what could have happened if he had come with that night. Would I have been able to see his struggles? Would I be able to tell something was off? What if Jacob had come along? Would seeing Jacob that night made a difference? I logically understand that the outcome was probably never mine to change, but that doesn't stop the thoughts from coming. 

Then Friday. What should have been a normal and uneventful day at the office until everything changed. I almost found myself constantly looking behind me, waiting for a co-worker to come and tell me that the sheriff deputy was there and wanted to talk to me. I left work early; I couldn't be in the building around that same time one year later. I also had a doctor's appointment scheduled, a yearly check-in. Last year, this happened the Monday after it happened. I remember going, feeling like a hot mess of emotions. This year's appointment felt no different. Although there was more anger. Anger that I had to be having these conversations about my mental well-being at literally the worst time of the year.

And Saturday, the actually anniversary date. Last year, there was nothing but fog and sadness. I remember basically nothing. Will today be the same?  

It feels like I've been watching and performing in some slow-moving movie where I know what's going to happen, but can't stop it from happening. It's felt a bit like torture actually. 

This is hard. This is nothing like anything I could have expected. There are so many feelings it's hard to adequately describe how I feel or tell you how I'm doing. I just know that for right now, I am not okay. But for right now, that's okay. 




*Why is there not a better term for the annual recurrence of events that are not happy or celebratory? Can we create one? 'Anniversary' just seems too happy. 

The Second Un-Anniversary...

Today was the second Un-Anniversary. My Facebook memories and TimeHop app bombarded me with pictures and happiness and well wishes and sappy posts. 

It was just one year ago, I wrote about the First Un-Anniversary. I made myself reread it today. 

I wrote about how last year at this time, I was grieving the loss of my marriage. 

I'm mourning. Grieving. It's a strange sort of loss to experience. I've lost something and someone that was so much a part of me, who I loved incredibly much. But in the physical sense, you're still here. I still see you, talk to you. Sometimes it feels like my grief will be a like a wound, reopening every time I interact with you, never able to completely heal. 

And here I am, one year later. Still grieving. But in an entirely new sense. I'm grieving the physical loss of that man. The man I once called my best friend, my husband, the father of my child. In a way, it's like I'm experiencing this Un-Anniversary all over for the first time again. 

I'll admit I didn't dwell on this day as it approached. Maybe because I knew it would do no good. Maybe because I've kept myself too busy to think about anything. I even managed most of the day without dwelling on what this day was. And then I let myself into that space. 

Re-reading last year's blog post. Seeing our wedding pictures. Seeing the old Facebook posts from family and friends, the sappy posts we wrote for each other. Thinking about all that you're missing. Singing songs that we've sung together at church tonight. Watching our amazing little boy run around. And my heart aches. 

And I know that this grief is like a whole new wound. One that will continue to reopen. I know that I will still need to take things one day at a time. I know that I need to let go of things and move on. 

But I also know that missing you will never go away. That loving you will never go away. I know that you will always be a part of Jacob's and my life, somehow. But the fact that you're no longer physically here, well it physically hurts some days. Today was one of those days. 

Grief

Last night the tears came hard and fast. I hadn't been myself. Apparently, I have appeared down. But I couldn't quite put my finger on it right away. 

Then it came. The grief. The overpowering sadness. The realization that he's gone and can't come back. The unfairness of it. It all arrived quickly and knocked me down. The tears wouldn't stop. I struggled to catch my breath. 

There didn't seem to be any noticeable trigger. Instead, it appeared like a sudden downpour on a cloudless day. It felt raw and fresh. I'll admit, I was surprised by the intensity. The ferocity of pain and sadness.

I wanted to wrap myself in something of his. A sweatshirt or a t-shirt. The loss felt so distant and I craved to be near him again in some sort of sense. I had to stop myself from crawling into bed with Jacob and holding him as I cried, the one thing that will always connect us. 

And on top of all of that, the knowledge that it will never get better or easier. It will become different. The pain may be spread farther apart, but it will always be there. Lurking just below. 

Even today, it continues. A grief hangover. My eyes puffy and red. There's a heavy lead something in my chest, holding me down. Even my arms and legs feel hot and heavy. 

I feel alone on my island of grief. But that's okay. There's seems like nothing anyone could say or do to help me through this wave of grief. It'll pass and it'll come again. I feel like I need to just experience these emotions when they come. I don't need your pity. When I need your comfort, I'll come to you. But this pain and grief feels like mine alone. And mine alone to work through. 


I think with Father's Day on Sunday and Jacob's birthday around the corner, I'm stuck in a place of ... I don't even know. Sorrow of what he's missing out on. Mourning what Jacob is missing out on with him not around. And fear that I alone am not enough for Jacob. 

So no, I guess I'm not okay. But that's okay. I don't need to be okay right now. And I hope you can be okay with that too. I ask that you just keep letting me process my thoughts and feelings as I need to. I ask that you just let me be not okay sometimes. I promise that if it gets to be too much, I'll reach out. Maybe check in sometimes if you feel you need to, but try not to be upset if I only give noncommittal answers. Sometimes, that's the best I can do. 

I've often thought in the past few months that even when I wasn't doing okay, it was better to just act like I was. Easier for people to think things are fine. Easier than trying to answers questions about how I really feel when I can't even explain it to myself. But I'm just not sure I have the strength to do that anymore. 

I'm realizing just how tricky this feeling of grief can be. I will probably never understand it. But it is completely a part of me now. And I guess I'm just trying to figure out how to be okay with that. 

Holy Week in Grief

Holy Week. It comes every year. Lent is always one of my favorite seasons of the church. I appreciate the idea of embracing the darkness because in the end, Jesus will save us all. His light shines brighter than any darkness. No matter how bad you think things are. He will always win.

I've never experienced a Holy Week like this one. Ironically, it's not the first Easter surrounding the death of a loved one. Just one year ago, we lost my Grandpa during Holy Week. But we also knew that his time had come. I understood that his pain and suffering would soon be over, that he would be reunited with my Grandma again and stand in the presence of God. There was grief. But not like a shocking grief.

This Holy Week. There were a lot of feelings. A lot of thoughts about Austin. A lot of thoughts about what it all means, how it all works.

The message on Maundy Thursday was one of love. Throughout the last supper and that last evening, Jesus showed the same love to every single disciple, even Judas, who he knew would be betray him. Jesus tells us, "Love one another as I have loved you." His final commandment.

We will never be able to love as truly and deeply as Jesus did, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. It's not our place to judge others. Our job is to LOVE. All. Always.

I know this message. I think of it often. I remind myself of it when life gets hard and frustrating. But on Thursday, I felt ashamed because of that message.

I thought of Austin. The last few months we had. We had our differences and disagreements. I would get frustrated and angry. I wasn't living out that commandment. I should have been showing Austin love. He didn't deserve to be treated any differently just because we were having issues. He didn't deserve to be judged. Obviously I didn't know all of his struggles. I should have at least shown him God's love.

But I can't change that. And I'm ashamed of some of my actions. But what I can do is resolve to do better in the future. To treat those I disagree with or get angry at with love. Show them God's love and grace. "Love one another as I have loved you"

Good Friday. That was hard. I couldn't help but think of Austin at his ending. What led up to his ending. Did he feel abandoned? By those he thought loved him? By me? By God? Did he feel alone? And I think that he must have. He must have felt those things. And I can't imagine that pain.

I also thought about those of us who love Austin and who were left behind. "No chance to say goodbye. No way to ease the pain of parting." And this prayer: "For the times when we have not loved, even when we could, failing to carry out the simplest act of mercy, we ask the Father's forgiveness."

Then Saturday. The day that doesn't really get talked about. Unless your life is currently stuck in Saturday. Sometimes others will write something that so clearly states what you can't put into words. A friend, Kayla Becker, wrote something on Facebook that did just that: 

I’ve never really identified with the “Saturday” of Easter before. That silent day in between “Good Friday” and Easter Sunday. The day between the shocking grief and the stunning reality of what His brokenness healed. This Easter I’m stuck in Saturday.

We wear our grief like a cloak now. We’re no longer shocked and disillusioned. The weight of loss is just wrapped around us. And we are reeling as we try to put our lives back together around the trauma of loss. And I understand Saturday in a way I never wanted to.

We know the whole story. We know eventually the stone rolled away. The wounds became what healed us.

For as long as I’ve known the grief of the Friday of Easter I’ve also known the joy of Sunday.

But as for the ones actually written into that story, they didn’t know Sunday was coming. They didn’t know the stone would roll. The only knew the enormity of their loss.

In the blur of the visitation and funeral there are a few things people said that I remember vividly. One more than any other. Dear friends of ours wrapped their arms around me and said with more compassion and grace than I can muster...

“We know loss.”

And it was so simple. And it was so profound. When your heart is breaking, sometimes the most beautiful thing another human being can give you is the knowing. They were not indifferent to our pain.

And here they were years from the initial shock of it. And yet, it was still written into them. The knowing.

But in their knowing, I saw hope. They were not unscathed by their grief. They were not the same people they had been before loss. They did not pretend to be. But they knew something we didn’t yet. They knew Sunday was going to come. They used their wounds to heal.

And hasn’t that always been the way… brokenness is what heals. It’s the bridge between Saturday and Sunday.

I have not yet known heartbreak like this in my entire adult life. I am devastated. And I refuse to lie about that.

I won’t pretend this hasn’t rattled us. His death was traumatic and unexpected, and in ways we feel like we’ll never recover. I won’t pretend we haven't asked all of the hard questions. We lie awake at night, our faith deeply shaken.

I have exactly zero answers for all of the painfully difficult questions being asked. I won’t pretend that I haven’t questioned and tried to make sense of it. But it doesn’t make sense. It feels cruel and unfair. It feels painful, awful, and impossible. Because it’s still Saturday for me.

But the impossible beauty of living on this side of the Easter story is that I know eventually Sunday has to come. Even if I’m still living in Saturday. I know.

We might be shaken. We might be a bit like Thomas, begging to touch the wounds so we can believe it’s really true.

Sunday will come.
Wounds can be used to heal.
God is not indifferent to our pain.

Jesus is the bridge between the Saturday we’re in and the Sunday we believe will come.

And I don’t know if I’ve ever really been able to celebrate Easter in the way I will tomorrow.

Sunday will come.

As I was doing some reading, I learned about a Seder tradition of leaving a place set at the table for the prophet Elijah. "We have faith in his eventual return at the same time we acknowledge his absence. The empty chair at the table is both lament and expectation. His absence makes a very physical presence."

The presence of love and the presence of grief. Together. Acknowledge both. Welcome both. Leave the door open. Allow the emptiness a place at the table.

And then. Sunday. Easter. A day of celebration. Of rejoicing. To be honest, it felt odd to celebrate something so amazing as the resurrection of Jesus when I was still grieving the loss of Austin. Throughout the morning, I realized that I need to focus on where Austin is now.

In heaven! For eternity! For Austin, there is no more pain, no more tears, no more sorrow. There is only the absolutely joy of being with God! And that's because of the Easter miracle. The suffering has ended."The great promise of Easter had prevailed." Truly. Easter makes all the difference. And I can celebrate that.

He is Risen. He is Risen indeed.

*Untitled*

I've written a lot of blog posts. I try to be open and sharing about what's happening in my life. I try to make you feel involved. In the past couple of years, I've written about some hard things. Things that aren't fun or easy to share. Things that are difficult to talk about. But I did that because that was life. It's a constant up and down. Highs and lows. 

But this post. This post is one I never imagined having to write. 

Nearly one month ago, Austin took his own life. 

It was a Friday afternoon at work, when suddenly I was told that two deputy sheriff's were waiting up front for me. After a minute of confusion, I did think about AJ. I thought he might be in trouble. I thought maybe he was hurt. But when they told me he was dead, it was like breath left me. There was shock and confusion. Disbelief. I remember asking if his parent knew. I remember my dad (who had come to the office after my mom called him after the deputy sheriffs had stopped at the house first) going to my desk to get my things and driving me home. I remember giving my mom a hug and finally letting the tears fall. 

My mom had called a good friend who is also a pastor. She was soon at the house and I will forever be grateful for her being there with us then. I remember asking questions. Questions I always thought I knew the answers to but now was suddenly questioning. I remember asking if we could wait to tell Jacob. Wait until - I don't know - we knew for sure? It didn't feel real. I didn't want to tell Jacob. 

Telling Jacob his dad had died was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do. We had been somewhat open with Jacob about his dad and his struggles. We had told Jacob Daddy was sick. But now I had to tell him that his dad was sicker than we thought and has died. Jacob was confused and asked some questions, but he didn't want to see me or anyone else crying. He switched to his goofy self to try and cheer everyone up. 

And bless his heart, he's been the shining light in the darkness. He demands group hugs from everyone. He'll literally wipe away my tears and tell me to be happy. He'll joke and dance and be goofy to make us laugh. He'll give great big hugs. 

There's so much more that I could tell you. But what I will tell you is that I felt overwhelmed with the love and support from family and friends and people who didn't know me but knew AJ. The outpouring of love was exactly what I needed. People sharing memories that I had long forgotten or never knew. I clung to those. 

Because here where it gets complicated. AJ wasn't my husband. We were divorced. And while we were doing pretty good at co-parenting, our relationship wasn't exactly in a healthy place. And I'm struggling with that. 

The past couple of year, there has been a lot going on. And I've had to deal with everything that was thrown at me, as it was being thrown at me. There was no time to process anything, it was on to the next thing. Like I was trying to hold a million fragile pieces together. When AJ died, it was like those million pieces came crashing down on top of me. I wasn't just grieving his death. I'm grieving all those things that had been lost. I'm grieving the man I fell in love with nearly 10 years ago. I'm grieving our divorce. I'm grieving the person that AJ was before the addiction and mental illness took over. I'm grieving a somewhat strained relationship we've had over the past 9 months. I'm grieving for the loss of his battle, one that I also tried to fight. I'm grieving for the loss of any future that was taken away from us. I'm grieving the loss of Jacob's father. I'm grieving Jacob's future as he learns to navigate this world without his dad. And I'm trying to figure out how to help Jacob grieve on top of my own grief. 

I feel like I was slightly removed from AJ's life. But the force of grieve and loss has hit me like that wasn't the case. 

I don't share these things with you so you can feel sorry for me, I'm not seeking advice, I don't want to hurt anyone with my thoughts. But I'm sharing because this is real. This is my life right now. And maybe someone else needs to know they're not alone in their struggle. 

I am mad that AJ is gone. I am mad that his demons won. I still loved AJ, will always love him. I still cared deeply about him. I wanted him to get better. I wanted him to be the man that I fell in love with, that I knew he was capable of. But I also know that he is no longer in pain. That he is at peace. And while there are so many of us left here dealing with this loss, this pain, this unimaginable thing, he is no longer struggling.