Silence

The silence of winter starts to settle before the calendar turns the page on the seasons. As we sat in the hot tub yesterday evening, we observed the heavy cloud cover. A mix of misty raindrops wanting to become snowflakes made the clouds feel close, like we could reach out and pull them closer for comfort, for warmth.

I noticed the lack of noise as we sat in the dark, our silence comfortable and still. No more summer insects chirped, their songs hushed by a series of frosty tipped mornings. The heaviness in the air also drowned out the sounds of the distant interstate. No voices traveled from nearby yards as the families now stayed inside once the sun went to bed so early each evening. Too early.

Mid-fall nights so easily give in to early-winter days, the seasons speeding by before we’re fully aware of the happening. Sometimes I try to sit with it, try to feel the exact moment in which I’m living. Too often I worry about the future, the unknown, the big picture, so to sit with the quiet stillness of the present feels uneasy, even more uncertain than those curious days yet to come.

Here’s what I know about this present thanks to the silence and peace of last night:

We are not alone.

Even in the dark of a mid-fall night who pretends to be like one of mid-winter, someone is with us. Even when we don’t quite know what tomorrow holds, how we’re feeling now, or what to make of the past year, someone is with us. Maybe they’re sitting across from us, hair damp from the falling mix of rain and would-be snow. Or maybe they’re 600 miles away, catching a glimpse of the moon peeking out from the quickly-moving clouds, wishing they could be with us, reach out, anything. Maybe they’re a memory which pops up to remind us that we’re never alone. No matter what, someone is with us.

Time keeps moving.

Every day, the sun rises, even on days in which it sets too early and we’re left wondering if we’ll escape the darkness. The sun rises, the calendar changes, and we’re one step further away from that day. One step removed from our deepest of griefs, our happiest of memories, our confusion, our promises. We’re also one step closer to whatever remains. I didn’t say that time heals everything; it just keeps moving.

Healing looks different for everyone.

My healing looks like a long run on a Sunday afternoon, attempting to outrun my grief on the slow rolling hills of southeastern Ohio. The healing of others might look like a snuggle on a Saturday night or climbing into bed sometime in the middle of the darkest night because you know it’s the safest place on Earth. Laughing at a movie, a meme, a video, your dad’s wonderfully punny dad jokes. Throwing yourself into not one but two sports at once; giving your all on and off the field, the race course; a 4.0; a moment with your mom. Date night; family traditions; carving pumpkins for children who should be old enough to wield their own knives, right; sitting silently in a hot tub on a cold, dark night. It looks different for each one of us. We’re doing our best.

We will spend many more chilly nights in the hot tub, listening to the sounds of silence, thinking about the present and the future, trying not to dwell on the past. We will continue to heal, each in our own way, as time marches on, taking us step by step away from that darkest of nights. New seasons wait just around the corner of a calendar page. We will fall into them, together.

Silence

He’ll Always Have Her

I looked up from my steaming cup of coffee and watched his little face crumple.

“What’s wrong, Booey?”
“I miss Big Mamaw,” he sobbed over his cereal bowl.

I quickly rounded the breakfast bar and pulled him into my arms. I made eye contact with my husband with one question in my eyes. Where did that come from?

She’s been gone over a year and a half now.

A year and a half.

Saying that knocks the wind out of me. We’ve lived through two of her birthdays, two Christmases. I’m coming up on my second birthday without her. She always made sure to send my card first. I don’t normally keep cards, but I didn’t toss the last birthday card she sent me in 2014. Maybe I was cluttered and running behind. Maybe I knew.

I miss her hand-writing.

The boys spent the weekend at The Farm, the culmination in a three week tour of their grandparents. They’d told me stories of riding the quad out the back 40 with Papau and taking a walk back the hollow with YiaYia—both of which take them right past my Grandma’s old home. And so when I looked at my husband with the question in my eyes, I figured the close proximity to her space conjured up some memories and feelings.

“It’s okay to feel sad, to miss her, to cry. I still miss her and cry sometimes too.”

He nodded and held me close. In fact, he didn’t let go for quite some time. I just let him hold on to me while I held him tightly. Sometimes we need to feel safe and secure in our emotions, our grief, our memories; we need to know we’re supported even when we’re not smiling and joyful.

If I’ve learned anything since losing Grandma, it’s that grief is not linear. Even for kids. Maybe especially so for kids because nothing kids do is linear. Two steps forward, eight steps sideways, do a little dance, growth spurt, emotional regression, oh hey! New phase!

We adults like to pretend we have our ish in line. I grieve in the proper order, all five steps, one after the other. Don’t mind me. I’m not crying in the corner. Chin up, buttercup.

Except that’s not true either. I’ll be fine for weeks at a time and then I’ll pull out the pink tablecloth to bring some Valentine’s Day cheer to the dining room and find myself sitting on the floor, clutching it in my hands while holding it to my face. Absentmindedly looking through old photos to find something fun to share for Throwback Thursday only to be sidelined by photos long forgotten, taken with my early high school camera; were we all ever that young?

He'll Always Have Her With Him -stopdropandblog.com

Oh, but I’ve yet to find a picture of her with my youngest son and it breaks me in two.

I’m thankful my sons feel safe enough to share openly regarding their own grief. It makes me feel less alone in my own grief, I suppose. I want to be one of those faithful women who accept death for what it is, who rejoice that my Grandma is no longer in pain, but I selfishly want her here with me. With us. I want to sit down at her table in her home, not at her table in my home. I want to eat her macaroni, not my macaroni that is her macaroni. I want to call her when the Cardinal birds return to my yard. And the hummingbirds. And the stupid red-winged black birds.

But she’s gone. And we’re here. All trying to make sense of it in our own ways.

I told my Dad about Booey’s breakdown. We both figured it was caused by the close proximity to her home over the weekend. And then my Dad said, “She’s in his permanent memory. He’ll always have her with him.”

I smiled as the tear fell from my eye.

A Long Journey

A Long Journey: Christmas is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future.

We dressed in all our Christmas Eve finery—blues, blacks, and hints of gold this year—and headed out to church with no coats. The warm weather felt confusing and wonderful in the same breath. As we waited for the service to begin, BigBrother and my husband quoted lines from Elf to one another. I found myself smiling, and my pastor even caught me in the act.

It’s been awhile since I’ve smiled in church.

The service proceeded as Christmas Eve services do: the lighting of the Advent candles, children singing along with a message and treats for the kids, carols, and the story of Jesus’ birth. Differences included my two sons singing all the songs, following along in the hymnal, my husband singing beside me as he normally doesn’t sing in church, and actually sitting next to my husband instead of separating the two boys and their giggles apart with our physical beings.

They’re growing up.

During the children’s message, our pastor instructed the children to share two of the three Hugs in their bags with other people. She even challenged them to share one with someone in church that they didn’t know. BigBrother gave one to the expectant mother sitting behind us. LittleBrother gave his to a man sitting in the other half of our pew. I also got one from one of the boys; it tasted like peace and joy.

I didn’t use the word joy at all last Christmas; I refused any card that mentioned peace or joy or love or even used the word merry. I didn’t feel any of those things. My heart still felt so broken over the loss of my beloved grandmother, still felt tangled from the fight against overwhelming depression and anxiety. I went through the motions last Christmas, but I did so in a sort of hazy bubble of grief and loss, sadness and self-doubt. I had started the hard work of healing by Christmas time, but it still hurt and I still felt a little lost. Or a lot.

When we got to the candle-lighting, Silent-Night-singing part of Christmas Eve service this year, I waited for the tears. I haven’t made it through Silent Night since 2010, the year grandpa died. Last year I didn’t even bother singing; I stood silently, staring into the light of my candle and wishing for my heart to stop feeling so hopelessly broken. But this year, I held my candle and sang the words I committed to memory decades ago. I kept my view on the boys as they stood more still than usual; a firefighter’s son treats fire-holding with extreme caution. I watched as the glow of the candle lit their faces, their smiles, their lips moving as they sang the song.

And then I realized we were on the last verse.

I kept singing.

As we finished the song, I thought, “Wow. I didn’t cry.” And then a few tears slipped out. Tears of relief, of letting go, of weight lifting.

Oh, I’m still grieving. So many things I felt numb to or about last Christmas hit me in a different way this year. I cried while ironing my grandma’s tablecloth because I knew she’d feel happy that I took the time to iron it. I felt sad when the first Christmas card in the mail wasn’t from her; she loved to be first. I stood in an aisle looking at something she would have loved to unwrap on Christmas day for far too long one day. Decorating the Christmas tree involved one bittersweet smile after another, as she gave us many beautiful ornaments over the years. All this to say: I felt this year, instead of feeling nothing but shock and numbness and intensely lost in what was—stuck in the past.

As we stepped out into the warm, clear night, the nearly full moon shining down on us, I exhaled slowly. The boys ran ahead of us and I slipped my hand into my husband’s, walking into the night together with those I love the most. I carried that full-heart feeling into Christmas Day, so in love with my people and our little life.

I hope to carry that feeling into 2016. But for right now, I’ll simply delight in the joy and peace I’ve found after a long journey.