Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Woof, woof...

Dear God,

I’m standing in the peanut butter aisle at Meijer. My feet are frozen to the floor. I came here for one thing, Nutella, and they’re all out. To make matters worse, it’s on sale (which is probably the reason it’s all gone.) All I wanted was a jar of Nutella and the shelf is empty.

Then it hits me, like Mike Tyson’s fist into my gut, I’m all out of Sara and Miranda. The shelf is bare. All that’s left is the yellow tag proclaiming “Grief – 2 for 1 sale!” Meijer will restock that shelf with Nutella tonight…my Sara and Miranda shelf will still be empty come tomorrow morning. “Sorry, we’re all out of that product…I think they stopped making it a little while ago.

People say I should be angry with you. I’ll admit, there are times when I wonder why I’m not. What I do feel makes me feel more like a dog, one that’s been beaten by the neighborhood bully. A dog that sits quietly at his master’s side, bruised, sore, and wondering why his master didn’t stop the bully. The master is a big man; he could stop the bully any time he wanted. Yet, it seems the bully is allowed to kick all the dogs he feels like kicking whenever he feels like it. Maybe I am angry, but just not an angry that I recognize.

I cried all the way home from the store. A little bit out of grief, more because I’m tired. I’m tired of the sadness. I’m tired of missing them. I’m tired of asking questions that don’t get answered and won’t get answered. I’m tired of feeling blank and aimless. I know these are all things that will pass, over time, but I’m tired now.

I don’t subscribe to the thought that you took my girls away from me. I don’t think that was your plan, even though you knew it was going to happen. I sticking to the theory that just because you know all, doesn’t mean that it’s all part of your plan. I only question why you allowed them to be taken. You could have stopped that truck. You could have diverted that storm. You could have protected them, even if you didn’t stop the truck. You could have made one of us sick, so we didn’t even leave home. I have questions I don’t believe you can answer, not in a way that I’ll understand, not until I get to Heaven, and then the answers won’t really matter any more, will they? I believe you were there welcoming them into Heaven, but that’s not the same as taking them from me.

All I wanted was some Nutella, I left the store with a lot more than I’d bargained for…and a lot less.

All I ask it that you be careful when you pet me, that bully kicks pretty hard.

I miss Sara. I miss Miranda. Please give them a hug and a kiss from me.

Love(?),
Chad

Monday, March 28, 2011

What if...

Dear Miranda,

If things had gone according to plan, we would have been taking you in for your four-week check up this week.

If things had gone according to plan, you would be sleeping in your beautiful little crib right now. Instead, it has become a memorial to you, with various blankets, dolls, and books, which greets visitors to our home when they walk in the front door.

If things had gone according to plan…if, if, if.

But they didn’t, did they? At least not according to my plans.

I look at your pictures and can’t help but think, “what if?” and “would you?”

I know thinking about these things doesn’t change anything; but, I can’t stop the thoughts from coming.

What if I could hold you here on my chest, as I watch the Red Wings, waiting for mommy to get ready for bed?

Would you find it soothing for me to sing you a lullaby?

Would you recognize the sounds as I read you the books I read you while you were in your mommy’s belly?

Would you be a good sleeper or would mommy and daddy both be exhausted from your late night sleeplessness?

Would you like riding in the car? Would you fall asleep just as quick as mommy used to when we were in the car?

So many questions…and no answers, at least for now.

I love you. I miss you. Give mommy a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Daddy




Sunday, March 27, 2011

I'll Fly Away...

Dear Sara,

I went back to church this morning, my first time since the accident. Grief’s cold blade pierces deepest when I participate in activities from the old normal, the times and places when we would have been together just “doing life.” My tears started when I walked in the door. They eventually stopped flowing on the outside, but I can still feel them falling in my heart, even now.

The church youth lead the service today. One of the songs we sang was Jesus Loves Me. The last time I sang it was seven weeks ago, while I held our daughter, after they took her off life support. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to sing it again, it makes me cry just to think about it.

On my way home, the song I’ll Fly Away came on the radio. So much hope for those who are already gone and so much anticipation for those of us who have a great reunion to look forward to.

Some glad morning when this life is o’er, I'll fly away
To that home on God's celestial shore, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

When the shadows of this life have gone, I'll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls I'll fly, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Oh how glad and happy when we meet, I'll fly away
No more cold iron shackles on my feet, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Just a few more weary days and then, I'll fly away
To a land where joy will never end, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away 

by Albert E. Brumley

I got home and listened to this song over and over. Its message doesn’t make me hurt less, but it gives me something to cling to and the tears sting a little less.

I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Things I know...

Dear Sara,

I've had lots of people tell me they can't imagine what I must be going through. I believe them. I couldn't imagine it either. We had talked about it – what life would be like without the other – but neither of us could have actually imagined it. It's so much worse than anything we could have imagined. Initially the pain is so deep that it has no boundaries, there's no way to measure it, contain it, or even really feel it. It's so big that you just begin to live in it, because you can't get around it or out of it. I don't know if it ever shrinks or gains dimension, but I've heard that it eventually becomes less overwhelming. I don't know anyone who ever said it goes away though. I think it just becomes a part of who you are, until you just don't notice it as much, kind of like a limp in your heart instead of your leg.

There are things that help me get through every day, things that I know, and things that no one can take away from me.

I know where you are. You're not lost; you're just not here.

I know how to get there...to where you are...eventually. It may take me longer, but the destination ends up being the same.

I know you loved me. I never doubted that for 15 years. Thank you for that gift, it helps me now.

I know you wouldn’t want me to quit living. We talked about it, not a lot, but it did come up. I would have wanted the same for you. However, I can tell you, it’s not as easy as it sounds.

I know that God loves me, even if he can’t answer my questions now. He shows me His love through our family and friends.

It’s not a long list, but it’s enough.

I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

A blog observed...

Dear Sara,

So many thoughts go through my mind each day. Sometimes I have a hard time sifting through the noise to find meaningful patterns.

Missing you is now status quo. It’s something that I assume I’m doing. I occasionally surprise myself with short moments where I realize I wasn’t. It’s not that I’m not missing you during that brief period, I just stopped thinking about how much I miss you.

I’ve been thinking about how we both had our “own” lives, even while sharing a life for almost 15 years.  We each had unique passions, which we let the other pursue without complaint (or at least without too much complaint.) I’ve been pondering if that may ultimately help me in the healing process. I look around the house, the yard, the garage, and I see the things that were uniquely you. I also see the things that are uniquely me. There is plenty of uniquely us, too. Time will tell. When I see the uniquely you, my sadness is that you’re not here to enjoy doing those things anymore; but, it’s the uniquely us stuff that hurts more.

I’m still finding a lot of resonance with CS Lewis as I read through A Grief Observed. Some people say that times like these are a test of faith. Lewis didn’t agree with that thought, “God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn’t. In this trial He makes us occupy the dock, the witness box, and the bench all at once. He always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down.” Much like Lewis, my faith in God feels more fully examined, and exposed, than it does tested.

I also find myself agreeing with Lewis that I will someday no longer add to this blog. I don’t know when, but it will come. Lewis recognized that his journals were less a “map of sorrow” (as he had originally thought they would be) but served more as a safety valve against total collapse.  In regards to both his continued writing and the process of sorrow he said, “It needs not a map but a history, and if I don’t stop writing that history at some quite arbitrary point, there’s no reason why I should ever stop. There is something new to be chronicled every day. Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a new landscape.” I don’t think I’ll stop writing anytime soon, but I may find myself writing less frequently between now and then.

I find myself regularly looking at the wounds on my arm, hand, and wrist, and thinking about you and how they mirror my heart. The worst of the injuries have healed over, but they will be visible for a very long time. The pinkish raw color will stay for another few months, maybe even longer. Someday all that will remain will be scars, always out there to be seen, but less noticeable than they are today.

I miss you. I love you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Sigh...

Dear Sara,

Words seem so inadequate today. There’s no efficiency in language to describe how I’m feeling. I’ve had a fun weekend. I’ve had a busy weekend. But mostly I’ve had a hard weekend. The people I love the most – the people I want to be with, the people I need to be with – are also the ones that are the hardest to be with. Laughing children, happy faces, sounds of contentment and joy…and it just makes me miss you that much more.

I’ve been crying almost non-stop for three days. Even when the tears aren’t falling on the outside, I can feel them on the inside. I don’t think being sick helps. I already feel emotionally frail.  Feeling physically frail only exaggerates my emotional state.

The snow is all melted. Spring is coming. Your flower beds are waiting for you to begin your work.

I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

Saturday, March 19, 2011

To sleep or not to sleep...

Dear Sara,

It’s late…well, it feels late. We used to stay up this late all the time, and it never felt like this…now it just feels late. I’m tired. It doesn’t help that I’m fighting a cold.

I find myself staying up later than we did when you were here. It’s not because I can’t sleep, it’s probably more that I don’t like going to bed when you’re not there. It just doesn’t feel right crawling into a half-empty bed.

Today marks six weeks. For the first time in my life, I’m wishing I didn’t have a good memory with dates. I know it used to drive you a little crazy when I’d pop a “do you remember what day today is” on you.  Things like October 27…our first date…our first dance…our first kiss. What will February 5 mean to me a year from now? Five years? Ten years? It’s a bittersweet day…I guess I don’t have to explain. Will it bother you if I choose to celebrate Miranda’s birthday on a different day? I don’t know how I feel about that yet, but it’s something I’ve thought about.

I need to go to bed, to rest, to get over this cold. The walk from the family room to the bedroom seems unusually far...especially tonight.

I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

Friday, March 18, 2011

Thank you, thank you...

This morning, the leadership team and administrators of Allegiance Health took some time to honor the emergency room and labor & delivery staff members who were on duty on February 5. They allowed me to speak for a few minutes. Below is the text of my short speech. It meant a lot to me to be able to thank these people in front of their administrators and leadership team.

"Everything changed on February 5th. Amidst the chaos and mayhem, decisions had to be made; decisions that I, and my family, could not make. Decisions that changed so many lives forever.  Today, I want to make sure you know how thankful I am for the roll you all played in that day, and for the decisions you made.

My wife’s journey on this earth ended on that icy highway, long before she ever made it to the hospital. And yet, facing unbeatable odds, you worked as hard and as long as you could to try to reverse things. For me, the fact that you were still trying to revive her, to keep her here almost 90 minutes after the accident, when I was finally wheeled into her room, strapped to a backboard on a stretcher, means the world to me. It shows how much you cared. It shows me how deep the loss would hurt everyone in that room.

Under those circumstances, no one could have blamed you for giving up sooner. No one could have blamed you for just accepting the inevitable, but you chose to keep trying, long after trying was required. Thank you for living out hope when there was no hope. Your actions, and the decisions you made, helped me as my heart had to reconcile what my mind already knew to be true.

Of course, this story does not end there. Sara was only 18 days away from the expected due date of our first child. My daughter, Miranda, was delivered without a heartbeat, without breath. Her story could have just as easily ended right there. But you chose a different path. You made a decision to revive her to try to keep her here. Today, I want you to know you should never, ever, second-guess that decision. It was the right decision. It was a decision that gave her short time on earth purpose and meaning.  It was a decision that meant Miranda was not just a baby, stillborn as part of an unspeakable tragedy. It was a decision that gave me three precious days with my little girl. I never would have gotten to hold her like I did, to kiss her soft pink skin, wrap her tiny little fingers around my finger, or introduce her to so many of my family and friends. It was a decision that made me a daddy, and made her daddy’s little girl. Your decision gave me a priceless gift, and I can’t thank you enough for that.

Today, nearly 6 weeks after that fateful day, I’m still surprised at how my quiet wife and my precious little girl have impacted this community and this world. You are part of that impact, and your leadership team and administrators are, and should be, proud of you. So I say thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my broken heart, thank you for everything you did for them and for me."

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Few words...

Dear Sara and Miranda,

I don't have a lot to say tonight. I just miss you.

It's not hard for me to understand the grief of no longer having what I had. It's triggered by all sorts of daily activities. Seeing your car keys on top of the dresser. Looking at the other end of the couch and staring at the empty space beside me. Looking for something to eat and seeing things in the cupboard I know you bought specifically for me and others bought specifically for you. Getting the mail and finding the This Old House magazine you had just started a 3 year subscription to. Seeing the unwrinkled sheets and blankets on your side of the bed when I get up every morning and lay back down every night. Doing laundry and realizing it's all just my clothes, nothing for the baby, nothing for you.

I'm less sure about the grief I feel for the things that I didn't have. The things that should have been but won't be. I didn't expect that grief to be as strong as it is.  Not hearing a baby crying makes the house feel even quieter. Not having a baby seat installed in the truck (or the car) makes driving just about anywhere feel empty. There's no formula or bottles in the cupboards. No crib in the bedroom.

I love you both.  I miss you both.

Love,
Chad

Monday, March 14, 2011

Lessons learned...

Dear Sara,

The days continue to march by, some better than others, none as bad as the first. I continue to read about grief and the process of it. I find myself identifying with the various authors and the points they make. I often find new ideas and things to think about, too.

I want her back as an ingredient in the restoration of my past. Could I have wished for anything worse? Having got once through death, to come back and then, at some later date, have all her dying to do over again? They call Stephen the first martyr. Hadn’t Lazarus the rawer deal?” C.S. Lewis wrote these words as he considered his state of crying out for his beloved wife’s return. I’ve done the same, many times. While his was a situation of dealing with a long goodbye, from cancer, the raw sentiment of it rings true. Getting you back is so much more about me, and restoring what I feel is lost, and yet it would be a raw deal for you.

I finished his book last night. I’m not sure how long he wrote for, but I hope that I can get to where he was by the time he filled his 4th, and final, notepad with his thoughts on the process and experience he was going through. He wasn’t past the hurt, but he could look at it in the full light of God’s healing touch.

I’m still at a place where my happiness often makes me sad. Lewis experienced this, too, “Still, there’s no denying that in some sense, I ‘feel better,’ and with that comes at once a sort of shame, and a feeling that one is under a sort of obligation to cherish and foment and prolong one’s unhappiness.” I realize that you would probably want nothing more than for me to feel happy, but happy just doesn’t feel right (beyond the occasional short burst.)

I’ve also come to realize that things can’t just go back to “the way they were before Sara.” Not that I’ve tried to get there, but I can fully empathize with Lewis when he wrote, “Did you ever know, dear, how much you took away with you when you left? You have stripped me even of my past, even of the things we never shared.” This house has been stripped to its foundation. The process of rebuilding, one brick at a time, may take years, even past the point of happiness returning.

One of the things that's changed since you left is what I listen to when I'm driving in the car. My radio used to be locked on ESPN...none of that seems interesting or important these days. Now I listen mostly to Home.fm or to playlists on my phone. Today I heard a classic by Petra from Not of This World. The lesson is that death will be swallowed by the victory of the cross and the resurrection. The hard part is waiting for that victory.

There's a step that we all take alone 
An appointment we have with the great unknown 
Like a vapor this life is just waiting to pass 
Like the flowers that fade, like the withering grass 
But life seems so long and death so complete 
And the grave an impossible portion to cheat 
But there's One who has been there and still lives to tell 
There is One who has been through both heaven and hell 
And the grave will come up empty-handed that day 
Jesus will come and steal us away 

(Chorus) 
Where is the sting, tell me where is the bite 
When the grave robber comes like a thief in the night 
Where is the victory, where is the prize 
When the grave robber comes 
And death finally dies 

Many still mourn and many still weep 
For those that the love who have fallen asleep 
But we have this hope though our hearts may still ache 
Just one shout from above and they all will awake 
And in the reunion of joy we will see 
Death will be swallowed in sweet victory 

When the last enemy is done from the dust will come a song 
Those asleep will be awakened, not a one will be forsakened 
He shall wipe away our tears, He will steal away our fears 
There will be no sad tomorrow, there will be no pain and sorrow

Grave Robber
Words and music by Bob Hartman 
Based on Hebrews 9:27, John 4:14, 1 Peter 1:24, Romans 8:11, 1 Corinthians 15:26, 51-55, Revelation 7:17

Sometimes my mind needs to be reminded of the things my heart already knows. Songs like this help to do that.

I looked through all the pictures of you on my iPad last night. I didn't cry...much.  I smiled more. I still want to touch your face, see your smile, kiss your lips, hold your hand, smell that scent which was unmistakably you, hear your laugh, and just hold you, hold you, hold you.

I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

Sunday, March 13, 2011

The new normal...

Dear Sara,

Has it really been a month since the funeral?! Some days seem so long, how can it have possibly been a month already?

My eyes have done a lot of “seeing” over the past month. I see things I never noticed before, maybe because I couldn’t. I see how much pain and suffering exists in our world. I’m so much more sensitive to all kinds of pain that I used to be blind to. There are so many hurting people out there.

Stevie seems to be adapting to you not being here. He doesn’t look for you as much anymore. He comes over and sits with me on the couch as soon as I pull the quilt up next to me.

I don’t cry as much as I did a few weeks ago. There are usually tears in my eyes, I can feel them there; they just don’t leak out. They sit there, on the edges, perpetually waiting to be called into action.

I find that grief can have time and situational dependencies. The parts of the day when we normally would have been apart go by faster. It’s probably part of the denial process, which can continue for a long time. This provides some emotional relief; but, as soon as I’m heading home, the fact that you’re not going to be there when I arrive settles in quickly.

The grief I feel during the time we normally would have spent together no longer feels like a unwelcome invader. Someone commented the other day that it would feel less “foreign” over time. This doesn’t make me feel any better about the way things are, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to either. Is it possible for grief to become something that just feels normal? I suppose maybe it can, at least for a season.

Today was both a really good day and a really hard day. I spent the day with friends. We went to Lansing and visited the Michigan Historical Museum. We went out for lunch. We went to Impression 5. We went to a high school musical. The busyness helped keep me from focusing on what we were doing four weeks ago, which was probably good. At the same time, so much of what we did was so family oriented, especially the visit to Impression 5, and it made me think of you and Miranda. Seeing all those happy families enjoying the museum, all its hands on activities, and each other’s company caused me to think about everything I’ll never get to experience with you. I suppose that’s going to happen a lot, isn’t it?

Just like Stevie, I’m getting used to you not being here. I still think about you all the time. I still hurt a lot. Your absence is still noticeable. But that’s all starting to feel normal; the new normal, where missing you is just a natural part of existing.

I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

Friday, March 11, 2011

Save the last dance...

Dear Miranda,

I heard a song on the radio this morning that reminded me of all the things I grieve in losing you.

Steven Curtis Chapman - Cinderella
She spins and she sways
To whatever song plays
Without a care in the world
And I'm sitting here wearing
The weight of the world on my shoulders

It's been a long day
And there's still work to do
She's pulling at me
Saying "Dad, I need you

There's a ball at the castle
And I've been invited
And I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"

So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone...

She says he's a nice guy and I'd be impressed
She wants to know if I approve of the dress
She says, "Dad, the prom is just one week away
And I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"

So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone

She will be gone

Well, she came home today with a ring on her hand
Just glowing and telling us all they had planned
She says, "Dad, the wedding's still six months away
But I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"

So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone


I know that you’re not my little girl any more. All things are made new in Heaven. You are now who God ultimately meant you to be. I probably wouldn’t recognize you if I saw you with my earthly eyes, but I know that I’ll know you when we meet face to face.

I’ll be waiting for my dance.

I love you. I miss you. Give mommy a kiss from daddy.

Love,

Chad

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Most of all...

Dear Sara,

Most of all, I just want to hold you. I want to wrap my arms around you as I’m falling asleep and feel your warm skin pressed up against me. I want to smell the scent of your freshly shampooed and still damp hair.

Most of all, I just want to kiss you. I want to pull you in tight and feel your soft lips pressing against mine.

Most of all, I just want to hear you laugh. I want to see that smile spread across your face and the sparkle of joy in your eyes.

Most of all, I just want you to be near me. I want you to sit beside me on the sofa. I want to rest my hand or your knee, or my head in your lap, while we watch one of our favorite shows together.

Most of all, I just want to run my fingers through your hair.

Most of all, I want to look forward to coming home. I want you to be there to greet me as I walk in the door. To get to the door and open it up before I have time to fit my key into the lock.

Most of all, I just want to stand beside our little girl’s crib with you at my side. I want to marvel at her beauty and appreciate all of you that I see in her.

Most of all, I just want you back. I want things to be the way they were. I want things to be the way they were supposed to be. I want my eyes to dry out, and to not feel like I could burst out crying at any given moment, even when I feel in control.

I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

Monday, March 7, 2011

Missing Miranda...

Dear Miranda,

I'm not sure where to start. You've been on my mind all day long.

I cried in public today. It wasn’t just a few tears I could quickly wipe away and hope no one noticed, this was actual crying. I’ve cried in public plenty of times over the past month, but not like this. I lucked out. There was a bathroom available that I was able to duck into rather quickly.

I had a chiropractors appointment this morning. While I waited in the lobby there was a lady there who had a beautiful little girl with her. The little girl was simply being a little girl. It was the simple acts of being that got to me. She wanted a drink from the water cooler. She played with some stuffed animals she’d brought with her, even giving one an adjustment on the table in the middle of the lobby. It was a happy scene, but it overwhelmed me in a way I haven’t felt very often.

The grief I feel for you, because of you, over losing you is so different from what I feel for your mother. She and I had 15 years together. We should have had 40 more. My grief for mommy is so complex and deep it’s difficult for me to comprehend, much less explain. My grief for you, while no less painful, is so very different. We never got to know each other. We have so little history for me to grieve. Our time together was brief, so incredibly brief I worry about what I’ll forget.

My grief for you often feels empty, like a blank sheet of paper. It’s about unrealized potential. It’s about all the things that will never be. Grieving the loss of that which might have been feels so different than grieving that which was and was supposed to be.

Needless to say, I miss you dearly. I see you, and everything you’ll never have a chance to be, in every child I see.

I love you. I miss you. Give mommy a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

Sunday, March 6, 2011

The perfect marriage...


Dear reader,

I was looking through my photo library last night, focused on pictures of my beautiful wife. I came across the above photo and I noticed something I've never noticed before, Sara and I are wearing the exact same colors, just in reverse and, believe it or not, it's a pure coincidence. It got me thinking about our marriage, about this blog, and some of the comments and emails I've received from people. More than one person has made the observation that we had the perfect marriage. Perfect may be stretching it a bit. We had a great marriage, a wonderful marriage, and a blessed marriage; however, I could fill pages with all the things I did wrong that kept it from being a "perfect" marriage.

Much as we are dressed in this picture, Sara and I were opposites, even in our sameness. We really didn’t share many of the same interests; our passions were often very divergent. The colors of our lives may have been the same, but the layers were definitely different.

  • Sara loved gardens and flowers…I always felt like grass was easier to maintain.
  • I love to ride my motorcycle…Sara had no interest in feeling the wind in that way.
  • Sara liked HGTV…I like ESPN.
  • If we went somewhere on vacation, I wanted to see the sights...Sara wanted to curl up with a good book in the warm sunshine.
  • I argued…Sara listened.

The list is a lot longer than that, but you get the idea. So, what was it that worked for us? We both believed the other was a gift from God.  That the most important part of love was choosing to love each other, even when we didn’t feel “it.” Even when we got angry at each other, couldn’t stand to be in the same room, couldn’t even talk to each other, it was the choice of love that would eventually bring us back together. Love fueled not by some chemical reaction in the brain, not based solely on physical attraction, but by the simple belief that we could choose to love each other because God loved us.

Did we ever get bored…yes; but, we could change it with a choice.
Did we ever fight…yes; but, we could fix it with a choice.
Did we always see eye to eye…no; but, we could choose the common ground.

It’s no big secret, it’s not out of your reach, it wasn’t out of ours…and for 15 years it worked wonderfully.

Sincerely,
Chad

Saturday, March 5, 2011

I hate snow...

Dear Sara,

It's not as if I, and anyone who has followed our story, haven't been acutely aware of what today is in terms of your passing. Today, Mother Nature seems determined to do her part to try and break me. It snowed. Just like it did on that day 28 days ago. Unpredicted, unexpected, unwanted. Almost four inches fell on a day when everyone thought we were getting ready to be done with snow.

Maybe it's not Mother Nature. Maybe it's Satan trying to stab at my heart. Trying to get me angry at something, at anything, trying to get me to curse God and the natural world he created. Admittedly, I now hate snow. It wouldn't hurt my feelings if it never snowed in Michigan again. I see no beauty in it. I see no wonder, or grace, in it. This isn't just the feeling all Michiganders have about snow at this time of year...I hate snow. Snow is where the buck stops when it comes to you and Miranda not being here. It's the only thing I've been able to get angry about; but, it's a hollow anger, an empty anger, the kind of anger you know doesn't do any good, because it's not about something you can control or change. It's the kind of anger I don't even care to acknowledge. Sorry, Satan...you're the only one I really feel expressible anger towards, and when I see the snow I think of you and what you're responsible for, so stab away.

I put some pictures of you up today. We've never had pictures of ourselves or other family members hanging in the house. That's going to change. I'm ready to see your face around the house, to see your smile when I walk from room to room, to keep them fresh in my mind. I'm ready to stop crying (even though I probably won't, not for a long time) and start smiling when I see you. I want to smile through the tears.

One month. So short. So long.

I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

Regret...

Dear Sara,

I'm finding I have one major regret in life. I never took the opportunity to make a video of you. I could have easily picked up my phone and made a simple recording of you walking in the door after work one day. I could have captured the sweet smile on your face and the beautiful sound of your voice saying, "I'm home!" I could have...but I never did. I'm sure I have some video of you some where. Maybe the tape from when we did our home tour 10 years ago, on the day we closed on our house. Maybe some random footage from some random family event. It's the one thing I've missed most the past few days, and the one thing I know I'm going to have the hardest time finding. It's a needle in a haystack situation.

The ability to see you in motion, to hear your voice; I don't know if it would bring comfort or if it would send me back to the early stages of grief where crying was so physically painful that I could only manage it for a few minutes at a time. Photographs are nice...but they start to seem lacking when I realize they are only a reflection of your life, a beautiful reflection, but somehow empty, too.

In a few short hours it will be exactly 28 days since you departed and began the eternal part of your journey. I find that the flavor of grief I'm in right now is changing in subtle ways every day. When I cried during the first couple of weeks, the physical pain that accompanied my grief was almost unbearable. It felt as if all the muscles, tendons, and ligaments in my body were trying to move in their own individual directions, tearing me apart at the seams. There are several flavors of loss that make me cry now, but none of them compare to the physical pain of my initial grief. There is still hurt, emotional hurt, raw hurt, more hurt than my heart can bear at times and it's randomness catches me off guard.

There is a specific flavor of grief when I think about the loss of everything we had together. Fifteen years of shared life have been ripped from me, and this produces it's own bitter sting. There is a specific flavor, or lack of flavor, when I think about the loss of everything the future held for us. An empty chasm exists where a road waiting to be traveled once spread out to the horizon. These griefs mix together, but do not become homogenous ("Welcome to Baskin-Robbins, would you like to try the double fudge swirl of sadness today, or maybe a double scoop of chunky monkey with sprinkles of sorrow on top?") They each maintain their unique ability to make me hurt, along with several other flavors that accompany them, a gang of grief, wreaking emotional havoc wherever they roam, whenever they feel like it.

Your dad sent me a quote by Mark Twain this week. It's from a piece he wrote about a year and a half after his wife had passed away. I can relate to what he says when he writes, "The mind has a dumb sense of vast loss—that is all. It will take mind and memory months, and possibly years, to gather together the details, and thus learn and know the whole extent of the loss." Twain goes on to detail just how long he expected this to last with an analogy, "A man’s house burns down. The smoking wreckage represents only a ruined home that was dear through years of use and pleasant associations. By and by, as the days and weeks go on, first he misses this, then that, then the other thing. And, when he casts about for it, he finds that it was in that house. Always it is an essential—there was but one of its kind. It cannot be replaced. It was in that house. It is irrevocably lost. He did not realize that it was an essential when he had it; he only discovers it now when he finds himself balked, hampered, by its absence. It will be years before the tale of lost essentials is complete, and not till then can he truly know the magnitude of his disaster."

I try to celebrate what we had, even when it hurts. I try to remember how soft your cheek felt against the palm of my hand, your lips against my lips. I try to remember the warmth of your body, pressed up against me as we slept. I try to remember your scent, clean but earthy, infused with aroma of a day spent in the flower shop. I try to remember...but find that sifting through the rubble of my burned out house often produces a only a cloud of ash. I worry, as CS Lewis worried in A Grief Observed, that my memories of you will become mired together in an almost unrecognizable form, "We have seen the faces of those we know best so variously, from so many angles, in so many lights, with so many expressions—waking, sleeping, laughing, crying, eating, talking, thinking—that all the impressions crowd into our memory together and cancel out into a mere blur."

It's been a month...soon it will be two, then three, then twelve, then the count will tick to years.  It seems so vast, yet so compressed, I can't fathom the passage of time yet to come when the past 28 days has felt both eternal and only a breath in this life.

I love you.  I miss you.  Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

Did I mention Lazarus?

I just finished reading my daily selection for Friday (yes, I realize it's technically Saturday right now) from Grieving the Loss of Someone You Love. I felt like it ties into my last post, at least a little bit.

"...our King sent his Son to be broken for us so that he could put us back together better than we were before. That doesn't mean our pain is not real. It is very real, just as Christ's pain was real when he wept for Lazarus...your job in this rebuilding process is to hand each piece to your heavenly Father as he asks for them. Then watch in awe as he puts them back together."

Friday, March 4, 2011

Early vs late...

Dear Sara,

It's either very early or very late.  I guess it's really a matter of perspective.  Tonight is the first night that I just can't go to sleep.  I'm not even tired.  It's 2:00AM and I haven't come close to sleeping since I first tried almost 3 hours ago.  Maybe all the sleep I have been getting has finally caught up with me.  I'm not sure, but it presents another opportunity to talk to you through this keyboard.

My reading today (yesterday, actually) sparked a flame to a thought that's been wandering around my mind since your funeral.  I'm still trying to flesh it all the way out.  The reading talked about the phrase "it must have been God's will" or "it must have been God's plan" (is there a difference?...different argument, different day.)  It's something people say all to frequently to those who are grieving, and I've probably said it myself, but I'm not sure it's really the truth. I think it's a half truth we say more to protect ourselves and avoid awkward conversation than to actually provide comfort to the grieving.

I wonder, as Christians, if we've managed to confuse God's omniscience with God's will/plan.  I don't believe that this was God's plan for you, for Miranda, or for me.  I have a hard time believing I'll ever think that.  I believe God knew it would happen, but that doesn't mean it was His plan or His will.  I think Pastor Mark really was onto something in his message at your memorial service.

The Word tells us that God has plans to prosper us and not to harm us.  This is a message that is repeated throughout the Word.  However, we also read that bad things will happen to good people and good things will happen to bad people.  And then there's Death.  Death was never part of God's plan.  Death entered this world as the result of sin.  God's plan was for a perfect eternal communion between Himself and the man (and woman) He created in His own image.  Sin, the harbinger of death, interrupted that plan.

The story of Lazarus, in John 11, contains the shortest verse in the Bible, "Jesus wept."  The story around it tells us that Jesus was so moved by Mary and Martha's weeping for their brother that he himself wept.  I wonder if there wasn't more to it?  I wonder if Jesus' tears were partly in recognition that the sacrifice he was soon to make, while providing us with a means to reach the Father, wouldn't be enough to take away the pain of death? That until He comes again, until death is defeated, that His children will have to suffer the pain of loss and grief.  That even with the hope of the resurrection, we will still hurt when those we love are taken from us, especially when it feels premature.  I think Jesus weeping was a lot more complex than the situation.

I don't know, maybe I'm completely off track with this line of thinking.  I know God has a plan for us.  But I think that that plan gets distorted and broken because we live in a broken world.  That doesn't mean He stops caring.  That doesn't mean He doesn't weep with us.  I think it just means we have to rely on Him to heal us, and help us get to the end of the race, to that place where His perfect plan can no longer be derailed by the broken world we leave behind.

"Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heav’n and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

“Let not your heart be troubled,” His tender word I hear,
And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise,
When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him, from care He sets me free;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me."
Civilla D. Martin - Matthew 10:29-31

I wonder if this doesn't help explain why Jesus wept.  He watches us so closely, cares about us so much, that the pain of our loss, my loss, affects Him just as deeply as it does us/me.  Did he weep because he knows this wasn't the plan?

I'm starting to feel like sleep my finally be on its way for me.  I hope my rambling makes a little bit of sense.

I love you.  I miss you.  Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love, 
Chad

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Good days and bad days...

Dear Sara,

It's hard for me to believe that it's been almost a month since the accident.  In some ways it seems like it was just yesterday and in others it seems like it was ages ago.  Time plays funny, or not so funny, tricks on the mind during difficult days like these.

Yesterday was a bad day...at least it started out as a bad day.  I think Stevie and I were both missing you more than we had in recent days.  He wandered around the house crying out for you all day long.  I mostly sat on the couch and just cried.  Things got a little better as the day progressed.  I had dinner with my mom and dad and then met Aaron and Sarah in town for some shopping at Best Buy.  It was back to crying when I got home though.  It probably didn't help that I was looking at pictures of you and Miranda when I should have been trying to go to sleep.

Today was different.  I woke up and actually caught myself smiling, for no apparent reason.  Instantly it made me feel sad, but not like yesterday, more along the line of how can I be happy at a time like this.  Stevie has had a better day today, too.  Much less vocal "noise" on his part.  Speaking of Stevie, I think you'd be proud of him.  He's getting used to having people other than us in the house.  Aaron came over tonight and Stevie didn't seem to hardly notice that he was here.  That's a long way from the days when he'd sprint down to the basement as soon as an unfamiliar face showed up.  I was so worried about how he'd react to the baby and having people over to see the baby...apparently he would have handled it just fine.

I love you.  I miss you.  Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad