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
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
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
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
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
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."
"...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,
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,
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,Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise,
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
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
Monday, February 28, 2011
How long...
Dear Sara,
Last night I was thinking about the last time we spent this much time apart. It was over 12 years ago. We'd been married a little over two years and you had to take your Cross Cultural class at college. I dropped you off at the airport on January 1, 1999, just as a huge snow storm was moving in. If your flight had been 30 minutes later, you wouldn't have been able to leave for at least a couple of days. You were gone for almost four weeks. We didn't have cell phones, so you took a calling card with you and we talked on the phone every night. Not for long. Just enough to catch up on the day and say "I love you." At the time, I didn't know how I was going to make it through until you got home. I missed you each and every day. But somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew you'd be home and that made each day apart something I could handle.
You're not coming home from this cross cultural trip. I know that, but there's still a part of me that can't accept it. I wait for you at the door sometimes, just like Stevie does, hoping you'll walk in at any minute, but you won't...not this time.
While I was at the hospital, holding vigil at Miranda's bedside, the sister of one of our neighbors tied a beautiful pink ribbon on the tree out in front of our house. It's been a daily reminder for me that even though you're not here, you're still with me, that it's our home I live in. I untied it from the tree today, both to keep it from being ruined by the elements and to ward off uncomfortable questions. On Saturday night, we ordered some subs to nosh on while we watched our movie. The lady who delivered them was very cheerful and asked if we'd had a baby. I didn't know how to answer. I felt dumb, like there was no answer...at least not one that I could give her that would make sense. I mumbled back "no, not so much" even though it wasn't the truth, or at least the whole truth. The pink ribbon is drying out today. I'll keep it indoors...to remind me of you both.
Remember how I told you that the whole pregnancy thing was flying by for me? It always seemed like there just wasn't enough time to get ready. The days don't move so fast now. Part of me wishes they would and part of me is thankful they don't. Grief hurts, I don't know anyone that would want to feel this way; but, I don't want to get over you either. Writing to you helps, mostly to sort out my own confusion, but it doesn't help fill the emptiness.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
Last night I was thinking about the last time we spent this much time apart. It was over 12 years ago. We'd been married a little over two years and you had to take your Cross Cultural class at college. I dropped you off at the airport on January 1, 1999, just as a huge snow storm was moving in. If your flight had been 30 minutes later, you wouldn't have been able to leave for at least a couple of days. You were gone for almost four weeks. We didn't have cell phones, so you took a calling card with you and we talked on the phone every night. Not for long. Just enough to catch up on the day and say "I love you." At the time, I didn't know how I was going to make it through until you got home. I missed you each and every day. But somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew you'd be home and that made each day apart something I could handle.
You're not coming home from this cross cultural trip. I know that, but there's still a part of me that can't accept it. I wait for you at the door sometimes, just like Stevie does, hoping you'll walk in at any minute, but you won't...not this time.
While I was at the hospital, holding vigil at Miranda's bedside, the sister of one of our neighbors tied a beautiful pink ribbon on the tree out in front of our house. It's been a daily reminder for me that even though you're not here, you're still with me, that it's our home I live in. I untied it from the tree today, both to keep it from being ruined by the elements and to ward off uncomfortable questions. On Saturday night, we ordered some subs to nosh on while we watched our movie. The lady who delivered them was very cheerful and asked if we'd had a baby. I didn't know how to answer. I felt dumb, like there was no answer...at least not one that I could give her that would make sense. I mumbled back "no, not so much" even though it wasn't the truth, or at least the whole truth. The pink ribbon is drying out today. I'll keep it indoors...to remind me of you both.
Remember how I told you that the whole pregnancy thing was flying by for me? It always seemed like there just wasn't enough time to get ready. The days don't move so fast now. Part of me wishes they would and part of me is thankful they don't. Grief hurts, I don't know anyone that would want to feel this way; but, I don't want to get over you either. Writing to you helps, mostly to sort out my own confusion, but it doesn't help fill the emptiness.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Family movie night...
...just isn't the same without you sitting by my side.
Aaron, Sarah, mom and dad came over and we watched a movie tonight. You would have liked it. I'd have liked it better if you'd been here.
They've all gone home now and I am listening to music and watching pictures from our photo library scroll across the TV. You have such a beautiful smile...and I miss it so much. The tears sting and my throat hurts. No matter how much I beg I can't go back to that horrible day and change anything. All I want to do is go back and listen to that little voice in my head that kept saying we shouldn't bother traveling in that unexpected snow storm.
You're not supposed to be in Heaven right now. You're supposed to be right here, sitting on the couch next to me, holding our newborn daughter and marveling over how beautiful she is. The flowers on the bookshelf are supposed to be congratulatory not consolatory. This broken world, enslaved by death, stole you both from me. The fallen nature of man stepped in and interrupted God's perfect plan for us. The Hope of the Resurrection seems so far away right now. What will be a blink in the scope of eternity feels like it will last a thousand lifetimes.
I can't change history, I can only watch it float across my TV screen and hope that someday all those memories will fill me with fond remembrance instead of sadness.
I love you, I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
Aaron, Sarah, mom and dad came over and we watched a movie tonight. You would have liked it. I'd have liked it better if you'd been here.
They've all gone home now and I am listening to music and watching pictures from our photo library scroll across the TV. You have such a beautiful smile...and I miss it so much. The tears sting and my throat hurts. No matter how much I beg I can't go back to that horrible day and change anything. All I want to do is go back and listen to that little voice in my head that kept saying we shouldn't bother traveling in that unexpected snow storm.
You're not supposed to be in Heaven right now. You're supposed to be right here, sitting on the couch next to me, holding our newborn daughter and marveling over how beautiful she is. The flowers on the bookshelf are supposed to be congratulatory not consolatory. This broken world, enslaved by death, stole you both from me. The fallen nature of man stepped in and interrupted God's perfect plan for us. The Hope of the Resurrection seems so far away right now. What will be a blink in the scope of eternity feels like it will last a thousand lifetimes.
I can't change history, I can only watch it float across my TV screen and hope that someday all those memories will fill me with fond remembrance instead of sadness.
I love you, I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
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