Hearts and heads...

Dear Sara,

Today was a difficult day. I’ll spare you the details, but it was a stark display of how far apart my head and my heart are. I’ve had so many “better” days recently that I just wasn’t prepared for today. Even though I think about you and Miranda all the time, I'm finding that the hard grieving is coming is shorter bursts, with more time in between them. I'm also finding that the tears that constantly filled my eyes just a few weeks ago have receded, they still come out regularly, but only when called upon as certain instances in my day bring them out.

My head (that logical part of me that sees reason, understands how the world works, etc.) knows that you and Miranda are gone and nothing will change that. My head says that life will go on. My head says that things will be OK. My head says that I may even find happiness with someone else some day. My head allows me to deal with the world, because it’s still turning. The sun still comes up in the east every morning and sets in the west every night.

My heart is so very far behind my head…

My heart wants you back. My heart wants the things that my head is telling it I can’t have. My heart shrieks loudly when my head tries to console it with thoughts that the future will be OK. My heart punches back with furious anger when my head tries to reason that life will go on and that I may eventually find happiness again with someone else. My heart doesn’t want anyone else. My heart wants you.

It was my heart that sent shouts of guilt to my head around three in the afternoon on Saturday when I realized I’d been enjoying my motorcycle ride for about four hours and still had almost three hours left before I’d be home. It was my head that reminded my heart you weren’t at home waiting jealously/patiently for me to return and spend time with you.  My heart didn't fight back, but it hurt a little.

I wonder if my heart will ever get to where my head is? I tend to think that it may get close, but never all the way. You and Miranda will always occupy a quiet little spot there, no matter how far it moves forward in this process…and that’s probably the way it’s supposed to be. The way God intended it to be.

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

Love,
Chad

Spring is sprung...

Dear Sara,

The weeks seem to be going by a little faster now. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. My mind sometimes has a hard time discerning how much time has passed. It still feels like it was just yesterday that we were together while at the same time feeling likes it’s been forever since I was able to hold you. The memory of your face and touch are so fresh while the reality of them falls farther and farther into my past.

I keep hearing the song God is God, by Steven Curtis Chapman, on the radio when I’m in the car. It was the first song I heard on the radio while I was driving from our home to your memorial service. I can still remember how the reality and finality of things was just really starting to sink in. I’m sure I’d heard the song before, but that day was the first day I really listened to it. The chorus ran through my head all day long that day.

God is God and I am not
I can only see a part of the picture He’s painting
God is God and I am man
So I’ll never understand it all
For only God is God

It’s been running through my head frequently since then; it’s the truth that I have to hold on to whenever I start to question why the accident happened and why you and Miranda aren’t here enjoying our quiet life.

Your flowerbeds are all cleaned out, weeded, and mulched. They look so nice, but it doesn’t feel right knowing you’re not here to enjoy them or spruce them up and make them look beautiful. I’m still not sure what I should do with them in the long run. I don’t know the last thing about flowers and/or gardening. I just knew I needed to have them cleaned out and looking nice for this spring and summer.

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

Love,
Chad

PS - Stevie still misses you, too.

56 days...

Dear Sara,

I often wonder if you notice the passage of time in Heaven? It’s been 8 weeks since you left here and I certainly notice, as do our families, but I can’t help but think that it doesn’t pass the same way for you as it does for us.

Each and every day still brings its mixed bag of emotions. Some days go by painfully slow while some evaporate before it feels the day has even started. I’ve reached a stage where your being going paints the whole day, whether short or long, in a light shade of grey. Grief can still catch me off guard with a strong wave, upending my emotional state, but more often I just feel neutral, slowly bobbing up and down between slightly happy and slightly sad.

I’ve been reading a daily devotional written especially for people who are grieving the loss of someone they love. This week I ran into my first daily reading that just felt like it was in the wrong place in the book. It felt like the wrong topic with the wrong advice at the wrong time. It was about saying goodbye to your loved one. The author wrote about the importance of saying goodbye as part of the healing process. They then encouraged the reader to write a goodbye letter to their loved one as part of the process of moving on. They did say that if I wasn’t ready to do that that I should bookmark the page and come back to it when I was ready. Saying goodbye at this point seems a little premature. I could probably say it, but I wouldn’t mean it. Maybe these letters are just a long goodbye.

I know I don’t need to say it, but it always feels like I do…I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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