Traveling man...

Dear Sara,

I'm on the road, down south right now. Spending my nights in hotels and motels; the beds feel too big, and empty, without you by my side.

I'm finding myself having more better days now. I still think about you and Miranda almost non-stop. It still hurts, and probably always will, but the pain is muted, like a burn. You can always feel it, but it doesn't prevent you from going about your daily life. There are occasional spikes when something rubs or presses against the raw spot, but even that sharp inflection soon mellows into a dull hum.

I've got my SPF 100+ with me. I'm trying hard to remember to use it regularly. This southern sun will surely test it's limits. :) Thanks for always worrying about me and instilling the habit of remembering to put it on.

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

Love,
Chad

He is risen...

Dear Sara,

In just a few short hours we celebrate the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Knowing that you are celebrating and worshipping in Heaven brings a sense of joy, even in the midst of losing you. We celebrate the very thing that will ultimately allow us to join you some day. The precedent has been set. Death wins…temporarily. One day, it will be defeated. Until then, we suffer the pain and consequence of original sin, the breaking of a perfect communion. Even in the midst of pining for a different outcome, to a past I can’t change, I recognize how inappropriate it would be for God to take you from where you are now, experiencing the things you’re experiencing, and put you back in a position where you would one day have to die again. C.S. Lewis was right in asking if Lazarus hadn’t really gotten the raw end of that deal; having to die not once, as apportioned to all mankind, but twice.

I can’t help wondering what you would have made for Miranda to wear to church on this special day. I have no doubt it would have been a beautiful homemade dress, it leaves an empty feeling knowing none of us get to see her in it.

It’s hard to believe we’re only 14 days away from being ¼ of the way through the first year of your being gone. I still experience, and am acutely aware of, the mystery of the passage of time. Some days seem to pass so slowly. Some days it feels like the accident just happened. And yet, I look at the calendar and realize that almost 3 months have passed. I also still experience days when I look in the mirror and think, if only for a moment, who is this man staring back at me? I’m not the man I was, I’m not the man you knew…I am, but I’m not.

I recognize the seeds of acceptance being sown in my heart. I also recognize that acceptance does not having anything to do with moving past the hurt or getting over it. Acceptance is just what it is, acceptance. Accepting that you're gone doesn’t mean my heart won’t hurt, but it can, and does, put that hurt in a different light. I recognize that it's part of a natural progression, one that I know you would have wanted to happen.

“He is not here: for he is risen, as he said.” – Matthew 28:6

He is risen! He is risen, indeed!

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

Love,
Chad

Traveling plans...

Dear Sara,

I’m bored…or maybe not. Maybe I’m just listless. I find myself having about 3 to 4 good hours of activity most days. Then the rest of the day just feels empty. I’m not complaining, ‘cuz I don’t feel like doing anything…maybe I’m just killing time until I leave for my motorcycle travels.

In most regards, I’m looking forward to my upcoming trips. I’ll be seeing new places, lots of new places, and new people, lots of new people, but I also know I’m going to have to work through the guilt of being gone. I know that I don’t have any reason to feel guilty, but it’s something I just won’t be able to help. I’ll never forget how frustrated you were at the end of that first year of my having a motorcycle; how oblivious I’d been to the fact that going on all my weekend rides had made you feel ignored. It was a hard lesson to learn, but learn it I did. I hope the balance we found was good, you never mentioned anything about it after that first time, so I think I did a pretty good job of making sure I spent more time with you than I did with the motorcycle. Three months ago I was thinking about selling it, to make sure that making time for you and the baby would never be a problem…there might be some guilt to work through from that perspective, too.

If you’re not too busy worshipping God and enjoying Heaven, you may want to peek in on Stevie from time to time while I’m gone. I’m having a house sitter stay with him, but I know it will still be tough on him with both of us gone. I’ve been trying to break him of the habit of wanting to drink out of the faucet in the tub. The first day Katu was gone, with her new owner, it was the first thing he did. He ran straight to the tub, hopped in, and looked up at me with expectant eyes. Teaching him to drink out of the faucet was cute…when you were around to do it. I moved his water bowl from the bathroom counter into the tub. He just stares at it like it’s beneath him to drink out of a bowl now.

The pictures of you and Miranda are going up around the house. I find I can only work on a couple at a time, so they’re going up slowly, but it’s nice to look around and see your smiling face on a regular basis.

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

Love,
Chad

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