Two years ago you left this temporary home for your eternal one. Pain has been replaced by peace, anger with happiness, confusion with understanding. It truly is amazing what prayer, time and faith can do for a broken heart.
I still remember very clearly walking into your parents' house that afternoon and finding sisters from the ward there, already packing up your clothes and your gear and your things and your room, all the physical reminders of your life. Still in shock, I wanted to yell at them to put it all down, that it wasn't real.
But of course, it was real. It was very real for your family and your friends.
I found it fitting that this month's issue of the Ensign included an article entitled, "The Healing Power of Grief":
"Grief is the emotional, and often physical, response we have when we experience loss. The more profound the loss, the more profound the grief will be. Grief can involve virtually every emotion or can leave us feeling numb and disconnected from the world around us.
Manifestations of grief may include hopelessness, anxiety, anger, denial, guilt, incapacitating fatigue, difficulty in controlling emotions, lack of concentration, loss of interest in people or activities, and feelings of being overwhelmed...
Grief hurts, but it can be the salve that helps us heal when it is allowed to do its work appropriately. The first step in handling grief is to recognize that the pain is a normal part of the process. It needs to be acknowledged, not avoided...
Grieving is not a brief process. Be patient with it and give it time. As with a physical wound, the pain of losing a loved one requires time to heal...
Some nights are much longer than others, but the morning always follows. Death brings deep sorrow, but our joy will exceed our ability to comprehend when our reunion with deceased loved ones finally comes. Yet peace is not reserved for the next life only; we can feel peace now, even in the very moment we are feeling pain. How thankful we can be for the sacrifice of our Savior and the healing power His Atonement can bring us in spite of our grief. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5)."
I know my grief was different than others' grief. Every person's grief is personal, though. I grieved for your passing. I grieved for your mother and father, for your sisters and brother. I grieved for your family and friends. But that grief brought healing and understanding and a stronger testimony.
I am grateful that our paths crossed for a short time, and I am grateful for the grief that eventually turned into peace and joy.
I've been writing this in my head for the past week, and the words have now become too heavy to carry in silence. It's time to write them down.
One year ago, I received an email
from a woman at church whom I had never met before, asking if I wouldn’t mind
being Facebook friends with her “highly decorated Marine sniper” son who, after
finishing his service at the end of the year, would be moving to Texas to start
his civilian life. “He could use
some friends as he transitions to Texas,” she wrote. I replied that of course I would be friends with her son,
that I had great respect for members of the military and would enjoy getting to know
him. In the back of my mind,
though, I told myself that nothing would come of it, that this guy would be one
of those random Facebook friends that you never really talk to or have anything
to do with.
I never expected that that first
message I sent you on June 12, 2011, would turn into something wonderful, into a great friendship. And I never imagined that a year later
I would be kneeling by your headstone, laying flowers down and whispering words in the wind.
There are a lot of things that I have said about you - and a lot more that I could say - but I guess what I really want to say is thank you. Thank you for being a part of my life. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your life. Thank you for letting me listen to all of your stories. Thank you for making me talk about what I was thinking. Thank you for making me more brave, more confident. Thank you for helping me let go. Thank you for sharing your testimony with me. Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for making me happy.
This past year in my English 3 class, we read Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. Never before have I connected so much with a novel. I will admit that more than once the tears flowed freely as I shared with my students about you and some of your experiences and how they correlated with the themes of the story. One line in particular struck with me such force that I don't think there was one dry eye in the entire class. The main character, Billy Pilgrim, tries to explain to the man in the hospital bed next to him that he personally witnessed the Bombing of Dresden during World War II. The man arrogantly dismisses his claims. Billy then says: “We
don’t ever have to talk about it... I just want you to know: I was there” (193). I just want you to know: I was there. I think that's what you were trying to tell me all along. With all of your stories - of your past, of your mission, of your deployments, of your trials and struggles - you just wanted someone to know that you were there. That you experienced things that no one person should have to experience. I want you to know that I understand now. I understand that you just needed someone to listen, to know. Well, I know. I know you were there. And I promise to let others know you were there, too.
During the past few weeks, I've been struggling with Eternity vs. Everyday. From the eternal perspective, I can understand and accept that even though you are not physically here on earth, your spirit still lives beyond the veil. I know where you are, I know that you are safe and at peace, that you are no longer struggling, no longer suffering. From the eternal perspective, I know that I will see you again, after this mortal life. I know you and I will be able to sit down and talk and laugh and forgive and reminisce. I know I will be happy again in this life, carrying with me your memory. I know all of these things because I have a testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ, of the Plan of Salvation, and of the role of the Savior's atonement in our lives. And while this knowledge is a source of comfort most days, there are other days when I am brutally reminded that eternity is a long ways off. That I live in the everyday. That's the hard part. The everyday. And I think this applies to every trial we have in life. Eternal perspective - I understand it. Everyday living - I wish it didn't hurt this much.
I remember one of the very last conversations we had, on New Year's Eve. You were joking about wanting to start a blog to chronicle all of your crazy life adventures. All night you were coming up with these ridiculously long (and lame) titles for this theoretical blog of yours. After we had finally said goodnight (or rather, good morning) and I was at home getting ready for a few hours of sleep, you called (I think it was 4:00 am or something), all excited because you had thought of the perfect title for your blog: Life In Transition. I smiled, laughed, and said, yes, that is a perfect title to describe your life. The irony of how fitting that title is now is more than a little cruel. The past six months have been a constant transition, finding my new normal, trying to understand, holding on and letting go. But I suppose we will always be in transition, from one experience to the next, from success to failure, from happiness to heartbreak, from birth to death, from celebrations to memorials... and on and on and on. Always living, always experiencing, always learning, always transitioning. If I ever start another blog, I think I'll borrow your title. I know you won't mind.
One year ago, I never imagined that you and I would become friends. I never imagined that we would spend hours and hours and hours talking. I never imagined that our time together would be so cruelly cut short. I never imagined that I would sing your favorite hymn at your memorial. I never imagined that I would feel so much pain and sorrow. But more than all that, I never imagined that you would become so important to me. Thank you. With all my heart, thank you.
I've been wanting to share several related thoughts for the past few months, and it only seems fitting to put them all together in one post in honor of Memorial Day.
Thank you.
I've always had great respect and admiration for the men and women who choose to serve in America's armed forces. Fourth of July is my favorite holiday and patriotic music and feelings have always made me tear up. Knowing Z not only deepened that respect and admiration, but added to it a new level of understanding of the sacrifices - physical, emotional, mental and spiritual - that these individuals make in the name of the flag they wear on their uniform. To all those who have served and continue to serve and will serve: Thank you.
I don't pretend to know exactly how military significant others feel - the husbands and wives, the sons and daughters, the fathers and mothers, the brothers and sisters, the fiancees and boyfriends/girlfriends, the extended family members and best friends - but I do think knowing Z gave a me a small and brief glimpse into that world of worry and pain, of intense sorrow and overwhelming joy. To all those who send their loved ones to boot camp and trainings, who wait patiently and prayerfully for their warrior to return home after a 10-month deployment, who suffer the pain of losing their loved one to an enemy bullet or an IED, who soldier on after their whole world has come crashing down: Thank you.
The Few. The Proud.
Even before meeting Z, I always liked the Marines. The reasons probably had something to do with a certain NCIS agent named Leroy Jethro Gibbs, but whatever. I've always thought the Marines are pretty cool. Or, as Z would say, "they are BA" (thanks to him, that phrase is forever ingrained in my vocabulary). But now I know why I love the Marines. And the reason is because they really are BA. He told me about his trainings. He told me about his deployments. He told me about the especially difficult days. He told me about the ridiculous things he and his buddies did to pass the time. The thought that always came to mind when Z would tell me these stories: "Why are you running towards the bullets? Why aren't you running away from the people shooting at you?" But that's not what they do, certainly not what a Marine Scout Sniper does. They run towards the fight. And I love them (him) for that.
Unapologetically American
Several years ago, mother gave me a copy of Lone Survivor by Marcus Luttrell. I had been meaning to read it, but never got around to actually picking it up and turning the pages. In our many conversations, Z told me that it was one of his favorite books and Marcus was one of his personal heroes, a hero he had had the opportunity to meet once. I finally started reading it last fall, but didn't get very far into it when school and life took over all of my free time. After Z's passing, I felt I needed to finally finish this book that meant so much to him.
From the very first few pages, I didn't think I would be able to make it all the way through to the end. But I continued reading, even through my tears and sobs. Everything Marcus describes - the intense training to become a Navy SEAL, the mission preparation, the loss of his team in the mountain wilderness of Afghanistan - it all hit so close to my heart. At times it felt like I was reliving that Sunday morning all over again. When I finally turned the last page, my heart was so heavy with humility and gratitude for men and women like Marcus - men like Z - who sacrifice everything they have to fight for and defend this country.
One of the things that I love most about Lone Survivor is how blunt Marcus is about what he has done. He is a highly-trained professional - a Navy SEAL - and will not apologize for killing the enemy who wanted to kill him. He loves his God, he loves his country, he loves his brothers-in-arms, and he loves his home state of Texas. He is unapologetically American. And I honor and respect him for that.
A couple of weeks ago I had the opportunity to attend a book signing for Marcus' new book Service. I was so glad to be able to shake his hand and thank him for his service to this country. On my flights this weekend to and from Portland, I started reading about his experiences in urban warfare in the Iraqi hellhole that is the city of Ramadi. Again, everything he describes hits close to the heart. I can hear Z's voice as I read, telling me about all of his experiences in country, on the base and outside the wire.
Marucs Luttrell is a true American hero, as are all who serve and sacrifice.
Damn Few
When I first saw the trailer for Act of Valorat the end of last year, my first thought was, "This is a Z movie - he will love this." When I watched the trailer again after everything happened, I felt this compulsive need to see the movie - I needed to see it for him and for me. So one Saturday afternoon, I went to the theater by myself, armed with Peanut M&Ms and tissues. By Hollywood standards it is not the best military film ever made, but I thought it was brilliant. It makes you proud to be an American. It makes you proud of the SEALs - and all branches of the military, although I'm partial to the Marines - for all the planning and precision that goes into executing a successful operation. The film opens and ends with a poem from Tecumseh that I absolutely love:
So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.
Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.
When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.
When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.
And yes, I know that after picking the movie apart for inaccuracies or making jokes at the expense of the SEALs, Z would have loved this movie.
Giving Back
For the past few months I've been wanting to do something - anything - to show my appreciation for the members of the military. But anything I could do doesn't really seem to compare to what these men and women have done for me. But I guess something is better than nothing. These are a few charitable organizations that I have found to be truly inspiring, ones that I would be glad to support for the work they do in honoring our veterans:
Why They Fight
A few months ago I was reading in The Book of Mormon, in the Book of Alma, Chapter 53. This chapter describes a group of people known as "the people of Ammon," an ancient people who lived before the time of Christ on what is now known as the American continents. After being converted to the gospel and becoming peaceful followers of Christ, these people made a covenant to never again take up their weapons of war against their fellow man. Several years after they made their oath, the people of Ammon and other followers of Christ, known as the Nephites, were coming under attack by their enemies.
"But it came to pass that when [the people of Ammon] saw the danger, and the many afflictions and tribulations which the Nephites bore for them, they were moved with compassion and were desirous to take up arms in the defence of their country.
But behold, as they were about to take their weapons of war, they were overpowered by the persuasions of Helaman [their military and spiritual leader] and his brethren, for they were about to break the oath which they had made.
And Helaman feared lest by so doing they should lose their souls; therefore all those who had entered into this covenant were compelled to behold their brethren wade through their afflictions, in their dangerous circumstances at this time.
But behold, it came to pass they had many sons, who had not entered into a covenant that they would not take their weapons of war to defend themselves against their enemies; therefore they did assemble themselves together at this time, as many as were able to take up arms, and they called themselves Nephites.
And they entered into a covenant to fight for the liberty of the Nephites, yea, to protect the land unto the laying down of their lives; yea, even they covenanted that they never would give up their liberty, but they would fight in all cases to protect the Nephites and themselves from bondage.
Now behold, there were two thousand of those young men, who entered into this covenant and took their weapons of war to defend their country.
And now behold, as they never had hitherto been a disadvantage to the Nephites, they became now at this period of time also a great support; for they took their weapons of war, and they would that Helaman should be their leader.
And they were all young men, and they were exceedingly valiant for courage, and also for strength and activity; but behold, this was not all—they were men who were true at all times in whatsoever thing they were entrusted.
Yea, they were men of truth and soberness, for they had been taught to keep the commandments of God and to walk uprightly before him.
And now it came to pass that Helaman did march at the head of his two thousand stripling soldiers, to the support of the people in the borders of the land on the south by the west sea." (Alma 53:13-22)
The sons of the people of Ammon, known as "the two thousand stripling warriors," were taught by their mothers to put their faith and trust in God. They chose to fight so that their fathers wouldn't have to. And this is exactly what our men and women in uniform do today: they fight so that others don't have to.
My grandfather served in the Army in WWII. Z served in the Marines in the War on Terrorism. I love and respect these men for what they have done. I honor all who have put on a uniform, in whatever capacity, to serve and protect this nation and her freedoms.
I know it will never be enough, but thank you for your service.
Heavenly Father knows each of His children so well. Through His divine intervention, He places specific people in our lives at specific times, knowing that we will need each other to get through both the happy times and the hard times.
As I have looked back over the past (almost) three decades of my life, I recognize that this has been the case during my most difficult trials. Houston, Cleveland, Dallas, Provo, Spain, Provo, Los Angeles, Dallas, Austin, Dallas: in all of the different places I have lived I have been blessed with friends and mentors to help me and teach me and guide me and love me. Through their inspired words, phone calls, notes, emails, texts and visits I have felt the loving hand of Heavenly Father at work in my life. They have been angels in my life, and I only hope that I have been the same support to these wonderful individuals as they have been to me.
Zach commented to me a few times that he felt our meeting was bad timing - that if only we had met during a different time in both of our lives, things wouldn't be so hard or so complicated. After I thought about this for awhile, I told him that no, our meeting was not bad timing; it was the right timing. For whatever reason, we were meant to meet at that specific time in both of our lives. That we needed each other, to learn something from each other. How else would our paths have crossed - he a Marine from Utah and me a teacher from Texas - if not for divine intervention from above (and some masterful matchmaking from his mother... Love you, Robin!)? Even through the pain of losing him and missing him everyday, I know that we were part of each other's lives for a reason. I treasure the time we spent together and the friendship and insight and knowledge I gained from being with him, even if it was only for a brief time.
This past weekend in Portland, I was reunited with one half of my best friend. Seven years ago, two girls (twin sisters!) were put in my life who were the two halves of my one personality. And ever since those good ol' days at The Cove, we've never looked back. They have been a constant in my life, a rock on which to lean and rest, laugh and cry. We might not talk for months at a time, but I know they are there, and they know that I am here, for anything. We tend to get really awkward when expressing our emotions and feelings (or rather, Rachel does... bwahahaha!), but I love these two girls with my whole heart. We have always attributed our friendship to divine intervention - Heavenly Father knew we would need each other during those days at BYU, and would continue to need each other throughout our lives. As I spent time with Joanna today, finally able to tell her everything that has happened in the past year of my life, she did exactly what I needed her to do - just hold my hand and listen. Seeing her this weekend after more than two years filled a hole in my heart that I didn't even know was empty. And seeing Rachel in Utah in three weeks will fill another hole.
The three of us have a running joke about being "replaced" by a new friend or a new roommate ("So, I went out with this new friend last night..." "A new friend?! Are you replacing me?!?!"). The one exception I will make is for worthy young men who promise to love and care for these amazing young women. Well, Joanna is finally replacing us. When I received the news that her engagement was official, I was overwhelmed by pure joy and happiness. More joy and happiness than I have felt in a long time. And after meeting our replacement this weekend, I can honestly say that I am happy to be replaced by such an outstanding guy who is perfect for my best friend in every way.
I am grateful for a loving Heavenly Father who knows me; who, through His divine intervention, blesses me with what I need and who I need. And I am grateful for all of the angels, both here and in heaven, who have answered unspoken prayers, who have followed promptings and inspiration, who have been what I need and who I need. I can only hope that my own efforts to be a good friend have touched your lives as much as your efforts have touched mine.
I'm not gonna lie: the past few weeks have been really rough. I've been missing Z terribly and my attempts to make sense of life have failed miserably. Music has always helped me through tough times, and this song in particular has been speaking to my heart and soul. The music and lyrics express exactly how I've been feeling over the past 19 weeks. 19 weeks. Has it really been that long?
Written for a friend of the band's lead singer who passed away, I appreciate the beautiful universal message to all who grieve the loss of a loved one.
Listen and love. And try to find peace and understanding.
I think about you every single day
And every time I see your face
I wake and it brings me to tears
We hadn't spoken in years
We were close when we were young and naive
We grew up and we learned other things
You'll always be sweet 16
And you will always be perfect You'll always be beautiful Our hearts will never forget you You didn't belong here And it's become so clear Why heaven called your name
I miss you and it still feels like I know you
I've got pictures of us side by side to show you
But it feels like I owe you so much more
And you will always be perfect You'll always be beautiful Our hearts will never forget you You didn't belong here And it's become so clear Why heaven called your name And it just doesn't seem right, was it really your time? Are we dreaming? We'll never let go of you Wish you were here but it's becoming clear That Earth's just not the place for an angel like you For an angel like you
You meant so much to so many I'm not quite sure how to do justice to you If they're ready to say goodbye I know I'm not
You made the news and the papers for days and days
But it hardly seems fair
The whole world should know your name
I want them to know your name
And you will always be perfect You'll always be beautiful Our hearts will never forget you You didn't belong here And it's become so clear Why heaven called your name And it just doesn't seem right, was it really your time? Are we dreaming? We'll never let go of you Wish you were here but it's becoming clear That Earth's just not the place for an angel like you
And now we must let you move forward Our love lies with you Our souls fly with you
Amelia
six months ago, i was editing and grading research papers for my english 4 students. tonight, i've been editing and grading research papers for a new group of english 4 students.
six months ago, Z was my distraction from the boredom and monotony of reading and grading 25+ papers. a late-night text or call from him gave me an excuse to put down the red pen and lose myself in a conversation that would usually last until one of us decided it really was time to "rack up" and get some sleep. i was always exhausted the next day, but i didn't really mind. i gladly welcomed the distraction, because those nights of talking about everything and nothing were some of the best of my life. i learned so much about being open and honest, about how to express opinions and emotions, about what is real and important. i learned how to not play games and just be myself. talking and listening and sharing and laughing and questioning and answering. i loved those nights of not getting any work done.
it took me a minute to realize what was so different about tonight's editing session, why this batch of papers have been so much harder to get through.
no distraction. no late-night text or call. no excuse.
just memories and a grateful heart that i had the distraction at all, even if it was only for a short while.
in the past week, i've had a few people comment how nice it is to see me "getting back to normal."
at first, i agreed with their well-intentioned observation. the hurt doesn't hurt as much as it once did. the tears don't come as often as they once did. a smile comes more easily than it once did. but the more i think about what it means to be or feel "normal," the more i have to reconsider my concurrence.
normal has always been a relative term, but i've come to realize that each experience in life - especially the hard ones - creates a new normal. after going through something like this, there is no going back to the old normal, no going back to the way things used to be. there is only a new normal. a new way of trying to function each day. a new way of seeing and understanding the world. a new way of remembering and letting go at the same time.
for now, this is my new normal:
always exhausted, emotionally and physically.
always playing catching-up.
always wondering if i'm doing it all right or all wrong.
always battling with myself.
always thinking and questioning.
always hoping and praying.
I don't know why, but this quote is really resonating with my soul right now.
I think it's because I wish this were how I felt... but sadly I do not. There are areas of my life that are beautiful, blessings for which I am eternally grateful. But there are also areas that are not so beautiful. Areas that definitely need more attention and dedication than I am currently able to give.
And hurt is a funny thing. That first night after Z passed away, I remember sobbing for hours, finally falling asleep only after I had put some of my thoughts and feelings down in words. I woke up two hours later and continued my sobbing, unable to fully comprehend what had happened, frightened by the pain of loss. At the time, I made the foolish assumption that the hurt I was feeling then was the worst it was going to get. If I had known that night that I had not even begun to feel even a fraction of the hurt that was to come, I probably would have raised the white flag then and there. I had no point of reference, no precedent for how to deal with what I was feeling. It's been fourteen weeks (that's another funny thing, the way you measure time - days, weeks, months - after a devastating loss... but that's a topic for another post), and I think the worst of the hurt really has passed, but the hurt itself is a constant in my life. Some days it's a sharp, heavy hurt; other days it's a dull, gentle hurt. Either way, it's always there.
I wish everything were beautiful in my life right now. I wish nothing hurt. But I suppose that is the great challenge of life: to create beauty, to be more than your hurt. To build a beautiful life out of the ruins that hurt leaves behind.
Because in the end, overcoming the hurt is what makes everything beautiful.
A sweet friend emailed me this article, and I love its beautiful and positive message: Death is not the end of the story.
I miss Z, terribly. I miss hearing the sound of his voice on the other end of the phone. I miss our late-night rendezvouses. I even miss the frustration he would often make me feel. But I know that on the darkest and most devastating Fridays of our lives, we must always remember that Sunday will come. Sunday will come because He who made the ultimate sacrifice rose again the third day. The angels' question to the women at Christ's tomb is a gentle reminder of hope to all who grieve the loss of a loved one: "Why seek ye the living among the dead?" Jesus Christ is not dead; He lives, both body and spirit - whole, healed, glorified, immortal and eternal. Z's physical body has passed away, but his spirit still lives. He is waiting, along with all who have gone before him and will yet join him on the other side of the veil, for the day when his body and spirit will be reunited - whole, healed, glorified, immortal and eternal. Everyone who has ever lived will receive the gift of the Resurrection. The Savior's Atonement, and His eternal love for us, makes this possible. On that day, I know we will all shout for joy and embrace one another as brothers and sisters, friends and family.
I know that my Redeemer lives. I know He is the Savior of all mankind, my Elder Brother, my Teacher and my Friend. I know the Plan of Salvation was created by a loving Heavenly Father, and the Atonement of Christ is at the center of this Plan. I know that death is not the end of Z's story - or anyone's story - because death was not the end of His story.
The End of the Story
As parents, we try to impress on our children important lessons about life. If you’re nice, people will tend to be nice to you. Eat well and you’ll be healthy. Listen to your teacher and you’ll learn. But there’s one lesson we learn all by ourselves. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.
I was reminded of this anew last week by a long-dreaded email. It was the invitation to a funeral for a woman I had known years ago. We were never close, though I do know her family. But her story makes me cry nonetheless. When a 31-year-old woman dies, leaving a husband and two children who are too young to even remember her, what is there to do but cry?
I know what it is to bury someone you love. I am still haunted by the memory of my husband picking up my son’s tiny casket, and carrying it to his grave. Such things are the very blackest parts of life.
When we are in mourning like this we face a crossroads. The most inviting route is often the grimmest, for in our darkness, despair is almost welcome. I believe, though, that there is another choice. As difficult as it is, we must not let death steal our life.
I will never be the same since my son died. I only had him for 29 days, but they were the most precious of my life, and I will cherish them forever. My friend Kerry only had two years to smile upon her children, but her mark is still there, for it is the mark of an undying love. And that’s what love is—undying. Death does not end a relationship. It only changes it.
My grandfather was married three times to three wonderful women. He had each wife for almost the same number of years before cancer stole all of them, until, at the age of 88, he decided maybe it was time to remain single until he was called home. In these later years his house was adorned by pictures of all the women he had loved—the grandmother I never knew, the one I had called “Nana”, and the one who had stood so proudly at my wedding. He had such sorrow in his life, but his life was also bigger for allowing room both for love and for grief. We cannot, and should not, block out our tears. They are just as much a part of love as the hugs and kisses were. But let us not shut out the smiles, too. Smiles and tears can coexist. And that is the challenge that, I think, faces all of us at that bleak crossroads.
Perhaps it is appropriate to be thinking such thoughts as Easter is upon us. After all, on Good Friday life seemed extremely unfair. The Teacher was dead. And yet, the story did not end on Good Friday. For Sunday was just around the corner, and on that day we were shown, once and for all, that the bad is not the end of the story.
I do not know if you believe the Good Friday story; I do, and it’s one reason I can smile through the tears. Yet all of us, at some point, will need to decide how to deal with the grave. Dylan Thomas once wrote “Do not go gently into that good night; rage, rage against the dying of the light”. It’s poetic, it’s passionate, and I think it’s wrong. Death is not the dying of the light.
Changes come, even those that aren’t welcome. But with those changes often comes a greater ability to love and cherish both those we can hug, and those who are now beyond our reach. The bad is not the end of the story; the sorrow is not all that is being told. Life may not be fair, but it is still good, and there is so much more to be written. That’s a lesson no one can teach us. We must learn it ourselves as we stand at the crossroads, reject despair, and choose the road bathed in tears, but full of hope.
"were you laughing in your classroom this morning?"
"umm, no."
"what were you doing? i could hear you all the way down the hall."
"i was doing just the opposite of laughing."
"what? but why?"
"oh, you know..."
"oh. yeah."
some days i wonder why i even bother putting on makeup. today was one of those days.
the waves of overwhelming sadness and pain still come and go. this morning they came, fast and strong, and then passed almost as quickly, leaving me with a headache and without mascara. the physical and emotional force of missing him never fails to surprise and, if i'm being honest, scare me.
it still hurts. i'm still sad. but i'm also still trying to find the happy. better luck tomorrow, i hope.
I started thinking this thought over in England, and I’ve found my mind circling back to it constantly during this past week. I share it now with the hope that these words will be able to help others who have suffered or are suffering the pain of losing a loved one.
I seem to live
my life in metaphors. I think it’s
because I’m a very visual learner: if I can physically see something, or at
least be able to connect an abstract idea with a concrete mental image, I can better analyze it,
better understand it, better make sense of it.
I have spent the past eleven weeks trying to analyze,
understand and make sense of what happened. I have also spent an overwhelming amount of mental and
emotional energy trying to analyze, understand and make sense of how I – or
anyone who has lost a loved one, for that matter – am supposed to move on from
such a tragedy. How am I supposed
to understand and articulate the pain that accompanies death? How am I supposed to respond to the
daily inquiries of “How are you doing?” I think the truly honest response of “I feel broken and dead inside, thank you,
how are you?” would completely stun the inquirer into an awkward silence
and end the conversation before it even had the chance to begin.
But seriously, how are you supposed to explain what it feels
like to lose someone you love to someone who has never experienced it? After many hours on a train (and then a
plane, and then many sleepless nights since), this is the best way I can
articulate my feelings of the past three months:
The moment the words came out of my parent's mouth, I felt
something break inside of my chest.
A fissure opened up in my heart and created a hole, the size and depth
of which I have never felt before.
Upon first inspection, this hole appeared to be filled with nothing but
darkness, despair and devastation.
I lived in this hole for the first six weeks after Z’s death, and all I
could see was blackness. The
sorrow that I felt was so frighteningly real. The physical weight of missing him held me down for so long
that I was afraid that I was going to take up permanent residence at the bottom
of this abyss.
After Z’s memorial service, my eyes started adjusting to the
darkness and I could just make out scattered images all around me. I soon realized that these half-obscured
images contained all of the memories, reminders, words, feelings and emotions
of our time together: the emails back and forth over the summer, the first time
we met, trips to Wal-mart, an awkward favor (by the way, you still owe me $15, Z), our
first hour and a half phone conversation, our first date (dinner and a concert
downtown), more late-night telephone calls, unexpected texts, hummus and pickles and goat cheese, a lunchtime phone date, a lunch date in Afghanistan at the Waffle House in Grapevine at midnight, movie nights, more late-night telephone calls,
a three and a half hour phone call from overseas, Thanksgiving road trip to
Houston, talking at his house until 4 in the morning (on a school night!), more
movie nights, talking at his house until 5 in the morning, game night with the
family, New Year’s Eve/Really Early Morning, our last movie night; his smile,
his eyes, his laugh, his unique way of looking at the world; his stories and
experiences; his fears and struggles; his dreams and desires; his testimony and
feelings…
Everything that I loved about him and our relationship could be found at the bottom of this hole.
The only problem was that all of the despair and devastation prevented me
from seeing clearly all of the happiness around me. Too impatient to wait for the darkness to fade completely
away, I somehow managed to crawl out of the hole. I thought I would be able to just ignore it, stepping over
it or around it as I went about my day-to-day life. Another problem, though,
was that the hole was not getting any smaller. If anything, it was getting bigger. Even if I could successfully avoid the hole for days at a
time, eventually I would fall right back into it, falling down, down, down into
suffocating darkness.
And falling into the hole always happens without warning,
always surprises me with its rapid descent. Even sitting by the edge of the hole, peering down its
dizzying depths just for the chance to catch a glimpse of the happiness results
in a tumble down, down, down into blackness.
The constant falling and subsequent climbing to the surface
is exhausting. Not that I want to fill the hole and forget the happiness – it’s
one of the only things I have left of him – I just want to stop falling in the first place. I don’t want to feel the
pain of despair anymore. I want to
create some sort of clear protective covering over the hole so that I can
safely stand guard over the memory of him while the darkness dissipates. And I don’t want a glass covering,
because with enough pressure, glass will break and shatter. I need the emotional equivalent of the
material used for the Grand Canyon Skywalk. Something solid and sturdy and strong. Something a lot like Z, actually. Once that covering is securely in place, and when the
images are once again bright and clear, I will be able to think of this
emptiness in my heart, not as a hole of despair and devastation, but as a well
of hope and happiness.
Time. I know it
will take time. Until then, though,
I’m just going to have to watch my step.
And trust that He will catch me when I start to fall.
i apologize in advance for the pedestrian metaphor, but seeing as how i spent almost 5 hours on a train today (photos to follow), i had a lot of time to think, and it seems my surroundings influenced my thought process.
sure, i have taken a couple of detours, realized i was on the wrong line a few times, had to get off and ask for directions, spent time waiting at the station... but at the beginning of this year i finally felt that i was on the right track, headed in the right direction. my train was finally running on time and i was looking forward to enjoying the ride, excited to see where it would lead me.
but then my train completely derailed, jumped right off the track. a head-on collision. for a long time all i could do was just sit and stare at the wreckage, unable to comprehend how it happened or even contemplate trying to get on another train.
sometime in the past few weeks i begrudgingly boarded a new train; i have no idea if it's the right one, i just knew i had to get on one. but i feel like the train i chose is running slow (or maybe fast?), bound for a destination unknown. the landscape is unfamiliar and it's making me uncomfortable. i liked my other train - the route, the speed, the scenery, the other passengers. i don't know how long i would have stayed on it, and what makes the derailment even more painful is the fact that now i'll never know.
i don't know where my current train is headed. i don't know when i'll arrive at my destination. i expect that there will be more detours, more stopping for directions, more waiting at the station.
i also expect that one day i will feel like my life is back on the right track.
I remember having a conversation with my older sister many years ago about our greatest fears in life. One of her greatest fears was that she would reach a point where she was so strong in her faith and her testimony of the gospel, that Heavenly Father would send her a big trial. My greatest fear was just the opposite: that Heavenly Father would send me a big trial and my faith and my testimony of the gospel would not be strong enough.
The past two months have been a big trial. I have never felt so lost and weak and broken. I have never felt so much pain and sorrow. I have never cried so many tears. I have never had so many questions. I have never been so angry. I have never hurt so much. I have never felt so alone.
I've come to the important realization, though, that I don't have to be alone. I don't have to overcome this trial by myself. I don't have to be strong enough, because the Savior is strong enough for both of us. His strength is enough to overcome any trial, and as long as I continue to have faith and trust in Him and in the Plan of Salvation, this, too, shall pass.
I was in the car on Saturday, listening to a song that reminds me of happy times with my sisters. As I was reminiscing, smiling and singing along, a very strong feeling came over me. I could almost picture Heavenly Father's face and hear His voice as He calmly whispered to me, "It's going to be okay. You are going to be okay."
A few years ago my mother gave me a necklace for my birthday: a simple silver ring on a chain that had been engraved with the words "stay strong." These words hold many personal meanings for me, and I probably wear this necklace more than any other. Without realizing it, I usually end up clutching the ring in my fist, running a finger over the engraved reminder.
I still hurt. I still miss Z terribly. I still have so many questions. I still feel alone sometimes. But I know that it will be okay. I know that if I stay strong, if I continue to trust in the Lord and have faith in His plan, everything will be okay.
I've been doing pretty good since Z's memorial service. The loss still hurts, but I'm starting to recover and remember the happy memories, not dwell on the despair of him not being here anymore. Last night, however, I had a relapse. I'm finally reading Lone Survivor by Marcus Luttrell, and as I read how Marcus' teammates died in the mountain wilderness of Afghanistan, all of the pain and sorrow came rushing back. It was as if I was reliving that Sunday morning all over again. But the great thing about nighttime is that the morning is just a few short hours away.
I wrote this poem a few weeks after Z passed away, probably at the height of the hurt. My students were writing original poems in class, and they challenged me to do the same...
Weight
I stagger under the weight of what you left behind
I stumble, start to crumble, too weak, too tired to stand again
When stone becomes glass the cracks are inescapable
You asked me to hold your burden, then left me with no relief
So I continue to carry your confessions, your stories, your secret fears
I soldier on, on my knees
I close my eyes and tighten my grip, wishing
To grasp, to cling, to hold more than my anger, my grief
Afraid to see a tomorrow, a future without you there
The hole in my heart grows with the fading light
The weight of the emptiness leaves me breathless, broken
Bound to bury me in the misery of missing
You left me with a heavy heart, weighed down with what you left behind
A heart weighed down with what was, what might have been
A heart weighed down with memories, reminders
A heart weighed down with words unspoken
A heart weighed down with questions
A heart weighed down with love
A military gun salute is both one of the most devastating and one of the most beautiful sounds on earth.
Devastating because each shot in the air is a shot in the heart, reminding you that the person you loved is gone.
Beautiful because each shot in the air is a shot in the heart, reminding you that the person you loved was an honorable, valiant, faithful member of this nation's armed forces.
Z's memorial service was held on Friday, February 17 at the Veteran's Memorial Park in Bluffdale, UT. It was at times heartbreaking, but mostly comforting. Family and close friends gave wonderful tributes to the full and happy life he lived. There were two recurring themes in all of the stories shared: First, Z was mischievous - he loved to play around and do crazy things. He wasn't afraid of anything, it seemed, and every wild (and potentially dangerous) idea was probably his. He always told me that in high school, he and his buddies weren't bad kids... they were just mischievous. Putting a dead deer in the front seat of someone's convertible? Definitely mischievous. Second, Z was constantly putting the needs and wants of others before his own. It was something he and I talked about often as having in common - the compulsive need to serve and take care of others, to help solve other people's problems. More than anything, though, the words and memories shared proved that he loved his family more than anything, and he showed that love everyday in both word and deed.
With the help of angels, I'm sure, I was able to get through A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief (even with the beginnings of a very nasty cold), my final tribute to someone who meant so much to me. I hope he liked it. He was an amazing young man, and I am eternally grateful for the time we spent together and was honored to be a part of his memorial.
As the service moved outside, a Patriot Guard with American flags lined the path to the final resting place for his ashes. A Marine Honor Guard in their dress blues rendered full military honors with a 21 gun salute (or, to be more precise, a 3-volley salute), and the presentation of a flag to his mother. His step-father (retired Navy) played Taps on the trumpet. I can't really describe the scene or put my feelings into words other than to say, again, it was both devastating and beautiful.
(a close family friend prepared a beautiful program; Z's step-father gave me one of the shell casings from the gun salute)
Today is Z's birthday. He would have been 24. I am heartbroken that he is gone. I am sad for the pain of his family and loved ones. But I am comforted in the knowledge that he has returned to his heavenly home, that he is free from tears and sorrows, that he is at peace and continues to live beyond the veil.
confession #1: Z inspired part 2 and part 3 of my lovesick series. i suppose it's only fitting that he inspire at least one more.
confession #2: i've been thinking about the theme of this post for weeks now. i had plans for it to be a spectacularly insightful and introspective study on why and how and when i cry. but i realized that this thought doesn't need a lot of flowery words. just a few will suffice.
i cry for the things - and more importantly, for the people - i love.
