Grieving Through The Seasons

rainIt’s a chilly, rainy day. It’s the best kind of rain. It’s coming straight down, so I can sit on the porch and not get wet.  

I’ve always liked the rain, but I have a new appreciation of it since Samuel died. Rainy days are gloomy, and I feel less at odds with the world and everyone else. Right now is a steady downpour that hides the distant trees in fog, and drowns out other sounds with the percussion of raindrops on the roof. A rainy sky is a mournful sky. It matches my mood and cries with me. It masks the chill in my soul, just a little. I seek out small comforts, like wool socks and a warm mug of coffee, just to hold in my hands.  

For the first few months after Samuel died, I couldn’t tolerate bright days. In a weird, detached way, I was thankful the accident happened at the beginning of winter. It provided me with sharp wind and leaf-less trees stretching their dark arms to a cheerless sun. I dreaded the arrival of spring. 

As the days warmed and green made a reappearance, I was drawn into the rebirth in spite of my sorrow. I found escape from anxiety by pulling weeds, planting bushes, moving flowers from one spot to another. It was good to have dirt on my hands. I found peace in the cycle of life and death in the natural world that continued oblivious to my personal tragedy. I thought of seeds and trees through the millennia, sprouting, growing, dying, alongside generations of people. People that lived and died, celebrated and grieved, and are long forgotten. I felt my small place in time and in the universe. It reminded me that death is not shocking, but an inescapable part of living. To everything there is a season, a time to be born and a time to die.

Summery activities were intolerable to me. I was overwhelmed by happy people, carefree at picnics and afternoons at the pool. But the long, hot days were a solace. I sat on the porch watching the world sag wearily under the heat. Frogs serenaded the warm nights, and cicadas droned their songs during the day. Cicadas that shed their skins to have wings for a few weeks before they die. How different it must be to discover flight and sky after years in the dark, cool earth. Their freedom is short. They fly, sing, lay eggs, and are gone.

And now it’s the end of fall, the in-between time, sinking inevitably back to winter. The willow has yellowed and dropped it’s leaves. It stands like a pencil sketch in the front yard. The deer look healthy and strong, but it won’t be long before their ribs show and they resort to eating the “deer-proof” things I foolishly plant year after year. I wonder how the chickadee doesn’t freeze, how anything outside survives when the woods are frigid and still. I wish humans could hibernate through the winter seasons of life. I wish I could curl up deep underground, where I’m protected from the cold, and sleep until my heart finds spring. 

I found a hellebore on sale and planted it on the anniversary of Samuel’s death. A Lenten Rose. It’s a tough flower. It likes to bloom in February, in the snow. I planted it as a show of faith that beauty can grow in impossible places, when the ground is iced over and everything looks dead. I might need the reminder. 

My Friend Amay

I made a friend this summer. Her family called her Amay (it’s Mongolian for grandmother). She was homebound, and I checked in on her while her family was gone on a trip. It started as a favor, but we became friends. She was full of humor and had a generous heart. I enjoyed spending time with her.

One day in September Amay stood up and the bones in her back crumbled. That was how she found out she had stage 4 cancer. It was everywhere, and there was nothing anyone could do.

I was drawn to sit with her while she was sick. She told me stories of her life, joked about her symptoms, and talked about death. She was confident in her Savior and ready for heaven. I didn’t feel uncomfortable in the slightest holding her hand and listening. I wasn’t worried about what to say or how to be. I knew there wasn’t an easy way out. There were no pat answers to make this better, to soothe her pain or provide dignity as she lost her ability to do basic things. Looming death made each of her days real, all pretenses removed. Her courage was refreshing. Even in her last weeks she was teaching her grandkids one more thing…how to face death with hope. Her friendship has been a gift to me.

Finally I can identify a positive change as a result of what I’ve been through the last year. My troubles have stripped away taboos and tensions around the subject of death. Before I lost a child I would not have been able to reach beyond my anxiety of words like “cancer” and “terminal” to see Amay, both who she was and what she was facing. I would have been concerned, and sad for her suffering. I would have said something like “let me know if you need anything” to her family. My intentions would have been good, but I doubt I would have made a sincere effort to be present. I wouldn’t have known what to say. I wouldn’t have known how to look her in the eyes, both of us aware that soon the cancer would win it’s mutiny against her body.

But I’ve learned how to be still with grief. I’ve made some discoveries about what is comforting, and I’ve seen how well-meaning people can inadvertently add to sorrow. I’m no longer afraid to come close to someone who is suffering in circumstances without answers.



Amay died on Wednesday.

Two weeks ago she called her family around and asked their permission to let go. They talked and cried. She has lived with them for 10 years, long enough so her grandkids don’t remember life without her there. At the end of the conversation, in the whisper of a voice she had left, she told them to crowd in for a group selfie. She makes me laugh.

I will miss her.

We Put Up The Tree (or…life is unpredictable when you’re grieving)

We lugged the Christmas decorations out of the basement this weekend, after my kids assured me we were the very last people on earth who hadn’t put up a tree. Since the accident I’ve been something of a bah-humbug about Christmas fluffery, but I’m not going to take it away from Jana and Michael. We turned on our favorite music, and the kids dove happily into the boxes. 

Last year we didn’t put up Samuel’s stocking. I let the kids decide, and my ever-logical Jana thought it was silly to hang it since “he doesn’t need it, he’s dead.” (Michael took an opportunistic approach. He suggested we include Samuel’s stocking and buy presents as normal, but then he would open it all for his brother, and play with it too. We said no to that.)

When I asked this year, they both wanted it over the fireplace with the others. I was excited. We could fill it with little notes of love, or ideas of kind things we could do for others. Maybe we could buy gifts for Angel Tree or things to use in next year’s Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes. We could write out memories of Samuel. An empty stocking is an opportunity for so many meaningful things!

Then Michael changed his mind. He paced the room, distressed. He didn’t want Samuel’s stocking out because it would remind him that Samuel had died, and then he would be sad. 

OK, no stocking for Samuel.

He deteriorated further as we decorated the tree. He didn’t want to include Samuel’s ornaments, although the rest of us felt it important. He broke down crying. He said he missed Samuel, but he didn’t want to remember his brother’s death, and he didn’t want Christmas to be sad. He admitted he was afraid of dying too. And all of this was going to ruin Christmas.

I sat on the floor and held him, tears running down his face. 

“Mommy?” His voice was small. “If we hadn’t adopted Samuel, he wouldn’t have died, right?”

Oh how my heart hurts. 

How do I answer that question?

The doorbell rang, unusual for a Sunday morning when we’re normally at church. A sweet friend noticed we weren’t there and left early to visit us. I wiped the tears off my cheeks and invited her in, thankful for her gesture. We talked while the kids and I worked on the tree. 

After she left, Michael’s interest bottomed out. He ran off to distract himself with something happier. Jana got scratched by the cat and didn’t want to decorate anymore. She disappeared to her room with the dog. Jeremy’s head started to hurt and he felt nauseous, so he excused himself to lay down, hoping to ward off the potential migraine. The CD ended. I stood in the living room, boxes scattered about the floor, alone except for the grumpy cat. The air felt heavy. I stared at the half-finished tree. 

Things don’t always go the way we plan. 

It’s worse since Samuel died. We get grumpy or tired, or knocked flat by a wave of grief, and things fall apart. But on the other hand, it’s better. Because compared to Samuel, what’s the big deal if our Christmas tree decorating family time is a flop? 

I reheated my coffee and finished the tree by myself. I might not care, but I can shoulder the task because it’s important to my family. I wouldn’t have chosen these lessons of life and death for my kids, but God has allowed it. They are learning what death looks like in this world. They also need reassurance that it’s OK to keep living. Grief and joy can coexist. 

I kept a few things out, just in case Jana decided to contribute a little more in the next day or two. I left most of the other decorations in their boxes. The kids won’t miss them, and I don’t want the extra hassle. We have enough.

We keep going, one moment at a time.

Reading The Evil Hours


I’ve been reading a book called “The Evil Hours” by David Morris. It’s an insightful look at his experience with PTSD after being a journalist embedded with Marines in Iraq. I am reading it with a pencil in hand because I keep underlining large sections of it. I’ve never been to war, and I don’t suggest that my experience comes close to the repeated trauma endured by our deployed soldiers. The damage, however, is surprisingly relatable.

One of the stressors of being in Iraq was the concern of IED’s. Every time they went on the road, they drove in fear of these unseen, undetectable, deadly threats. Often they went out and were fine, but other times men never returned, or came back injured. One day Morris and his Humvee patrol struck an IED. 

My instinct is to minimize my experience, because a car accident can’t possibly be as horrific as hitting an IED. But as I read, I realized there were similarities. Both situations happened without warning. Neither of us was targeted, we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Morris and I felt detached watching the events unfold. The back half of our van was gone, as if it had been blown off. And in my situation, it was my own children pinned, crying, bleeding, and dying.

So, PTSD. As I drive, I’m hyper vigilant. In my mind the threat of another accident is as real as the threat of running over an IED in Baghdad. Every driver can be inattentive, and many are aggressive. Which will turn into an enemy? Which one is going to slam into us? Only my enemies aren’t actual enemies. They are my neighbors, parents of my children’s classmates, or someone trying to make a last minute turn into Starbucks. Any of them can be dangerous, playing with their phones or messing with a lid on their drinks. That’s all it takes. 

I startle at loud noises. I tense up when I hear cars coming down our street. I look suspiciously at cars turning around in the cul-de-sac. I watch for distracted drivers as if I were looking for signs of IEDs in the sand. That person on their phone, are they paying attention to the road? If they come near me will I die? My heart races and I cannot calm myself down.

Morris also talks about the feeling of disconnect that is common in PTSD sufferers. He described his shock at returning from Iraq to find that people understood very little about the war, and most were not interested in his experiences there. They could not relate, did not want to relate. While he was immersed with life and death, the Americans at home moved on obliviously with their sports games, entertainment, family and jobs. He felt cut off. He discussed how people with PTSD feel separated from the world around them, conspicuous and different. Their minds are trapped in another time. Many feel they’ve been branded with a scarlet letter. 

I’ve been keenly aware of my own scarlet letter. I am marked as the mother whose child died. I often feel I have nothing in common with the people around me who continue on with their lives, unable to understand what has changed in mine. It’s as if time froze at the accident. It looks like I’m present, safe in today, but Samuel’s death replays inside my soul, sometimes vividly. Interwoven into my day is the awareness of how easily death can come, and this burden sets me apart. 

I had studied PTSD before my own experience with it. I knew about hyperarousal, nightmares, dissociation, and avoidance. But I did not understand about loneliness. I’ve spent much of the past year angry at others because of my loneliness (even as many have reached out to me), and ashamed at the distance I feel between myself and those around me. It’s been a relief to realize that feeling alone and disconnected is a classic part of PTSD, regardless of the level of support someone has. Understanding has helped me accept, and by accepting I have been less angry. And, ironically, accepting the disconnect has helped me connect better with others.

“We are born in debt, owing the world a death. This is the shadow that darkens every cradle. Trauma is what happens when you catch a surprise glimpse of that darkness, the coming annihilation not only of the body and the mind but also, seemingly, of the world…Trauma is the glimpse of truth that tells us a lie: the lie that love is impossible, that peace is an illusion.” -The Evil Hours, David Morris

On an semi-unrelated note, my driving problems have greatly improved over the past two months. While driving remains stressful, I can do it if needed, and it no longer sinks me into hours of fog and darkness. I spend too much time watching the rear-view mirror, but I’ve stopped exploding and raging at every car that gets close. My bruised hands have healed. I haven’t cursed at another driver for weeks. I have no idea what caused the change, but I’m happy for it. 

Dear Samuel

Dear Samuel, 

Somehow it’s been a whole year since you left us. 

I didn’t know a person could hurt this much. I look outside my window and am surprised that the world continues on, as normal as can be. I should see flood waters, or war-damaged buildings, something massively tragic, to match the devastation in my heart. It seems that everyone else should have hollow eyes and walk with stone heavy legs the way I do. 

The world looks the same though, just like the day you left. The sky is a pale winter blue, and most of the leaves have fallen onto the forest floor. Nika moves through the house, following patches of sun on the rug for her naps, and the neighbors have pulled out their Christmas decorations. Your friends are in 1st grade now, but otherwise school hasn’t changed. Your best toys are still on the bookshelf in your room. I like seeing them there, they remind me of you. Michael says he doesn’t mind. 

It all looks the same on the outside, but you are missed by many. I know Daddy and I weren’t the only ones who cried over you this week. Ms. Bird gave me a hug at school, she misses you. So does Mrs. Hargrove. All the teachers thought about you a lot this week. I didn’t have to tell them it was the anniversary of your death, they just knew. Ms. Dawn from church misses you, and Miles and Theo. And so many others. There were a lot of pennies and flowers at your grave. Ms. Kelly took you a special rock from Iceland. It was smooth on one side and rough on the other. She knows all about boys and rocks, and hasn’t forgotten how much you liked to touch intriguing things.

I have always been proud to be your mom. You were beyond adorable. Maybe it was your combination of vibrancy and shyness. Your smile and blue glasses certainly helped. You were clever and funny and a hard worker. It was interesting to hear what you were thinking. I still look around and notice little mysteries you would want to explore. I miss trying to answer your questions, already far beyond my engineering and mechanical knowledge. I miss singing in the car with you, and I miss watching you dance and giggle. I miss watching you carry the leaf blower, bigger than you, just so you could help daddy in the yard. I miss hearing you and Michael whisper to each other at night after the lights were turned off. I miss seeing you grin and run through the kitchen to give Daddy the biggest hug when he came home from work. He misses that too. 

Sometimes I try to remember your voice, and it stays just out of reach. I can’t believe I’m forgetting already. My throat tightens with dread because I know as the years pass, I’ll forget more. I am so sorry. Trust me, I desperately want to hold on to every detail in my mind. It is cruel that even some of my memories of you will fade or get lost with time. 

We are indeed dust. It is bitter. 

You taught me so much. It’s because of you I know about hydraulic cylinders, and can identify every type of construction vehicle I see. I also gained a deeper understanding of big things through you, like attachment and fear. Watching you face surgeries and speech difficulties I learned about courage. You taught me about love, and healing, and patience. And now I’m learning about grief. I don’t like this last one so much. 

I’ve never been good at ending letters, and this one is harder than most. The ending is so…final. Because it’s more than the end of a letter. I can remember, honor you, talk about you, look at pictures, and (thankfully) watch videos and hear your voice. But when the conversation is over, or the video stops, or the letter ends, you are still gone. The memories don’t really fill the empty spaces you’ve left. I don’t think anything ever will. Some things can’t be healed this side of eternity. 

I hope you knew you were special. And loved. 

We miss you Samuel.