Anniversary of Loss

A year; it's been an entire year since Jerrod left this earth. Some days it feels like a lot longer and other moments it feels like just yesterday. It's been a shit year and a beautiful one. It's still really hard to sit with the reality of his absence and losing him in such a tragic, traumatic way. There's still plenty to process through and to let God heal. I don't have a ton of thoughts to share publicly and mostly created this post to share the above liturgy that was shared with me. Also, including a few quotes from one of the most accurate grief books I've read.

"You are alone in your grief. You alone carry the knowledge of how your grief lives in you. You alone know all the details, the subtlety and nuance of what's happened and what's been lost. You alone know how deeply your life has been changed. You alone have to face this, inside your own heart. No one can do this with you." (We are alone and we are not alone, such a weird experience.)

"Finding your middle way inside grief is about finding friendship with your own heart, making a home inside your own heart. It's in learning to bear witness to your own pain, in treating yourself like someone you love. It's about claiming your right to be in pain, without cleaning it up or making it pretty for someone else's comfort. It's about finding those who can share this path with you, who are not afraid to see your heart in all its pain and all its grace...The middle ground is always a work in progress. It's one that neither asks you to deny your pain, nor be forever engulfed by it. It's one that simply lets you find a home inside the reality of love, with all its beautiful and horrible parts."- It's Ok That You're Not Ok

"It's your life. The one you must make in the obliterated place that's now your world, where everything you used to be is simultaneously erased and omnipresent... The obliterated place is equal parts destruction and creation. The obliterated place is pitch black and bright light. It is water and parched earth. It is mud and it is manna. The real work of grief is making a home there." - Tiny Beautiful Things

Lauren Daigle reminds me so much of those early days of grief. I've connected a lot with her music today.

Thank you to anyone who has followed along this past year. The journey isn't over, but I'm not sure how much more I'll continue to share via this blog. Thank you for kind words, thoughts and prayers for me and my family. It is all truly appreciated. <3

grief and the internet

Taken from https://www.thatericalper.com/2015/08/16/person-is-asking-for-advice-hn-how-to-deal-with-grief-this-reply-is-incredible/

6 Months with Sis & the Advent of Joy

I recently took, what felt like, another blow to add to the shit storm of grief and immediately deleted my Instagram and Facebook apps. For whatever reason I knew I needed to be fully present with this new onset of emotions and that these two things would shortchange that; turning to the numbing and distraction of scrolling through posts mindlessly.  In all honesty, I still try to resort to those places but the inconvenience of going through Safari limits the frequency.

It’s also strange and a little embarrassing that there was some fear of being forgotten or even people not recognizing my absence. My motivation in sharing online is often about not wanting to feel alone and also hoping to feel more normal in my struggle through validation from others. It’s ridiculous, and again a little embarrassing, that a ️ or  can play even the smallest part on my feelings of self-worth or that I need any kind of validation from those places. I mean here I am even using another social media avenue for the illusion of connection. But this one’s audience is small; maybe even nonexistent (unless shared to FB), so I justify...

And for what? To share my daughter’s six month picture...because I guess otherwise the past six months of her life didn’t happen? (I know it also functions as a digital "baby book" of sorts and is nice to be able to click on her #ouraveryfaith hashtag and instantly have access to our memories.)  I know it is a public celebration of sorts and way of documenting gratitude for these milestones. And, again, also to not feel alone in the struggle that the past 6 months has been. I could just post my pretty picture of a smiling Avery and lead you to believe that this represents life for us.  It does represent some of our life to be sure, and it is not the whole picture.  I know that's the reality of any person's Instagram or Facebook presence.  Even when I post the hard stuff you're not REALLY seeing the whole picture. You're getting a glimpse into the hard, but not what it's like on a day-to-day, moment-to-moment, up and down, all over the place roller-coaster that we are living. 

The past six months have been full of joy and immense heartache. I am so grateful for my children and they also make it hard to grieve on a regular basis.  They need me to show up and I need them to remind me that life is still beautiful in the midst of the brokenness and pain.  I don't know what state I would be in without them.  Avery could not have come into our lives at a more complicated and perfect time. The warmth of her smile, which radiates constantly, is a daily reminder that light shines brightest in the dark. 

We've been going through Advent at church this year, which is something entirely new to Crossroads. It could not have come at a more perfect holiday season for me. The past week was on the Advent of Joy and talking a lot about how the Christmas story takes place at night; Night representing spiritual/emotional darkness. We are living in a season of Night and the only thing that I really connect with this Christmas is the desperate need for the return of our Savior. Chuck also talks about having joy that defies the night, our past and our present pain. While I have joy with my children, I have yet to fully access the joy and hope as it pertains to Jerrod's death and the grace and freedom he (and we) receive through Jesus' birth, death and resurrection.  So we mourn and we wait. And we cling to the little bits of light breaking through our night.

birthday twins

I think this is the last photo of just the two of us from our birthday, I think, 3 years ago.  That fact makes me really sad. And makes me want to be better about photographing my loved ones. But dang are you hard to get on camera. I think you always reluctantly took a picture with me and that's usually where the silly grin came from; giving you a hard time about shutting up and pretending to like me!

*click the photo for a link to my Instagram birthday post.

A letter..

Jerrod,

I was talking with mom this morning just trying to understand what happened, what we missed.  It's hard not to question and wonder if there's anything we could have done to have saved your life.  On the other hand I sat there thinking we knew dad was suicidal because he made multiple attempts and none of us could save him.  So, yes, maybe something we could have said or done could have made some kind of difference, but ultimately none of us could have saved you if you didn't want to save yourself; if you didn't believe it was possible or that you were worth saving.

Brother, I love you and I am so angry with you. We can wrack our brains trying to recall every detail of every conversation looking for the clues that you weren't well... and obviously we missed something. We can sit here and feel guilty and take blame for not knowing you were suicidal; for not asking harder, more direct questions... but you had a responsibility, too - to us. to yourself.  You hid this from us. Or you made cryptic comments that were interpreted one way when you meant another and we didn't clarify. You said you would never kill yourself and we believed you.  We failed each other.

I know there have been many times in my life when I have felt low and I just wanted someone to see me, to call it out for me, to show me that I am worthy and loved; ultimately that's no one's job but my own to discover and believe.  I wish you would have told us, that you could have found the words to let us help you carry your pain. Instead you took your life and gave it to us entirely. It's not fair.  I'm so angry and I'm so sorry.

God, how I wish you would have known and believed that there is no shame in struggling and/or failing.  You fought addiction on your own and we thought you did really well... just imagine how much your life could have changed had you let people fight alongside you instead of holding up this facade that you were strong enough to do it on your own or to deny that you were really struggling at all.  Did you think you'd be a burden? Did you think we'd be disappointed? Did you think you were weak? Did you think you were destined to end up like dad or too afraid to admit that you struggled like dad?  I have so many questions, so many answers I'll never receive.

At the end of the day I worry most that you didn't really think you were worthy or loved just because you were Jerrod.  I worry that you somehow misinterpreted our actions or words in a way that led you to believe that you were not wanted, that you would not be missed.  I know our dad believed some version of this; that he'd be serving us better with his life insurance policy than his actual life. I know you know that wasn't true, so how could you believe it about yourself? Brother, I just don't understand.

I don't know what it means to be in heaven and if you have any understanding of what is happening on earth after you have died. I trust that, like Jesus said to the criminal crucified next to him, that you are with him "in paradise"; that you are not continuing to suffer as a result of the pain of your death. I hope you know you are forgiven and deeply loved. I hope you are with our Father and our dad. I hope you are at peace and full of joy. I hope you know that I love you so much, that I miss you so much and that there will never be a day I don't wish you were here.

Love always,
   your twin sis

Open up and let the light in

We’re breaking all the rules this morning: sleeping in bed with mom and on our stomach. I don’t even care. This isn’t a post about co-sleeping. I know people do it and I don’t actually think it’s wrong. I’m just a rule follower and I never wanted kids in my bed. But we are surviving until we’re thriving (AND WE WILL THRIVE) so the occasional co-sleeping it is.

Staring at this face this morning, I just started weeping because life is beautiful and love brings so much joy even when it’s hard. Right now, in these moments, my heart aches that my brother didn’t feel it or at least not enough of it. He would have made a great father. Maybe he never would have had kids, but now he will never have a moment like this. And even if he never had kids, he will never hold mine again or for the first time. This baby girl won’t know the loving arms of her uncle. It’s a loss she won’t even know she has (besides factually), but I know and I grieve for her, too.

My friend Kristen sent me this post this morning. I don’t know Rachel, but her account is public, so I’m hoping she won’t mind that I’m sharing this here. Her words are beautiful and they speak to my heart. During or after I write each of these posts, I feel the light creeping in and there is peace. My heart is not wrecked all day long, and I know that’s in part due to allowing myself to feel the pain when needed and letting the Lord fill those dark spaces with his light and love.

What has started as a huge gaping hole will shrink as I grieve and heal over time. Sometimes that’s hard to reconcile because it feels like moving on and letting go of my brother, and I desperately don’t want to lose any more of him. So I have to remind myself that it’s not my pain or sorrow that keeps his memory alive, but simply the love that I carry for him in my heart and nothing can take that away.