7 Months

I have continued to take a partial-hiatus from social media. The times I catch myself scrolling through my Instagram or Facebook feed on Safari, I'm aware of how empty and meaningless it feels and I close the window. In the initial wake of losing Jerrod, posting or blogging about some of what I was experiencing and receiving some acknowledgment, encouragement or word of comfort in return felt helpful. And then it didn't. I suddenly felt the need to more privately sit with my grief and tend to my heart alone with the Lord. It's a journey that I will continue to walk, mostly alone, because it's mine alone to carry.

We have lived so much life in the past 7 months, more than I would have thought possible with how much we have simultaneously been mourning. There are moments when I have been so consumed with joy, singing and dancing with my children, it feels like my heart could burst.  And just as quickly there are tears streaming down my face. It is an exhausting yin and yang. My heart aches that there was a last moment of Jerrod delighting in Jackson and that there never was nor ever will a be first moment of delighting in Avery.  My heart breaks for the future he will not have and the future we have without him. I said to Bret at Christmas, “we made it through the first one without Jerrod, but it’s just that: the first; the first of the rest of every Christmas without him.” We haven’t made it through and now we’re done; we’re only just beginning.

My blogging has also decreased because the reality is that it feels impossible to regularly and accurately convey what the process of living with grief feels like; words fall short. I start to type or post something and then I stop.  Mostly I just read other people's stories and experiences of grief and loss. They are tragic and beautiful: the love that we carry and the depths of grief and pain we can survive.  While they don't fully reflect my experience, I feel connected to a community of mourners finding their way through the impossible.  And because I have also used this blog to share resources, one community I'm in the process of getting connected to is called The Dinner Party.  I'll get the opportunity to meet with other 20-30-somethings who have also experienced a significant loss.  I'm hopeful of raw and authentic conversations with other individuals who have an understanding of the weight I carry. Books are great, but people are better. I'll try to update how it goes.

Last Day

Currently listening:


I have found myself emotionally consumed by this memoir. I didn't know Harris Wittels, though I unknowingly loved his work as a fan of Parks & Recreation. So his death was not something I became aware of until the death of my brother. I first heard his sister and mom sharing their story on Nora McInerny's podcast: Terrible, Thanks for Asking.  I remember sharing that podcast episode with my mom because I connected so much to their experience of finding out about Harris's death.  While my brother technically took his own life, he and Harris battled the same demon: heroin.  Since the tragic death of her brother, Stephanie Wittels Wachs has started a podcast that I'm just discovering and diving into after internet stalking her upon listening to half of her book on audio.  The way our brother's died and the circumstances following their death are very different, especially given the fact that my brother was not famous, but I connect so much to her emotional experience. And I LOVE the raw, real way she writes.

Grief & Christmas

A simplified list of things a grieving person would like people to be aware of at Christmas (though I would add any holiday or significant moment). Link at the bottom. 

1. Even the best times are punctuated with an awareness that someone is missing.
2. Social situations are hard.
3. Extended family can be awkward and uneasy.
4. Tears are not a problem.
5. It can be hard to remember why Christmas should be so merry.

https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/what-grieving-people-wish-you-knew-at-christmas

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.

A sad and grateful heart

In the interest of sharing the good along with the bad, I bring you this post:

My spiritual mentor/“mama” (if you don’t have one of those, get one. And fast!) has long preached and modeled the practice and gift of gratitude. Admittedly this is one of those things I just did without question or much discussion because when Mama M tells you to do something, you do it; she’s wise and I never have to question where her heart is. So I’ve been at this practice of gratitude on a daily-to-sometimes-nonexistent basis for the past, approximately, five years. I don’t know that it has always, if ever, felt earth shattering. I am also notoriously bad at being in tune with myself on a regular basis. Unless the emotion is strong, I don’t give it much attention, so it’s likely that I don’t notice the little shifts. I think that’s definitely been the case with the impact of gratitude in my life. It’s like a muscle I’ve slowly been trying to build over the years and until I actually go to do some abnormal, test-my-limits lifting, I don’t really see the growth or impact. I think in some ways that’s what has come to light in the midst of this loss.  I didn't see or fully experience the transformation gratefulness has to offer, but I'm beginning to recognize it now. I believe it’s the reason I’m not scared to feel all the big, painful feelings and have any amount of strength to do so. I've been keenly aware of the ways I have been loved through the hardest experience of my life and have been sustained by. Granted, some days it’s still hard to identify anything I’m grateful for, but when the dust settles on an emotionally hard day, the gifts start shining through.

I think I previously expected that the practice of gratitude would make the painful/hard things not hard and painful; probably part of the reason for my inconsistency. I’m experiencing more the reality of gratitude as something to carry me through the pain. If I was unable to see any good, any hope, any joy, then the sadness would overtake me; it would simply be too much to face. However, God reminds me everyday, when I choose to see it, that He’s always at work doing something; bringing new life and hope. There is beauty to come from the loss of my brother, not because what happened was good or ordained by God, but because God is good and He doesn’t waste anything. He will bring forth some sort of redemption and I want the eyes to see it.

Something else to ponder...

Be Kind. Always.

The other week I cried while getting a massage. To be fair, it was a few tears and my masseuse didn't have a clue. She assumed I asked for a tissue because lying on my stomach had stuffed up my nose, but it did not.  As soon she has began to massage my shoulders it was like the weight of the grief I have been carrying for the past 4 months began to loosen and the tears just started coming.  I had no idea how much I needed all of the emotion to physically be worked out of my body, nor entirely aware of the physical stress it was taking on my body. When the massage was over, I had gotten dress and began walking down the hall to the lobby, I literally felt like I was floating. No joke, my masseuse made that exact comment, as I almost stumbled my way out the door.

During the massage, we made small talk at different points talking about my kids and her grand-kids. I think she must've mentioned having twin-somethings because I shared that I "had" a twin, but she did not pick up on the past-tense. I'm not entirely sure if I wanted her to. It's a strange thing though, walking into any interaction with a complete stranger and feeling like I'm wearing this invisible wound.  It reminded me of the quote above and the fragility of this world.  I suppose that's why loss tends to make us more empathetic, because our hearts are softened to the pain of others and our eyes are more keenly aware of the brokenness around us. This doesn't mean we always get it right or say the right thing. I think we are all capable of forking* it up when unexpectedly faced with someone else's pain.  It just always feels like a loaded question when someone who doesn't know about my loss asks "how are you?" It's rarely an appropriate situation to share the truth, which just leaves me feeling alone and disconnected in these seemingly normal interactions.  At the same time, it also leaves me wondering how many times I have encountered someone unknowingly suffering; probably far too many.

I hope that as I move beyond the deep, deep sorrow to a place where my heart isn't perpetually aching, that my heart can continue to remain soft to the pain of others and the reality that we are all carrying some form of pain however big or small.  I hope that I will continue to learn to stop and engage wholeheartedly in a way that communicates that whatever they're going through, they matter and they're not alone. 

*The Good Place, anyone?