Kids and Grief

It’s mid-June already. June is half gone and still the journey of grief has not ended. If you would have told me when he died that I’d still have days when grief sapped my energy over 9 months later, I would have thought you didn’t know me. You would be underestimating the fact that am not a curl-up-and-stop-living kinda gal.

But then again, I’d never walked this kind of grief. And I’d never been responsible to help four fragile souls walk it too.

My kids are so unique. They have been since my pregnancies with each. Each one is a unique person created by a loving God to do amazing things. My favorite part of motherhood is watching who they are growing to be each day. Each one has their own personalities and experiences and hobbies. And so it makes sense that each one also has their own unique means of dealing with grief.

My heart has ached for them since that sad night when tragedy forever altered their universes and I had to tell them Daddy was gone. This was not something I could shield them from or make go away. This was not something I could fix. This is life and this is the journey God entrusted to them, as painful as is it.

As I’ve walked the past nine months as a widow, I have had to deal with my own waves of grief and struggles to deal in the day-to-day with the loss of my husband, my partner, my friend. I’ve also had to deal with their grief. I have had to become head of the home, spiritual leader, and grief counselor all rolled up inside this one exhausted mama.

The week he died little things that he liked could reduce me to tears. Seriously I burst into tears when someone held up a bottle of Famous Dave’s BBQ sauce to ask if the kids wanted it with dinner and all I could say was this was his favorite. Sobs poured out and I remember collapsing against Chelsea’s shoulder feeling lost, helpless, sad, and a touch embarrassed that BBQ sauce caused this reaction.

Now I can make the bed and smile remembering how he loved the smell of the blankets fresh off drying on the line. Now I can laugh with Lucy about a day when Daddy swung on a swing next to her. Now I can appreciate the irony that the exhaustion of dealing with all this has forced me to give in to naps. Kraig used to say I needed to appreciate naps more. I rarely can shut my mind down to nap. Kraig could fall asleep at the drop of a hat.

For the most part now, the things that sap my energy and reduce me to watching House Hunters International when I should be cleaning are when grief sneaks up on my kids. When grief sucker punches my son and he confesses to me something that has bothered him since the funeral because he didn’t understand it. When one of my daughters still doesn’t want to talk about it much and I wonder how long I wait between asking how she’s doing. When my tiniest princess comes upstairs at bedtime and tells me she misses Daddy’s snuggles, again. When my son with autism confesses to me his fear that it’s his fault that dad died because he prayed for God to take Dad’s pain away and I told him there’s no pain in heaven.

That last one stole my breath and made me reach deep for a Biblically-sound answer. Five years of Bible college, don’t fail me now. But more important than any theology class I took is the journey God has allowed me to walk with Him and the time I’ve spent praying that I would not screw this up with my kids. These things have shored up my foundation and reminded me of the security of my faith.

I took time to explain to Ryan that, no, it wasn’t his fault. God is not like a mean genie waiting to twist our words. I explained that God sees all of the world and time like a big picture that we can’t see because we are tiny parts of the picture. God knows what is best and loves us. I trust He had a reason for letting Daddy go to heaven and He will continue to take care of us. Ryan smiled through his tears and told me he believes me. He even told me I could put it in my blog because he had read one of my blogs and it helped him understand how I feel missing Dad.

These things make me lose sleep. These things hit me in the gut. These things make me understand why someone would enjoy a glass of wine to cope. I can’t stand the taste so I settle for popcorn. But most importantly, these things drive me to pray.

God knew the kind of journey this would set my kids on. He knew the wounds that would show up on their hearts after losing a Daddy who loved them. He knew how this will affect their lives and He still promises He has plans for them—plans to prosper and not harm them, plans to give them hope and a good future. He has promised He will use even this for their good. I trust that with every fiber of my being.

So I continue to work on a more disciplined devotional time in the morning over cups of tea. I will allow myself the occasional House Hunters marathon to recover from the whirlwind of dealing with four unique people I’m guiding through grief. I will allow myself the expense of some Smart Fit Popcorn from Sam’s club the next time I go. I will allow myself a nap every now and again because these things help me recharge for the next time one of them needs to be sad and ask questions from wounded hearts.

And I will give thanks that for the most part, life is moving on in their worlds. Jarod is making his clay figures for his big summer movie. Ryan is trying to find books to enjoy so he can keep his Landscaping class at high school next fall instead of additional reading. Kati is excitedly getting ready for Rainbow Bible Ranch for insane amounts of horse fun. Lucy is trying her best to read to me so she moves forward in her reading level—her idea, bless her. They laugh. We live life. We fall into the new rhythm of normal.

I will keep moving forward because I know God goes with me. And if He is with me, as hard as this is, I have nothing to fear.

Petrichor

Petrichor – the smell of rain on the dry ground. Any Dr. Who fan reading this is smiling and knowing where I learned that word. But seriously, as someone who loves words, how did I not know for 40 years that this incredible smell had a name?!

Tonight we could smell it on the air. The storm clouds were dark and foreboding on the horizon and petrichor wafted through the windows and the screen door. The day had been hot and full of emotion and the cool wind and fantastic smell seemed to calm everything down. Petrichor smells like change.

Today was the last day of school. Today was a day of closing chapters and it was a day spent trying to further beautify my house for potential buyers. My fantastic friend, Kellie, again gave of her time and her organizational gifts to help out. This time she helped my eldest son work a miracle in his room.

When I ooh’d and aah’d at the transformation, she shrugged as if it was no big deal. No big deal to help a teen who was trying his best NOT to be bothered that she was messin’ with his stuff. No big deal to bring order to chaos. No big deal to bless me, asking for nothing in return.

Today was a day when I felt wholly inadequate at expressing gratitude to the extent it was needed. Today I thanked teachers, principals, school secretaries, and paraprofessional aides, for the amazing amounts of support and care they have given my kids and I. Today I said goodbye to most of them as we will be in new schools this fall if the sale of my house happens. New chapters will be opened.

But these schools have been fantastic in the midst of grief. Even before that they were fantastic in autism and the daily grind of middle school and elementary school. But in the midst of the greatest crisis my family had ever faced, they stepped up to support and assist in ways far beyond their job titles. How do you adequately say “thank you” for that?

Danny Janklow, the principal at North Middle School, responded to my thank you with a smile and simple, heartfelt words: “Thank you for sharing your children with us.” I cried. Chandra Spotted Eagle, vice principal, made sure someone took a picture of mom and Ryan together and then gave me a long hug. Michael Deming promised to get me all the contacts I would need to get Kati the best start at South Middle School this fall once we got settled in our new home. Secretaries told me I would be missed but that I would make a place for myself at the new schools just fine. Teachers gave hugs.

When I arrived home, still reeling from all this support and love, I discovered someone had anonymously left flowers in a pot on my doorstep. Ryan had wanted to plant more but with the move, I’d been putting him off. Now he has something to tend that perhaps I won’t kill.

Tonight I am blessed and feeling less shaky on the precipice of the unknown before me. Tonight I am grateful for the connections God has helped me make and a little bit more confident I can make more in the coming school year at new schools. I am a little more optimistic someone will love my house enough to buy it and all will go well with moving us into a fresh place for fresh starts.

Petrichor smells like a fresh beginning, a clean slate, I think. It was the perfect smell to end a day like today.

The Fit that Never Was

There’s a t-shirt I’ve seen that reads “I speak in fluent movie quotes.” This is so me. Ask any of my friends and they will tell you that far too many of my sentences begin, “That’s like that episode of…” or “That’s like that movie…” or “Have you heard that song where….” What’s funny is that I think like that, too. And sometimes, God even uses those images that are trapped in my head or those lines to speak to me.

Today I had a replay of a scene from Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers and it was not pretty. Remember the scene where the creature, Gollum, is arguing with himself? One side of his personality is drawing closer to being kind and letting go of his rage and the rage side is arguing. The argument is taking place inside his head but it is so masterfully directed that after a while, you think you are watching two people fight.

I sometimes feel like that when I get overwhelmed these days. There’s a part of me, sometimes but not often, that wants to scream. It wants to stomp my feet and throw a fit worthy of a three-year-old. Having my helper, my husband, my partner suddenly ripped from my life right as my children are becoming busy teens isn’t fair. Six months ago when my sisters came to grieve with me, they made me an offer I kind of wish I would have accepted. They offered to drive out into the Black Hills someplace and let me scream at the unfairness of it all until my throat was raw. I didn’t do it then and I didn’t do it today.

Maybe it would be cathartic. Mostly, though, I fear it would mean admitting defeat. I would feel it would be as immature as a small child, even if nobody else heard me. Or perhaps it would just open a floodgate of emotions. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not hiding from my grief. I cry and I feel sad. But I do not wallow and giving in to this seems like wallowing.

Tonight’s trigger was too many scheduled things at once and having to talk my 15-year-old through finishing dinner and trusting him to serve his siblings while I had to run to work later than was normal. It wasn’t even the worst day I’d had like this. But I was exhausted and as I drove to work, the split-screen fight was waging in my head. I’m pretty sure the one side might have been as ugly as Gollum. But it’s the smaller side.

I mean, I have friends who are doing the single parenting thing off and on and they don’t get to pitch a fit. Two of my friends have husbands working for the railroad. They can be gone 36 hours, home for 12, and gone again. Another has a husband gone in the oil fields for two to three weeks at a time. I have military wives as friends. They are doing this and therefore I do not feel I have the right to throw a pity party.

Instead I needed to put on my smile and go record my voice in a professional manner for the radio show I do. I needed to announce coming events and toss in some personal banter all with a smile in my voice so there didn’t need to be a schizophrenic fight lurking beneath the surface. Suck it up, Jenn.

But as the show went on, I think God was gently nudging me back to a place where I wasn’t focused on how hard this was. To be honest, working as a DJ at a Christian station means a lot of times the song titles are just words I’m reading. But not tonight. The very songs I was announcing were gentle reminders of God’s presence in this life I’m living.

There was “Broken Hallelujah” by The Afters reminding me to offer my praise to God even if I’m having to dig deep to find any. There was “I Am” by Crowder with its chorus reminding me where God is in this: “I am holding on to you, in the middle of the storm, I am holding on, I am.” There was Francesca Battistelli’s new song, “Write Your Story,” perfect for the journey I believe God is prompting me to pursue as a writer of the story of all He’s done in my life.

As I continued to struggle to keep the toddler inside me from pitching that fit the songs kept speaking to my heart. “Be My Rescue” by Nicole Nordeman and “Lord I Need You” by Matt Maher echoed that when the stress starts to overwhelm and exhaust me, I know where to turn. The tears were close to the surface now for a different reason. I knew that God knows this stinks. He knows this is hard and it’s gonna take time to figure it out. He knows it’s taking all my strength some days to keep moving forward.

And then I came to a song that reached me in another dark moment of my life. It was a day when my youngest child was having an MRI to see if she could handle open-heart surgery. She was three days old. In that moment of absolute helplessness to do anything for her, God sent me a song by Third Day, “Call My Name.”

Tonight as I listened to the last chords of that song play and started to talk into the commercial break, my voice cracked. I shared with whomever would be listening why this song moves me and encouraged them that God has promised to run to whomever calls on the name of Jesus. Maybe the tears in my voice will reach someone listening. I may never know. But they reached me and shut that little fit-throwing-toddler in my head right up.

Maybe there will come a day when I need to scream at the unfairness of it all—of losing my husband of twenty years with no warning, of having to care for four kids all by myself on the hectic nights when friends are too busy to help, of grief just not being fair. But not tonight. I just needed some reminders of who God is and where He is. I just needed to call His name.