In one week, it will have been a year . . . .

This time (literally) next week, it will have been one year since I learned that Christopher had been involved in an accident.  Just four hours later, I was told, "we're sorry. . . . we did everything we could, but . . . ."

It amazes me how eerily similar it feels right now.  I just turned in an assignment electronically and my dining room table is covered with my reference materials.  The night before THE accident, I was in exact same situation.  Finishing a paper with stuff all over the dining room.

I am so thankful that tonight's assignments complete the required work for this semester.  I have classmates who have more assignments and exams.  I don't know what I would do if that were the case for me.  I can feel myself fading into the black hole that I have spent 51 weeks trying to climb out of.

Of course, this next weekend won't be as bad as the reality of these days last year, but they will be painful as the reality of the loss continues to settle in.  I am amazed at all the holes that Christopher has left in my life.  The biggest is simply Christopher.  I miss Christopher, the young man he was and the man that I know he was to become.

I have to choose to focus on all the holes Christopher filled in the 13+ years that I had him in my life.  Before Christopher, I could never imagine loving as I have now loved;  I could never have imagined having been loved as I have now been loved.  I have a dear friend who wants to believe that we can love without giving our whole hearts.  I have tried to see it her way, but know that had I protected myself from the pain that I was to ultimately endure, I never would have known the love that I have known.

I wish her well in proving her thesis, but I'll take this pain to have not missed that love.

Giving Thanks, but . . .

I had a wonderful Thanksgiving day; the weather was beautiful so we moved it outside and it couldn't have been nicer.  There were 10 adults and Rose, a precious 11 month-old daughter of a couple that I know from work/school.  Everybody contributed to the dinner, so I don't think it was overwhelming for any of us; I know that it wasn't for me.

Thanksgiving was always Christopher's favorite holiday; it was the most predictable in terms of food and he loved all of it.  Even Kim commented that as she was making the sweet potatoes with the marshmallows on top, she knew that would have been Christopher's favorite.  It is hard to do anything without thinking about him and how it would be if he were there; how it had been when he was there.

A funny story about last year's dinner was that we shared it with Julie and two of her daughters.  I had committed to dessert so I had two pies.  When I mentioned the pecan pie, Christopher asked me where I had "found" it.  I had no idea what he was talking about, but later learned that he had bought a pie from one of his teachers (they were made by ladies in the teacher's church).  He had a piece at school and then when he got home, he couldn't find it.  He thought that the one that I had was the "missing" pie.  I suspect that he had it on the top of his car and drove off, but we'll never know.  He was just so matter of fact as he asked me where I found the pie - it makes me smile to remember.

So Thanksgiving is over (at least formally; we should always be giving thanks) and once again, Christopher didn't show up.  Today is Friday, so I guess it was 51 weeks ago tonight that I lost him.  Next Sunday, December 7 marks the first anniversary (there must be a better word) of the accident that took his life.

There is still a huge part of me that can not fully appreciate the loss.  A friend's son got married this week and I realized that was something I expected to be a part of on Christopher's behalf and that was lost.  This coming spring he would have graduated (hopefully!) with all the pomp and business that brings.  That two was lost.

I have to remind myself that he is not in the presence of God feeling any loss for these worldly milestones.  But I am here feeling these and many losses very deeply.  There reamins a part of me that can't imagine that he is gone from this world; I think that is God's way of protecting me from what would be a very overwhelming sense of loss.  Not to say that just missing him isn't overwhelming enough.

Then there is the legal process which continues on.  There have been charges filed as it relates to the accident.  Two counts of vehicular homicide.  This has given me opportunity to try to minister to the other family who lost their mom that night.  One the other side, however, it makes it very difficult to try to keep focused on the future.  Every mention of it takes me back to that night.

I am very conflicted about this legal process; I have great empathy for how hard this must be for that family.  At the same time, I don't believe that always avoiding consequences is a good thing; it often is not the best thing in the long run.  

So, I am able to give thanks, genuinely give thanks, but I hurt in ways that I never thought possible.  I can no longer say, "Last Thanksgiving, Christopher and I . . . "   I know that I already can't reminisce about last Christmas, but it doesn't feel the same.  I suspect that this confirms the fact that most people say that last Christmas doesn't count as the first Christmas without him because I was so numb and didn't really even try to "do" Christmas.  This year however . . . 

I rejoice that I am certain of so many things, not the least of which is that Christopher is experiencing no loss or pain or regrets.  I rejoice that I will see him again.  And, I am thankful for those truths, but for today, it just hurts and I am sad and that's okay.

In three weeks it will have been a year . . .

If I may say so myself, I have done an excellent job of managing significant days over this past year. We celebrated Christopher in our lives on our adoption day (April 26) and we dedicated a playground in remembrance on his birthday. I even celebrated his birthday with family and his friends. But I come upon the most painful of the significant days. There is little to celebrate so what does one do.

I could celebrate the reality that Christopher is in Heaven. God has assured me of that. Through Christ's death on the cross that was secured. That is worth celebrating and I don't want to lose sight of that. But Christopher is the beneficiary of that. December 8 is the day that he received his reward and moved into the presence of his God and King. For me December 8 is a day of great loss and there is no way around that reality.

So, what do I do in remembrance on that day? Call me selfish, but I can't celebrate. The wound is still too fresh and too deep. I miss him as my son; I miss him as my "bud"; I miss the future that he represented for me. That is a lot of loss. There is still a lot of pain. I just can't celebrate.

Lord, God, prepare me for that day. Help me to be wise and do what I need to do to honestly face this loss and all the pain that goes with it. You have been with me all the way and I pray that You will be even more real to me December 7/8 as I remember the events that changed my world. I am thankful that You have enabled me to trust this to You and so I commit these details to You even now. Amen.

I'm sorry, but this just isn't right.

I am in Erie, PA, visiting my cousin. A little while ago, we were headed to be when my cousin told me to look outside, "it's white." While we peacefully watched "quality" Sunday night TV, the world outside changed. It had snowed. Everything is now different and it will be more different by morning.

It has been eleven months since Christopher died and I still have a hard time believing it. It has not even been three months since my cousin's thirty-year-old son was killed by a drunk driver. On the way to Erie, from my dad's house in Wooster, OH, I stopped and visited the mother of one of my brother's friends; her 17 year old granddaughter committed suicide last week. I've previously mentioned my friend whose four year old died in a day care fire. The list goes on.

I don't know that I ever knew anyone when they had a child die. I've learned since Christopher's death that it isn't an uncommon experience and I, in fact, know several people who have had a child die. I've been told that we are not wired to have to bury a child; we expect our parents to precede us in death, but never a child. If that is true, then why am I walking with so many through this horific experience?

When I look back to that night in December, if can remember the same numbness I feel tonight. There is an inability to really feel all that has happened; I still cannot believe that Christopher has left this world. I take great comfort in knowing that we will be reunited, but that does little good tonight.

The last time I was here with my cousin Linda, Christopher was with me. He, her then 14 year old son and 10 year old grandson went sledding with Christopher. When we left Cleveland for Erie in the morning, there was no snow, but by noon, there was plenty on which to fly down the local hills. Tonight is one of those nights. If Christopher were here, I have no doubt that he would, even now, be outside romping.

But he's not. Neither are Kevin, Grace, Megan, Ryan, Taylor, Steven, and the list goes on. I am sorry, but this just isn't right. Or is it. It sure feels wrong, I can tell you that.

We were laughing earlier today about our sons in heaven laughing at the two of us telling stories. Another of Linda's sons (she has five sons, a daughter, five granddaughters, and a grandson - she is much older that I), laughed and decided that the boys were probably saying, "I told you my mom was crazier than yours!" Jay may well be right.

I shared Steven Curtis Chapman's song, "With Hope" with Linda today. Then I realized that I have this all wrong. I am so blessed to have the hope of heaven. I cry, I ache, I hurt, but I somehow do all this with a sense of hope. It isn't a hope that I can always feel, but it is always there.

You know, it is night, and it is cold, here in Erie, but somewhere out there, the Sun is burning hot and bright. I don't feel it now, but it still is; my feelings have nothing to do with that reality. I don't feel like any loss of a child is "right", but it still is. God is good and He loves me. In the past eleven months, that has been my hope. Do I feel it, not often, but I have to remember, my feelings have nothing to do with that reality.