Stuff

You know, it is coming across stuff that was either Christopher's or special to him or simply a part of our life together that can most reliably stir up the pain in my heart. I did a lot of going through stuff (feeling compelled to simplify by de-cluttering around the house) last night. I came across stuff that I had never seen before, notes from when Christopher in high school, papers he wrote. Just seeing his goofy handwriting makes me thankful and sad all at the same time.

I still live in the same house where I lived with Christopher and I still work at the same job where I worked when he died. I suspect that until I move, I will forever being dealing with "stuff" that makes triggers intense emotion. I absolutely dread dealing with the garage because that was his domain and practically everything in it is connected to Christopher in some way. It will only be when I move that I will be done going through everything. But then there are still the pictures.

Through the years, thankfully, I was faithful to have taken Christopher to an amazing photographer. Pictures of him are throughout the house. I used to joke that I was sure that there would be days that he would wonder why his biological family didn't want him, but he would certainly be able to look around our home and know that he was wanted and is cherished.

Lately, I've realize that people deal with the loss of a child in vary different ways. I have met two people who lost a child 20 or more years ago and it seems to me that the pain is just as real to them, but they keep it very personal and private, There are times that I am not ever sure that people around them even know of there loss. Then I got to thinking. . .

It makes me wonder if when I move - home/job - if I will be inclined to put out all the pictures that I have out now. It feels weird even now to put up new pictures. I don't know the answer to that. It is so natural to add to the wall as he grew up, but I am so afraid of creating some kind of memorial that I will forever have to sustain.

(This reminds me of a friend who lost a young daughter and she immediately took down all the pictures from the walls of their family home. They have since moved away from the area and I suspect that their new home is void of evidence of this precious child. Please know that this is in no way a reflection of their love for their child, but rather they way of getting through the pain.)

Having said that, I can't imagine that there will come a day, even when the stuff is all gone, that I won't want people to know about Christopher. This is such a difficult balance because I don't want Christopher's death to define who I am although it will forever be a part of who I am. Oddly, his life and his death make me who I am, but they don't define me.

This serves as my reminder that the stuff is a part of who Christopher was, but it isn't him. As I let go of the stuff, it is not a reflection of my determination to put him behind me. Christopher is and will always be a part of my life and for that I am very thankful.

Tough, but good week . . .

This has been a rough week on so very many levels. There was an issue that came up involving my family that angered me and tempted me to think that that is the family that defines me. There has also been a struggle with disbelief that my life is really going forward without enjoying watching my son move forward, living a full life. I have reverted to old habits to try to manage the recurring anxiety and I have made some significant decisions. Add to that, I donated a haul of stuff to a fundraising sale at Camp Charis, but that "stuff" came out of some painful time spent coming across and going through things that were all about Christopher. "Stuff" continues to be a source great pain.

Last Sunday, I actually attended church for the third week in row. This is a new record, probably since Christopher died. I had stayed in bed until the last possible minute, really not wanting to go. Then I couldn't find my car key! I looked and looked all the time, reminding God that He was pushing it, because I didn't want to go as it was. Funny thing is that after I continued to look, I realized (and was "forced" to admit) that apparently I did want to go to church. That was a turning point.

Because of this revelation that I really did long to enjoy fellowship with my God, I took the risk of meeting with a friend on Tuesday. She and I talked about the disbelief and I wanted to understand where disbelief slips into unbelief (i.e., sin). Ruth is such an encouragement as she reminds me of the pain that Jesus felt, reassuring me that she didn't see this as an issue of faith as much as an issue of grief.

Church

Well, I went to church this morning. First time I have chosen to go since September, and before that May. All three "visits" were at three different churches. One, which is very small and full of ministry opportunity, is where I had been at the time of the accident. One, I had attended before Christopher and I became a family. Today's, I was attending when I adopted Christopher and we were there together for about 10 years.

I need to get back to corporate worship. For that matter, I need to get back to private worship, too. Church is hard. It is hard to ignore God when you are in His house; seems kind of rude. Today, I realized that the words to the songs are so much more personal that I ever remember them being. To sing them is to speak them to God and that is hard.

I've never been good at lying. I credit my parents with this as they always told me I wasn't a good liar and I believed them. (I tried to give this gift to Christopher. I always made sure that he knew I could tell when he was not being truthful. I can remember when, someone must have told him that parents could tell you were lying when you wouldn't look at them in the eye. After that, he would star intently at me when he was lying. It actually made his lies much easier to detect, I must say!) The thought of lying to God is a tough one to consider and it feels like singing these songs/hymns is lying to God because, while I believe what they say, I don't feel it right now. That's why prayer is difficult right now. On the other hand, church is good for me right now. It forces me to expose myself to the truths I believe.

I have to say, however, that I am encouraged to realize that the difficulty with prayer is the same as the difficulty with taking to a friend who cares deeply; in both cases, I am free to feel deeply. However, rather than do that, I tend to isolate. My fear of feeling the depth of the pain is bigger than my hope of comfort which might be available in relationship.

It is times like this that I think about how I would respond as a parent. It would make me terribly sad if Christopher were not willing to come to me for comfort when he was hurting. I suspect that my unwillingness makes God sad as well, as if I can't trust Him to provide comfort to match my pain.

As Dr. Phil would say, "How's that working for you?" I need to think about this. It is a choice that I am making.

Need to start living

Just last night, I heard someone who had experienced a very challenging circumstance related to her one and only son with her only son. Long story short, in spite of having been the ideal child well into his twenties, her son is now serving a life sentence. I am envious of this woman's faith and how it continues to sustain her. She obviously knows God in a way that is not familiar to my experience . . . at least since December 2007.

In an interview, this woman talked about the daily choice that she and her husband have to make to live, in spite of having to give up the hopes and dreams that they had for their family. Although they are able to see their son, they have no hope of him every living the life that they had always envisioned. Obviously, we share this loss even though the circumstances are very different.

I've said from that first night that Christopher would be so angry if I let his death ruin my life. He never would have wanted that power, to effectively take my ability or willingness to live. And yet through my own decisions, perhaps in response to his death, but my decisions nonetheless, I am reluctant to live fully. Oh, I am moving forward and, by all appearances I am doing well. Nobody, however, knows how much energy goes into getting through each day. It is a lot of work to keep the emotions and the fears and the doubts in check. I worry that if people see how I really felt then they would try to fix it, confirming my concern that there is something wrong that I still hurt so severely. Then you have the issue of faith. I want so much to be a person who trusts God and I have concluded that the depth of my pain reflects a lack of faith. Therefore, to be a good witness to the power of the gospel, I can't let anyone see how much I hurt.

This all leaves me isolated because that is the only way that I can ensure that I can keep it all in check, nobody to answer to.