Faith & Life

A Deeper Family :: Grief, 3 little girls and God somewhere.

Recently, I received an invitation to join a team of storytellers focused on drawing back the curtain on family by sharing pieces of life both lived through and learned.  I'm quite honored to be part of such a talented team of writers.  Diversity runs rampant between us, but one thing weaves consistent through us all: God.  And a few virtues we feel endearing and necessary: honesty, vulnerability, grace and tomorrow. Below is an excerpt from my first post for A Deeper Family.

It’s been two years since my wife drew her last breath in an ICU room after five days of being supported by medicine and machines, and finally I feel as though we are just beginning to level out.  You could imagine the polarized difference between a household balanced with two loving parents being reduced to half and the weight it would add.  Add sorrow and grief into the mix and the emptiness of daughter without mother.  And now add the emotional differences of three little girls and a hollowed out, shell-shocked dad.  That’s a recipe for implosion, full meltdown.

Continuing reading at A DEEPER FAMILY

you write the days.

Everyone has a story. Each day, a page in a chapter; your life written in words that hold more of the form of action than letters.  We lose sight of one day certain ahead when our lives sealed up by time will no longer be.  It will happen despite all effort given to keep it at an appropriate distance.  Every day the distance closes and we move every bit closer to the end.  But don’t lose value in the finiteness of life when death is remembered.  Much of life and living is discovered in death, the fine reality that one day we will reach the end.  Whether we are prepared or not, every story reaches resolve, or at least the end.

Greater treasure lies in death spied ahead than in life alone.  Trust me. ::::::::

Earlier in the week, we spent the evening running through a fairly normal routine.  The only difference being a camera following and documenting our activity both mundane and extraordinary.  The videographer planned to collect our family story on film for an organization that has become a tremendous shelter in our lives.  That organization is called, GriefWorks.  Hours of film documented our movement and recollected words guiding the story from grief to grace.

He observed through lens our family cooking night.  Tower pizza, one of our apparent specialities, on the menu.  We all pitch in.  At least that’s how the cooking adventure begins, with all of us assigned to jobs preparing food.  Ten minutes in, it’s me in the kitchen lost and guessing measurements.

Even sharing the meal was documented.  Several times throughout, I dreamed of hiring the videographer to film every meal we eat together into the foreseeable future.  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the girls on that level of behavior.  Maybe the fact that they asked if the filming was sort of like a reality tv show.  At yes, their behavior and advanced conversation morphed into angelic attention and Brady Bunch like coordination.  Amazing...truly.

I loved watching them interact with his questions during their interview together.  They sat on the couch and waited and joked about being tv stars.  I love seeing them smile easily.

Right as the videographer was set to begin, he looked at me once more to make sure I was okay with the questions he prepared for them.  He didn’t know, but we’ve been deep in conversation bathed and drowned in tears.  They’ve shared hurts, questions and fears and given space for grief to exist.  In turn, healing blooms in their hearts like rose buds among thorns.

But still, I appreciated his concern.

:::::::

Easy questions first to prime the pump and set the stage and work out all of the squirming and laughter, mostly.

Then onto heavier words.  They talked about the day Marianne was rushed to the hospital.  It was interesting hearing them talk to someone else.  I just sat out of camera frame, on the side lines, listening and watching how they spoke about easily the most devastating occurrence of their lives.

“Our mom died and we didn’t really know at first.  We waited for her to come home from the hospital and made treats for our whole family.  On one bag we wrote, ‘Mom and Dad.’”

I sometimes forget that for five days while she laid moving between life and not that my girls lived in one world still where all was alright, while I moved into another where my wife disappearing.

The girls shared descriptions of their mom both funny and adoring.  Smiles drew across their faces and mine as each described characteristics found in their lives, her indelible imprint.  I will forever love those characteristics planted deeply within them.

“How is life now with Dad?  Could you describe it?”

And then one of the greatest affirmations of my life ensued.  Their words shifted from past to present and tomorrow.

Fun.  Happy.  Crazy.  ...adventurous.

And there it was ...clouds parting, sun shining, hope rising, day passing from one to another.

“We’re okay, I thought.  Much more than I give credit for.”

:::::::

Adventure was my number one goal in starting life new just me and my girls.  That is what they will remember.  They do now.  Not getting everything right or playing it safe, but moving onward and out boldly.  Treading heavy on the ground soaked in tears stained the color sorrow.  We left one life behind moving swiftly because that day disappeared as all days behind do.  Staying there would mean so would we.

In my heart, adventure was the key unlocking a new door.  I needed courage so I took it.  The man my little daughters came to know in the wake of death and tragedy was a man pulling hard at life and God, cutting deep a path for their feet to walk.  As much as I could, I stretched.  I spent more money investing in experiences together.  We stayed out later, drew new lines, created new traditions and took on new challenges.  Not only did they see me more adventurous in a cavalier way.  They felt me lean into them more in shared fears, broken hearted moments and uncertainty.  But so far, we’ve kept moving.  Together, we jumped two-footed into every challenge.

I had to remake us.  I had to write our days.

:::::::

Undoubtedly, you have been and will only continue to be tossed around by the swelling tide of life and circumstance.  But more lasting than the ugliest moments in your life is the horizon swallowing the sea.  When all settles, and trust me, it will at some point, you will see hope as it burns ahead.

You write the days.  Cling to promise and love and faith through tossing waves both crashing and threatening.  Not one of them is as big and lasting as the God painted horizon ahead.

in the way she should go.

“You must earn the right to quit.” And with those words floating wisely across the room finding only a lonely stare in my daughter’s young eyes, I returned to the corner of the room and the lotus position from which I came.

Another parenting stroke of genius gently leading my daughter from a place of despair and desolation to perspective as the ocean deep and endless sky sprawl.  One day she’ll look back with forever adoration thanking God for gracing her life with such magnificence.

That’s what it looked like seconds after I spoke a Confucian smoke screen hung with ornate words that impressed only me.  It was one of those lines spoken valued so good that repetition was a must for certainty that the hearer surely missed the glory.

She just sat there unaffected by my words, despite repetition and rephrasing, overwhelmed with emotion and armed with countless reasons to quit.  I miss the mark in my parenting relationship with my daughters.  It happens quite often.

I say the wrong things and do the wrong things every day, but I am convinced that perfection in parenting is a misdirected illusion cutting the legs out from under many parents sinking in mistakes.

:::::::

My oldest is growing into her own faster than I can count days.  Before I know it and much sooner than I care to even entertain at the moment, the day will come when she hugs my neck in a hurry on her way out the door to cut her own path in life.

Already behind us are those days when I carried her and ruled righteously in her life with a firm and unquestioned ‘yes’ or ‘no’.  Life was simple.  That was then.

Now and in the days ahead, she is beginning to (and will continue to) push boundaries, question my judgement and reasoning and stretch out the legs strengthening beneath her.  This is an important formative process that must happen, but also must be shaped by the parent.

“Train up a child in the way (s)he should go; even when (s)he is old (s)he will not depart from it.”  - Proverbs 22:6

And hear me clearly when I say that this, her stretching, pushing, objecting, protesting, is all good.

:::::::

Our conversation was more than simply my words being spoken to her, or at her.  A milestone now sets behind us marking her maturing.

You see, training your child to go at life the right way happens in the smallest of opportunities.  This particular opportunity came in the form of a conversation about giving up because of rejection and difficulty.

Elizabeth has been a dancer for over 5 years now.  She’s learned the basics in several different forms of dancing as she’s been a part of two different dance schools.  Dancing is simply a regular part of her identity as a young girl.  As the new session began, Elizabeth chose to enroll in an advanced ballet class, one that would surely push her ability beyond anything that she’s aspired to accomplish as of yet.  After the first class, I could tell she was frustrated and sinking into a bad attitude.  Then her new teacher suggested she move to a more basic ballet class where she could master base techniques.

Suddenly in her own mind, Elizabeth couldn’t dance.  She wouldn’t.

Vanished were the years of dance behind her.  The recitals, the classes and all accomplished, gone lost in her perceived rejection and difficulty.

In the grand scheme of circumstance and reality, her difficulty seems minute and insignificant.  That was my initial evaluation of it, but I undervalued a great struggle for her; a tension between do and don’t, try and quit, win and lose, significance and perseverance.

She made a handwritten list detailing no less than ten reasons why she would quit dance.  With that list written in the little handwriting that I helped teach, she had my attention.

She was shrinking, giving up without giving greater effort in heavier circumstance.

:::::::

“If you quit now, what will you be?”

...silence, but her eyes said everything.

With a hushed voice she nearly whispered, “A quitter.”

:::::::

As a parent, I never want my kids to feel forced to do anything that they do not want to do.  If she really wants to quit dancing and move onto other activities, she’s free to do so, but she has to earn the right to make a mature decision, to quit.

For the sake of her future standing in wait for her, I made her commit to a mature decision.  She would have to commit to three more weeks of her new ballet class, trying hard, giving full effort and having a positive attitude.  Then once she completed three weeks, we would revisit the discussion.

As kids grow, so must parenting techniques and relationship.  The mistake I observe in parenting is to try to parent the same way as kids grow older and face more mature situations.

We prayed simple words and committed to simple action.  Packed into the cryptic statement that I began our conversation with bathed in her tears, was truth far simpler and greater than I originally intended.  She understood that she couldn’t just quit because a habit would be given room to grow and that life required perseverance through difficulty.

I’m convinced that a good portion of any parenting success with me is due to a sort of subconsciously driven dumb luck pulling wisdom and experience from my past into their present.

After I picked her up from her new class, she smiled almost slyly like she learned a new secret, and told me that she loves her new ballet class.

Gone were the worries that convinced her she should quit.

2.

Two. What are two years worth? Can days be discarded, undesirable and unwanted ones?

In a telling shortness, the two years behind me are worth all that’s ahead.  I’ve cursed plenty of those days playing the victim drunk stumbling on circumstance violating what I measured fair in my life.  Death never seems fair or fitting in its happening and the lonelier days following.

Tomorrow marks 2 years completed since my wife unexpectedly died.  On a Wednesday like countless other ordinary Wednesdays before it, she was rushed from home to hospital.  And I think it was then, not on the following Monday when she breathed her last, that our paths began to pull apart.  I say this because for five days while she lay in an ICU bed, machines pushed air into her and fluids through her.  She was gone.  All that she was was no more.

Time stopped even as I watched it continue all around me and my life, the one lovingly built with her, ended.  A new one started where I was a minor character in a major lead role, often overwhelmed with wordless emotion swirling in the context of grief resting heavy and constant.

I hated the new life that I had no choosing in.  I resented God and if I’m honest in confession, parts of me still do.  Those are the real hurt parts of me pierced by inexplicable, but not out of the question circumstance of a loved one dying.

Killing those hurting and accusing parts of me by allowing time, love and hope to heal is a daily exercise in trusting God and his goodness both universally for all people, but more intimately, for me.

We all die someday, I suppose.

We certainly do die, everyone of us.  Saying, ‘I suppose,’ comes from one of those hurt parts of me that finds a slighting satisfaction in reminding God that I don’t agree nor expected such tragedy to find me then.  But death and tragedy in its wake did find us.  That’s right where our new life started, the one that we are two years into now.

:::::::

Like morning fogged with sky fallen as low as our feet, Ahead ambiguously hangs on the fading tail of days bled through, lost in and even the smallest celebratory moments in clouds knifed through by sun.  The promise of life in the closing distance warming more with each step away from life tearing apart glows on the horizon.  We are not yet there at the glowing destination where all seems as though it rests only calm and giving.  Maybe we never will be fully there.  And maybe not being there is a good thing; a sort of guiding beauty always prompting us onward to a land and place of promise and peace.

We’re drifting, sliding sideways some days, but mostly moving forward in tossing waves frothing and foaming of grief and grace ...a heart-healing, God-stirred elixir.

Days old and aged in effort given and attempts overcome are also effective little liars.  Creepers finding cracks to grow in; the unwanted searching for higher position than truth just standing stoic.  Those days must be let go of as our hands grasp and hold to a new day.  Faith. Grief. Healing.

Rocks hold well in the sea stirring and are a sure welcomed sight for one drowning, but waves don’t relent in crashing.  Unconcerned of their breaking, they keep coming and breaking, again and again.  Life and waves can feel much of the same in this way.

Rock holds and waves break.

:::::::

So what of the two years behind?

I’m braver. I’m bolder. I’m stronger.

I’m more lost. I’m lonelier. I’m smaller.

I’m more convinced of good. I’m wrapped in dawning grace. I’m rescued.

I’m a better father. I’m a contradicting son. I’m an honest man lying in moments precarious.

...a loser won.

:::::::

And what of them, the girls, my daughters? Well, they’re still watching, always waiting and regularly wondering and dreaming of tomorrow.  They simply are the best thing for me, and I would surely be someone different without them.  My daughters hurt and are still found in tears.  In moments where moms fit appropriately, they have no one of exact measurement.  That is the deepest bruise.  Their little hearts have journeyed further and lived more than mine at that age.  And smiles defy all wrong in their day with an honesty inspiring each of my steps.

:::::::

These two years have beat the hell out of me, honestly.  But I’m here everyday gazing upon a glowing distance still blurry in my eyes.

You are where you are, precisely.  Circumstance, both good and not, will always loom and exist.  Your choosing just as mine is simple: onward and through; no matter the depth nor height.

:::::::

And now three.

starve the monkey.

we like our problems. we say we don’t, but we do.  the back and forth, the need for things to be set aright, we like it.  things needed to be fixed in our lives set as seeds promising harvest, the hope and whisper of life better, easier.  more than our problems, we adore their solutions.  the fix.

on some weird level that makes much more sense than we’d like to think in times when life is thinnest, we like having problems.

you know the friend who is so easily, almost readily, found by problems.  the coworker who takes issue with every issue everyday.  the hurt neighbor who hurts so defaultly.

my heart that only wants to give up while the game is still going on all around, halftime still in the approaching future.

we feed them.  ...the problem. the issue. the burden.

we live and were raised in a culture and context hell bent on helping itself with pills and smiles, drinks and relationships and words and books rehashing strategy for every possible wrong that could ever possibly exist in our lives.  people who need healing from everything behind, cultured to being better ahead and close to our problems lingering now and always.

we feed them.  ...the monkey on our back.

our fed monkeys own our focus and distract us from what really matters.

we’re firestompers running around putting out tiny fires burning instead of firestarters burning clean from all clinging to us. we’re fighters of every little creaking problem and thing that goes bump in the night, chasing shadows, instead of fighters fighting for all the promise that lies in the day ahead and all that really matters.

...the couple reading books about how to make their marriage better while it all just keeps falling apart  ...the leader who always has an answer for everyone else but his own crumbling life

we miss the mark because our hearts really belong to our problems and their fixing.

starve the monkey that rests so heavily and regular on your back.  focus on life and living it each day.  be okay with not being totally ok while you reclaim your life, your focus and determined intent.

your problems will always be there, but that day won’t be.  everyday lived under the primary arch of your problems is another day spent feeding the monkey on your back.  he’ll never go away as long as your feeding him (it).

those problems holding on and being held need to be killed off, starved of your full attention and forgotten, though they don’t give up.

starve the monkey.

[read :: Hebrews 12:1; Psalm 55:22]