6 years.
2,190 days.
52,560 hours.
6 years since I saw his face.
2,190 days since I heard his laugh.
52,560 hours since he told me I love you.
6 years I have known grief.
2,190 days I have known loss .
52,560 hours I have known pain.
6 years feel like yesterday.
2,190 days feel like forever.
52,560 hours feel like today.
6 years I’ve missed him.
2,190 days I’ve missed him.
52,560 hours I’ve missed him.
6 years.
2,190 days.
52,560 hours.
So, over the past month or so, I’ve seen lots of friends. I had two friends to come visit me in Colorado, and I attended two weddings in Virginia, that were veritable family and college reunions.
So, you’d think I’d be happy, right? Wrong.
Some days, like today, I just miss my family and friends. Please don’t misunderstand me. I have WONDERFUL friends here. I even have cousins here, whom I know I could call for absolutely anything in the world.
But I miss those deeply rooted friendships that must develop over time. Not in a few months. Not even in a year. But years of just living life together. I miss the friends who know in a maximum of 30 seconds if something is wrong with me. I miss hugs from ladies at my church who used to change my diapers in the nursery. I miss spending time with the family who has shaped who I am. I miss inside jokes that make me laugh so hard I can’t breathe. I miss being with people who love me, not in spite of who I am, but because of it.
Sometimes I wonder if living so far from the people who have formed me is worth it. Is a career worth missing my nephews’ birthday parties? My great aunt’s funeral? My brother’s wedding shower? Is it worth missing my best friends’ weddings, babies and graduations?
I’m not doubting that this is God’s plan for me. I’m just doubting my ability to do this right. It’s hard right now. I type these words with a lump in my throat and an ache in my heart. I know this incredible sadness will pass. I believe that I’m where I’m supposed to be.
But it doesn’t mean I have to like it right now.
Nobody here knows about March 5. Nobody knows that’s the day that changed my life forever. The day that I lost the man who raised me as his own daughter. The day a part of me died.
I keep thinking that it will get easier. And perhaps it has. The pain is less sharp. The grief less crippling. But it’s still there. And every year, I try to fight it. But at the end of the day, it’s like I’ve worn a rain jacket into the ocean. There’s just too much of it. It washes over me, cold waves that leave me gasping for breath. I surface only for a moment, bobbing on the next crest before being sucked under again.
But nobody here knows. They didn’t know that it took every single ounce of energy I had to get off my couch tonight and be around other people. They don’t know that the worship songs I sang felt like gravel in my mouth–hard and gritty. They don’t know that as I drove home I sobbed, waiting for the clock to turn to midnight, so I could say the day was officially over.
They don’t know because I don’t tell them. How does that just come up in conversation? “Hey, did you know that my stepdad died five years ago today?” I hate the uncomfortable looks that come with that conversation. The mixture of pity and surprise that I’m not “over it” yet. What does that even mean? Will I ever be over it? Should I be?
Thirty-nine minutes ago, March 6 came. March 5 faded away, until next year. But this grief I feel has little respect for the calendar. It cannot be confined to this one day a year. On that day, though, it gains strength. For a day, I can’t forget.
Is it possible to become a bad writer overnight? As in, yesterday, I thought I was a pretty good writer. Today, everything I write is crap. Even this blog. All crap.
I knew I should have had a back-up occupation plan. Do you think I can get a job at a bookstore? Or will my crappy writing rub off on the books? Could I possibly have the power to turn good books into bad ones just by being in the same room?
Maybe McDonalds is hiring.
I work for a ministry that serves children in poverty all around the world. More than 800,000 children in 24 countries. It’s an incredible ministry, and I love what I do.
But sometimes, it’s hard. Despite all that we do, children in our program still die. Every week, all the employees are given a prayer guide. We pray for our staff overseas, and those who sponsor our children. And every week, on the back of this small brochure, is a list of children who died in the past week.
Vitoria.
Juan.
Carlos.
Jenifer.
Andrea.
Statistically, it’s a small number. But they’re not a number. They’re children. Children shouldn’t die. But they do. Every single day, 30,000 children under the age of 5 die. And each week, I see the names of a dozen or so of them. And a lump forms in my throat. And I know that for every ten I see on the list, there are hundreds of thousands who are making it–who are overcoming this poverty that tries to crush them.
But until the day when all of God’s children are safe, I will mourn.
So, last week was my birthday. Birthdays are kind of weird for me now. For my first twenty-two birthdays, I spent every single one with my family. There was a party every year, albeit a small one. There were Barbie cakes, surprise parties, sleepovers, and everything inbetween.
And now, it’s just different. A few birthdays were spent in crowded airports. Last year was spent stranded at a hotel when three days worth of flights were canceled. This year was definitely better than that.
But birthdays are hard now. And weird. Like, for example, this year, I got shots on my birthday. No, not the drunken, alcohol-filled shots. The big needle in the arm shots. It was for a good reason…in preparation for my upcoming trip to Africa…but they were still big nasty shots…on my birthday. So my birthday presents to myself were vaccinations against hepatitis, polio, yellow fever, typhoid, meningitis, and a big fat tetanus shot to round things out.
I think birthdays are weird now because nobody here really knows it’s my birthday…or really cares that much. Please know that’s not a “woe is me” statement…it’s just a fact. My friendship here are still new, people just don’t know me that well. So my birthday is not the earth-shattering holiday that it was at home.
But having said all that, my Bible study group did sing happy birthday to me…some friends took me out for dinner the day after, and another friend treated me to lunch that weekend. And I had lots of emails and well-wishes.
So, how was my birthday? It was painful, happy, sad, and lots of stuff inbetween.
I still don’t know what to call home. When I left Denver for Virginia, I said I was going home. When I tearfully left Virginia for Colorado, I said I was going home. I don’t even know what home is anymore exactly.
It’s always hard for me to leave Virginia and head back to whereever I happen to be living at the moment. Virginia is comfortable to me. I know what to expect. I know that I’ll eat tons of vegetables cooked in heavy pots with ham or bacon. I know that I’ll yell at our dog as he tries to place his muddy paws on my jeans. I know that my mom and I will sit on the couch, my feet in her lap, watching a movie, each of us covered in hand-made afghans. I know that women with white hair and wrinkled cheeks will grasp my hand as I help them down the stairs at church. I know that my arguments with my brother will somehow always end in laughter. I know.
But I also know that small town in rural Virginia is not the place for me right now. There’s no room for me to stretch, to grow. The things I need from life right now, I can’t get there. I know that.
So, Monday evening I watched the sun set on a bright red horizon somewhere over Missouri. And I flew home.
I need to come up with a new word for my mood. It’s a little ugh, a little blah, a little yucky. Blughy? Yagh? How about craptacular?
I just can’t figure it out. It’s Christmas, for goodness sake. I have my tree up. I’ve wrapped the presents. I have a counter full of Christmas cards. The Christmas music has been cranking for a month. But I just feel…craptacular.
I wish I could blame it on hormones, but I can’t. I wish I could blame it on an event. But nothing’s happened. In the past few days I’ve had several friends and acquaintances ask “What’s wrong?” and I just want to scream “I DON’T KNOW!” And that’s definitely the thing that frustrates me the most. Because when something’s wrong I can be proactive. When something’s wrong I can make steps toward fixing it. But when it’s just this feeling, this blanket of blah, I just don’t know what to do.
I’ve tried. I’ve tried reading books that normally inspire me, but they feel empty. I’ve tried to go to social activities, but I end up sitting with my arms crossed, not able to find the energy to be “on.” Television bores me. Everything is flat.
It’s funny how exhausting ugh can be.
So, this morning was kind of an emotional one at church. Lots of ups and downs. We’re doing a series on advent, and each Sunday a family/couple/individual lights the candle. This week’s candle represented peace, and the family who lit it is going through an extremely difficult time. The mother, who has four children, the youngest in just 1st grade, is dealing with cancer for the second time. She has a long, difficult time ahead of her, and the Prince of Peace is the only one who can provide the peace that family needs.
As the family walked back down the aisle, the worship leader began to sing “Welcome to our World,” one of my favorite Christmas songs. And as this beautiful woman walked by me, I heard her singing…”wrap our injured flesh around you, breathe our air and walk our sod.” And I just couldn’t take it. The miracle of the advent, the mess of the world we live in, that deep longing for a home I’ve never seen…it all came crashing down on me. My tears formed jagged circles on the paper-thin pages of my Bible. And I prayed for peace.
Then, after the service, I was off to teach Sunday school. I love my kids. They’re cute, they’re fun, and they had way too much sugar this morning. By the time I herded them to Bible story, I was feeling a little frazzled. But then, mere minutes later, I stood in the back of the room and heard their sweet voices singing “Silent Night,” and the tears began again. I wondered how much they understood of the Christmas carols they sang. I wondered how much I understood.
It’s no wonder I was ready for a nap by 1 this afternoon.
March 5, 2005
I woke up this morning crying, my wet face buried in my pillow. In that hazy state between wake and sleep, I had let my guard down, and at first I couldn’t quite figure out why. Then memories from the dream that still floated under my eyelids came rushing back. I had dreamt about Dennis. In my dream he was still here, and it seemed so real. I could feel him as I snuggled next to him on the couch and we joked together about something I’ve already forgotten. The realness of it all made me grieve his death all over again. I wish he was still here. I could fill this whole journal with that sentiment as strongly as I feel it right now. I wish he was still here.
I don’t think I’ve cried like this since the days immediately following his death, three years ago today. I miss him. I miss his hugs, his laughs, the feel of his beard against my cheek. I miss how I always felt safe and cared for when he was around. I miss Dennis.
This morning’s dream was like a gift, but the pain of waking up was almost too much. I feel like he was here, and now I remember again that he’s not. It’s hard for me to believe that it’s been three years. Three years since we joked together, since he played the guitar for me, since his last hug for me. I miss him and this morning I let myself remember. And now the tears won’t stop. I try to focus on the good, but somehow that makes the tears come faster. There are so many good memories that I was never thankful for until it was too late.
I know the tears won’t last forever. I’ll blow my nose, wash my face, and move on. But I’m somehow thankful for this early morning mourning. God has allowed me to miss the only real earthly father I’ve ever known. And I’m thankful He understands these tears I cry.
Full-time writer, some-time baker, not-enough-time runner, all-the-time laugher, make-the-time friend.