Thanksgiving ...

Quick story before my post; though this is its own post too!

Two days before Thanksgiving, I'd finished work and as usual, I was racing the clock to pick one child up, before dropping another off!  Many of us know that part of the story!  My ride took me past the middle school. Years ago, when I thought I knew A LOT more than I did, I swore I would NEVER send my children there.  And I had lots of well thought out reasons why it wasn't a good choice.  Well, never say never, because not long after that very public declaration, two of my daughters were enrolled there and began life in our town's public schools.  Five weeks later, Phoebe died.  And my life, as I knew it (and controlled it!) ended.
To say I was grateful they had that place to go is an enormous understatement.  I continued to home school the two left at home and did the best I could ...but seriously ...it wasn't a banner year. Of course.
There were several teachers and guidance counselors at the middle school who I will be forever indebted to because of their generosity and kindness they showed to my girls.  Hannah and Olivia wanted to be as far away from what had happened as they could be.  They just wanted to be normal kids, like everyone else, without this huge devastation and the stigma of suicide associated with them or their family. Of course. The dust settled quickly at their school and returned to 'normal' days for them (at least in routine and academics).
But there were two in particular who made it possible for me to hold at least that part of my life together during that first year and next few that followed.
So as I passed the middle school I thought of June Gustafson, Hannah's sixth grade homeroom teacher.  I'd loved her from the beginning at the open house in September.  She'd welled up with tears as she thanked us parents for trusting her with our children.  Hannah had been home schooled up until this year, and so transitioning her into school was all new to us!  I felt mixed; I loved home schooling, but the girls wanted to go to school.  The time seemed right and I hoped and prayed it was the right thing.   If I could create someone who would love my children for me while I was away from them, it would be her!  And then Phoebe died.
With amazing tenderness, June kept an eye on my girls!  She watched. She listened. She loved!  Hannah's whole team of teachers was influenced by her lead.  Not that they didn't care on their own, they did.  But mama bear Gustafson stood watch ...always.  And I knew this, though I could not even put it into words.  A part of me rested, because I knew her gaze never left them.  Hannah was under her nose, but Olivia was a distant eighth grader ...still, June kept tabs.
A year later, Lucy started sixth grade with June.  I breathed a great sigh of relief.  
Now Lucy is in high school, and I have no one at the middle school this year.  For four years, June watched for me ...and I always knew, without an exchange of words, that she was keeping watch!
So as I drove by the other day I thought of her and decided to send her an email letting her know how thankful I am and was for her tender generosity that gave me some peace.  But as our lives picked up the pace, I saw less of a window to write to her and I asked God to open that door for me, to make sure this Thanksgiving I let June know what a special part of my life she was.  
Dashing from dance pickup to the grocery store, I slipped into the local pizza shop to grab a slice for Mary Claire and me to have for dinner.  Tucked in the corner of the shop sat a woman, her head down, but the silhouette familiar.  I looked again ..."June?"  Her head lifted and within an instant her burst of smile let me know it was her.  Really?  What are the chances?  She teaches at the middle school that gets out at 2.  It was nearly 7.  She doesn't live in our town.  In those brief moments together I was able to tell her how grateful I was for all she had offered me and my girls.  I told her how at ease I felt knowing she was keeping watch.  She asked me to write again, told me she missed my words, missed my journey.  I'd told her my hesitations, the assaults and criticisms from people who'd never walked my path.  She shared some wisdom about human nature and gently scolded me for ignoring something I did well.  She encouraged me to begin... ...again ...the writing of this new chapter, to chronicle my own tapestry of grief ...and joy ...and life.
And so here I begin again, with a deep gratitude to someone very dear ...
Thanks June!  This post is dedicated to you! xo

Thanksgiving

Four five straight Thanksgiving holidays now, we've gathered 'round the table without Phoebe. Five.
That marks a lot of time without someone, without the echo of their voice among the crowd.
This year found us back where we were that first time without her.  I'd had to step outside several times, overwhelmed by her absence.  Back then (which seems only moments ago!) I had sensed her peeking from behind the tree, saddened and burdened by the obvious heartache that clutched every cell of me.  Outside, in the dark, I felt her gaze and her own sorrow over what had passed ...over what couldn't be reversed.  It was done. Finished! Unchangeable!  Back then my life with Phoebe was over. Dead.
The ache and pain of then is nanoseconds away now.  It can be recalled and felt in an instant.  But it is not constant.  And it is not alone.  There is always pain, and always sorrow, and always the great missing ...but too, there is joy and laughter.  There are new struggles and frustrations.  Life has moved forward.  And she is here! Remarkably ...she is still very much here.  Though the burden and sadness of knowing I can't see her or feel her or hear her again in this lifetime stays ...there is the ripple of her throughout my life that doesn't leave.
I remember that first Thanksgiving, knowing Advent was right there, waiting to begin.  I remember wanting with my whole heart to offer my precious girl to the infant Jesus on Christmas day, with pure joy and abandonment.  Looking back and remembering, I think I did ...at least in moments. All those days leading up, I walked those trails in World's End imagining I was following the Blessed Mother on the Donkey as she journeyed to Bethlehem.  I clung to the hem of her mantle and begged her not to leave me.  She knew my desperation and walked a pace I could stay with.  God is good!
Christmas day came and I found a part of my heart that let me offer Phoebe as my gift.  And later, as the sun fell on that first Christmas, we went to feed the animals in the stables.  An invitation, no human could devise. His plan held me that first Christmas as I placed hay in the manger.
And now we are here, four years later, to begin another Advent.  I am different now.
One of my 'new' friends, I wish I never got to meet, Nancy, likes to say that we learn to 'accommodate' the loss of our child.  The first time I heard her say that (though she may have shared that many times before it resonated with me) it was like a revelation.  From the outside, many assume we get to a point where we are 'over the loss'.  Some even get exasperated with us when it seems we haven't made their deadline for finishing up our grief.  But the reality is, we never do!  We live it day to day, and often find moments of great pain ...that resolves far quicker than before.  But we learn to adjust our lives to our grief, and learn to navigate our steps to keep us in our comfort zone and steer away from people, places and things that really don't understand us.  We get really good at that!
Advent begins, and our journey to Bethlehem is underway once more. My heart skips, excited to take this journey on once again.  I can't even recall the past few years. Like bits and pieces of frayed fabric, the memory isn't fluid or linear.  Part of this journey requires you to lose parts of your mind ...like going into a coma.  I remember emotion and pain.  I also remember laughter and joy.  I remember people and moments.  But mostly, I remember that Phoebe wasn't here.  That's a very personal reality, and one that isn't easy on those around me.  As present as I have tried so hard to be, part of me has been elsewhere, searching and longing for my lost girl.  Advent has been lost on me, along with so many other parts of the Church year.  And I don't wish that had been different.  I was present where I needed to be.  I needed to learn to be present in my sorrow, so I could learn to be present in my life.  I needed to learn to carry (or 'accommodate') that sorrow, before I could step forward.  This year feels different.  I feel stronger and more confident, more sure of who I am.  I am a grieving mother!  And no one knows that journey unless it's yours too!
I'll follow the Blessed Mother again, I trust her ...and she teaches me how to trust!
She had no idea what lay ahead ...and still, she trusted.
She lost her son ...and still she trusted.  Still, she stayed ...and waited ...and believed in God's promise.
So unlike the 'ideal' women of our culture, she is the perfect one to follow to Bethlehem, the perfect one to keep us focused on the coming of our Savior.
And following that path again, I'm hopeful I'll find Phoebe too!

St Joan of Arc revisited

Our house is in the midst of three teenage girls.  They don't notice, but I often stop and just watch. I watch these three together, modeling outfits, fixing each other's hair, giggling over a snapchat.  I dropped them all the other day at school, sat and watched them walk in, heads leaning towards each other.  If they could know how my heart soars in these moments ...
I'm not like other moms anymore.  Each moment is laced with the memory and missing of Phoebe.  That's a hard thing for my other kids.  They want my moments to be about them, and they are ...but they are also about the other sister, gone from their life.  Olivia is now older than Phoebe ever was.  They are all different people from and yet in some little ways they reflect each other.  These are my girls!  These are challenging years, increased by what happened to their sister.  Who wants to live in that shadow?  None of us.  And yet, if you could watch them too, you would see their heroism, courage ...love.  They are beautiful girls.
I like St. Joan of Arc to follow them.  She knows how to navigate life as a teenager.
This world is not oriented toward God and the pull away from a life centered on him is strong.  Even those of us who strive to live our faith, fail miserably from the secular view. All around us the 'church' is woven with hypocrisy, let downs, confusion.  And those are not from God.  But how do I get my girls, all my kids, to stay close to God amidst all the chaos.  The only way I know is through prayer, constant and intent.  Often my prayer is more of a complaint, a whine, sometimes a panic.  I love the saints of old.  I can't relate to the 'newer' saints.  Meaning no disrespect, when I juxtapose saints of recent years with those of earlier times, I find a disconnect.  I don't see the heroism, the absolute resolve to stay and defend God.  St. Joan died at the stake.  She was burned alive.  She would not deny what she knew to be true - even to the hierarchical 'churchmen' of the time.  Seems like this is becoming more and more true for our time as well.
Recently I watched a documentary on Netflix called Mystery Files: Joan of Arc.  It's a Smithsonian production, so I didn't expect it to have a religious overtone.  I sort of expected it would trash St. Joan and jump on board with many of the modern day assessments of her, mainly that she was mentally ill.  So I was surprised when it actually 'proved' she was not.  Instead, it revealed and 'proved' a young woman so convicted in her faith that she was able to transcend the cultural and social pressure forcing her to deny she was acting on instruction from God ...through the saints.
I want that deep conviction, so strong and rooted in me that I do not waver ...ever.  I know people like this, very few ...but they are out there.  Mostly what we see now is a 'co-mingling' of true Catholic identity with modern day thinking ...which, to me, equals a whole lot of fluff.  These are trying times.  I think St. Joan would laugh at me over my whining about the Church, given she was burned at the stake as a 'heretic.'  In fact, it was the other way around.  Today, in the heart of Mesopotamia, there may be another St. Joan, risking her life to defend the Truth.  Beheading, crucifying Christians is something remote to me, to us over here on safer ground.  It is a real, tangible threat on multiple levels they face each moment.  And I don't pretend to have a grasp on the religious, cultural or political so that I can speak about it.  And so I pray for God's presence there and that people will be saved.
In a far less obvious way, the threat to my children is the cultural nonsense of our time, that seems to be holding court in the 'church' itself.  The more steeped we are in culture, the stronger culture reigns in our life. And the more steeped we are in God, the more God reigns in our life.  These days, it seems culture is stronger.  Now, we know God is always stronger, but we are human and we lean towards what 'feels' good, and what we believe is right based on emotional promptings.  And that is where and why a solid, practiced faith is critical for all of us.  Not easy in any way, especially when we're surrounded, bombarded with the contrary and our 'examples' are often posers or confused themselves.  Stories of the saints from long ago restore and affirm the pull I have to focus on God without the distortion of current trends within the 'church.'
And that's why the saints are timeless.  They do not reflect their time; rather, they reflect the Truth that transcends all time.  St. Joan of Arc was able to transcend temptations that prompted her emotions and her reasonable mind.  St. Joan of Arc lived and acted in faith ...different from living in reason.
I read a story recently that reflects how vital this is ...to live and act in faith.  A young girl is walking through the woods in the late fall.  She comes upon a snake who is shivering.  The snake asks "little girl, please would you pick me up and carry me a bit in your coat so I can warm up; I'm so cold."  The little girl replies "no you are a snake and you will bite me."  Shivering even more the snake says to her "look how cold I am, can't you take pity on me and see how I need to be warmed up.  I just want you to carry me a little bit, that's all.  I won't bite you I promise."  "No!"  says the girl.  "Oh please, I know you would be doing me a great favor showing me kindness and letting me warm myself.  Truly, I will not bite you.  I promise.  I know you are a good person and like to help and care for others.  Please." The snake says in return.  The girl is moved to pity, and wants to maintain her kind reputation, relents and picks up the snake.  The snake curls up in her coat and bites her!  Falling from the fatal bite, the girl looks at the snake as it slithers away "you promised!  you said you wouldn't bite me, you lied.  Now I will die."  The snake looks at the girl "you picked me up and you know I am a snake ...it's your own doing that will die!"  The snake leaves and the girl dies.
St. Joan of Arc would not have picked up the snake!  And I don't want my girls to pick up the snake either. Even if everyone around them is telling them it's the 'right' thing to do and they're not 'nice' or 'good people' if they refuse ...even if everyone is mad at them and rejects them because they don't.  I want my kids to have the deep abiding faith in Truth, that cultural trends, popular acceptances in today's world are far too often snakes.  They will bite and rob one's soul.  These are not popular words that get people to like us.  And in the teenage world (which seems to extend far beyond the teenage years!) being liked is crucial.
God is not a joke, my girls are not, nor am I.  God is real and worth losing your life over, just as St. Joan of Arc did.  As much as I want my children to have a good life, good spouses, health, financial stability ...I want them to have God more.  I want that for them more than anything else.  And St. Joan can help me get that for them.

After

Robin Williams.  I sat in one of my favorite spots in the world, Nantasket beach.  The sky was pink, the sand was cool and a little stream of water, the tide rushing out, carved its way through the sand towards the ocean.  It's one of the places I find Phoebe, imagine her riding those waves.  I find peace in this place.
My daughter looks up, calls my name, and tells me Robin Williams has died.  Her face is sad.  She asks me how old he is and I grab my phone so I can google it quick.  On my screen is a simple message from another daughter, away with a friend. "Robin Williams died."  It's a tug, I know.  She needs contact.  The news just broken, fresh speculation I hope isn't true.  But it is.
Suicide.  Hadn't he played a teacher in 'Dead Poet Society' who impacted his students, only to lose one marvelous young man to suicide?  It is a weary thought ...how one gets there.
Soon enough we'll see the cover stories at the grocery store, Williams' face splayed across, with various headlines that suggest a compassionate culture, eager listeners who want to know what drives someone to end their own life, because they don't want to see it happen again.  People will want to talk about it, post, tweet ...and whatever else people do to elbow their thoughts to the forefront.
And soon enough after that, it will be swept under the carpet, put into hiding.  Because while our immediate response is one of concern and empathy, the response overtime isn't.
Suicide makes people want to run, makes people want to prove they are not in anyway loosely associated.  And so we can't learn more about, understand it, or even lessen its occurrence because we don't really want to believe it is what it is.  Culturally, it seems to me, suicide has become a character flaw ...an inability to live according to societies contract. And so Robin Williams and my daughter, along with so many others some how, couldn't cut it.  I could go off on a hundred different tangents here.  But I'll focus on one ...what happens after suicide to the people left behind.
We are left to pick up the shards of glass that fill our landscape.  And we are blessed with people who stay to help us pick up, or just stand with us in the rubble.  At first there are lots and lots of people.  Visible and gaining that star on their forehead for being big supporters.  And then the spotlight fades, and so does the crowd.  A natural process during any death, where the bereaved are left with a few who let us rebuild in the organic way God calls us too.  This isn't a complaint of that process.  God tendered me abundantly with long-time friendships that stayed on, unshaken.  And God brought new people too, others who'd lost children similarly, or differently ...but the loss bonded our hearts.  And God brought others too, who hadn't lost, but whose hearts were like wide open fishing nets, gathering my laughter and my tears with kindness and joy.  So no this is not a complaint, but rather an invitation to see how much of the world reacts over time to  suicide. 
While some people like to be in the middle of the 'event', which spans from death through the wake and funeral and those early weeks and months that still leave people in disbelief, there are some who cut their way free of association.  Because over time, suicide becomes vulgar.  Overtime, suicide becomes something that might soil one's reputation ...and the further a person is from that association, the better they feel.  Let's face it, there is an icky component to suicide.  Most people who've survived an attempt themselves or have struggled through an attempt by a loved one keep it quiet.  And knowing what we've lived, I'd tell them to do just that!  Protect themselves.  Guard the treasure of their pain.
Not long after Phoebe died, someone I cared about entrusted their own suicidal struggle with me.  Still fogged in, the pain still poignant, I was stunned and shocked.  And growing concern as I listened to the description of emotional pain and the lure of ending life, I knew it was far too much for me to carry.  But when I suggested they reach out to their family members, of whom there were plenty, I was told they could never be burdened with such a thing, they couldn't be hurt with this concern.  It took me some time to ask myself why it was okay for me to burdened with this, and made to promise I would keep it safe.  For a while I toiled and tugged with this, shared it with some people I thought could help this person. And finally, got the guidance to offer it back, to release it from my own, already enormous burden.  After lots of prayer and spiritual guidance, I relinquished carrying this for someone I'd considered dear to me.  What came back at me was a venom so great, it was like a tidal wave of hatred that ripped apart every aspect of who I am as a mother, wife, friend and woman of faith.  And then, the response tore into my precious Phoebe, tearing her apart from stem to stern, horrified and disgusted that anyone this person loved had ever interacted with my girl.  Words framed a case that accused Phoebe of being so horrible as to deserve eternal damnation.  And with her, went me.  Too say I was stunned falls far short of what I experienced.  I couldn't believe the words that tore away at my daughter, trampled on all she was and is.  All the while, the public presentation was of great support, offering all they could to help us and sacrifice for us so that we might have a shred of receiving a morsel of God's mercy.  It was a devastation that ignited the burning pain of loss even more.  Because not only had Phoebe died, but now these words proved she did not deserve to live in peace with God ...nor did I.
These words came from someone I'd loved deeply, respected, admired.  These words came from someone I believed loved and served God more than most. 
I reached out immediately to people I trusted, because I knew that if what was written was true, I had no right to live.  I had no right to be loved, or forgiven.  I had no right to be.  And graciously, what came back was a warm love and assurance that these words they now read too were beyond reality and spoke of a darkness and hatred that must have festered long before our paths ever crossed.  Spiritual direction from two different priests and guidance from my stunned grief therapist all said the same thing: stay away ...run away.  Words spoke of serious issues,  of outrageous cruelty
Over time it became clear that a case had been building against me/us long before I received my official sentencing.  Others were notified of what a horrible person I was and responded with obedience.  Stories were told of how I'd victimized and tormented.   People once close refused to speak to me.  And while that confused me, it more confounded and hurt my kids as friends they'd loved for so long, would no longer respond to their greetings.  Their loss became greater.
That experience has processed through in a healthy way because we've been nurtured by real true love and care ...by people who stayed, by people who came and offered a genuine heart, by people who weren't afraid to tarnish a public persona of perfection. 
I write about it now, because after nearly four years of trudging through this great loss, I've met others along the way.  And most of us encounter someone who tears us down while we're falling already.  Far too often, there is someone who takes a front row seat during the event.  Someone who uses it to draw attention to themselves, and when the crowd recedes back to everyday life and the spotlight fades from them ...watch out!  When the event of loss/death by suicide fades ...it feels a bit too icky for some who've garnered some attention to themselves during the earlier days.  And so the claws come out, and the attacks start.
What I've learned is that truly, this rejection of the people left in the wake of suicide, is a hatred germinating from fear.  We are afraid of the ugly, the underbelly, the torment of life.  We believe all that glitters is gold. But life has an underbelly, and life can bite and torment, and funny people who've made all of us laugh can find the darkness unbearable ...and seventeen year old girls can see no option in a span of five minutes ...and they can blow out their own candles.  Leaving many of us still wanting more of them.  We miss their glow!
Often, those who leave this world by suicide have left  a blaze behind, both in the depth of the loss of them, and in the memories and impact they've left behind.
Phoebe inspired people, encouraged people to push themselves beyond the safe confines of AP classes and an early bedtime.  People felt the wind on their face, hugged a tree, knew the cold of the Atlantic because of her.  Maybe it's just me, I think that's a pretty good legacy ...one I'd choose over a legacy of attacking and shredding a mom in deep pain and missing of her girl.  Phoebe's legacy still glows, it brightens rather than burns.  I'm willing to bet God is pleased with her.
And Robin Williams, well celebrity carries its own burden.  May his family be spared the Monday morning quarter backing that is sure to erupt.  And may only those who are genuine, whose hearts are free to abandon themselves to carry the brokenhearted ...stay.  And may those who seek to destroy and attack, leave now and silence themselves.
And may each of us spread the light and love God entrusted to us.  Make someone smile today.  Today, love someone you don't understand.  And pray for someone who doesn't understand you.
Give a boost to someone in pain.  Be a hand up in a culture that tears down. 
May all families, carrying the burden of suicide ...know they are loved.  And may they know their lost one's are also loved ...and remembered.

Free Fall

Sometimes, for no apparent reason, we free fall.
A beautiful day, laughter, good friends and suddenly we ...let go, and we free fall; sometimes all together, sometimes alone.
But we all do it ...all of us find ourselves in that uncomfortable,  but far too familiar spiral of pain.

I don't get to write as often as I'd like.  My days start early, and end late ...with lots and lots of mothering in between.  I like to write.  But more than that here, in this space, I like to write about what life since losing Phoebe is really like.  Maybe part of it is selfish and I just want to put my pain or joy in black and white.  Mostly though, I want others, like me, and the people around them who love and care about them ...want them to have a sense of what they're living ...even long after.  It's not a diary of misery ...but it's a journal of living the best we can, day to day, moment by moment.  Understandably, it gets overlooked by most.  But for us, it never goes away.  It becomes part of our nature ...defines us in a new way.
For years I'd peruse blogs about mothering and faith and homeschooling ...and anything else that reflected back to me some of the ideals that were mine too.  I find most of them very, very difficult to read, or even look at now.  They're beautiful and rich, woven with creativity and wisdom ....and sincerity.  And they inspire so many people to do more, live better, embrace what they have in such a wonderful way. For me though, they now taste like metal.  There is no more bridge there for me.  I've lost.  I've lost the battle of mothering.  I've lost the battle of protecting.  I've lost the battle of building, that chance of nurturing the perfect family.  I can't write a blog that tells this glorious story of how each step I took was right, each word I said was the right one, each child was given the perfect direction.  I've lost.
I free fall far more than the outer world knows or sees.  And I don't share this as a "oh my see how she suffers!".  I share it so we can all know some of this weight. There's more and more of us.
Last week one of my patients was acting out of sorts, short-tempered, confused, difficult.  Several people involved with her care became concerned.  Elderly people can decline quickly, maybe that was it.  It only took one brief conversation to hone in on what was going on.  Her son's birthday was days away.  He'd died many, many years ago.  Long gone to most ...precious still to her.  No birthday cake to make, no candles to blow, no birth story to share one more time.  In one of her furies she'd spoken the burden driving her to near madness and alienation.  She was in pain!  Extreme, utter pain.
She was free falling.  Invite her talk, let her tell the story of him ...let her say his name, and say it back to her, I tell her caregivers this ...they listen.  Let her hear his name spill from another's lips.  She is no different from any of us who've lost a child.  The pain pierces and prods ...taunting us right back to moments of great agony. Even many years later.  A mother is never lost to their child, no matter the distance or time.  We've lost the physical touch, but never the heart ...the bond there since we first learned they were ours.
And so I say I've lost.  And I have.  God knows all this, better than I do.  And the Blessed Mother knows better too.  My constant turning towards them assures me that in this world I've lost.  If we measure by worldly standards, I'm one of the mother's finishing last in the race.  And that awareness seeps in a bit at a time.  The magnitude of losing Phoebe couldn't be absorbed all at once, or even over a short period of time.  It bites and tears a bit at a time.  That is God's graciousness ...the burden is so deep and certain, it will not be given all at once.  Grief descends in different ways ...over time ...a long, long time.
But if God is gracious and generous, and all that goodness is ...why would He allow the depth of this pain?  It came to me recently, that while all this sadness and missing, yearning and begging things were different ...He weaves in His grace ...abundantly.  And because His gift of grace is so great, we cannot absorb it all at once.  He offers it a bit at a time ...and sometimes, I even miss that!!!!
Just as the loss of Phoebe might have (truly could have!) killed me, so too might the gain of grace overwhelm me to the point of ignoring, neglecting or even rejecting the work I have to do here.  If I count the graces in my life, you'd be overwhelmed too!  It doesn't mean my life is perfect: I'm not beautiful, or skinny, or rich.  My house isn't museum perfect, I don't always speak in measured tones, or eat just the right balanced diet. His pouring out of grace in my life doesn't mean my husband and I are always (or even often) on the same page, doesn't mean I do just the right mothering at just the right time.  From the outside looking at me and my family ... some might turn away, find it distasteful.  Some have quite openly rejected us, and encouraged others to do the same ...but even that is His grace.  From the loss, from coming in last, from never being able to 'make it', I can only turn to and rely on Him.  I can only choose His grace, constant and certain ....and overwhelming ...so much so I cannot take it all in at once.
God is all goodness. His purpose is perfect.  If I allow the world to dictate what the death of Phoebe means ...I am forever lost and hopeless.  But if I allow God's goodness to dictate her death, it doesn't ease the sadness ...but it assures me it is all part of His perfect plan ...and who cares what the world says.  I win ...resting in His plan ...I win.  And I free fall into that, trusting He is there to catch us and weave us into his own gracious plan.  I will forget this again and again ...but when I remember, it has a power no person could offer.  Only God.  Amen!

Robot

I've said it many, many times before, that for me it's not 'the' day that's hard, it's the day before.  Zapped of energy, pained and sickly, I struggle to pinpoint what's wrong with me ...until I finally realize grief has overtaken and forced my life to slow waaaay down, has forced me to rest in the midst of swirling pain and yearning.  I miss Phoebe, plain and simple. 
Mother's Day is another Hallmark holiday that demands attention.  And like every other holiday, we are bombarded with images of joy and reunion ...bliss.  For many, those images are as far away as the moon.  Life hasn't delivered pre-packaged perfection.  People strain to spend time together, or they have no mother now to spend time with, or their children are far away or disinterested ...any number of scenarios.  For sure, many people find moments at least to recognize their mothers and their own mothering.  It's really a fascinating web of real life that is so far away from the depictions that fire at us in sight and sound.
For me, I get to be surrounded by six of my cherubs, and each in their own way makes this day special. And I am grateful for the coupons, the cake, the gifts, the hugs, the breakfast ...the sweet little reminders that I am their mom.  On this day, in this moment, I am indeed the best mom in the world.
But ...something is awry, something is wrong, someone is missing.  And I am overwhelmed by the great missing of my girl.
But God knows, and God hears.  Mother's Day for me is so much about the Blessed Mother.  I've had a devotion to her for a long time now.  I've been a bit miffed at her for a few years now, I tell her, she listens, chides me from time to time ...but always, always she remains.  Some would call me delusional to suggest that I live with the presence of our Savior's mother.  That's okay.  Since I raised my eyes to her many, many years ago, she has not lost sight of me.  And I am grateful.  I beg her daily to squeeze Phoebe tight.  Not a snuggler, Phoebe would appreciate a firm squeeze or a foot fight over a warm embrace.  And so I can imagine Blessed Mother hugging Phoebe hard and Phoebe laughing as she wriggles her way out.  The Blessed Mother is a constant ...my intercessor.
I sit in Mass on this day and begin my prayer in this church I love.  It is in this space I find Phoebe most, sense her watching and comforting, encouraging me to go forward ...towards her, towards Him. 
We all kneel and listen to those recent souls departed ....and pray for them.  And her name is read.  Unexpected, unasked.  Her name is spoken ....her beautiful name is remembered here in this space.  And that is my gift ...to hear her name spoken, so that I am startled and for a moment, breathless.  Yes, Phoebe lived and people remember her ...people remember to pray for her.  A wink, a gift ...something that keeps the thread between Heaven and earth palpable for this sorrowful mother.  And I am grateful.
Today I listen to the news in the car.  A robot has been lost at sea, imploded six miles deep.  It's been overseen by a scientific center not far from here.  One of the scientists was interviewed and one response was "I feel as though I've lost a child, the robot really became part of my life."  I almost ran into a tree.  The surge of anger that raced through my veins surprised me.  I wanted to contact the center, the radio station, stand with a bullhorn.  Hours later I've calmed down, but still, the ignorance of that statement astounds me.  It reminds me of some comments I've received over the years that make the heart sink.  Absolute insensitivity where people might equate a bad marriage or a lost job with the loss of a child.  And truly, did this scientist intentionally draw the parallel, or try to hurt anyone, try to equate her loss of this robot with a parent's loss of a child.  I don't think so, but you never know. 
But I'd like to ask her, after losing her robot, six miles deep in the ocean that provided a constant flow of data, revealing deeply held secrets of the ocean, a few questions.  Did the robot ever keep you up at night?  Did the robot ever throw up on you, or pee in your bed?  Did the robot ever talk back, tell you how little you actually knew?  Did the robot ever get picked on?  Or pick on someone else?  Ever slam a door when it didn't get its way? Ever lie to you?  Ever keep you up late at night worried?  Did your robot ever take the fall so their friends could look pure and innocent still?  Did your robot ever hold its face to the wind and ask you to join it?  Did the robot ever try on sneakers in the store and then ask to run the aisle to make sure they helped it run faster and then ask if you could believe how much faster it ran?  Did the robot ever look down on another little robot and giggle or tickle ...or cry?  Did the robot ever ask you to be the horse so it could ride through the house on your back? Did the robot ever refuse to eat anything healthy for a week or more?  Did the robot tell you they loved you?
When we lose a child we lose the good ...and the bad ...only to realize the bad was actually good!
Assuming to know the loss of a child is fruitless ....unless you have.  I have six other kids to buzz around me, demand my attention, insult me, hug me, steal my makeup, tell me I'm the nicest mom in the world, tell me I'm the meanest mom in the world ....I still get to be 'mommy.'
But so many moms lost their one and only ...or onlies.  And so many moms have no one or no where to go on mother's day.  I wonder how they'd compare the loss of a child to the loss of a robot.  Likely it would cut deeper to hear such a thing.  But truthfully, they have or will become accustomed to comments like this.
And all the while, the greatest, most perfect mother of all, the Blessed Mother, will hug them tight too.  Who else knows the loss better than ourselves?
Pray for all the forgotten moms, please. 

Finding Everest

My friend was buried today.  Since I heard he'd died its been a slow seep.  Thoughts whirl through my brain, weaving together the awareness he's gone and knowing the loss that means for many, along with the keen awareness of who he's now likely reunited with.  His story is his and his family's to tell, not mine.  But I can tell how he steadied me, us ... along with so many others.
Just two weeks after Phoebe died, we sat in a room with strangers, people we'd never met ...and didn't want to meet.  Here we were, surrounded by people who knew, in the truest way, the agony of our place.  They listened, they nodded, they cried with us ...they helped carry the burden and told us it was okay to be so broken and shattered.  They told us it was okay to be in the space we were in, while the rest of the world resumed its normal patterns ...we could just be ...and it was okay.  One of the forces behind this group of people was my friend.  I'd come to know him over time, through brief exchanges, a few cups of coffee ...but mostly by listening.  He didn't take up a lot of air time, didn't demand anything.  But what he shared had purpose and power and laid the foundation that let us begin to rebuild.  We are where we are today largely because this man allowed himself to be an instrument for God.
When I called upon God and raged incredulous that He'd left us, other people came, a faint sign that God still lingered on the fringes of our lives.  This friend was one of them.  One story he shared resonates with me still.  I've written about it before.  Called "Stepping Stones" it speaks of reaching out, holding hands and guiding each other across and within the hurt and pain ...to more certain, steadier ground.  We teach each other to keep on living, give each other permission to laugh again and smile.  We teach each other that tears are okay, we'll catch each other's.  And we teach each other that we will learn to live with the pain ...some days far more easily than others.
When you're new to losing a child, someone just ahead can reach back, hold your hand and guide you to the next stone.  My friend was that first stone for hundreds, if not thousands of people.  My friend.  I will miss him; but I am eternally grateful to have known him.  I imagine there's a whole slew of children who greeted him ...and likely he knew everyone ...and they know him.  In my mind I can see Phoebe catch his eye and giggle.  "I know all about you Phoebe ...and you're everything your mom told me you are," he'd say to her. I like to think they've met...shared a laugh
Many years ago I became fascinated with Mt. Everest.  I'd read an article about one horrific season when far too many lives were lost.  There was lots of controversy and it intrigued me enough to read more. My research was haphazard, no rhyme or reason.  If I saw a book, an article, photos I'd dive in and absorb all I could.  Time of year didn't matter; I paid no specific attention to what was going on in that present time with Everest.  But after Phoebe died, I found myself drawn to Everest in a more intent and intense way.  That first May following my loss of her I'd look for articles, updates on how the climb that season was going.  May is the summit month, a very brief window of opportunity to stand at the top of the world. I started learning the names of teams making summit bids, their climber/guide ratios, climber/sherpa ratios, cost, requirements.  I learned the geography of the mountain even more and how weather throughout the year might affect the summit bid the following May.  Weather patterns distant from this mountain could affect the conditions in various places on their vertical climb.  I started watching and researching sooner and sooner in the year.  I'd read about training schedules individual climbers had themselves on.  I'd read and learn who arrived in Kathmandu in March, what teams were sending sherpas to stake out their territory at base camp as early as February, who had already arrived and what the strategy was this year to acclimatize.  I had my favorites, teams I knew would have been wisely and safely selected, leaders who demonstrated, year after year, sound judgement.  I watched and waited as I knew favorites would wake in the dark of night to climb to the top.
Why am I so taken with this mountain, these climbers?  I am no mountain climber.  I have no aspirations to take enormous risk to experience the exhileration of being on top of the world.  So why?
What started as a curiosity became a passion after Phoebe died.  And why?
One of the trickiest and most treacherous areas of the Everest climb is the Khumbu Ice Fall.  Base camp sits at the the bottom of this dangerous landscape of shifting chasms and crevices that run wide and deep.  Ladders are laid out, stretching across gaping fissures in the glacier.  Climbers leave early enough in the morning to cross over, before the morning light and temperature invite the Ice Fall to yawn and stretch, making for greater danger.  Avalanches are common.  Seracs sit poised, waiting to let loose.  They can stay put for decades, a constant reminder of the threat this mountain poses. Position and timing of the climbers minimize the danger. The whole climb poses danger, but this one area is like steroids on top of steroids.
Adequate preparation to 'safely' attempt the summit, requires crossing the Khumbu Ice Fall over and over, forcing the human body to build more red blood cells so oxygen levels stay decent.  There's so many details to a proper climb, I couldn't begin to spell it all out here.  This year, two weeks ago, 16 people died on Everest in one fell swoop.  A serac, which is basically, an enormous icicle broke free, sliding down in house size pieces, taking anyone in its wake.  It all happened at the top of the Ice Fall.  Good Friday.  My son texted me the news and my breath left me. I felt like my friends had been hit.  People I cared about were overcome by the force of nature.  There was no way they could survive such a thing.  There would be no summit bid this year.  Multiple reasons led to this season's climb being cancelled: out of respect for the sherpas who died, their families, along with infused political shenanigans. The outfall of the deaths escalated pre-existing tensions to dangerous levels.   Teams packed up and left base camp.  These teams I've watched and learned so much about headed home.  My season ended.
But I beg the question again.  Why am I so taken, absorbed, fascinated by Mt. Everest and the people who climb it?  How could I be so moved, affected by events happening there?
When I heard my friend had died, I spent a lot of time thinking about him and all he's offered to others.  I thought about what he taught me, through words, but mostly actions.  I realized this friend of mine taught me to climb through the Ice Fall.  He taught me to gauge the temperature, watch the time of day, get my equipment together, check it over and over again.  Most especially, he taught me not to venture onto this treacherous terrain without a team, without others carrying the same kind of pack, the same kind of risk.  He taught me to travel this ever-shifting, risky terrain with others who'd trained as hard as me.  He taught me it would never, ever be easy ...that it would never, ever be safe.  He taught me the only way I could reach the summit was to cross over the Ice Fall, and I needed to be willing to practice that over and over again.
I'm still practicing.  My friend reached the summit of his Everest climb.  He found his Everest ...but only after teaching so many of us how we might find ours too. 
My friend was and is an answer to prayer.  God used him to answer my prayer in a very physical way.  God guided a man, to extend himself to those of us staring at the dangerous landscape, and affirm us that we could indeed cross over. 
Please pray for my friend, for his family ...

Shame

Often enough, someone reaches out to me, wondering if I'd make contact with another parent.  And usually it's when that parent has lost a child to suicide.  Makes me sad to know it happens fairly often.  It doesn't really matter much how a child dies.  The fact is, that no matter which way, no matter how old or young ...the shame lingers, overwhelming us from time to time ...or always.  Shame.  It's a tough thing to run from ...when you're a parent whose child has died.  Even tougher if that child dies by something considered 'shameful' or 'taboo' ...suicide, drugs, drinking
So when I extend a hand to a newly grieving parent, and don't hear back ...I understand.  Shame keeps us isolated and separate ...alone.  Because we believe that's what we deserve, solitary confinement for our vile nature as parents.  Surely, there is something we could have done, should have known.  Absolutely, we could have/should have been a better parent.  And we feel it.  From ourselves, and outside ourselves.  Inner turmoil and despair wage a mighty storm within.  Those who love us stand by, watching and praying, hoping and assuring ...but there is nothing they can do.  It might be like staring into a mile deep chasm, so far away from a friend trapped, alive ...unreachable.
Tomorrow finds us 3 and 1/2 years in.  I shudder remembering those first days, weeks, months, year.  My body has memorized the raw pain, and taps in again when I learn of some other mother walking that path.  How I wish I could protect her from the searing burn of grief that screams relentless for her child.  How I wish I could find her and scream with her, the gutteral, primal, savage howl of shear pain and loss.
This is so depressing to write, but, as much as I can, I want people to know how horrible this is when they encounter a parent, new or not so new to this loss.  We all have different temperaments and dispositions, a history too that's helped hone our own compass for navigating through life.  Those 'ways' can help us and/or hurt us.  Some people don't talk about it, or only to very, very few.  And while that's not my way (I'm a talker), I wish I'd been more selective in who I shared things with.  Some people are wary of other's, having a good sense of character.  On the other hand, if you tell me you care about my family ....I believe you, full on, invite you in to the inner chambers of my heart.  I learned a hard, hard lesson with that.  But we all learn, whether talkers or not, to build that shell, a veneer to protect us when thoughtlessness and even cruelty lunge at our fragile hearts.  It's hard, hard work to live with this kind of grief.  We learn to, but we don't like it, and it is always, always there. 
I remember a day at work, a particularly stressful day, and my boss said "Oh my gosh, I could kill myself."  I remember her saying that or something similar while she reviewed an issue that needed addressing.  I flinched. She headed off to her morning meeting.  After she immediately asked me to come to her office, she needed to speak to me.  Naturally I figured I'd be spoken to about orders not transcribed on the computer dashboard (a typical fault of mine! frustrating to many ...so sorry!).  No one wants to get called into the bosses office.  I went in, she asked me to close the door behind me.  My stomach lurched, I wracked my brain for what I could have done wrong.  But when I looked at her, her eyes pooled and she begged my forgiveness for what she'd said.  I wasn't mad, because I'd had enough conversations with her to know the genuineness of her heart.  But I was moved by her sorrow, and appreciated her ability and willingness to grasp that her words, not meant to harm, may have.  I bring that up, because you would not believe how often that comes up in conversation.  Just the other day, in conversations I was having, there were four separate references:  "may as well put a noose around my neck,"  "just give me a gun so I can shoot myself in the head,"  "this is so frustrating I could kill myself,"  and "where's the cliff so I can jump off."  Some of them came from people who know, and I'm not faulting them, or saying they're bad ...but they're triggers that jolt like electrocution ...and we learn to hide that jolt ...but it still stings.  And I've had time to learn, but I'm highly sensitive to those who are so new ...in such agony it blinds them.  And truly, the general population believes the pain should be gone after a month or two.  Its a very lonely place to be ...and oftentimes frightening as well.
So, if you're wondering what you can do ...well pray, pray hard for them, for us.  Pray in thanksgiving you haven't lost a child.  And if you know of someone speaking harshly of someone who has, they are likely lying.  It's amazing hearing the stories from people about those once considered friends who've gone off to fabricate wild stories about how badly they've been treated.  I thought I was alone in that for a long time when it happened to me, but I've learned its very common.  Defend us ...be patient, pray hard.  We fight every day to live.  I fight every day, and often every moment to choose joy in my life.  Many times we fail ...but we claw at the ground and grab at the air until we can stand again.
We fight the shame; if we didn't it could kill us.  But like learning anything that takes time to fight shame ...takes time to stop clutching it.  It takes time to allow other parts of ourselves to rise once again.  It takes time ...so much endless time.
April 9 ...where have you gone my Phoebe girl?  Where might you be?  Missing you ....always.  Maybe I'll catch a glimpse of you ...a little wink perhaps in my ordinary day.
And always ...thanking God for the time we walked this earth together ...and for the time we will again.

Rambles

There are far more drafts in my folder than published posts.  I write about lots of things, but I hesitate knowing they are incomplete.  Some of those topics are just too close to leave stones unturned.  I write a lot about my kids ...each of them and their own heroism, character ...survival in this sad loss.  But those words stay tucked away.  Though I'd like to share them, I'm asked not to ...and so I don't.  I don't get to sing their praises here.  Just know they are sung often ...for each of them.
Another topic I've written about over and over is teenage suicide ...and that is the toughest because it will never be a good enough piece, thorough enough, helpful enough ...complete.  It will never STOP it from happening ...and I wish it would.
I won't write much here, I've exhausted many of my thoughts for now with reams of words. But I will share a few things that might prompt some thought, some awareness ...and maybe, just maybe help someone.
What gets covered most times are suicides that have a reason.  It's easy to write about a 'cause' and an 'effect'.  If you listen to the most basic news story, you'll hear a specific beginning, middle and end.  It might read something like this.  There was a robbery at local convenience store last night. (beginning).  It happened around 11:20 after the last train for the night dropped off passengers at 11:05PM (middle).  Police have added extra manpower to find and arrest the robber. (end).  We read or hear this and we say oh no, that's scary (beginning).  That makes sense they waited until most people were gone after the train left ...no witnesses. (middle)  Oh, thank goodness the police are on top of this so we are safe. (end).  And then we go to bed, certain everything has returned to normal.
Now take that same premise on stories we hear about teenage suicide.  Bobby died last week by suicide (beginning).  His parents say he was depressed and he was recently cut from the baseball team after tryouts (middle). He was getting help, but sadly he had missed his last appointment (end.)
Cause. Effect. Beginning. Middle. End.
Bobby died by suicide because he was depressed.  Had he not been cut from the team, and had he kept his appointment, he wouldn't have died.  Simple story.  Simple answers.  Notice your child is depressed, don't let your child try out for a team if there's a chance he won't make it, and make sure no appointments get cancelled.  And everything will be fine.
I am simplifying this for sure.  And I am not dismissing that there are many scenarios just like this.  Every suicide is tragic ...whether there are 'signs' or not.
My point is, the vast majority of teen suicides come from nowhere.  They are as predictable as a flat tire.  Which means ...if we could all observe for signs of a flat tire ...no one would ever have one.
Media coverage, school meetings, peer presentations all speak to one thing ...knowable signs that will make suicide preventable.  We all want to believe we have control and that we can prevent our children from dying.
But the raw truth ...the hard truth is this.  Children die by suicide in a five to twenty minute window of despair, fear, sadness, anger ...maybe one of those or all of those at once.  They die by suicide with some indications of teenage angst (which is normal in most), or none.  Or some signs one morning, day or week ...and not the next morning, day or week.  And no one wants to talk about that.  And no one wants to talk about the culture they are trying to grow up in and the unrealistic demands and constraints put on the them to perform at optimum levels in multiple areas. 
I want to start talking about that.  I'm tired of listening to or reading the 'experts' discuss warning signs and things parents can do.  Talk, talk, talk to your kids.  Yes, of course.  Do we really think as adults our teenage children, no matter how close, share their deepest, most vulnerable thoughts?  And do we really believe that even if they would, they'd actually have the words to describe their own inner turmoil and struggle?  Why do we believe there is a simple answer in this incredibly complicated, chaotic world?
People ask me ..."did you hear about this one or that one?"  And these are the suicides that have a beginning, a middle and an end.  Tragic for sure.  I do hear about them ...and I want to, because I want to pray for the children, ask Phoebe to greet them.  And I want to pray for the parents and families and maybe carry some of their burden for them.  But ...I also tune into the unknown, the one's few talk about, or try to by putting information together in an attempt to create an understandable story.  These suicides go hidden, fading from view ...because they don't make any sense.  Just like Phoebe!
And that is where the conversation needs to begin.  Why is this happening?  Why is teenage suicide, talk and glorification of suicide in writing, music, programs, happening more and more?  Why are more teenagers and young adults dying from drug overdoses, car  and other odd accidents?  What is going on in this Godless culture that loves success and things and uses people?  How far we've come from preserving and protecting the sanctity of human life where over 4000 babies are killed every day by abortion, and our own youth risk and end their own lives in staggering numbers like never before.  I'm wondering if anyone has stopped to consider that our teenagers know,deep in their hearts, that nearly 1.5 million of their own peers who would have born the same year as them,  never had the chance to live.  Did you, as an adult, ever wonder why you were spared something your neighbor or friend was not?  Our kids wonder, at a very basic level, how in God's name, so many of their peers never got to see the light of day ...and they did.  That is an enormous burden for this generation of kids to carry.  Its. Too. Much. For. Them.  Dismiss it if you want!  All I ask is that you think about this reality they are forced to carry.
I'm wondering if anyone else out there is seeing the same thing as me?  And I'm wondering if we'll ever have the courage to look ourselves in the eye and see the world we've so boldly and flagrantly taken from God, only to disorder it away from Him.  And I'm wondering if we'll ever have the courage to look God, our beginning and end, in the eye and beg his forgiveness for the legacy we've left our children.
Teenage suicide will not end until God is restored as the center of our world, His world he gifted to us.  Period.
Have a blessed night.

Valentines

Little packages of chocolates make their way into lunches ...tiny tokens reminding them they are loved.  Valentine's Day.  Romantic notions all around us, but really, all types of love bloom outright expression on this day.  Loving our children is intense and constant. Red hearts, chocolates, flowers all say I love you.  I'm not crazy about forced holidays, but why not have one special day where collectively we say I love you.  Maybe it forces us to be a little nicer, a bit more thoughtful ....maybe offer a 'thank you' even, where we haven't before.  Just do something that might warm a heart, bring a smile. And its fun too ...showing someone they are special.
But what if that person isn't here to offer something?  What if that deep yearning to express our love has no place to go? no one to offer it too?  This day, as commercialized as it may be, becomes more poignant and painful for those in their early walk of grief.  Someone who may normally disregard Valentine's day, suddenly is overwhelmed at the inability to express their love for the one they've lost.  It's an odd place to be, that only adds to the confusion of despairing grief.  Pray for these people ...they need to be bolstered in these moments.  Its a harsh reality to watch others freely giving and receiving.  Loneliness can surge at times like this.
Like every other morning, Phoebe is my first thought ...as she is my last every evening.  I gather my six goodies for distribution and imagine her assistance and insistence in helping me.  I had once needed seven little packages. I smile more now thinking of her ...the smiles last longer than the tears.  That comes with time.  But still, I miss her.  I think of those families, parents so new to the absence.  I wince, knowing how hard it is right now.  It won't always be so unbearable ...but they won't believe that yet.  Today I can imagine her alongside me making sure she kept me on track.  She is with me, I know.  But I wonder where she will wink at me ...if she will today.
A new job takes me on the road with another nurse.  More seasoned than I am, she navigates me through.  She has a 'way' I've noticed, a natural ease that allows her in to the most vulnerable places of our charges.  They relax around her ...trusting.  They are safe with her.  I can tell by the way she speaks of them, confirmed again by watching her interact.  There's much for me to learn from this seasoned nurse.  She offers something special here.
She tells me our paths have crossed through mutual friends.  She remembers meeting me when my youngest was just weeks old. I can't place it, but she remembers ...and the details assure me its true.
For some reason in this early working relationship am I 'at rest', and I can't say why.  I will learn though.  Sitting across from each other she tells me of the two she's buried.  She doesn't yet know about Phoebe.  I listen to her tell me and my heart cracks as I take in her loss and release mine.  And then it is her turn to know my own burden.  It is a language of hearts and eyes ...words only share a portion.  We know.  Living in two worlds.
I realize now, this work I'm called to, caring for people in their most vulnerable moments ...when, no matter how much they want to or try, they cannot get up ...they cannot be who they once were.  We both know that burden and struggle ...because we can't be who we once were. We are 'other'.  Like our patients, we glint and gleam our past selves here and there ...but we know we are limping.
I'm struck that it's Valentines day and unexpectedly my heart entwined with another knowing soul.  God is good we say ...because He is, and because he allows winks from Heaven.  Three children looked on as their moms let go and wished them a valentine.  Who could arrange such meetings, on such days?  Only God. It's a small consolation compared to the one we really desire ...reunion with our children.
Our day ends ...and we imagine our children together ...in joy.  She defines grace in carrying her sorrow, her joy from deep within.  Hers is a beacon for me ...leading me forward.  I have much, much to learn.  But the path ahead is clearer, and I have to believe it's a little valentine from that feisty girl.  I found her today holding a lantern at my footsteps, calling me forward ...onward...and I'm glad.
Happy Valentine's Day!

Fleeting

The plan is early to bed.  Often the plan, rarely, if ever, the reality.  Those so many days ago when I said goodbye and knew I wouldn't find Phoebe sitting on my bed late at night...waiting, I promised I would try my best to never miss those moments again.  I sense the quiet settling in and the urge to write pulls me, knowing the great comfort I find in flying my fingers across the keyboard.  But so often, when I want to sit quietly, compose my thoughts into words, and then slip off to bed ...other plans emerge.  First one, just needing to sit close by ...and I pull up a stool and join her, ruffle her hair until she sneaks off to bed.  So maybe now, some time to write ...maybe not.  Another finds me, special treatment, help her with something, quick conversations reviewing the day, the prom months away, pictures shown, plans for tomorrow.  And I shake my head ..yes, and yes, and of course.  A dramatic goodnight, a return assignment ...Mom, make sure you....  I do a final wipe of the counter, switch off lights, let the thoughts flow.  Quiet. Door opens to the kitchen, changing the light.  A new head, hair piled high up on top ...remember you promised ...tonight.  Oh yes, how I'd forgotten.  And we sit and squabble and conflict and resolve ...over and over.  I'm frustrated, worn out ...all I want to do is write.  All I want to do is spend time remembering and finding.  She f.i.n.a.l.l.y. patters off to bed, I think.  And I remember all those nights when there was only one teenage girl with just one other in the wings.  And she reminds me, with gusto, that these moments of juggling, of trying to eek out just a shadow of time for my own thoughts ...are really much more fun when three girls, each resembling her in their own way,  keep knocking.
I sigh deep.  You're here, aren't you?  I whisper.  I promised I wouldn't miss these moments ...and she holds me to that.  She knows me enough to know I won't go back on my word.  I'll follow through imperfectly, but I'll keep my promise, until the end.  They'll remember I was there ...and she helps me do it.  Ever present for my kids, I am one tired out momma ...but these evenings spent can't be recaptured ...and I'm glad they go as they do. 
I'd write every day if I could, and someday, when its my time, I wonder if I'll find a big book with all I've wanted to write captured and preserved. 
I find Phoebe in the ordinary evening with teenage girls parading, demanding, laughing, hugging ....and finally sleeping.  Her sisters ...so much like her that I get to peek at the great missing ...and smile.
Please say a prayer for all the moms and dads missing their precious child ...we need them.

New Friends

There's yarn between us. We talk patterns and yarn. She is far more accomplished than me, but I'm open to marvel and learn.  Kids buzz around us looking and asking.  We tell little stories, exchange observations, talk parenting.  We've shared a few cups of coffee over the past few months.  Mary Claire plays well with her girls.  My older girls babysit.  I see the books on her shelf, we're drawn to common things.  She's years younger.  I'm closer in age to her mother than her, I'm sure.  But I have many friends years older who've added so much richness to my life, it can't be a bad thing.  Friendship blooms regardless of age, culture, education ....hair color!  And I love meeting new people and making new friends, especially when you meet someone you just click with. It's fun getting to know someone, sharing glimpses here and there of who you are, what you're all about.  And its even more fun to unlock the treasure chest of this new friend, learn more, see more, hear more.  I like that!  We get to know each other through our children, witness the little exchanges that outline who we are, what we're all about.  Those things happen naturally and often.
But how do I tell someone that to really know me, you have to know Phoebe. ...and how do I tell someone that my precious Phoebe, my oldest daughter,  is dead? 
Like lots of my friendships our shared time involves our children.  With long time friends, we sneak in cryptic sentences here and there tipping each other off to our particular challenges of the day, week ...always.  We're good at eye movements, facial expression, hidden gestures that communicate far more than our environment allows in words.  But when its a new friend, we don't share those things ...that secret language comes in time.
I'm challenged by that now because truly, this new friend's passion  and interests about so many things, remind me of Phoebe, and I know Phoebe would like her. She's got nothing to prove, she's not calculating who has what, when, where, how like so many in our culture do today.    And she is funny and bright and down to earth ....real. Her kids are cute and fun and funny!  I enjoy my time, our time together.  But she has to know about Phoebe ...because she is as much a part of me as my own hands.
 But how do I say to her ..."hey, I have another daughter you haven't met ...because she died."  And how do I tell her my heart limps along in this life, soaring with great joy for my precious six living, but drags and heaves with an unbearable sorrow  and longing for my feisty girl.  Lots of times the exposure of Phoebe just happens.  Sometimes though, those natural moments don't come, and its a challenge ...because for me to be truly authentic ... you have to know my Phoebe.
Sometimes Phoebe is just too present, like the elephant in the living room, it's so apparent to me she is there, and yet unknown or unrecognized.  And that's what happened to me today.  It's almost like she's saying "so, would you introduce me already, you're being kind of rude Mom.  How'd you like it if I did that to you?"  But how do you share that when there is no natural way to bring it up? 
Anyone who's lost a child knows this struggle, this particular challenge most people don't consider, because they don't have to.  How do you reveal your lost child?  Not to just anyone.  Now its kept and considered only for people you care about and trust.  Who cares about the rest.  Phoebe's gone over three years now, so I don't blurt it out like I did the first year or two.  Sometimes people already know and they keep it to themselves, gingerly walking around the topic because who could possibly know how to ask someone "hey, so I heard you have a daughter who died by suicide ...that must be a real drag."  Or sometimes people will speak in hushed tones, touching my arm like I might break, or start sobbing uncontrollably ...and really, who wants to get that going.  Even though that's so unlikely to happen.
I guess I could just say ... Hey,  I really enjoy your company and I hope our friendship grows ...because your fun and interesting ...and you're interested in this middle aged, chubby momma with bad hair ...but can I tell you something that is very, very dear to me ...do you have a moment to listen?
Can I tell you about Phoebe? 
She died October 9th, 2010 on a beautiful fall day while I was at a soccer game.  She had gone to take the SAT at a school where she'd been bullied relentlessly the first two months of high school, and the school could not have cared less. She spent the rest of her high school years at a different school. She forgot her ID, called home, couldn't take the test without it, had to walk home. When she came home she saw that her dad and I had found pot in her backpack while we searched for her ID.  We were really mad, and she knew it!  The next day just the three of us were heading to Maine to visit a college that seemed a great match for her.  But we never got to go with her.  She just gave up on life, on herself and on us in that brief moment. She brought her own end while no one was home.  And all of us died that day too. It's taken a long time to find moments of normalcy.  It feels like it happened this morning ...probably always will. Feels like she might sidle on up next to me when we're chatting and add her two cents ... or more.
I miss her more than I could ever put in words, and I wish instead of getting mad about finding pot, I'd smoked a joint with her instead ...if it meant she'd stay.  I wish instead of being annoyed she'd forgotten her ID, I'd said 'who cares, come along to the games with me.'
Our life shattered, my heart shredded into a million pieces and we've spent the last years building a new life without her.  I know without a doubt you'd love her.  She was bright and fun, adventurous beyond words.  She'd show you places in World's End you'd never find on your own, and she'd marvel at the uniqueness of your own kids ...especially the fiesty.  She loved the mountains, the great expanse from high up.  She'd go barefoot all year round, swim in the ocean in March everyday if she could.  She was a blast of a person ...  She gave me a run for my money ...and she made me run further than I ever thought I could.  She was only seventeen, and she must have felt unbearably alone that morning.
I wish I had stayed with her ...but how could I know?
And so we live this life, here in this place, trying to stay engaged for our kids  They lost a sister that noticed the stars and the moon, paid attention to the tide, listened for the wind, thought deeply about truthfulness and being genuine. She turned a phrase faster than most.  She took the fall for her friends, blaming herself for the typical teenage stuff, while her friends sat by and let her!  She could read people quickly ...and oh, how I wish I'd paid closer attention!  She bossed us all around and we listened.  She had big, blue, beautiful eyes and a pile of hair atop her head that wiggled and jiggled.  She read many of the books on your shelf and would have discussed each and every one's merits and weakness , and asked you what you thought. 
You'll get to know her more and more over time.  I've made other new friends since she died and lots of them feel like they really know her ...and I hope one day you do too!  Because truly, knowing her will only make your life richer ...she is an extraordinary girl, forever seventeen ...forever mine.
So now that maybe you don't know what to say or how to be around me, let me tell you.  Just be.  Just be you.  I won't break, I won't bite.  Sometimes I might cry ...but who wouldn't!  And don't be afraid you'll say or do the wrong thing.  The people who do, don't stay.  The people who are genuine about life and being who they are ...stay.  I look for joy each day, and if I can't find it one day, I usually can the next.  She still makes me laugh ...and I'm pretty sure she's still bossing me around ...which I love
So how's that for a segue when it doesn't happen on its own?! 
Us parents who've lost a child have lots and lots of interesting challenges other parents don't.  And we have to find some unusual ways to navigate through life.  We can be a tough crowd, but well worth getting to know!
So I found Phoebe on this ordinary day, in the living room of a new friend.  She stood across from me waving her arms, demanding to be introduced ...so here it is.  You happy Phoebe?
Woven in an out of our day are the moments when God allows the veil to pull back for just a bit ...and I am most grateful!

Calendars

I wrote 2014 lots of times today.  Good practice, I think.  Usually it takes me a good month before I write the new year naturally.  I like a simple ringing in of the new year ...no fanfare.  Turning the calendar is enough for me; turning towards another new year without Phoebe leaves me empty and sad.  Its not that my whole focus is on her and the absence of her.  For sure, my whole life is about my family,  my kids ...their nuances and growth ...the simple act of them being.  I guess it might be like living with an amputation.  Your whole life is so much more than the loss of the limb, and yet it permeates all of your life ...forever.  But losing a child is far more than losing a limb; its more like losing part of your heart.
A new year finds us bombarded with new year's resolutions, determined hopes, plans, dreams.  I join in the banter, but more for fun and lighthearted conversation than any real conviction.  Several years ago I wrote a colorful note for my husband and each of my kids ...wishes and dreams for them in the new year.  I'd made a nice dinner, set a festive table, each plate adorned with their personal note.  Recently, those notes spilled from a box while digging through Christmas decorations.  Somehow they were saved and stored away.  Their discovery gave me pause, a treasured moment of remembering and rest. For that coming year, I'd dreamed Phoebe would ride some really big waves, that she would be the first one in the ocean that year, a title she proudly held for entering the Atlantic on some uncommonly warm day in March most years.  There were other things too, but my wishes really spoke to who she was and the adventure she loved living ...the thrill of pushing limits that I both encouraged, cautioned and sometimes dreaded.
Now too, when I imagine that great reunion with her I see a board under her arm, her hair piled atop her head, t-shirt she's customized, shorts and her forever bare feet.  Her head bends to the side and she swings the board ever so slightly in the direction she wants me to follow. Without words, I fall in step behind her, as I'd done so many times.  And sure enough, she brings me to the ocean.  We stand at the water's edge ...her eyes twinkle, she giggles ...'go on,' I say, 'show me what you know!'  A few steps in, up to her knees she pushes the board ahead and glides her body onto the length of it.  Her arms cut through the water, pulling out beyond the break.  She sits on top of our board, the Harlequin, waiting for the swell.  And because I can stand there and watch ...I know that I'm home.
A long, long time ago, she'd watch me surf from the shallow break with her dad and brother.  She'd insist she could handle the deeper water.  I knew her drive, her intensity and desire, and so I never lasted long out there alone. She'd look for an opportunity to break free from dad's watchful gaze just to get out there with me.   My worry was a distraction.  I'd rather push her in the shallow waves on my board than actually surf myself.  And she preferred that too.  I never became much of a surfer ...but she did.  She outpaced her older brother on the waves, never afraid to give her all for those few moments to fly on water.  Like me, he was more cautious.
I read all of those wishes and dreams I wrote for each child.  Most of them speak to who they are ...still, all these years later.  As a mom, it encouraged me, that I do, in fact, pay attention to each of them, their own specialness. 
Often, I struggle with having missed something very great and pressing with Phoebe.  It's a walk most bereaved parents carry, no matter how a child dies.  Most especially though, when a child dies by suicide, parents are saddled with so many questions and possibilities for preventing the nightmare from happening. Over and over, I examine every detail and aspect to find the one thing I should have said or done that most certainly would have averted Phoebe's death. Guilt plagues us ...me.  But when I stumble across something that proves I'd paid attention and noticed, I am rescued for a little while.
That's not a bad way to start the new year, to see and know I'd paid attention. 
It's the fourth calendar we've changed with her gone.  Neatly tucked away are the ones that capture her last weeks of dentist appointments, soccer games, practices, exam dates.  On those pages she is meshed in with all the others, a choreography of details that make up the tapestry of our family life.  Written so casually and without second thoughts are the details of her last moments ...before she took flight from me.
I guess that's my new year's resolution ...to recognize and witness Phoebe's taking flight.  Those final moments for her could only have held a poignant, excruciating pain so intense she saw nothing but pitch black ...no light streamed in.  But all of our lives are so much more than one moment ...and hers was so much more than most.  Her whole life was about taking flight, soaring beyond the norm.  Whatever chains bound her here, burst her free ...and she took flight home.  Away from me, from us ...toward God.
For a long time, the blow of her death had me fixed on one final, impulsive, outrageous act.  And that all remains true. I will never, ever glorify, or make suicide heroic.  But her life, my life with her, our life as a family, is not defined by how she died ...and how each of us died a little bit too.  Her life is defined in a far greater, robust way.  My life, our lives were both thrilled and challenged by her ...and we still are. 
For 2014 I'll embrace, even more, the way she lived ...not the way she died.  And when I do that, my heart skips a beat.  Phoebe could drain every ounce of energy out of me, and then in moments she could have me doubled in laughter, awed by how alive she was ...and still is. 
So while I keep my front row seats with all my cherubs here, and marvel at all they are, I'll keep a watchful gaze on the waters edge, checking out the waves Phoebe might ride in on.  And one day ...I might just catch a glimpse.
Happy New Year!