What our life would be like if they hadn't died.
Would we have adopted as we so desperately desired?
Would we still be in South Carolina?
Would Charles dream of becoming an actuary have born fruit?
What WOULD life be like if they hadn't died?
I hate...
no.
DESPISE!
that I even have to ask that question.
I hate being a bereaved mother and I ABHOR the reality of raising children in a family torn apart by tragedy.
And you know what's incredibly ridiculous? I FEEL GUILTY for not planning some kind of celebration for him tomorrow. I feel awful that I didn't order a cake. I failed at setting up some long distance display of love and remembrance. I even failed at remembering to put plants and balloons at the garden.
Because I have to fail. Somehow, this grief is still so raw that it's easier for me to evade the freight train that comes in June than face it head on. I simply can't avoid the January freight train because I still have to celebrate a living child and I can't crawl into a hole, so when June rolls around, my need to disappear is overpowering. And my inability to make stupid ass lemonade out of severely sour lemons is seriously apparent.
A friend asked me recently about how my senses were in that time after the accident. I shared how I honestly felt like the littlest things put me on sensory overload. How I couldn't even set foot in stores without feeling like I was going to explode. HOW COULD THESE PEOPLE BE NORMAL? MY KIDS ARE DEAD? DON'T THEY KNOW?
Of course they don't. My broken universe is just that...mine. And as much as I feel like my entire story is etched onto my face for the world to see, I know that it's really not. It just feels that way.
SO- in June, the month where so much joy instantly turned to soul searing tragedy, it's like the clock turns back and I'm there all over again.
Standing on the street, screaming.
Sobbing outside an airport, struggling to catch my breath.
Holding the hand of my dead child in a hospital, willing her to open her eyes and say my name.
Walking into a funeral home to finally see my son and falling to my knees because, until that moment, his death was abstract. Seeing your kids laid out in a funeral home parlor suddenly rips that abstract away. And you SO VERY desperately want it back.
Because abstract means that maybe, just maybe, this is a nightmare and you're going to wake up.
4 years later and I still feel that way.
I still feel like maybe one morning I'll wake up and see his giant, deep pools of brown staring at me from the side of my bed, while he whispers- "mommy, I sleep wit chu?"
And I'll wake in the night to the sound of rustling in the pantry, my little candy bandit raiding my stash-alive and bright and beautiful, her mischief just pouring out.
I often wonder if I'll feel that way forever, until I see them again the other side of Heaven. Honestly, I'm pretty certain I will.
I will never be at peace with the death of my children.
The peace I hope that someday I will have can only come from knowing that they are with Christ. Forever, and always; whole, perfect and loved.
And someday, I will be too. My family WILL be whole again.
Until then, I'll wait. And I'll try to do it well, but when I don't-
don't judge.
or get impatient.
just give us all the grace to take this life, with it's myriad of twists and turns, rutted paths and broken dreams, hope for the future and faith restored,
in our own time and at our own pace.
And please, remember them. Say their names. Share their stories and keep them alive. Here, where our broken hearts live until we see them again.
And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Look, God's dwelling place is now among the people and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will no more death' or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."
Revelation 21:3-4
all my love,clan mac mama
1 comment:
I didn’t have to wait to read today Tiff.....but I still cried. Love you sweet friend. ❤️Polly
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