waves 🌊

Up and down and all around.  That has been the roller coaster of my emotions inside my head this past week.  On the outside I probably seem just fine, but the inside has been a bit of a jumbly mess.  I think part of that discrepancy is that it has been over a year since Ryan's death so when I do get hit by a grief wave, no one sees or suspects the cause anymore.  And I often do not feel comfortable verbalizing the emotion to others, for prideful fear that I have "worn out" this grief thing with most people.  I will selfishly admit there are even times when I wish I could go back to the beginning of this journey, just for an hour or two (certainly not any more than that!), but so that I could sit in grief and self pity, being surrounded by those who upheld me and were my strength when I did not have any.  There is something appealing about selfishly taking an hour to just give up trying and let others take over for a little while.  Others held me up when I was completely unable to stand, but now I can stand.  It is the ugly voice of fear and doubt that tells me how nice it would be to "take a break," let others do the work for me, and bask in self pity for a bit.  But I also know it does not work that way.

A friend of mine recently contacted me because she knew someone who had just tragically lost her husband.  She asked if she could put me in contact with this lady.  I, of course, said yes!  I vividly remember that desperate feeling of wanting (of needing!) to connect with someone who had walked this horrific road before, just to even know there was some glimmer of hope that this road could somehow even be survived.  A year ago it did not seem survivable.  So I contacted this precious lady, a newly widowed mama of young children, and as I listened to her put her emotions to words, I could relate to every. single. one. of. them.  The rawness of her grief and the apparent hopelessness of a sorrow so deep were intimately familiar to me.  Those first days and weeks feel like you are drowning in an ocean of tears with no land is in sight.  And sometimes you begin to think you do not even want land to ever come within sight because climbing up on it would be way, way too difficult.  Grief is consuming and hard and scary.  All that is familiar to me, yes, so deeply familiar, but it also is not defining me.  I realized that although I could instantly relate and even feel the rawness of this precious lady's grief, I am not in that place of drowning anymore.  I have not been for awhile.  It is more like I have a memory of that drowning that I can easily pull to mind and feel again, but it is not where I currently am.  I could see a different glimpse and a new perspective of my progress forward by entering this sweet woman's pain and remembering.  I could more clearly see that I am indeed in a place that a year ago I did not even think was a possibility, let alone would become my new reality.

So this, now, is a weird place to be, certainly not in the depths of raw grief anymore but still living with these subtle, almost gentle, waves of grief that I ride in and throughout my daily activities.  Grief no longer has the effect of consuming me but has, instead, become a part of me - a part that I just carry with me wherever I go and that sometimes gently nudges me to tears or frustration (or even anger) with a memory, a situation, or a stressor, but most of the time just silently hangs out with me.  And at inconvenient times I want to wish it all away, but really I know I have made peace with it - I acknowledge it and I let it reside in my heart.  Grief is a part of me.  A part that is there, even in the midst of the joy, love, and laughter that by some glorious miracle found their way through the murky waters of my sorrow and back into my life.  I see that and am largely okay with that.  And I am thankful.  I can say it is well with my soul.

The part that is the hardest for me, the part that is not "well" or even "okay"'though is when that ugly grief monster affects my children.  This past week I watched my Charlie miss his Daddy with an ache so incredibly deep that it hurts my heart in words I can not describe.  Ryan was Char's best buddy.  And he is gone.  I almost wonder if Charlie is not accepting that fact, or possibly if his heart is trying to and it is a battle he does not want to enter into.  I am not sure.  But Charlie is very emotional this week.  It makes my heart so sad to watch and it makes my heart so mad that he is even in this situation.  It makes me sad-mad.  Why should an 11 year old boy have no memories of his Daddy past the age of 9?  Why should a little boy feel that he is continually losing his Daddy as memories fade?  Why should the camo bear on his bed and the silver dogtags always hanging around his neck be the only physical things he can cling to when he just so desperately wants an embrace from his Daddy?  Why should I, his mama, have to watch helplessly knowing I can only attempt to fill what should be the double role of "parent" for this aching boy?  How does a mama make it all "okay" when it truly just isn't?  

It is like I can handle the waves of grief, I have learned to ride them, I have accepted their presence, and I am comfortable (most of the time) with their being a part of me.  But how, oh how, does one teach their baby boy to stay afloat on those ugly, mean waves?  They seem too big for my little guy to have to go through.  And that is just plain hard for a mama to watch.  Please keep my little Charlie man in your prayers (and Katherine too, but she is largely "okay" in this current season), that God comfort aching hearts and give my little guy the courage, strength, and skills to navigate the road of grief he has to walk.  And pray that his mama use the right words to minister to his heart in some way that is soothing to his aching heart. 

Charlie spending hours of his summer at the beach with friends

Boys out riding the waves

never too foggy for friends to have a beach day