new year belovedness charter

Something we were required to do for my residency back in October was to write a personal “Beloved Charter.”  This is where you go back through your favorite Scriptures or select verses that spoke to your heart in some way and you rewrite them as God speaking directly to you.  The result is a deeply personal statement of God’s love towards yourself, grounded in the truth of God’s promises.  

The truth is that each of us are God’s own beloved children and writing this individual declaration is a way to let that truth sink deep into our hearts.  Rereading it daily can be a way to reaffirm our own belovedness each day.  Because until we know and can claim our own belovedness, we will have a difficult time loving others as Christ loves.  This exercise, of forming my beloved charter and reading over it, was transforming for me.  It reminds me daily of my identity in God’s eyes in such a beautiful way and the exact verses have even changed or evolved over time as God brings new promises to my awareness.  I wanted to share my current charter below, along with the verse references that I wrote it from at the bottom.  And as we start a new year, I urge you all to write your own charter.  Just look for verses that speak to you, write them down, and see what forms and how it changes.  The result will be a personal love letter just for you because you are God’s beloved child.

My Personal Beloved Charter:

“Jennifer, I am in your midst. I rejoice over you with gladness. I quiet you with my love (1). Why are you anxious? I know all your longings and your sighing is not hidden from me. Consider the lilies (2). With confidence draw near to the throne of grace (3). My grace is sufficient for you (4). I show the immeasurable riches of my grace in kindness toward you in Christ Jesus. It is my gift (5). I did not spare my son, but gave him up for you, how will I not also with him graciously give you all things (6). You are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you (7). In my book are written the days that were formed for you. Your soul knows it very well (8).”

References:

1) Zephaniah 3:17

2) Matthew 6:28 & Psalm 38:9

3)Hebrews 4:16

4) 2 Corinthians 12:9

5) Ephesians 2:7-8 

6) Romans 8:32

7) 1 Samual 26:24, John 16:27, Jeremiah 30:19

8) Psalm 139:16 & 14

Christmas - pain, joy, and hope

It is Christmas Eve today and I am struggling.  It has been exactly a year and a half, 18 full months to the day, since Ryan died.  As I wrap the gifts tonight from “Santa” for my children, I can not help but think of all the Christmas eves Ryan and I spent together after the kids were in bed, eating the cookies left out for Santa, filling the stockings, or wrapping last minute gifts.  I even think about that one year we both had the stomach flu and stayed up late building a play kitchen set for little Kate to have the next morning.  She was only a year and a half old and we seriously debated just telling her Christmas was the following week because we were so very sick!  But instead we pulled out the directions and took turns building pieces of that little pink play kitchen in between blowing noses and trips to the bathroom to throw up.  It was miserable and it became a joke for years afterward about how sick we were.  But somehow it was still a joyful memory because we were together and laughing about it.

This year I struggle because I miss Ryan and I am just plain mad he is not here with me.  I am upset I have to fill the stockings by myself and eat those stupid Santa cookies alone.  I am sad that the one person who could know or understand all those years of Christmas Eve memories is gone.  And as I do these things I realize this is the first Christmas I have spent alone.  Ever.  I mean the kids are here with me, but after they go to bed, I am alone.  Ryan was either with me every Christmas, or the couple years he deployed over the holiday, I stayed at my parents house or was able to visit Ryan at his location.  Ryan deployed quite a few times in our 15 years of marriage, but it was a huge blessing that it was almost never over Christmas - and almost always over Valentines!  (Another joke we had was to ask every Valentine’s Day where he would be because it was almost certainly never home.  Luckily it was not a holiday that “mattered” to us.). And last Christmas I stayed at my sister’s house because I was too fearful of being alone.  This year, however, I am in my own home though.  I saw friends at church earlier today and I will have family at my door for Christmas Day, but this evening, Christmas Eve, is my first by myself.  But I also have to say, I think this is good for me.  I think knowing I can “do Christmas” (or anything else) on my own is good for me.  It is good for my self confidence and it also builds compassion in my heart for those who struggle, are lonely, and grieve.  Sitting alone, letting the many tears flow freely, remembering and feeling, it is all good for me to go through.  We all need time to let the emotions flow freely, acknowledge the hurt, and let these painful things transform us, keeping our hearts tender and open to love, instead of hardening up in anger, fear, or self protection.  A feeling heart is a loving heart.  It is how God sees and cares for us and it is the only way to love.

UPDATE 1/15/18:  I took this post down after David and I broke up.  It just hurt too much to read these words I wrote below.  But I decided to put them back up because they were truly my thoughts and feelings at the time that I wrote them.  I had no idea that just a few weeks after writing them I would have a broken heart.  And that broken heart would trigger the grief my soul and emotions remember.  If you read my January 2018 post “in the valley” you can see how this post connects to that one.

Always one day at a time, one breathe at a time. 

The other thing is I have this Christmas too is a wonderful person I adore, who is joyful and wise and so caring.  His greatest gift to me has been allowing me to still love Ryan.  He has so patiently listened when I have needed to still tearfully grieve these past months.  He has put up with my pain, my emotions, and my fear (and even me stepping away from our relationship and before coming back to it last September).  He has been beyond compassionate to me, willing to be present with my children, and amazingly loving even when my actions have so often been less than lovable. 

So this year, as I sit in this quiet home, alone, I am not without love and hope.  I know God has faithfully walked with me through every step of the last 18 months, both the pain and the joy.  I am not ever truly alone.  I have my extended family nearby and am beyond thankful for all my sister has put aside to be there for me.  I have my precious Ryan in heaven, who I know loves me and I believe is watching over me.  I am blessed with hopeful plans and a new excitement for my much prayed-over future.  I have two amazing children, who also know that life is a balance of feeling the horrific pains of tragedy alongside the depths of true joy.  And I have a Savior who was born in a quiet little manger, very much alone with his tiny earthly family.  A Savior who knows loneliness, who knows grief, who knows joy, and who is the hope we can count on in and through everything, tonight, this Christmas Eve, and every day.  This Christmas my prayer is that we each know and feel the truth that we are God’s ceaseless spiritual beings, created for an eternal destiny, beloved by our Savior, and cared for by His limitless love.

That little kitchen set we built for Kate, 2004

Christmas 2012 memory

This photo popped up in one of those facebook memories today.  I had forgotten about this picture and I was just delighted to see it!  This was taken 5 years ago today as we were visiting California for Christmas and was taken in the lobby of the Pierpont Inn.  We were married in the garden of the Pierpont, at their cute little gazebo area.  Often when visiting California we would stop at the Pierpont to see our garden and walk around.  During this particular visit the inn was decorated for Christmas so we stopped by the fireplace here and asked one of the kids to take a picture of us.

Christmas pictures

I actually got around to taking pictures of my children and doing some Christmas cards this year.  Here are my two growing cuties (and the furbaby).      
                          Merry Christmas from the Sweeney Family!

skype grief ambush

When something triggers an unexpected wave of grief, it is often called a "grief ambush."  The weeks and months after Ryan's death were filled with these unending waves of grief - any familiar sound or memory or object could send me into a horrific wave of grief.  After awhile the waves become so familiar that you learn to recognize the wave, ride it out, and keep on keeping on.  It is part of just surviving.  With time the waves became fewer and further apart.  And at some point they just kind of taper off and largely disappear.  But occasionally something will still catch me by surprise and there arrives one of those familiar waves again.  I had not even realized how very long it had been since I have been hit by a strong wave of grief - a grief ambush - until just Thursday afternoon when I was blindsided by a fresh wave.
I had a skype meeting online on Thursday afternoon for one of the classes I am taking.  And for some reason I could not get the skype application to load on our desktop computer.  Knowing my meeting started in only a few minutes, I quickly grabbed our laptop computer and pulled up the skype account there.  Apparently I do not use skype or the laptop vey often because as I logged into the account, the call log still had, right near the top of the list, the call I had with Ryan on June 22, 2016.  It was a complete shock to see his name pop up on my screen like that!  I had to look closely at the date and realize what it meant.  This video call was the very last time I ever saw Ryan.  He died less than 48 hours later.  The call log says we talked for 48 minutes and 36 seconds that Wednesday afternoon.  (I blurred out the other contacts on the call log screenshot here for privacy.)  Seeing his name on that call log hit me like a ton of bricks. I took this screenshot of it, then quickly focused on my meeting, trying to hold back the huge wave of emotions hitting me to deal with after my meeting.
I did make it through the hour long skype meeting, despite my emotional brain fog.  And afterwards I closed out the skype application, not wanting to think about the call log and how seeing Ryan's name there had startled me so much.  But as I look back now at that screenshot from Thursday afternoon, I remember that conversation with Ryan - those precious 48 minutes and 36 seconds.  I remember telling Ryan about our day and how much we missed him and that we were looking forward to seeing him that weekend.  I remember him on the screen, sitting in our loft in our home in Texas talking to us, with the kids Legos and schoolwork table in the background behind him.  And I had no idea at the time of that conversation that I would never see him again.  I had no idea that would be our last skype conversation.  I had no idea that in those 48 minutes and 36 seconds he was beginning to battle the worst pain of his life and was somehow being so incredibly strong for us.  I had no idea that I would not get another chance to look him in the eye and say "I love you."  I did not even know we had talked for 48 minutes and 36 seconds - the exact length of the call was new information to me.  It hurts that I do not remember every detail of that conversation.  It hurts to see his name listed as a call contact that I can no longer call.  Every "last" is a source of pain.  I remember the weeks and weeks of pain, as I would wait for my cell phone to buzz with a call or a text for Ryan - my head knew it would never happen but it took my heart weeks to let that reality sink in.  Seeing his name on the call log this week kind of brought back that similar type of pain again. What I would not give to have another 48 minutes and 36 seconds to call that contact again.
The funny part though is that even though I feel pain from this grief ambush, I am almost glad to have it.  It has been months since something about Ryan has surprised me or caught me off guard like this.  I know that seeing his name pop up unexpectedly in places is going to happen less and less, as I have uncovered almost all the "surprises" or information I could collect.  It almost seems like another kind of grief to realize that the waves of grief are fading...  So I hang onto this little bit of pain, just for today, clinging to Ryan with one more "last" that I do not really want to let go of. 

quote

TAPS conference

Last weekend the kids and I took a quick trip down to a TAPS conference in San Diego.  Kate and Charlie attended Good Grief Camp for kids while there, just like they did in Washington DC this last May during our Memorial Day weekend trip.  Time spent in the company of other TAPS families is always a blessing and the love those mentors and leaders shower on my children just warms my heart more than I can say.  While the kids were at their camps, I attended a Peer Mentor training for the TAPS organization.  I guess I feel like I am at a place where I have attended the seminars myself in the past and it is now time to try to give back in some way.  So many others so selflessly reached out to me last year, especially at times when I felt like I simply could not, or did not want to, go on.  If I can somehow just be a shoulder for someone else, sharing their grief with them, I want to be able and be prepared to do that.  

What surprised me the most, however, was how much seeing others’ pain affected my view of myself.  I sat in on the first sharing group on Friday evening after we arrived.  It was seeing those new, first-time attendees arrive, raw with shock and new grief, that I realized how I had been that person at one point.  My peer mentor was there (she has become a good friend of mine) and she asked me to help a newbie that evening, as she was overwhelmed herself with helping others.  I found myself timid to approach this woman who was crying with fear and fresh grief.  But then the memory of that debilitating, all-consuming pain came flooding back to me and I just hugged her.  I hugged her while she cried and I listened.  Because those two gifts - a warm embrace and a listening ear - were what I most needed in the weeks and months after Ryan's death.  And as I listened to her sob, I remember and I felt that pain again.  Not in a way that consumed me, but like a foggy memory of the hurt I had felt, and do still feel, but mixed with the familiarity of learning to live with the pain.  And I know it sounds weird, but I felt thankful.  I think you do not realize how much you have changed until you have something to compare it to.  Kind of like when you look at a picture of your children and realize how much they have grown but you did not notice the growth day to day because the changes are so subtle and slow.  I have changed from the person I was a year and half ago, in small subtle ways that add up to huge changes over time.  Grief and tragedy change a person.  Seeing others walk a similar path of pain brought that reality to my awareness.  And I guess my hope is that maybe I can shine a ray of light into those feeling trapped in the darkness of their grief by showing them that they can keep taking steps forward and let the pain become a part of transforming them.  One day they will look back and be able to say they have learned to live with their pain in new ways too. 

Kate and Charlie spent the whole weekend in their age group camps, doing their “grief work” and playing on the beach with other kids and bonding with their military mentors.  While they were safely occupied there, I attended that sharing group Friday morning, a workshop Saturday morning, and then I decided to spend Saturday afternoon alone, just relaxing and reflecting on the shores of Mission Bay.  And somewhere in the middle of that afternoon, I realized I am no longer afraid of solitude.  After Ryan died I spent months feeling absolutely terrified of being alone.  Each step I took last year by myself - moving into my home, traveling, staying in a hotel, attending my school program, each new “thing” took so much energy to do because of the exhaustion of grief and fear.  But sitting on the beach, alone, this past Saturday, I realized I was no longer afraid.  I had easily driven down to San Diego, checked into our hotel, gotten the kids off to camp. and then instead of attending the afternoon seminar, I had chosen to sit alone on the beach because I wanted to.  Not only was I not afraid of being by myself, I had sought it out as a comfort and had not thought twice about doing things that even just a few months ago would have been very scary to me.  Sitting there by the water I realized what I had accomplished and how far I have gone - and I was just thankful.  Thankful for answered prayer, thankful for those that have been there for me when I needed them, thankful for God's healing, thankful for the peaceful solitude there beside the ocean, and thankful for how God has continued to use my grief to love and keep a tender heart, instead of building up walls of bitterness or fear. 

Sunday I spent the day in peer mentor training with other survivors who want to learn how to be there for those in their deepest time of need.  It felt good to connect with these precious others.  Those of us who have walked this horrific road of grief have a special bond, often unspoken, maybe just a knowing how difficult it can be to take the next breathe.  I left the training that afternoon feeling loved, empowered, and ready to help wherever I could.  I felt strong as I walked back to our hotel to check out and pick my kids up from camp, ready to drive home.  And maybe God knew I needed that strength for the afternoon.  I picked Kate up from camp first and as I walked up to get her and hear about her day, a man came rushing up to me.  He was Kate's group leader for the weekend.  Each camper gets paired one-on-one with a military mentor, someone who is usually active duty and volunteers their time for a whole weekend to just bond with and interact with a good grief kid.  And the pairs of mentors / kid mentees are divided into groups (by age) and led through activities by a group leader who has volunteered to be trained to help kids with grief.  I had met Kate's mentor for the weekend but not her group leader.  So when this man sought me out at pick up and rushed over to me, I was caught off guard.  He proceeded to tell me that he knew Ryan.  He had been Ryan's co-worker at WHCA (White House Communications Agency) during part of our time in Washington DC.  I was kind of in shock and listened as he teared up and hugged me.  He had no idea that Ryan had passed away and did not put it together until he saw Kate's name and started talking to her.  I thanked him for sharing and I left to go pick Charlie up from his camp. 

As I was getting Charlie, however, it truly dawned on me what had just happened.  I had met someone who knew Ryan and this was new information to me.  All the memories I have of Ryan I have replayed over and over and over in my head so many times.  It saddens me deeply that there will never be anything new to add to my memories.  Suddenly I was desperate to hear more from this man so after getting Charlie, I rushed back to Kate's camp and found him again.  I apologized that I had to think about what he said and I asked his name, where he had worked with Ryan, how long they had worked together, and a host of other questions.  Daniel shared that they had worked together briefly downtown during Ryan's time at the White House itself, before Ryan was transferred back to the WHCA travel team.  Ryan had LOVED that stretch of time downtown and Daniel shared that it was indeed a sweet, kind of unknown secret about how great that particular position was.  And I received a tiny bit of new information about Ryan.  No matter how small the words and new memories, I am just delighted to have anything new!  That poor man must have thought I was crazy to come back and question him and hug him, but he was so incredibly sweet to talk with me and share.  He even gave Kate his contact information and asked to keep in touch with us.  I left feeling overwhelmed with emotion by the surprise of the afternoon.  I struggled to hold back the tears spilling out, just to be able to drive ourselves home from San Diego that evening.  I mean what are the chances that a previous co-worker from DC would travel to California and be assigned as my daughter's group leader?  Again, I left feeling thankful.  Thankful for a fresh memory, a new friend, and surprise blessings. 







Kate at camp (spelling out TAPS)

Charlie and his mentor

Charlie with some of the TAPS mentors

Peer Mentor Training

TAPS San Diego Conference

our beloved Ryan on the memorial wall

memorial wall at the San Diego conference

the view at our conference

Ryan's former co-worker & Kate's group leader

Saturday afternoon

relaxing after a long day at camp



the awesome group four