For Thor - 67 - Death. It can ruin a life.

Last night I was up. Lady had to pee, and I was restless. I wandered around the living room and kitchen for a while, and Lady wandered around the bushes in the yard. Both of us roused from sleep in search of relief. Happily, for her, a patch of grass that smells just right will do the trick. For me, well, I'm not so lucky. I'm churning through the rough emotional seas that rage and swell inside me like some ill-fated tugboat in a storm.

The light switches remained untouched; there was light enough to see by coming from the single perpetual candle that glows like a beacon from beside the box that holds your ashes. In these small hours of the morning, I feel your presence around me more strongly, and the warm glow of a candle envelops me like a honeyed hug. In the small hours of the morning, I don't have to ask, "Where are you?" You're just here, waiting for me to be still enough to listen, to feel, to know. I exhale once, twice and a third time before I feel my shoulders fall, and my chest expand. When I sense you near, the tears spring from my eyes like a well-spring that waits just beneath the surface.

A month of milestones has come and gone. Three birthdays and an anniversary have seen the sun rise and set without your smiling face to celebrate with us. With so much activity, it's been hard to find time to settle down inside, just to be with whatever comes up. A buzzing feeling grew in my chest over the past week as I tried to focus back on work. By the time Friday came around, I was agitated and cranky, off-kilter and seriously questioning the intelligence of universe that has my feet walking this road. The day had many demands of me, too; it was a marathon of back to back networking events meeting with important work colleagues and new potential clients. The events ranged from professional casual to high-level political to music festival tech mixer. By the end of the night, I was a mess - and I still had and hour to drive home.

Saturday brought more opportunity for fun and distracting activity. Shopping, picnicking, friends, music, another party without you here. Another family event that you would have loved, but no. You're gone. You're gone in a way that I still can't get my head around. Starr and I talked about this, we both keep thinking you're gonna walk in that damned door one day. I keep thinking about all the close calls that I've had in my life, that you had in your life. From fevers and ambulance rides to you being a two-year-old trying to drive the dang backhoe and countless hours on the road in stormy weather. We escaped tragedy so many times. Grace smiled upon us and carried us safely to the next moment of life. Even the scare of your birth and wondering if you were going to breathe or decide to join us in this life was a close call. And then came that night when it was no longer a close call, there was no deliberation by the Great Umpire in the Sky - you were clearly out at the plate. You left the game, left us to play on without you.

So many people tell me how strong I am, Thor. I say I don't feel strong. I feel tired. And crabby. And like a failure at times, too. I pray for Grace and peace and love to radiate through me. But those prayers are sometimes choked by bitter tears and a mother's broken-hearted longing. Is it the strength that keeps me waking each day and showing up? Maybe. Some other friends tell me, "I guess you have no choice but to…be strong." To that, I say no, I do have a choice. I can choose to ignore how I feel and bury all this pain deep inside then wrap it up in some numbing coping mechanisms. I could decide to shut out the thoughts that make me wonder "What the hell were you thinking when that truck went airborne? Were you scared? Did you know you were going to die at that moment? Did your life flash before your eyes? Did you cry out for help? For me?" I could choose to walk away from the memories of your sweet life because it causes such pain to contemplate that this is all we get of you. I could want to shut-down, shut-out, shut-off from anything that makes me feel too much. But I don't. I don't because I know making those choices is how death can ruin a life. My life.

My life is full of purpose and meaning. I know that. I just don't know what it is at the moment. Your death delivered me a new agenda with new priorities and a new direction; the details still hidden. The work of establishing clear interiority and reconciliation continues. The world tugs and pulls at me with all kinds of possibilities for distraction, opportunities for involvement and some of them resonate as possible pieces of my new life. It's hard to engage in anything with any seriousness when the world is so temporary and fleeting. Life is short, and all that matters is love. My questions about how to spend my day are "Does this bring love into the world? Does this bring light into the world? Does this make my heart feel light?" I have to muddle my way through sometimes. Because like this past month, the pace is fast-moving and the emotional waves are high. I feel like a blind whitewater rafter; I know the rapids are fierce and laden with deadly boulders, but I can't see them. The current of grief rages, tossing me in random directions.

It's true; death can ruin a life. Will I allow it? I say no, that is not what you would want for me. I choose to walk toward the pain, learning to smile through the tears and gain strength from each day I survive this agony. I lean into the grief and sink with it to the bottom of the well, where the spring of love flows with sweetly with sustaining succor and solace. I just have to remember that I need time, time to settle in this space. I need to remember to unplug and retreat when the buzzing agitation has me restless as a fly-stung horse.

This is when it's best to be still, in the small hours of the morning. I listen for you in the deepest chambers of my heart to tell me it's going to be okay.  I remember that all I have to do is keep showing up, with an empty cup. It will get filled up. 

Have faith, Mama. Just have faith--and patience.

I love you,
Mom