You Treat a Gift Differently Than You Do a Possession

July 3, 2009

“You treat a gift differently than you do a possession.”

These profound words come straight from a book I just began reading, “Gift of the Red Bird” by Paula D’Arcy.  This book chronicles Paula’s spiritual journey after losing her husband and infant daughter in a car accident earlier in her life.  This phrase came to her as she prepared to give birth to her second daughter just months after the tragic accident.

As Paula was about to go into labor to deliver this second child, she realized that she had felt possessive of her first child who had died.  Paula also felt as if she had made this child into an idol of worship (a god) rather than accepting her as a gift from God.

When I read these words for the first time this morning I reacted physically with an immediate and literal choking up and bursting into tears, an unusual reaction for me even during the past year.  I put the book down and picked up my computer to begin writing these thoughts.

I know that some of my struggles in grieving Daniel’s death come from my having done what Paula did – I too have idolized Daniel and tried to possess him.  How dare God or fate or whatever take Daniel away from me? 

When you possess something, your sense of ownership of this possession means that having it taken away is the same as having it stolen from you.  As owner, your “rights” have been violated and since these rights are paramount and this injustice needs to be addressed.

Thus, when I am angry that Daniel died, it is likely because I feel like he was stolen away from me – my ownership rights have been violated and I am angry!

Conversely, to receive a gift is to be given something that you have not earned or purchased.  It is free to you and received by you without expectation.  Gifts are usually not anticipated and are never deserved.

To see Daniel (and my other kids, spouse, etc.) as a gift is very different than to see them as possessions. 

We were blessed to receive Daniel into this world as a gift and, though we would have preferred that he stay with us here, he was never ours to ultimately possess, control, or own.  So his departure, while very sad to us, is not necessarily a violation of some cosmic title of ownership that we held on his life. 

Indeed, we never possessed that title – Daniel was on loan to us from the beginning.

God:  help me to accept this perspective and live in this light and light-ness toward Daniel and the rest of those whom I love on this earth.

Father's Day: mystery - joy - pain

June 21, 2009

Father’s Day:  great mystery – enormous joy – unspeakable pain

We are now six or seven weeks into year number two since Daniel died so I am celebrating my second Father’s Day with one child missing.

Darkness and light continue to occupy the same space in my heart – somehow I can mourn the loss of one child while being grateful for and celebrating the lives of the other two children that God gave to us.

Among the many memorable moments that I have experienced in life, as a father, four moments really stand out in my mind as I reflect on fatherhood today – late afternoon on August 3, 1989 when Daniel was born; around 3:00 am on October 7, 1992 when Hannah was born; around 1:00 am on December 28, 1994 when Ben was born; and 10:00 am on April 28, 2008 when Daniel was pronounced dead.

These four moments in time have thus far been the most pivotal moments in my life as a father.  The first three were moments of great mystery and enormous joy, and the fourth was a moment of great mystery and unspeakable pain.

I am blessed to be a father to three amazing kids.  I deeply mourn the loss of Daniel but am grateful beyond words for the experience of loving and fathering him in this life.  I am equally grateful for Hannah and Ben and for each of their lives and what I hope will be many years ahead for all of us to share and enjoy.

I am grateful that my three kids, along with their beautiful mother, have taught me more about love, grace, forgiveness, courage, life, and how to trust myself and God than I ever imagined I could even learn.  Together and individually they have shown me unconditional love and undeserved forgiveness over and over for over 20 years now.  They have demonstrated how to care for others and what I should value by simply being in my life. 

Like many fathers, I often fret when I don’t have all the answers, can’t figure out how to fix everything that is broken, or provide the family the idealized kind of leadership that I believe is my responsibility. 

The longer I am a father, the more I realize that is it all about God’s grace and not about me anyway.

I am blessed to be a father – thanks be to God!

Did God Choose for Daniel to Die?

June 20, 2009

God’s sovereignty

For centuries philosophers and theologians with more training and intellect than I possess have debated a variety of issues related to God’s sovereignty, including the ultimate question:  why does God allow suffering in the first place?  Many a human chooses to not believe in God because they cannot find an adequate answer to this basic question that both satisfies their minds and brings peace to their souls.

As a father who lost a child, I too cannot resist thinking about this question and discussing it whenever the opportunity presents itself.  Yesterday over lunch, my good buddy Steve patiently listened to my meandering monologue on the subject and contributed his thoughts when I finally ran out of steam.  This conversation is actually simply another episode in what is now a 14 month old discussion that began, as Steve reminded me, over breakfast in the Missoula hospital cafeteria the morning after Daniel died.

I believed then and am even more convinced now that much of our thinking about God’s sovereignty is framed poorly.  My lay person, street level, perhaps naïve and even superficial understanding of sovereignty goes something like this:  God somehow knows what is going to happen, and is therefore somehow in control of what is going to happen, and so nothing happens that God either did not cause to happen or at least has allowed to happen.  The whole doctrine is stuck in our finite, linear time, cause-and-effect world that our astute rational minds have worked so hard to understand and explain throughout human history.  So, we try and explain God, and in this case the notion of sovereignty, as best we can using our rational minds and observations skills.

With these definitions of sovereignty, we struggle mightily to “make sense” of massive “senseless” acts of human suffering – the Holocaust and other genocides, and the abject poverty, starvation, and human suffering that we observe throughout much of the world and throughout most of human history.  How and why does God “cause” or at least “allow” these horrendous things to happen?

With those enormous philosophical and theological hurdles to somehow overcome, the seemingly simpler questions in my mind – why did my son die/have to die/was allowed to die? – at one level all seem very trite and self-absorbed, but on another level seem to be elevated to into the same league as the more cosmic questions of sovereignty and senseless suffering listed above.

So, today as Steve and I chatted about my situation once again, I was reminded of how big these questions are and how I do not believe there are any clear answers to any of them available to us on this earth. 

As St. Paul wrote, “we see through the glass dimly.”

My best hunch is that God can know what is going to happen not because he causes everything to happen or moves us around a cosmic game board like a bunch of pawns, but rather because he is somehow outside of the time and space continuum that we inhabit and mysteriously knows what we will choose to do well before we come to a fork in our road and choose the direction.

Evil happens, or as the bumper sticker a few years ago put it – shit happens.  I think that evil and shit even happen in chaotic, random ways.  A deer jumping out of the woods and causing the accident that ultimately resulted in my son’s death can simply be random shit – chaotic evil in a fallen world where accidents happen everyday to people who do nothing that makes them deserve to suffer.

I believe the most significant question therefore is not why did it happen, but rather what does it mean in my life since it did happen?  What happens now as a result of Daniel’s death – in my life, in my family, in our future? 

God can make “everything work together for good” without God making everything happen the way it happens.  Things work together for good perhaps only when we give up trying to control them, or control understanding them and simply get on with the task of finding new meaning in our lives after bad things happen.

Fragile - Vulnerable - Control

June 18, 2009

Fragile – Vulnerable – Control

These terms swirl in my head constantly.

We are obviously very fragile human beings; watching Daniel die is my most harsh experience of this reality, but there are other reminders that regularly cross my radar screen if I am paying attention.  Most of us spend much of our lives trying to deny how fragile we are (and to some degree that may be a good thing in many respects).  But ultimately, the sooner we face this truth and somehow incorporate it into our perspective the better.

In a very similar way, being fragile human beings means that we are vulnerable to many forces that can shape and reshape our lives in profound ways and often in split seconds.  Again, my experience losing a son has left a strong after-taste of vulnerability in my heart and mind – I cannot seem to shake how vulnerable I feel, how vulnerable Daniel was to his injuries, and how vulnerable my family is to the heartache we continue to struggle with, much less all the other dangers that are out there that could further impact each of us negatively.

Which leads me to control:  humans are wired in many good ways to exert control over our individual lives, our time and activities, our environment, etc.  Overall, I believe this is a good thing and indeed is a reflection of how we are “made in God’s image” and imbued with reason and skill to control much of how we live and what we experience.

That said, ultimately, many aspects of our life are well beyond our control and the sooner we come to terms with that the sooner we began to experience some peace and contentment with our place in the universe.  As the saying goes, “there is a God and I am not him.”

On one level I will likely struggle forever with my inability to control Daniel’s earthly fate.  As a parent it is very hard to not feel like I failed my son.

At the same time, going through this experience ultimately proves to me that our human desire for control and the perception that we are in control are often misguided and perhaps even delusional. 

I am not ultimately in control of much, other than perhaps my response to that lack of control and my fragile nature as a human being and the vulnerability that this creates.

God:  grant me grace to accept these realities that I cannot change.

Recovered or Reconciled?

June 16, 2009

Recovered or Reconciled?

I ran across this distinction in a book on grief that I was reading last night.  The author explained that he does not believe you recover from your loss or grief, but rather, you can become reconciled to it and adjust.  I like this distinction.

“Recovered” implies that something is made whole again.  When your leg fully heals after being broken, you have recovered from that injury.  When your computer recovers data that you think you lost when you get one of those obnoxious error messages, the data is typically made whole again and you recover it in its entirety.  When you recover from any illness your body resumes its full functioning.

Our earthly family of five is now four – we will never recover our fifth member in this life – our family cannot be made whole again in that respect.  The broken heart I have as a result of Daniel’s death cannot be completely healed or made whole again if by that I mean restored to its previous state.  I don’t believe I will ever fully recover from this loss.

To be “reconciled” to this loss is a different matter.  The dictionary definition of reconcile includes:

• persuade somebody or yourself to accept that something undesirable cannot be changed;
• to make two or more apparently conflicting things consistent or compatible, or to become consistent or compatible; or,
• to end conflict.

I can be reconciled to my loss of Daniel and my grief over his death – I can accept his death as something totally undesirable that cannot be changed.  I can end my conflict with the indisputable fact that he is gone.  I can reconcile my broken heart with the grace and gratitude I also experience, though these seem totally in incompatible and inconsistent.  I can be reconciled to this loss and grief and yet not truly every recover from it.

Perhaps I am splitting hairs on all of this, but it feels right in my heart to make this distinction.

God:  grant me grace to continue toward reconciliation to Daniel’s death even though I may never fully recover from the shock and grief I still feel.

Reliving Every Parent's Worst Nightmare

June 1, 2009

“Every parent’s worst nightmare”:  still trying to comprehend the incomprehensible

I have lost track how many times I have repeated this dream, or had the same sensation when I am awake and my mind goes in this direction, but last night it clearly came to me as I re-experienced that fateful weekend sitting by Daniel’s bedside in Missoula as we struggled to understand that as he lay in his bed in his unconscious state, he was actually dying before our very eyes. 

During this dream my sensation is always the same – an intense feeling of panic and disbelief that I have no control over matters and no choice in the outcome.

As is often the case, I seem to awaken shortly after the climax of this dream and am disoriented, wondering if what I just experienced is actually true, or whether indeed it is simply truly just a nightmare.  Typically, within what seems like just a few seconds my conscious neurons kick in and I realize, once again, that though I just had this experience as a nightmare, indeed it is also a reality.

Perhaps someday I will ask a psychologist or psychiatrist to interpret these dreams and more importantly, why my conscious and sub-conscious mind continues to replay them. 

Today that task of interpretation seems pretty straightforward – I continue to struggle to comprehend what has actually happened – the incomprehensible fact that we are living “every parent’s worst nightmare” – we have lost our son.

June 4, 2009

The “valley of the shadow of death” revisited

I shared my earlier journaling on the “valley of the shadow of death” with a couple of friends and one of them responded by handing me some definitions of shadow.  As I read these I am struck with how one can interpret this metaphor in some interesting ways. 

A shadow is created physically when an object comes between the viewer and the light source, partially blocking the rays of illumination from that source of light and thereby casting a shadow away from the object.

Living and walking in the shadow of Daniel’s death probably can be understood in many ways.  One simple interpretation for me is this:  as Daniel died, his spirit moved directly toward our spiritual source of light, God himself, thereby creating a shadow as he moved toward God and away from us. 

As hard as it is from my frail fatherly reference point, understanding the shadow created by my son’s death this way helps sooth my aching heart as I hold onto the hope and peace that this implies.  Daniel journeyed into God’s presence and now somehow enjoys that eternal light and life that is promised to us in scripture.  The shadow he leaves behind can be seen as dark and cold from our human perspective, but it can also be seen as representing light and hope of Christ from a spiritual perspective.

God:  grant me wisdom to see this shadow as you do and to trust in your goodness, mercy, and light for my son, myself, and all those that I love.

The blessing of community

May 30, 2009

The blessing and grace of community

I just opened a package from Janna, one of Daniel’s best student friends at Whitworth, and tearfully read through the few dozen notes from his Whitworth friends that they wrote to him and us on April 28, the first anniversary of his death.  It is truly amazing to witness the impact this son of ours had on so many people during his eight months on campus and in the 12 months since he died. 

As a father, I am stunned, proud, blessed, and broken hearted all at the same time.

At times the grief is still unspeakable in its depth and intensity, yet the grace that we are also experiencing continues to be amazing.  God’s hand was at work in Daniel’s heart and life and it continues to be at work in the hearts and lives of those who loved him his whole life and those who only got to love him for a short time.

This Whitworth community of students, faculty, and staff are now a part of our family in a profound way.  Even while our hearts continue to ache with pain and sorrow, somehow we can experience the blessing and grace of that community.  I am still surprised by this paradox but thank God that it can and does co-exist.

Grace and Gratitude

May 22, 2009

Intersected Lives

 
About 17 years ago, our then three year old son Daniel was introduced to two other little boys his age, Stephen and Jeremy.  These three boys went to pre-school and on through other schools together and formed many layers of friendships that have endured since.
 
Tomorrow Stephen’s sister Sarah will get married, so it was only fitting that today Daniel’s mother and Jeremy’s mother should throw an elegant bridal shower for Sarah in our backyard.
 
The intersected lives of our three families have endured all these years – all the fun and happy times and a few unhappy times which for us most profoundly culminated in losing Daniel last year.  Yet watching Sarah and Vivian, Elise and Susan, and Carol all engaged today in this celebration today reminds me of the wonderful blessing of these two families to our family and the intersected lives that we have shared together.

God’s grace sometimes comes to us in large and loud ways, but perhaps more often it comes in small and quiet ways.  The intersected lives we share with old friends are definitely moments to remember that grace cannot be taken for granted, but should elicit deep gratitude.

May 24, 2009

Choosing gratitude

 
Our old friend Susan and I were talking yesterday and she commented that she was impressed that Carol and I were finding ways to be grateful even in the midst of our grief.  She observed that it would be easy to simply descend into grief and stay there, but that we were instead also finding ways to be grateful for what was good in our lives even as we grieve. 

I thanked her for sharing that observation, though I added that we were far from perfect in maintaining a balance between our grief and gratitude.

Choosing to look for ways to be grateful when we are feeling sorrow and sometimes even anger is something that we are consciously attempting to pull off.  This choice comes from a belief that we actually still have a lot to be grateful for, even though we are grieving Daniel’s death.  It also reflects a pragmatic commitment to our other kids, to try and give them some sense of normal even during this time in their lives when they have suffered an overwhelming experience in losing their big brother.

Ultimately, choosing gratitude reflects what we believe about God, that He ultimately is taking care of us, that He loves us and loves Daniel.  Even though I may never understand why Daniel died, I can somehow trust that good things can and will also still happen to me and my family, and I can choose to be grateful for them.

A Compost of the Spirit

May 17, 2009

A compost of the spirit

I am not really a great gardener, but as weird as this may sound, I do love to make compost out of table scraps and yard waste.  Especially here in semi-arid, red clay dirt Colorado, there is something oddly refreshing about mixing up organic material, periodically stirring it as it “cooks”, and seeing rich, black compost dirt created over months.  (Perhaps it also takes me back to my childhood roots in Nebraska when I would play with friends at their farms and spend hours running around fields of rich soil and corn stalks – I don’t know why; I just like it.)

This predilection came up this morning as Carol spooned cantaloupe seeds and the accompanying goop into the compost bucket on the kitchen counter that I periodically add to the composter in the backyard, and I commented on how much I enjoy the whole process. 

Carol responded immediately that we are living in a composter of sorts as we continue to deal with Daniel’s death and the ensuing grief.  Perhaps these experiences are beginning to bring forth some new things in our lives that will be richer and more full of nutrients than we expected and than we experienced beforehand.

The New Testament is full of literal and figurative death and resurrection language, “dying to self” and being “born again” or born anew.  Some of these concepts are overused in Christian talk and at least in my experience, we often don’t acknowledge how painful the death and decomposition process really is.

For a compost of the spirit to ripen, a lot of stuff has to get mixed up, broken down/decomposed, and literally “cooked” into some new form. 

I don’t really know what this mix is in our family’s life or in our individual lives right now, but I hope and pray that God is working our composted lives in such a way that the results will bring new life to us and to those we love.

 

May 10, 2009

52 weeks

Every anniversary seems to evoke a slightly different angle or set of emotions.

52 weeks ago yesterday was Daniel’s memorial service in Denver. This weekend last year, our house was full of family and friends from everywhere. The service itself was absolutely amazing – more people came than we could have imagined and the beauty and power of the service itself were stunning. People continue to randomly comment on what an impact it had on them and how unforgettable it was. God was certainly present in that service and“glorified”, to use a somewhat obscure phrase that, in my opinion, is often bantered about too much in the Christian community.

Carol commented yesterday that each anniversary that comes and goes brings something different with it. At times, the emotions now feel just as raw and overwhelming as they did a year ago. We are still stunned by our loss, by the fact that Daniel is physically gone from this earth and that we are left with such a deep and abiding sense of sadness as a result. Yet, remembering the memorial service also brings back a feeling of gratitude that we are loved and cared for by so many, and that so many folks wanted to be present with us in that sanctuary and witness that event.

In a weird way, I wish I could re-live the service, move around the sanctuary and literally take it in from many angles. I have listened to the spoken part of the service on CD a couple times and will likely do so again. Those words somehow give me some measure of peace and courage to keep plodding along this treacherous path.

The valley of the shadow of death

May 4, 2009

Walking through the valley of the shadow of death

Psalms 23: The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.  He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul.  He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.  You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.  You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.  Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

This Psalm started floating through my head last week sometime.  Then on Sunday, there it was in the bulletin as the appointed Psalm for the congregation to read together in cycle of the Episcopal lectionary. 

I guess I need to stop and listen.

Since Daniel died 371 days ago, we have been walking through the valley of the shadow of death.  Death casts a long and large shadow when it strikes a family in this manner.  Every day is a new experience of the same sick feeling – I have lost a son, suddenly, tragically, way too young, and on and on.  The valley has been deep and long and often seems like it will never open back up into a sunny green pasture.  The shadow of death is large, dark, and seems all encompassing still as we wander through it.

Indeed, for much of the last year it has seemed as though we are living in this valley of the shadow of death and not simply walking through it.  Many days I feel like I am stuck forever in this shadow and in the darkness that it leaves in its wake.

Of course, this Psalm does not end in the shadow of darkness.  It goes on to several more positive concepts, including that we should fear no evil, we should find comfort in God’s rod and staff providing protection and direction, and that our cup overflows as goodness and mercy follow us and we ultimately dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 

All of this sounds great, if we can survive our time wandering in the shadow.

May 7, 2009

The Shadow of Death – continued

This metaphor seems so apt – this first anniversary season has been treacherous as I seem to have fallen back into the shock and disbelief over Daniel's death, and the subsequent sadness and despair that closely follow.  Life seems very dark and hopeless, as if I am incapable of ever feeling any hope or happiness again.

People talk, but I feel like their words are simply noise and I cannot understand what they are saying.  I feel dull and almost asleep much of the time.  I feel like we live in the shadow and it is very dark and endless.

First Anniversary: you grow into it - you do not get over it

April 25, 2009

First anniversary weekend

We are all on the airplane right now in route to Spokane.  It feels very bittersweet – I can’t wait to see Daniel’s friends but I know it will be very hard to see them with him missing.  I realize that we are choosing to embrace these kids and thus the pain that comes with being present at Whitworth.  It would be much easier to stay away – to keep a safer distance from these people and the feelings that will likely emerge.  Yet, we all want to be with them – the kids, professors, and staff who Daniel loved and lived among during his last eight months on earth.

There is something sacred in this journey.  Whitworth and Spokane somehow became a “Mecca” for Daniel.  It was a place where Daniel’s experience of God, personally and in community, blossomed and deepened.  Thus, this is a strange and sad but somehow exciting pilgrimage for us to a holy place in our son’s short life.

April 27, 2009

The weekend in Spokane

We are packing up to leave Spokane after our 48 hours here.  This was an absolutely amazing experience.  Daniel’s friends – Ben R., Justin, Dustin, Ben G., Janna, Alicia, Amber, Curtis, Collin, JJ, Lauren, Lindsey, Jenny, and many more – reached out to us, embraced us, and simply wanted to be with us.  What amazing kids and what an amazing gift!  The adults – Bill and Bonnie, Sean and Grace, Kristi, Calvin and Teresa, Dick, and especially Jerry – simply welcomed us and cared for us in very profound ways.  All sweet loving people whose actions so clearly demonstrate the love of Christ – what it means to live in community and in relationships rooted in grace and love.

The fragrance of Whitworth is stunning to the senses.  It is truly and example of “Thy kingdom come” – it is a glimpse into God’s kingdom – both a foretaste of the heavenly kingdom and a great example of what can occur when humans commit themselves to pursuing deep and abiding relationships.

Jerry is truly amazing – 18 years of grief, hard work, and deep reflection have profoundly shaped him.  Yet, he is very honest and direct – one of his opening lines when we first sat down with him in his home was – “this really sucks, doesn’t it?”  Other quotes include:  “you are stepping directly into the darkness” – “you grow into it (grief and loss), you do not get over it.”

Over several conversations in our two days staying at his home, we discussed numerous topics and angles to this journey.  He shared his belief that we live in two dimensions and our loved ones who have passed on live in three dimensions – our two plus one more – somehow this is “heaven” and this enables them to share in our experiences even though we are not sharing in theirs, yet.  We compared notes on our individual experiences sensing the presence of our deceased loved ones as we approach and participate in the Eucharist – there is a thin veil separating us from them at God’s table when we are all participating in the “communion of the saints” – literally.

Looking at Jerry’s family photos all over his home gives us hope.  His three kids – two, six, and eight when their mother, sister, and grandmother died are thriving.  They have not only survived, they are doing great.  Growing up without a mother was treacherous, at times, but Jerry threw himself into his role as a single father and figured it out.  As he describes it, many times he did not feel like taking his kids to music lessons, or camping, or whatever, he just did it and continued to do it until it worked.

Stability was his goal and overall he achieved it even though he struggled throughout it all in so many ways, emotionally and spiritually.  He speaks about how fragile everyone and everything was – how he knew that their collective survival literally depended on him achieving some sense of stability in his family and home.

Jerry’s story is so compelling – so grace-filled – so hopeful and wonderful – yet he still carries the unimaginably deep wound and profound grief over losing three members of his family at once.  His loss remains what it is – treacherous – yet his life and his family’s life are robust and good, just not the same good that he imagined.

Prayer:  Jerry described himself as a “combative” with God when he prays, believing that God wants to know what we want even if He doesn’t always give us what we want.

God’s will:  Jerry believes this is mostly about redeeming the world and using us in the process if we are will to participate.  Bad things still happen to believers – we are not promised, nor should we expect or seek to live in “gated communities” at least in the spiritual sense (though perhaps in the literal sense as well!).  That is not where God needs us.  In fact, we are needed in the hurting, broken, and messy world to be agents of redemption and healing.

As I reflect on these conversations and experiences at Whitworth I am struck by the fact that losing Daniel has resulted in so many experiences of grace.  People care deeply for us and are reaching out to us with so much compassion.  It is interesting to see how grace comes to us – sometimes it is surprising but it is always encouraging to know that we are loved and remembered by so many family and friends.  In fact, it is humbling and overwhelming to hear from so many people who remember our loss and want to let us know they care. 

In spite of all this love, at its core this is a lonely journey because it is so personal and so profound and we each experience in some unique ways.  Yet, we are somehow surrounded on our lonely journeys by a community of family and friends and amazing grace keeps coming through their calls, notes, cards, emails, Facebook postings, and more.

The Silence is Empty

“I know that when you died and went to heaven, the angels sang the alleluia song; but the silence that you've left here behind you, is empty like the day without the dawn . . . I believe that I am broken-hearted now that you are gone.”

These are words from Drew Holcomb’s song “Sweetness”.  Hannah met Drew and his wife at Young Life camp last year where they were providing camp music.  Drew lost a brother when they were in their teens, and wrote this sweet song about this experience.  One evening, when visiting with Hannah and her friends, he heard about her experience of losing Daniel, so Drew sang this song the following day for Hannah and it touched her heart.  I now listen to a recorded version of this and my heart is touched deeply as well.

Drew’s words sum it up very well.  I believe Daniel is enjoying the alleluia song, but the silence is empty and our hearts are still broken – such a bizarre yet very robust mixture of faith, hope, and pain.

Death and Resurrection

April 18, 2009

Resurrection:  further thoughts

Though other faith traditions may have some belief in an after-life, Christianity may be unique in our belief in the “resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come” as many of us re-affirm each Sunday when we recite the Nicene Creed.  This doctrine or belief begins and ends with Easter:  Jesus rose from the dead and promises that we will do the same.

There is no greater hope for me as a grieving father:  my son Daniel, in some great mysterious way, is alive and well somewhere in a place we call heaven – he has already experienced a resurrection.  Though I cannot really fathom that, I can imagine it and cling to the hope that he is saving a place at that table for me as well.  His transformation into this new life forms one side of this equation with our grief and sorrow on the other side.  This resurrection hope occupies one side of my heart and my very human experience of loss inhabits the other side.

Yesterday I sat with my men’s group at church – a dozen very different men ranging in age from 40 to 80 who meet each week and listen to each other share our journeys and pray for each other.  My comments centered on the impending one year anniversary of Daniel’s death and our planned trip to Spokane to spend time with his college friends.  Several men responded with comments about how Daniel’s death is reshaping elements of their lives and thinking, as well as how they observe this process unfolding in my life.  Daniel’s death is provoking new ways of thinking and understanding, including many of us paying more attention to what is important and less attention to what is not. 

Somehow Daniel’s death is producing new life in our hearts as we become more attuned and sensitive to what matters.  Perhaps this restoration of the heart is another example of what we mean when we say we believe in the “resurrection of the dead.”

April 15, 2009

Eastertide: thoughts on resurrection

Eastertide is an old-fashioned word that only Christians who follow the liturgical calendar use.  I assume it refers to the continuing celebration and contemplation of the Easter event – the resurrection of Christ.

Since my last entry on death and faith as teachers, Easter Sunday has come and gone and it is probably time to think about the “life” or resurrection side of this season. 

I had breakfast this morning with a friend who lost his wife to breast cancer ten years ago when they were both in their early 40’s and had a two year old son.  Listening to a person who is ten years down the road of grief is somehow fascinating to me at this stage – J. confirmed a lot of what I have read and heard from others.  He still thinks about his wife daily and can still “go there” with his emotions and feel the sorrow over his loss.  And, he has learned how to carry that grief more comfortably as well, though the hole left by that person remains. 

I shared my sense that we live in a duality or paradox as our experiences of grief and grace/hope co-exist.  Grace and hope do not somehow cancel out the grief – both are true and real and residing side by side in our hearts and minds.  I believe that the grace and hope my family and I have experienced originates with God and indeed God uses the people who surround us to deliver that grace and hope into our lives, giving us a very real and at times almost tangible experience of God as a result.  J. concurred that this has been his experience as well.

So a sense of loss and grief over Daniel’s death remain and an experience of resurrection or new life occurs as grace and hope come along side us, making for an interesting and curious mixture of realities to experience and contemplate.

April 10, 2009

Good Friday:  reflections on death and faith as my “teachers”

Good Friday is a solemn day in the Christian church year since it commemorates the day of Jesus’ crucifixion.  The noontime liturgy at our church comprised walking the Stations of the Cross and reflecting on the events before and after the crucifixion.

As Holy Week nears its close and apex in Easter Sunday, I continue to contemplate death, resurrection, and faith from my new point of view as a grieving parent who has lost a child.  I know that without my faith in Christ I would be even more despondent and depressed over this loss.  Yet even with that faith, the sorrow runs deep and wide and is flowing anew as this first anniversary approaches.

In Whitman’s book entry for April 4, she quotes another author named Terry Tempest Williams who wrote the following comments on faith:

“Faith is the centerpiece of a connected life. It allows us to live by the grace of invisible strands. It is a belief in a wisdom superior to our own. Faith becomes a teacher in the absence of fact.”

A “belief in a wisdom superior to our own”:  as I try to listen to God, to my own heart, and to the variety of voices I am connecting with since Daniel died, it is clear that some of my friends do not have any faith and thus do not really understand my faith or, “how I can believe in a good God when I have lost my son?”  (In reality, no one has actually voiced that question fully or clearly, though I have seen it sitting in between the lines during several conversations.)  I so need a wisdom superior to my own in this season of my life; it is very clear to me how limited my wisdom is in dealing with this loss.

“Faith becomes a teacher in the absence of fact” really resonates with me right now as well.  I have little or no facts to go on when it comes to fully and clearly understanding Daniel’s death in the medical sense, much less in the spiritual or cosmic sense.  The “facts” of Daniel’s death seem to elude me, if by facts I mean knowing and understanding all the details and meaning in some provable, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt way

“Why” Daniel died is still a mystery to me both medically and spiritually.

Hebrews 11:1 puts it this way: 

 

“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” 

My Christian faith provides substance, or a foundation, and some evidence, or conviction that there is more to this story than my limited senses physical senses can see, touch, test, or prove to be a fact. 

So in a general sense, faith is my teacher in the absence of fact.  In a more specific way, my faith in a merciful, loving, and good God is somehow my teacher and I need to listen to its instruction and to His guidance as I plod along this still treacherous path of sorrow.

 

Darkness and Light - Acknowledgement - Fear of Forgetting

March 31, 2009

Darkness and Light
 

I spend my days “in the light” – my work requires me to by “up” and to interact with a variety of staff colleagues, university faculty scientists and physicians, and donor.  I am almost constantly meeting with someone, talking to someone on the phone, or emailing or writing someone some correspondence that requires me to be positive, solicitous, and engaging.  I mostly feel energized by these interactions and my mood is even light and humorous at times.

The last few evenings I have found myself sinking into some depression or sadness, and struggling to even be in the same room as my family, much less engage in any meaningful interaction.  It feels particularly dark right now, emotionally and spiritually.

Darkness and light seem perfect descriptors and metaphors for what I am currently living.

Acknowledgement of our situation

As we anticipate the first anniversary of Daniel’s death, Carol and I are also struggling with some friends who seem to want to ignore what we are experiencing, either because they are not paying attention, or because they are so worried about not saying the right thing, or something.

It hurts us deeply when people we care about ignore our grief, especially when we have taken the opportunity to share specific challenges we are facing and how we are trying to cope.

To not acknowledge our vulnerability in some small way is very hurtful.

Having said that, this hurt always leads to our own neurotic sense that we are either being incredibly self-centered or, many of these same people think we really should be “over it” and they have lost patience with us, or, both.

March 28, 2009

Eleven months . . . fear that I am forgetting

As we enter the 12 month and look forward to the first anniversary of Daniel’s death in four weeks, Carol and I are aware of an increase in the acute pain of grief we are feeling.  We are unsure how to mark this anniversary with the kids, but we will figure it out. 

I still regularly re-live in my mind the hospital experience, wondering about all the moments and what was really going on with Daniel physically. 

I also fear that I am forgetting him and forgetting the details of those last hours that we spent with him on this earth.

Prayer - Special Graces - Ambivalence

March 27, 2009

Prayer

Someone asked me today how Daniel’s death has impacted or changed my prayer life.  Here was my response: 

1. I have never had a good regular “quiet time” as many Christians believe is normative, but for much of my adult life, I seem to have ongoing conversations with God throughout most days, on a variety of subjects and situations I find myself in.  Thus it seems like I pray, or talk to and with God almost constantly.  Since Daniel died, I really cannot shut up and God seems to be the only person who can tolerate my verbosity.

2. Lament is defined both as a formal expression of grief or sorrow and as a groan.  King David is famous for his laments throughout many Psalms, including strong expressions of feeling abandoned by God; Job also expresses laments throughout his book in the same vein; and there are other examples in Scripture, including Jesus’ last words on the cross – “Father, why have you forsaken me?”   

It seems to me that lament has become a major aspect of my prayer life – I regularly lament to God my sorrow, anguish, and anger over losing Daniel and even at times, feel as though groans are the only expressions available for how I feel.  I keep telling God what is on my mind and in my heart.

 

3. Jerry Sittser in his book on unanswered prayer has some profound wisdom for me right now.  He argues that prayer is not so much about getting what we want as it is about getting to know God, listening to try and hear what God wants, and having our heart changed as a result.  Prayer should not so much be us trying to shape God as it should be about allowing God to shape us.  

Since God did not answer my prayer and save Daniel, I am left to ponder prayer’s purpose and efficacy.  Perhaps I am also left with the growing realization that my prayers should be more focused on knowing God, listening to hear from God, and hopefully to have my broken heart reshaped by God.

Later that same day, someone asked me a similar, quite personal question about how our grief has impacted our marriage.  I told this person that I felt like a new emotional intimacy was growing between Carol and me through the grief process.  Carol is the only person in this world who has an experience of loss that is the most like mine.  We weep together, share our heartbreak, share similar dreams for Daniel that will never come to pass, share memories, and more.  

Further, she is also the only person who now struggles to balance grief with parenting our other two kids and try to find joy amid the sorrow.

March 19, 2009

Special graces for a father’s struggle

Over my lunch hour today, I wandered into the Catholic Basilica near my downtown office for noontime mass.  As the son of an evangelical Protestant pastor who is now an Episcopalian, I feel oddly almost at home sitting through mass with our not so distant relatives in the faith, the Catholics.

Today was the celebration of the feast of St. Joseph, the earthly father of Jesus.  The priest gave a nice homily, emphasizing the early struggles of Joseph to accept the unplanned pregnancy of Mary (at least from Joseph’s vantage point), still marry her, and then faithfully help raise Jesus into manhood, only to see him die on the cross.  Joseph obviously had many struggles along the way, but as the priest emphasized, Joseph was given “special graces” by God to stay committed to the call on his life and on his family and thus participate in a remarkable way in helping to shape the history of the human race as God’s servant.

The priest then prayed for us all present, that we might receive similar “special graces” to enable us to remain faithful to the call God has for us in the midst of whatever struggles also come our way.

As a father struggling with the untimely and unexpected death of my son, I found a remarkable peace in this message. 

May God grant to me and to my family the special graces we need to remain faithful in spite of our struggles through grief and pain.

March 18, 2009

Ambivalence

The dictionary says ambivalence is the “presence of two opposing or conflicting ideas” – this pretty much sums up what Carol and I are feeling right now about our grief. 

We are unsure of where we “should be” in this process.  Time after time, when we are going about our daily business, we are torn by the ambivalence we are living – deep, deep sorrow on the one hand, and a sense that we are not sure what others think or expect of us on the other.  So much is left unsaid and we are hesitant to always “bring it up” since it is so unclear to us why others seem to ignore what is raging inside our heads and hearts.

I guess the bottom line is, no one really can understand those raging emotions unless they are having or have had the same, or a very similar, experience of grieving.

The most recent experience of this came last night as Carol and I sat through our Young Life committee meeting feeling conflicted over the fact that our annual major fund raising event is occurring the weekend of the first anniversary of Daniel’s death.  Neither of us is comfortable committing to taking on much responsibility for this event, since we each anticipate that we might not even attend it, both because of the emotions we will be struggling with that weekend and because we feel like Ben and Hannah need our full attention during that time as we all work through this anniversary together.

So we muddle along with our broken hearts and ambivalent thoughts, hoping for some clarity some day. 

Imbalanced - Donated Organs - Transformed -

March 17, 2009

Imbalanced

At times, grief creates a sensation of imbalance – emotionally and spiritually, but it almost feels like it is physical as well. 

I left a breakfast conversation earlier today and driving away the word “wobbling” came into my mind.  I am wobbling around emotionally, spiritually, and even physically – unsure of my footing, feeling out of balance or alignment and almost like I am about to literally topple over.

When Jerry Sittser said that we would, over time, learn to “carry our grief comfortably,” perhaps he was describing the process of gaining some balance in our walk with our grief.  If grief is analogous to carrying luggage and the bags are not going to get any lighter, than perhaps I simply need to find a way to balance the weight of the bags so that each side is approximately the same weight and it is easier to balance them. 

Does my love for Daniel mean that I will carry forever my grief over losing him? Perhaps, over time, the weight of grief in the bags will decrease, though I doubt I can ever completely put the bags down, nor do I want to.

March 12, 2009

Organ donations

One of our favorite television shows for many years has been ER, though we had not really watched it regularly for some time.  This season is its last, so we have fallen back into the habit of watching it as it winds down through its final episodes.

This evening’s show featured two organ transplant stories, chronicling the situations that the donor families faced as well as the recipients.  As it must, television simplified these complex processes into very sanitized and fast-paced dialogue and decision-making.  At one level, it was reasonably well-done since it gave a reasonably accurate account of some of the dynamics we experienced; in so many other ways, it was, of course, much harder and more complex than a 60 minutes show, with commercials, can cover.

All that said, many thoughts and emotions came tumbling back across my mind and spirit as I watched the on-screen drama.  It is still so unbelievable that we went through a similar series of conversations and gut-wrenching decisions and experiences with our son.  To say it still seems surreal is such an understatement.

I want to someday feel good about donating Daniel’s organs, but so far, I have not had that experience yet.  On the contrary, I still feel almost nauseated when I think about those experiences – when I picture Daniel lying in that ICU bed hooked up to so many tubes and I see him wheeled out and all of us walking him down that hall, into the elevator, and finally into the operating suite for our final good-byes.

We all cried and our nursing team cried with us.

March 1, 2009

The Wilderness:  A Furnace of Transformation

First Sunday of Lent:  today’s Gospel was the account of Jesus in the wilderness for forty days being tempted by Satan.  Stace quoted Henri Nouwen’s description of this event as the “furnace of transformation” that Jesus endured and that we must as well.  The furnace of transformation can come in many forms, including through tragedies such as the death of loved ones. 

Losing Daniel is a type of furnace that I am living in and how it is going to transform me remains to be seen.

Losing my son has left me open and vulnerable.  I often feel this palpably as I walk through my day.  I sense that I cannot cover up for my vulnerability and my pain.  It is ever present, just below the surface, and easily stimulated.  I feel like I no longer have the ability to act as though I am “in control” of my life, that I “know what I am doing”, or that I “have life by the horns.”  I somehow know better – I know that I have no control and have no real ability to call the shots or make life behave the way I want it to.

Sitting helplessly by Daniel’s bedside and watching him die has taken away this sense of invincibility and this sense of being in charge of myself and my environment. 

Where it mattered most, I was absolutely vulnerable and ultimately powerless. 

Somehow these feelings have changed me forever.  Perhaps that is actually a good thing. 

I have been transformed.

The furnace strips away the defenses, excuses, and complications that we surround ourselves with; it leaves our spirits bare and vulnerable.  In the end, the furnace transforms us most if we recognize that our only hope and our only source of identity and power is God himself.

 

Darkness - Dust - Beckoning Love

February 27, 2009

Enduring the Darkness

Sometimes sleep is very hard, even when it is dark.  So I get up and write, this morning at 5:00 am, an early hour for me.

“The dark night of the soul” is a classic concept in monastic and perhaps other writing and thinking.  In relationship to grief and the dark night of the soul, I just read the phrase – “enduring the darkness” – in the Whitman book.  That seems to cover it – we are simply trying to outlast, to endure this darkness of sorrow.

This darkness is a complex, yet simple sensation – it seems best described as spiritual or emotional emptiness.  I walk around our home and am consciously aware that Daniel has left, that he is missing, and that I feel an emptiness and darkness as a result. 

Though we are experiencing some moments of laughter and joy as a family, there is yet this stillness at the end of the day, during the night, and even at midday, where it is too quiet and too empty.  A sense of darkness seems to permeate life even on bright sunny days.

Enduring darkness is the only healthy current option other than medication.  There seems to be no other escape.  Given our deep love for Daniel, perhaps this is natural – we miss him terribly and darkness is the result, a darkness that must be simply endured. 

February 25, 2009

“To dust you shall return”

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”  These words of the Ash Wednesday liturgy are recited every year on this day by many Christians participating in the historic rituals of the church as the priest makes the sign of the cross on our foreheads with a smudge of ashes.

Tonight, Carol recalled how Daniel attended this service with her two years ago as it fell on her birthday; I missed this moment because I was out of town on business.  That evening Daniel shared his excitement about this ritual of ashes, commenting about its richness and meaning as it gave perspective to us in our transient humanity.  Little did we all know just how transient Daniel’s life would be.

Less than two weeks before he died, Daniel wrote these amazing words to his friends, including a quote from Archbishop Romero:

 

“God wants me to care; He doesn't want me to worry. ‘Beautiful is the moment in which we understand that we are no more than an instrument of God; we live only as long as God wants us to live; we care only do as much as God makes us able to do; we are only as intelligent as God would have us to be.’ Archbishop Oscar Romero's words seem so right in my head, but I am struggling to take them to heart.”

I know that Daniel had his moments of struggle in taking these words to heart.  I also know that Daniel had an amazing gift and perspective on life.

We are but dust and to dust we shall return, though in some great mystery, God enlivens this dust for a time and we are able to learn, to grow, to love, and to serve others in this earthly body we inhabit. 

Thank you, God, for the gift of Daniel and for enlivening his dust for a time on earth.

February 14, 2009

Valentine’s Day:  love beckons us

“And love calls to love.  We are summoned from our grief by love, and we will be healed by love.”  Martha Whitmore Hickman

As I read this statement, it strikes me that we are also summoned to our grief by love – losing a person we love makes the grief what it is – the seemingly unbearable and unspeakable experience of emptiness when that person leaves us behind in this world.  I have a deeper experience and understanding of loving my child as I have explored this pain and emptiness in my heart.  Perhaps my love for Daniel has even deepened through my grief over losing him.

Yet I sense that this experience of grieving love also has the ability to call me into deeper love for those still living.  The emptiness of one loss makes the presence of other persons in one’s life more remarkable and meaningful.

Love beckons us to live – how can one live fully without the love of another calling us to respond?  How can we live fully without sensing that God himself beckons us to love him and love others in ways that we cannot even imagine?

Today I thank God for His love beckoning me, and for Carol, Hannah, and Ben loving me, and for my dear beloved son, Daniel, who loved me in life and even now beckons me to love more fully through his death.

Grief and Grace - Numbness and Anguish

February 11, 2009

Grief and Grace continue

Late last night something drew me to going through some of the notes and program from Daniel’s memorial service in Spokane and the names of people who attended the service in Denver.  I read Terry’s homily from Spokane and was reminded of the way the he wove our comments about unspeakable grief and amazing grace into the story of Jesus dealing with a grief-stricken family after the death of Lazarus.

Unspeakable grief and amazing grace continue to shape our journey. 

So many lonely and sad moments, contemplating a son’s life cut so much shorter than we expected or desired.  So many of our hopes and dreams for Daniel that can never be lived out; so much joy that he brought to so many that is now missed; sadness and grief that go beyond our words.

And, so many people who came to those services, sent cards, emails, and notes, and have cared for us and continue to care for us.  God’s grace has manifest itself to us through these caring people – in our sadness, we somehow also feel very blessed.

What a mystery!

February 2, 2009

Numbness and anguish

Some days I simply feel numb. 

I walk through the day, listening to others speak at meetings at work, trying to put a cogent response together when asked a question, and attempting to work at my ever-lengthening list of tasks piled up on my desk and in my email box.  Going through the motions of life, yet feeling detached and unable to connect with much of what is being said and done.

Staring blankly and feeling the same blankness – both seem to sum up my day today.

Yet this evening I was day-dreaming about Daniel’s final hours lying in his hospital bed in the ICU.  In my mind’s eye I could see him clearly and feel again the desperate anguish of watching him quietly die.  The anguish of my heart is still very real and I can reconnect with that feeling when I replay that scene in my mind.

Authors on grief say that people in my position fear losing the intensity of these feelings.  I understand that because I fear the day when the anguish of losing this boy may become less vivid – will that mean Daniel’s life is less vivid to me as well?

 

Nine months of Grief and Grace - Daniel is saving me a seat!

January 28, 2009

Nine months

Nine months ago today Daniel died. 

Nine months has not been enough time for me to fully comprehend what I just wrote. 

Nine months is roughly the same amount of time that Carol carried Daniel in her womb before he was born.  Those nine months were filled with anticipation and hope; these nine months have been filled with much agony and unspeakable grief accompanied by many moments of amazing grace and love.

Ironically, just getting pregnant was actually a challenge for us in the first place.  Three kids and 20 years later that too seems like a distant and ironic memory.

Daniel was a wonderful gift to our family and to many, many others.  We miss him terribly and yet we are so grateful that God blessed us with his life. 

The mystery is that grief and grace arrive together.

January 26, 2009

 
A seat at the table

Every time the music started in church yesterday I began to cry.  During the final recessional song, the tears just kept flowing.  I realize that music in general, and worshipful music in particular, triggers my grief.

Daniel’s faith and my own meet somehow during these songs.  I feel especially close to him but also miss him deeply when I am sensing God’s spirit and presence.  Perhaps it is some palpable awareness that he is just on the other side of that thin spiritual veil that separates us in these moments of worship; perhaps it is simply the beauty of God’s grace that contrasts with our fragile brokenness – I don’t really know.

Perhaps this is a moment where I am actually experiencing the “communion of saints” as my awareness of Daniel’s presence at God’s table somehow comes into focus in my consciousness.  He just happens to currently be on the other side of this huge table every time I approach an altar when communion is being served.

I think Daniel is saving me a seat on his side of that table.  

A letter to an organ recipient and Turmoil in my Head

January 25, 2009

A letter to the man who received Daniel’s liver and to his wife

Dear David and wife,

Thank you each for taking the time to sit down and write your respective letters to our family.  I imagine that you both also have many different emotions that come and go as David has healed from surgery, begun to enjoy renewed physical health, but also to reflect on the reality that made his new liver available.

Carol wrote her letter first, so I am going to try and not repeat sentiments or details that she has expressed.  As she describes very well, the process of seeing our oldest son die and then deciding to have his organs taken for transplantation is painful beyond words and wrought with a complex sense of ambivalence and conflicting thoughts, questions, and emotions.  But, given the timing and circumstances of Daniel’s death, our decision to have his organs donated provided an incredible opportunity to have our other children and two very close family friends be with us and Daniel in the final hours as we said our earthly good-byes to him.  We will forever cherish those holy and sacred moments as our family stood together in enormous grief and gratitude and committed our son’s body and soul back into the care of a gracious and loving God.

Daniel was indeed remarkable and especially so given his relative youth.  He quietly sought a deep relationship with God and with seemingly everyone he met.  His time in college was profound as he impacted a large numbers of fellow students with his infectious faith, personality, and a very quirky sense of humor.  A favorite saying to his dorm buddies was – “check your dignity at the door” – an admonition to not take yourself too seriously and let loose, have fun, and take risks in connecting with people.

As Daniel’s father, I had the privilege of speaking at two different memorial services and shared the same words at each – we have experienced unspeakable grief and amazing grace in the loss of our beloved son. 

The unspeakable grief is obvious – there are no words to fully describe the deep sense of pain, loss, and loneliness that comes when you lose someone this close.  The amazing grace has come to us in many ways – at Daniel’s bedside as described above, at the two memorial services where several hundred family, friends, and neighbors surrounded us with their love, and in many, many other moments as we sense God’s hand at work in our lives and in the lives of so many others whom Daniel touched while on earth and continues to touch even now.  

Even in his death, Daniel has been a vessel that God has used to channel amazing grace to our family and to many, many others.

This seeming paradox of grief and grace has for me become a way to see not only this treacherous experience of losing my son, but much of life and its complexities.  I cannot imagine ever really healing from this loss – at this point, I don’t really even want to heal if that means losing my sense of pain over the loss of one whom I loved so much.  But, I also know that I am beginning to recognize more grace in my life and in the lives of those around me.  And, for that gift, I am indeed grateful.

I pray that you each will also have a deepening awareness of the gifts in life that you have received, including, but certainly not at all limited to, Daniel’s liver.

Grace and peace to you both,

John

Daniel's Father

January 13, 2008

The unresolved turmoil in my head

Reflecting on the value of writing in a journal as a grieving person, Martha Hickman comments in her book that the process of journaling takes “a grief that lies like a lump against our hearts and moves it away from us” and thus “relieves us of the pressure of having so much unresolved turmoil in our heads.”

I love both those descriptions of grief – a lump lying against our heart and pressure from so much unresolved turmoil in our heads.

I find that I often feel something akin to fatigue, where I feel physically tired, emotionally drained, and the metaphor of a lump lying against my heart seems apt for how I feel.

Likewise, the pressure from so much unresolved turmoil in my head is also a daily occurrence.  In some respects, I think I have always had some level of this daily experience simply trying to keep track of too many details related to work, family, and all the other activities and people that intersect our routine lives.  Adding the loss of Daniel and all the unresolved turmoil that accompanies that, simply compounds this natural pressure exponentially, to the point where the sense that you are about to explode becomes very real.

This process of journaling does help to decrease some of this pressure and provides some resolution or perspective on the turmoil I feel in my head and in my soul.  Putting some words to the feelings and naming some of what I am experiencing seems to allow me to step away from it and see it from a slightly different angle, and often recognize that I can and am handling that pain and the pain is not going to kill me or paralyze me.