A Tribute To My Mother

On March 27th my sister called me early in the morning saying that our mother had stopped breathing during the night and was gone.  She and my middle son had just spent several days with her and had left the previous evening.  They had thought they had seen an improvement with her and were positive about her future.  They had even had a providential conversation about her wishes for her funeral. 

Mom's biggest driving force was her independence.  She wanted to be in charge of her own life, and refused to budge on that point.  Who really knows why your life ends when it does, but I am sure the idea of not going back to her homey apartment with her cat and car and TV was discouraging to her.  She had spoken often lately about how much she missed her own mother, and I think the prospect of that reunion gave her hope. 

My mother's steadfast refusal to give up any of her independence,  her very stubborn insistence on the path that she chose for herself was both a problem in our relationship and one of the reasons for this tribute. 

My dad died when I was 12.  We were living in Houston and Mom decided we needed to be closer to family, so we moved to Rolla, Missouri where her parents and sister lived.  I know I was not easy to be with during that transition.  I hated Missouri, I missed my friends in Houston, and thought Rolla was a "stupid town, with nothing to do".  I even convinced myself that I was going to spend our first Missouri Christmas in Houston.  I made a chart with the days numbered and took great delight in marking off the days.  With somewhere about 10 days to go, Mom told me I wasn't going. There was lots of door slamming for a while. 

Mom wanted my sister and I to have a solid Christian background, so she found a church that had a school and enrolled us in it.  This was not a popular decision, either.  They wore UNIFORMS in that school.  Skirts and vests.  It was awful.  Our school was on top of a tire store, and the whole town make fun of us. 

But there was no talking her out of it.  She had made up her mind that this was the direction to take, and she took it, dragging us along with her.  Who is to say if it was the right or wrong choice.  I do know that she gave up the opportunity to get a good paying job so that she could be the secretary for the school/church.  I know that my sister and I probably paid more attention to learning than we would have in the public schools.  I know that the opportunities to get into trouble for me were seriously limited. 

As I grew older, got married and had children, my relationship with my mother grew more complicated.  She had a lot of influence over me, and that clashed with my husband.  When I tried to become more independent, that was hurtful to her, and that caused problems as well.  Eventually, I think we found a comfortable middle ground, and she was closely involved in my kid's lives.

In thinking about her past, I don't think I gave her the credit she deserved.  She lost her husband and moved her children with her to a new place.  She was fierce in her protection of us, and made us her life's work.  It didn't matter who she offended, if she was convinced that her plan was the right one, she never waivered. 

She successfully raised two teenaged girls, supported us financially and emotionally, created an environment that convinced us we could do anything we wanted.  My mother was a powerful ally and a very strong woman. I am grateful that she was my mother. 

5 YEARS

Tomorrow will mark 5 years since Jason died.  Even as I write that, I can feel the downward spiral of denial and I can hear my own voice yelling, "No! No!"

How can that beautiful child born to me be gone? Memories flash in my brain.  I can't breath and my eyes are overflowing again. 

The 5 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

What little I've read about these stages insists that the order is not necessary, nor is there a fixed or equal time given to any particular sage.  That's good, because, while I have dabbled in all these responses, the one I live in most is denial.

"You have to move on." "Life is for the living."  These stupid cliches are nevertheless true.  I still have to get up everyday, interact with other people, continue to grow and learn so I can help others walking through the valley of the shadow of death.  Those who, although they may not have experienced the death of a close loved one, still grieve and hurt and are stuck where they are.  My husband is a big believer and encourager that God uses the difficulties we have faced to teach us to lend a hand to those going through what we did. It's a positive position and gets me out of my own sadness. Sometimes it's all I can do to walk on.  Sometimes I just put my head down and cry and grieve and yell at God.

In moving on, once again I fear that I will the loose the essential Jason.  I will remake him using rose colored glasses as my tool.

The last time I saw him was Christmas 2009.  All the kids were in San Antonio with us for the last time.  Because Christmas and winter coincide, schedules got mixed up and we were not able to spend as much time together as we had planned.  When Jason finally got here, I grabbed him and hugged him and didn't want to let him go.  Here's the part I have never told anyone: he pushed me away.  I am certain he did that because he was cranky and needed a cigarette. My logical, conscious mind knows this.  But my soul still hurts.  I still feel him brushing past me to make for the nearest exit.  I would like the opportunity to talk to him about that.

As a matter-of-fact - this is a line of thought that started this past Christmas - I would like the opportunity to travel to the past.  Just certain times that maybe had more of an impact on future events than others.  Partly to fix damage I did to my children and partly to fix damage my own thoughts did to me.

Because I thought I was at fault for Jason pushing me away - I must have hugged him too long - in the effort to be completely truthful, I knew that I was not at fault.  Clicking back through the pictures I've taken in my mind, the ones where I felt failure, I would like to grab that girl Leigh's hand, look her in the eye and tell her, "You are doing the best you can.  You yield your children to God everyday and work tirelessly to put good things in their lives."

So my next task is to let go of my "failures".  To remember that my efforts were inspired by a desire for the best for my kids.

Jason, I love you.  I miss you.  I want to put my arms around you and squeeze you so that you can't get away. I can't wait to see you again. 

Fear

Fear has been a primary component of what compels me to behave as I do for as long as I can remember.  I often hear my mother's voice in my head, "What if this happens? What if they leave me?  What if we run out of money? What if a terrible accident happens that could have been prevented because I didn't do what I was supposed to?"  These thoughts were wrapped tightly to an almost superstitious belief that my actions dictated the outcome of things impossible to control.  It was the hope that if I planned for the worst, it probably wouldn't happen.

In my sane mind, I knew this wasn't true.  It nevertheless directed my internal monologue most of my days, as I look back on my life now.

Did that fear, the thoughts of horrendous outcomes and tragedy protect me?  Certainly not.  What it did do was rob me of the joy that I could have had in countless moments.

It makes me mad now to think of the captivity that fear kept me in.  Fear kept me from enjoying fully the childhood of my children.  It kept me bound in negative places that were harmful to my soul.  I was a prisoner of possible bad things.  Possible.  But most of those things didn't happen.  Some did.  I, however, was unable to prevent the bad things with all that fear for all those years.

I began this line of thought several weeks ago.  It is my habit to listen to radio shows while I'm working; mostly political shows that predict dire situations for my country, for my savings account, for my culture.  I listen because I want to be informed about the world, and I find that the shows I listen to are both "entertaining and enlightening".  Largely, I am not depressed by the information I'm hearing.  Concerned is more the emotion generated, as well as having some talking points for interesting conversations.

I do have to be on guard, however.  It is possible, after a large dose of such negative predictions and warnings to loose hope.  This is where I found myself several weeks ago.

Here's what I do now, when I feel that familiar dread creeping into my brain: I stop it. Here's what I say to my mind when I start to be afraid: "God is in control and He loves me."  My years of practice in thinking of all possible tragedies has given me plenty of imagination.  Those are the times that I put on the mental brakes and give it to God.

The four year anniversary of Jason's death is approaching.  In 2013 I lost four people very dear to me.  And death is not the only way to loose someone that you love. Sometimes they move and you don't get to share your life with those loved ones like you have.  

I can't live everyday with the expectation of sadness.  That is not the kind of life God wants for me.  I also can not protect myself from pain.  But I will not allow fear to keep me from those relationships that may possibly end.  I will not let it. I am through being a captive to fear. I will remember that He is my provider.  I will listen for His voice saying, "I'm with you."

Omniscient God

"How did we get here?" My sister asked that of me at Jason's funeral.  I think what she meant was that we started with this beautiful, smart, funny, loving boy and ended at a funeral chapel before he was 26.  Where did we fail him?  How could things have gone so horribly wrong?

Christmas is a brutal time of year.  The thoughts and memories I can successfully ignore during most of the year bombard me when I get out the ornaments that we made.  Favorite decorations evoke scenes in my mind that are hard to push away.  The usual distractions of socializing, work, reading, TV, whatever, are not effective and I've cried more secret tears than I have in months.

I try to replace the emotional thoughts with practical, logical ones. "Things weren't as rosy as you are remembering." "You don't know where/how he would be if he were still alive." "He's free now of the things that hurt him in life."  All true but powerless to stop the longing just to see, touch, smell him.

During this year, I've lost some people very close to me, prompting me to question closely God's mercy.  One after another, they died, quickly and unexpectedly.  I shared my belief that God is omnipotent and omniscient, but I didn't understand His "higher ways" with the sister of my best friend, who died in September.  She is a believer, but her response was, "Sometimes bad things just happen."

I suspect that was comforting to her, otherwise would she say it?  But it made me feel like life was chaotic and out of control, like a train gone off the tracks.

If God is real, if He is our Maker and our Father, then things don't "just happen".  The role of God dictates His planning and execution of the events in our lives.  Our reactions to those events are controlled by our free will, but He is the author.  This brings me to the conclusion that He must have a plan; He meant something good to come out of pain.  Maybe I'm supposed to learn something.  Another grieving friend said she didn't think she had learned anything for her loss, and that nothing good came from the death of a child.

I've recently become acquainted with another story of loss - the unexpected death of a young girl and the unbelievable strength and optimism displayed by the members of her family.  While not mitigating their sorrow, I'm sure, they have been able to help others in their daughter's name.

Maybe that is something I can learn.  I find that I don't look at people the same way I did before Jason's last years, the years he spent with the "outcasts" of our community.  I'm drawn to the ones that need family.  I'm driven to make a family for them.  Not fulltime, not to exclude their real families, but to maybe fill in some gaps.

While walking with a co-worker the other day, we were laughing about our various infirmities - my feet, his knees, and I said, "I guess that's the price you pay for living."  We don't get through this ride without injury.  I want to make those wounds count for something.

Merry Christmas.  Hug on the people God has put in your life and enjoy each little minute you can.

Vulnerability

Nothing in my experience has made me more vulnerable than being a parent.  From the moment Jason was born, I became hostage to another person.  His health, safety, happiness became central to my contentment.  When my children were young, I worried about things like their falling down, or getting sick.  Then the relationship things started - what influence their friends have on them, do they have any friends...

In some ways, that's the hardest.  You have some influence when they are little, but that, rightly, diminishes as they get older.

I'm in the phase now when Andrew and Emily are well on the road to adulthood.  They are making their own decisions, choosing their own paths.  It's my role to be a cheerleader and a shoulder to cry on - an ear for a rant session.  My advice is seldom sought, nor is it appreciated when offered. The time between visits is long, and the visits are short.  Phone calls are infrequent.  You hear the highlights of their lives, and not the daily experiences that add up to real life.

I've struggled with living in the past.  In my quest for "moving on", I refocus those thoughts on present events.  Sometimes that's successful, often not.  Today, I cleaned out my closet and found a couple of boxes of memories.  One was old cards, but the devastating one contained pictures.  Random pictures to remind me that I used to have children. That I used to know them, and I mattered to them.

I realize how pathetic that sounds, believe me.  I had my finger on the backspace key, but what is the point of this blog if I'm not going to be honest.

I like to think of myself as a strong person.  I have survived many disappointments and grief along the road.  Survived.  I'm still breathing and functioning like a rational person.  But there are some holes that never get filled.  And maybe they won't.

I am not sorry to have been a mother.  I'm delighted in my children, even when they are misguided.  Even when I disagree with them.  Missing Jason often consists of wondering what his life would be like now, and the conversations we would have about his experiences.  I'm certain I would miss out on the daily events of his life, just as I do with Andrew and Emily.

So, I guess I will always be vulnerable.  Probably I will always wish for more involvement in their lives.  That's being a mom.

Here's some hope, though:

Why am I discouraged?  Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God! I will praise him again - my Savior and my God!

Now I am deeply discouraged, but I will remember you -
Even from distant Mount Hermon, the source of the Jordan,
From the land of Mount Mizar.
I hear the tumult of the raging seas as your waves and surging tides sweep over me.
But each day the Lord pours his unfailing love upon me, and through each night I sing his songs,
Praying to God who gives me life. (Psalm 42:5-8 NLT)

   

Moving On

You might think from the title of this post that I am ready to move on from the all-consuming grief of loosing my son.  I don't see that will happen, ever.  Instead, what I have decided that my next task is will to be to stop living  in the past.

The origin of the concept for this post was the sale of the land that is the repository for Jason's ashes. If you have read the previous post entitled Ode To A Festival, you will know how important this property is to me. When Jason died, I struggled with what to do with his remains.  Cornerstone Festival grounds seemed to me the perfect place.  My kids and I had a tie with that place, and it was a location that I knew we would be visiting, sometimes together, for many years to come.

And then, several days ago, there was this little post on Facebook from Wilson Abbey - a division of JPUSA, the hosts of Cornerstone Festival - that they had sold the land.  "Praise the Lord," is what they said, I think.  And my world just dissolved again.

I had pictured, in years to come, pilgrimages to Bushnell, Illinois with Craig and the kids.  Staying in a trailer and touring the property.  Spending time reliving memories, reminiscing, crying and laughing together.  I pictured it sort of like visiting a cemetery.

So, I got the idea to make a photo diary of Cornerstone Through The Years.  I even made a folder in my computer for all the pictures.  I searched, I scanned, I looked and looked and I cried a lot.

And it occurred to me that I was exhausted from crying.  Tears of missing Jason.  Tears of missing Andrew and Emily.  Tears for the times we had together that we will never have again.  I was wallowing in memories. 

I think it's an indulgence that is keeping me from living here today.  The past is comforting and rosy.  The pain and worry of that time is lost, and all that's remembered are those moments where smiles and sunshine abounds.  If hard times are recalled, it's with the temperance of having lived through it, and come through the other side.  The uncertainty of daily life is taken out of the picture.  It's not an accurate representation.  But it is a comforting one. 

And it is distracting.  It can't compare, no matter how much I love my present life.

So, I am moving on.  I am going to carry these memories with me, and take them out and look sometimes, but I'm going to work on living today.  Y'all come along with me, be a part of my present. 

Book Report

For well over a year, I have been reading the complete works of George MacDonald.  He was a Scottish minister/writer/poet who lived from 1824 to 1905.  He deeply influenced such writers as C.S. Lewis and Madeline L'Engle.  He was also a mentor to Lewis Carroll.  When I tell people about him, I don't often get recognition.  This is sad, because he was a very important author.

As you might expect, while reading many thousands of pages, the ideas that most interested me were those dealing with death, eternal life, grief.  I will endeavor to share some of these things with you, in the hope that they bring comfort and hope to you, as they did for me.

For those who face the grief of death of someone we love:
On the scripture "Jesus wept"and Lazarus' grieving sisters -  "It was the aching, loving heart of humanity for which he wept, that needed God so awfully, and could not yet trust in him.  Their brother was only hidden in the skirts of their Father's garment, but they could not believe that; they said he was dead-lost-away-all gone, as the children say.  And it was so sad to think of a whole world full of the grief of death, that he could not bear it without the human tears to help his heart, as they help ours.  It was for our dark sorrows that he wept."

"But things are unbearable just until we have them to bear; their possibility comes with them.  For we are not the roots of our own being."

"The merest trifles sometimes rivet the attention in the deepest misery; the intellect has so little to do with grief."

"For I found, as I read [the gospel], that Thy very presence in my thoughts, not as the theologians show Thee, but as Thou showedst Thyself to them who report Thee to us, smoothed the troubled waters of my spirit, so that, even while the storm lasted, I was able to walk upon them to go to Thee."

Regarding the hope of eternity:
"Jesus wanted to make them know and feel that the dead were alive all the time, and could not be far away, seeing they were all with God in whom we live; that they had not lost them though they could not see them, for they were quite within his reach-as much so as ever; that they were just as safe with, and as well looked after by his father and their father, as they had ever been in all their lives.  It was no doubt a dreadful-looking thing to have them put in a hole, and waste away to dust, but they were not therefore gone out-they were only gone in!  To teach them all this he did not say much, but just called one or two of them back for a while.  Of course Lazarus was going to die again, but can you think his two sisters either loved him less, ore wept as much over him the next time he died?"

Narrator is speaking to an old woman who had lost several sons to the sea. " 'But,' I said...'some of your sons were drowned for all that you say about their safety.' 'Well, sir,' she answered, with a sigh, 'I trust they're none the less safe for that.' "

"We have yet learned but little of the blessed power of death.  We call it evil! It is a holy, friendly thing.  We are not left shivering all the world's night in a stately portico with no house behind it;  death is the door to the temple-house, whose God is not seated aloft in motionless state, but walks about among his children, receiving his pilgrim sons in his arms, and washing the sore feet of the weary ones."

And my favorite:
"He who made this room so well worth living in, may surely be trusted with the next!"

Just An Average Day

Something spectacular happened to me today.

I was driving my high school route (I'm a school bus driver) and in the neighborhood I drive there was a group of boys.  Probably about 4th grade.  They were huddled in the garage of a house, Nerf guns at the ready, prepared for the "attack".  Crouched down and very stealthy.  I noticed them, but I didn't think they noticed me.

I turned the corner and started down another street.  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the boys again.  One was dressed in camouflage.  They were all very intent on their enemy, but the one in front, the one in camouflage, noticed me.  And he saluted me.

Why do we worry about this generation?  They are fantastic.

Crying

I spend a lot of time crying.  I do it by myself.  Most people (until now) don't even know I do it. 

Am I embarrased?  Why should I be embarrased by tears for my first born child?  Why?

But I am.  I make people uncomfortable.  When I tear up, I see the panic in their faces.  It doesn't matter who they are - close friends, family, aquaintances.  I learned quickly that it wasn't a good idea to let others know that I am NOT over "it".

Perhaps I am not being fair.  Most people have no idea what it is like to loose a child.  It's every parents worst nightmare. Of course it is; it's my worst nightmare. 

Christmas

Since 1984, every Christmas has been filled with my children.  What specific thing do they want?  What can we do together that inspires that particular warm, happy Christmas feeling?  Cookies?  Let's make 20 dozen!  Look at Christmas lights? I've got the sound track for that (Charlie Brown Christmas).  Of course, there's the Christmas carols on Christmas Eve.  Reading the story from the book of Luke. Fudge and cheese dip and monkey brains to snack on.  Kids sleeping with their aunt under the Christmas tree. 

And now...
Not only is the number of children wrong, but the location is as well.  There's my Andrew and Emily in another state from me.  What is the point of Christmas without them?

I'll tell you what it is: it is the celebration of the birth of Jesus. It is about going on with life and making new memories.  It's about being grateful for the blessings of God in my life.  There's my husband, who is so wonderful, and funny and loves me so much.  There's new friends who bring so much joy to my life.  There's the evidence of God's faithfulness all around me. 

I could legitimately dread this holiday.   I could, you know.  I have that right as a bereaved mother.  I battle with that.  But my God is enough.  To hold on to that pain and use it as excuse to retreat emotionally is to deny the love of God for me. 

Does that mean I don't miss with every breath my beautiful children?  No.  I'm always going to do that.  It means that God's help is bigger.

Unexpected

Have you ever been walking along, say in a store, and all of a sudden your feet somehow get tangled, or you trip on a rug and you fall down?  It happens to me a lot.  You feel pain - actual physical pain associated with hitting some part of your person on something on the way down, say a shelf with pointy edges, or the floor which is hard.  Also, there is the possibility that somebody saw it happen.  That's so embarrassing. You laugh and pretend it's no big deal, but, I'm telling you from experience that those feelings stay with you for a while. 

I'm a school bus driver, and one morning somebody got on my bus smelling like Cheerios and bananas.  Wham.  Down I went.  That smell was like so many mornings in my house when my kids were little.  I was immediately in my kitchen, standing by the sink, watching my three eat, their personal blankets wrapped around them, maybe some stuffed animals or some action figures on the table watching as well. 

What happened to that life?  I still feel like the person that cut up bananas for my kid's morning cereal, but I'm really not.  There's Andrew and Emily - they've got jobs, school, lives of their own.  There's my oldest, my Jason who is unavailable to me currently. I miss them, often and intensely.

So what's your plan when you're driving a school bus with tears streaming down your face?  How do you overcome that shooting, debilitating pain and go on with your day?

I guess you just wipe away the tears, and focus on the job at hand.  I have to trust my Father to not put on me more than He is willing to help me walk through.  You have to remember all those hugs and kisses, all the stories you read and experiences you shared, all those Cheerios and bananas very fondly and trust that your little ones remember those things, too.

Made of Dust

We are...we are just made of dust.  These vessels that hold our spirits - our souls - are transitory.  They are going to fail - get old, get crippled, get cancer.   

It's the vessel that we see and fall in love with.  It's that sweet smile and goofy laugh.  It's the way our little boy makes car noises with his lips.  Watching their fingers as they reach for our hands.  The slow smile that spreads over his face when he gets a joke. 

Does that beloved form also translate to eternity?  I worry, because Jesus' friends had a hard time recognizing Him when He rose from the dead.  Is that because He didn't really look like Himself? 

How am I going to know my son?  Will he look like I remember him?  Will his soul shine through his eyes? 

My husband always says that if something isn't in "heaven" - the promised land, the other side, the New Jerusalem - then we won't miss it.  I've got to believe that my Father loves me, that He knows and gives us the best gifts.

I know what I want.  I want to see that silly, goofy slow smile again.

And Then...

The question then becomes what happens next.  It is evident that your life is never going to be the same.  The internal monitor that checks where your kids are and if they are OK is always going to be wrong.  Time doesn't heal all wounds. 

For a while, I didn't do anything other than the brushing the teeth, showering, breathing part of life.  I don't remember much about that first several months, except that I could be counted on to cry unpredictably.  There was no job to go to, and no demands on my time.  So much time to think.  That was probably the mercy of God.  I watched old family videos and looked at pictures.  I read some books.  I suppose it was good that I had uninterrupted grieving time.

Grieving time.  The name seems to imply there is a beginning and end.  "Aren't you over that yet?" Nobody actually said that, but the sentiment was conveyed on several occasions.  I would think to myself, "Is he back?  Can I touch him and look at him and hear him again?  No?  Well then, I guess I'm not over it."   

I didn't want my grief to be fake.  I read in "A Grief Observed" by C.S. Lewis that he was afraid of being too romantic or inaccurate in his memory of his wife.  Making her more angelic or perfect and not remembering how she actually was. 

I wanted to remember every little thing.  I had the last voice message that Jason left for me on my phone.  I played it occasionally and played it for other people so they could see what he sounded like.  "Hey, mom, this is your son...Jason.  I don't have anything new to say...give me a call."

One day, instead of pressing 9 to save the message, I pressed 7, for erase.  How stupid of me. It felt like I lost him all over again.  And it was my own fault.  That bit of him, a proof that he had been thinking about me and made the effort (he didn't have a phone, so it was always tricky getting in touch with him) to contact me, that part that I carried around in my pocket so that I could have it when I wanted was gone. 

Eventually I could add other things to my day. Some visiting with people. Some church. And I got a job being a school bus driver, so I had to get up and get trained. It was a very good thing for me. You can get too much inside your own head and get trapped there, and then you are no good to yourself or anybody else.

My husband still wanted me around.  My other kids seemed to as well.  OK, then, I guess I'll just keep going.

Ode To A Festival

I see my feet walking on a gravel road.  I’m on my way to watch some independent short films, because I’ve discovered that I like them.  So I’m going to go.  Just like that.  I’m not going to ask anybody’s permission.  I tell my kids I’m going, and then I’m off to see maybe some really great films, maybe some really lame ones.  I’m a grown woman and it’s the first time in my whole life that I can do what I want, when I want.  It is intoxicating.  I am so happy.  That was Cornerstone.

Walking around I see some people in a wooded camping spot.  They are having cappuccinos and invite me to join them.  We talk and enjoy each other’s company for a while.  Then I go on with my journey, with some new friends in my quiver. 

I’m in a steaming hot tent, watching some kids play really loud music and watching some more kids throwing themselves at each other.  One of the kids on the stage happens to be a boy who helped me set up my booth in the exhibition tent.  Humbly and helpfully, he found out what I needed to know, and then the next time I see him he’s singing and screaming in front of a bunch of singing and screaming kids.  It was beautiful. 

I have a million pictures in my mind that bring me to that place with that feeling that is uniquely and incomparably Cornerstone.  Driving my grandgirls around in a golf cart, watching the circle pit at a Flatfoot show, listening to Lost Dogs, eating chips and salsa, sipping iced Thai coffee with good friends, my children hot and sticky and dirty and happy and having the time of their lives and not wanting to leave.  Where are the instructions for saying goodbye to that? 

I met and fell in love with my husband there – we married each other before God on the spot where we met.  I brought kids there that got to have their own memories of Cornerstone.  I am forever changed because of a music festival in Bushnell, Illinois. 

The first, the best memory is this: it is our very first Cornerstone experience.  I reluctantly agreed to go with a friend, and then she couldn’t go.  So here I was, with two girls that I barely knew, camping next to a bunch of very smelly hippies (turns out it was Madison Greene).  I was hot and cranky, regretting my acceptance of this particular responsibility, with my boys – my middle child who wasn’t quite a teenager, and my oldest, suffering son, an outcast from every group he’d ever tried to be a part of.  They took off for a walkabout of the grounds.  When they came back, my oldest, my Jason, said, “Mom, I belong here.”

How do you say goodbye to that?

What happened? (part 5)

So, let's get this over with.

Jason was 17 when he left home.  From that point on in his life, I don't know the whole story.  I don't know the people who influenced him.  I don't know what he did with the things he was taught as a child - the truths we instilled in him.  He found them lacking some how, and not sufficient to deal with the pain that was in his heart.

He lived at people's houses, sometimes on the street.  "Couch surfing" is what he called it.  Sometimes he had a job, sometimes he "spanged" for money on street corners.  He traveled a lot - Wyoming, California and lots of places in between.  Sometimes he'd call and tell me about his experiences.  Sometimes he lived with my mom, who had an apartment over our garage.  A lot of the time Sarah was with him. 

At some point - maybe from the first day he was gone, maybe before he left home - he started using drugs.  I don't know about his introduction to that experience.  I do know that he took an acid trip one time that changed what he thought about God.  He would cry when he told me the story.  He said he never knew such love and light and beauty.  It changed him.

I don't know when he started using heroin, but I know when he decided he didn't want to anymore.  He came to stay with me - we were living in a different state than he was at the time, and I got him, brought him home, gave him lots of blankets and orange juice and buckets to puke in.  It wasn't fun, but I was so relieved.  At least that was over, I thought. 

The second time he came to detox at my house, I was no longer married to his father and living in a different house, but the experience was the same.  I didn't have the hope at the end of it anymore, though.  He stayed with us for a little while, got a job, made lots of friends, but he was antsy.  He wanted to go back to where he lived before, where he considered home, back to Columbia, Missouri.

So one day, my oldest son and my middle son and a bunch of their friends got in a car and drove back there.  But before they did, they all posed for a picture on the street in front of my house.  All those boys and my daughter and their friends.  All with big smiles on their faces - happy with each other and with the excitement of a road trip.  I love that picture.

Shortly after he went back, Jason found a friend named Matt.  Matt worked at the same restaurant that Jason did.  Something about Matt gave Jason the ability to face his addiction and try to walk away.  I know they talked a lot, spent a lot of time together, camping, walking in the woods.  I heard a difference in Jason's voice.  He started writing stories and making up songs on his guitar.  About October of that year, Jason stopped using heroin.  

He came to our house for Christmas that year.  I had all 3 of my kids there, and despite the mix-up in airplane tickets and the very short time we were all together, I think of it as a gift to me.  I have pictures of them together, and that is invaluable.

We talked on the phone every couple of weeks - there was an author he thought I'd like and he gave me one of his books for Christmas, but he wanted me to have a different one.  He had it all wrapped in brown paper, with some type-written letters in it, my name and address on the front, all ready for postage. 

On the morning of March 18th, 2010, I got a call from Sarah's mother.  Jason had died in the bathroom of a Jimmy John's restaurant that morning.  He died from an overdose of methadone.

My sister was in the town where we lived and she rode with my husband and I to Columbia.  Andrew and Emily met us there.  My mom got there, too - I don't remember how.  We arranged a memorial service and had Jason cremated. 

The memorial service was in a small room.  They underestimated the number of people who would be attending.  Almost none of the people from the local church - or any of the churches we attended - came, but the seats were filled and the walls were lined with kids that needed baths and some clean clothes.  They just loved my son.  They all hugged me and told me how wonderful he was, what he meant to them.  How gentle and beautiful and loving he was.  That is exactly how I felt about him.

What happened? (part 4)

Jason began to be very depressed.  Fewer things seemed to make him excited.  Sometimes I would find him crying on the couch.  He didn't know what was wrong; he just knew he was very sad. 

I tried medication - he didn't want to take it, and I had to fight him, but it didn't seem to work. He dropped out of high school and took his GED, succeeding with a very high score, without any preparation.  I tried to make a place for him with a missionary friend of ours in Guatemala, but that door closed firmly in our face.  I sent him to my aunt's home, and she had to return him because he refused to follow the household rules.  Back he came, to more strict rules and the same old hopelessness.  Finally we tried seeing a psychologist.  He prescribed more drugs that Jason wouldn't take.  It was during one of these appointments that our lives changed forever.

Sitting in the waiting room was a pretty blond girl.  Jason was smitten and did his "drive-by dating" as we used to call it - he slipped her his phone number.  I don't think it ever worked before, but it did with Sarah.  They talked that first time for hours.  They had so much in common and connected so instantly.  I was happy for him.  I agreed, because he had been working with us on following his regimented life, faithfully going to his job, to allow him to meet Sarah downtown for a date.  He was 17.  He didn't come home for several months.

What happened? (part 3)

Eventually, the house that we were building did get inhabitable.  Eventually we moved in, had another baby (Emily) and lived our lives. 

Because my husband was against public schools, and I wanted to have as much influence as possible on my kids, we decided that I would home school them.  Jason and I did kindergarten and 1st grade together.  It was pleasant occasionally, but often very frustrating.  I had never heard of ADD and so didn't understand that Jason's inability to concentrate was not an intentional behavior. I would see this very bright child who was interested in so many things (nature, airplanes, Batman), had a very impressive vocabulary, but would loose his ability to concentrate halfway through sounding out a word.  I remember praying for complete silence so that he wouldn't be distracted.  I was at my wit's end and often very impatient with him.  For 2nd grade, we enrolled Jason at our church's school.  Thankfully, for that year, he had a lovely teacher who understood how his brain worked and he had a fairly successful year.  We were not so lucky the next year when he had a brand new teacher, fresh out of school with lots of "ideas".  Additionally, Jason never fit in there.  He was not competitive or athletic, and because that school was so intensely cliche-oriented, he was ostracized before he even had a chance.  It was so sad to drive by the school when he was at recess and see him playing all by himself.  I wanted to fix things, and would have parties and "play dates" with other moms, but I was also not really part of the group, and invitations frequently went unanswered. 

Jason did have a very best friend, Josh, and his mother and I were also very good friends.  His social life revolved around Josh and his aunt Libby.  It was this way from the time he was 4 until about his 13th birthday.  Jason's father was against Josh - for some reason that I still don't understand - and he actively prevented them from getting together.  It was the beginning of a very depressing time for Jason.  He was not a part of any group - certainly not even the youth group at our church (those leaders, parents and kids will answer to God for the hurtful things they did and said to him). 

It was not all terrible.  We (during the home school years) did lots of fun things - a trip to Germany to visit Aunt Libby for 5 weeks, lots of field trips to restaurants and events that highlighted cultures we were studying for school.  We kept very busy and I didn't even notice that Jason was feeling lonely.  He seemed happy, enjoyed his brother and sister and had a very active world of make believe, was the same sweet, easy-going, gentle child he had always been.  That was why his teen years caught me by surprise.

Off-topic Thoughts On Beetles

My husband and I were on our patio last night, watching the kittens that live there, protected from possums and other dangers (and themselves) by a 1 1/2 foot tall plywood pen.  I happened to notice a beetle who was trying to climb the plywood wall of the kitten's nursery. 

From a beetle's point view, that wall must have been monumental.  But here he was, 3/4's of the way up, the embodiment of tenacity.  And then he fell. Right on his back.  Legs flailing, absolutely stuck.  He eventually made it to his feet and headed straight back to that wall.  I remarked about it to my husband and he said he had been watching, too.  This was already the beetle's 3rd attempt to climb the wall.

Why?  I wondered.  He doesn't know what's over there.  What drives that beetle to keep doing a task that must seem impossible?

Almost to the top this time, the beetle fell again, again landing on his back and again flipped over and went right back to the wall.  He only made it 1/2 way this time and was back on the ground.

It looked like he'd had enough.  Turning 90 degrees, he continued on across the porch. 

Why did he try so hard and then stop?  What makes him recognize that this was a battle he wasn't going to win and choose a different path.

I would really like to know, because I feel like the beetle; trying to proceed on a course that offers no encouragement, nothing but resistance.  How much is Godly persistence and how much is foolish stubbornness?  When do you say,"Time to try something different"?

What happened (part 2)?

Being a mommy was way better than I ever imagined.  Jason was so easy - sweet and loving and never any trouble.  Occasionally you would see a narrow defiant streak, but so rarely you could almost forget it was there.  He was beautiful and funny.  He loved his stuffed animals more than any other toys. 

When he was 3 months old we moved to another state.  It was a point in my personal life of deep trouble - domestically, emotionally - and I found great comfort in the day-to-day responsibilities of taking care of my boy.  We were each other's company and spent lots of time at the park and the library, exploring our new city and learning to make friends. 

When Jason was 2, we made another big move - back where we came from - and a year later I found that I was pregnant.  I have so many images in my brain of that time.  Taking a walk because I felt so sick, and the house was so unpleasant, and then being unable to get back home - Jason's concerned face. 

It was at this time that we bought some land and decided to build a house.  My pregnancy was difficult and I had to spend a lot of time laying on my left side.  Jason learned to work the new VCR and TV (we didn't have one before), and watched his one video of Mickey Mouse over and over. 

Andrew was born and Grandma and Jason's favorite person in the world - his aunt - took care of him.  I will dwell on this part a little, because it may be a clue to the direction Jason took in his later life.  And since there's no point in not being totally honest, this may be where things began to go wrong.

Andrew was not at all like Jason (of course) and his care was more taxing.  As I look back on it now, I should have been more aware of how it would impact Jason to have somebody else taking an unequal amount of my time - time that had been solely his.  It was also here that we decided to build on our land.  My in-laws moved into our 2 bedroom duplex with us, as well as a family friend who helped us build.  We were all busier than we had ever been with no alone time, because of our restricted living quarters.  I am certain that the change from our easy, Jason-centered life style to non-stop-from-morning-to-late-attention-elsewhere had to be a shock to the little guy.  The pictures I see of him from this time seem to suggest sadness.  I wish I had seen it at the time.

What happened?

Jason was my first born.  I was a very young 21 year old, married to an engineer and very excited about our baby on the way.  The way one is about the release of a long awaited movie.  I had no concept of what was about to happen to me. 

Labor was much, much harder than I had been led to believe by my idealistic doctor (who, by the way, was a man - what did he know?)  14 hours, but 4 of them were pushing.  Turns out I had a very large baby - 10 lbs., 1/2 ounce.  He was whisked away from me almost before I got to see what he looked like.  Jaundice, low blood sugar, a spot on his lungs - these were all things that we faced right away.  I was so out of it, and so delighted to be DONE that I didn't miss him yet.  Then they let me see him in his warming bed later that day.  I've had almost 28 years to think about that moment, and I can't really define the emotional transformation that happened then.  I do know it can't be over-stated.  Unconditional love, deep and permanent.  I was profoundly changed and felt different than I ever had before. That change doesn't go away, no matter what.