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?