This is the time of year where the internet is filled with articles saying, “Good riddance, 2017!” and declaring resolutions with the goal of creating a stellar 2018. In the past, I have expressed my dislike of New Year’s resolutions, and I stick by that now more than ever. I also have some pretty compelling reasons to rage against 2017 and insist that 2018 has to be better (right?!).
Life is not quite so simple, though, is it? 2017 will forever be linked in our minds with the stunning death of my dad. However, 2017 was also filled with joy. It’s the year Caleb took his first steps; Abby learned the sounds of each letter; Miles started composing his own songs; Ryan became a passionate reader; and Paul got a promotion. There were countless laughter-filled gatherings with family and friends, and the simple moments of home life where the sounds of children at play fill the air. I had the privilege of teaching my children each day and seeing their growth in so many areas.
I am thinking a lot about the tension between grief and joy, and how they could possibly coexist so vividly in our daily lives right now. It is easier to navigate than I expected (not enjoyable or “no big deal” to be very clear). Because we have experienced a great tragedy, we welcome and appreciate true joy all the more. This is not a desperate, pleasure-seeking, quick-fix search for a distraction to numb the pain. This is a recognition that the opportunity to share a moment or experience or tradition with people we love is precious.
In the exhaustion of November, I thought of not decorating the house for Christmas. It was fleeting, though, as I realized, “Of course I have to decorate the house. I want my children to relish the beauty of the season.” There was no guilt that we were taking the time to decorate with a very long to-do list looming, and we did restrain ourselves from putting up every little trinket. However, I knew it would be a blessing to our family and it was. Because we were keenly aware of what truly mattered and what didn’t, it became easy to say “no” to several parties or activities that just did not work this year. Our goals and limitations were crystal clear. And I have to confess that the result was a Christmas season that felt, well, a lot like Christmas should.
* * * * *
For the weekend of New Year’s, the boys and I headed to the beach with my mom. Mark and Ne’Kia joined us so that we could sprinkle some of my dad’s ashes at his favorite place on earth. There were stories and tears; crankiness and fatigue; shopping (for the girls) and rolling in the sand (for the boys); laughter and rest.
My mom celebrated her birthday there, as she has for many years. Mark, Ne’Kia, and I were adamant that she have a cake, candles, singing, and gifts – God’s protection of her from the fire being the greatest gift of all!
Then we clinked our plastic champagne glasses together and, yes, declared, “Happy New Year!”
* * * * *
It’s just over two months since the fire, and the tragedy is impacting us in new ways. The adrenaline has long worn off, and our bodies are so tired. We are still overwhelmed with insurance issues, reviews of every institution with which my parents had business, and the “big picture” concerning my mom’s future. Some days, I’m on the phone for hours bouncing between a conversation with a real estate agent to an error on my mom’s recent phone bill to how we handle the delays in processing her claim. Other days, like today, are quieter and feel oddly normal.
It finally struck me last week that I wake up every morning with a deficit of at least 25% right out of the gate. Paul, Mark, and my mom have expressed similar deficits. Our memories are slipping here and there because there is only so much a brain can take before processing is needed (or in this case, demanded). Lurking under it all is also the reality that my mom, Paul, and I experienced real trauma. We stood outside their burning house for hours, watching firefighters desperately attempt to find and rescue my dad. You don’t walk away from that unscathed.
How do we do it all? Well, we don’t. My mom has said repeatedly, “Do the next thing.” And that’s what we do. I am working hard to be aware of my physical and mental limitations – to know when to slow down or stop all together. The same applies to our children, who have their own mourning to do. When a child breaks down in the middle of math because he “wishes Granddaddy hadn’t died,” we cry together, talk, and then shift our expectations for the morning. We leave room for rest and play.
“Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you.
Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.”
John 14:27
While I regularly doubt the how, I never doubt the Who.
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