My July: Remembering a little brown eyed Runner.

There is a weariness that goes beyond what I have done, what I have not done or my general overall health. It is a body that remembers. It remembers the terror and pain of a July night long ago. It remembers the nightmare of each July that followed. Summer and long hot days bring with it this weariness. God has healed my soul of much of the pain and fear of Leroy's death. Grief does not define who I am nor is it the focus of day to day living but July remembers. Granted this 2018 July has had it's own share of death and heartache but the weariness goes deeper than that.

Next week will be better. I will move past July 20 into relief. Something in me will relax. The dark side thoughts will disappear. The days will be cooler as we head into fall. This weary body will wake up and come alive once more. Energy will abound where none was found before.

Healing of grief is a long, slow process but it comes. Our God hears and heals. 

If you are weary in your journey, God promises that joy comes in the morning.

Weeping may endure for the night but joy comes in the morning

Weeping may endure for the night…

May is indefinite, possible to happen but not positive or absolute.

Joy comes in the morning…

Comes is a definite, positive, absolute statement of fact. Truth.

Joy is coming in the morning.

For joy to come in the morning means healing has happened. 

May you find healing on your journey.

May you find your morning.

Wear red shoes for courage.

The Time Between

Easter Saturday. The time between. "Weeping may endure for the night but joy comes in the morning." Weeping may endure...may is not a definitive word. It might happen. It might not. Joy comes in the morning is definitive. It will happen. Joy will come in the morning.

How do we get from the night of grief to the morning of joy? How do we do the between time? We lean into our grief. It is the normal reaction to the death of someone we love. We were not created for separation. We grieve much because we love much.

There are no shortcuts, or detours on the grief journey.
The only way is straight on through the night.
Shed every tear.
Feel every feeling.
Cry every cry.
Embrace every pain.
Remember every memory.
Look at every picture.
Savor every belonging.
Visit every place.
Write every word.
Sing every song.
Pray every prayer.
And somewhere along the way
you will find the morning light.

In the bleak loneliness of Saturday, we learn how much God loves us. He loves us so much. He misses us so much. He seperated Himself from the son He loves to breach that wall of separation. He sent Jesus to bring us home.

Friday is broken parting.
Saturday we wait and weep.
Sunday joy comes in the morning.

Blessed Easter and joy be to you all.

A Flashlight

It is funny how thoughts go. I was driving to Amanda's at 4 o'clock one afternoon. Most of the cars had their lights on but it wasn't dark. The thought came to me that if you were looking for something outside you wouldn't need a flashlight.

A flashlight.

A flashlight...

I had a flashlight that night. I don't know  what  it looked like. I don't know where I found it. The beam of that flashlight shone in the bushes. There he was but he wasn't.  I had a flashlight, then my world turned dark for days, for weeks, for months, for years. Twenty-seven years and the thoughts still come unbidden all because I was thinking about the lengthening light as I was driving late one afternoon. 

Waiting for the morning Leroy James.

“Jesus loves me! this I know, For the bible tells me so.”

Once upon a time there was a little brown eyed girl. She was called Cotton Top, Little Sunshine and Pepperpot. She talked nonstop. She had a grin from ear to ear except when she was having a quick temper fit. Her Mama taught her “Jesus loves me! this I know, For the bible tells me so.”

Before she even started school her cotton top turned dark. The sunshine went away. Her brown eyes were sad. Her grin disappeared. She stopped talking so much. But she knew “Jesus loves me! this I know, For the bible tells me so.”

She grew up. She got married. She was still sad. She had little boys and a girl of her own. Some had brown eyes and some had blue. Some were cotton tops. Some of them talked a lot. There were some pepper pots and some sad ones. She taught them “Jesus loves me! this I know, For the bible tells me so.”

Then one of her little brown eyed boys ran home to be with Jesus. The night was long and dark and scary. The sad went deeper in her heart. She struggled with everything she knew about “Jesus loves me! this I know, For the bible tells me so.”

She lived in the dark for a long time. No sunshine. No grin. Only the sad and dark and scary things. Then one day she turned around. She looked up. She saw the sunshine. She believed “Jesus loves me! this I know, For the bible tells me so.”

Her once cotton top is turning silver now. She lives in the sunshine. Sometimes she is a pepperpot. Sometimes she talks nonstop. She has a big grin. She knows, that she knows, that she knows that “Jesus loves me! this I know, For the bible tells me so.”

And she wears red shoes: for courage and to celebrate!

  

Winter Storm Stella 2017

It is a first for her. She is here by herself as a nor’easter’ powders the east coast with a fine snow. It is heavier than it seems, whirling or sideways, building up fast.

The Biker is still in Florida. The Writer headed south yesterday much later than he planned. He stopped to say good-bye. She made him breakfast. They chatted. Dante’, school, future plans and past life; time slid by. He runs into freezing rain at the edge of the storm and stops for the night.

She fills a bucket with water and finds the day old bagels and chicken scraps. She shrugs on the big overalls zipping her phone into a pocket as a precaution. She routes out another hat as the one used earlier is still wet. She soon realizes she should have had everything prepped for chores before she dressed. She is overheating as she fills a pitcher for the bird feeders.

She plows her way to the woodshed with the big yellow scoop made to clear snow off the roof. Adding a bit of wood to the furnace she then plows out to the Deuce Coop. Shovels the coop steps and entry way to the run. On a whim she also clears the snow in front of the box shed. She might need something from there later.

Not bothering to shovel a path she tromps through the snow to the bird feeders. Snow is sifting down her neck. This hat does not work as well as the cast off camo fleece one she usually wears. She comes in the back door and stomps her red boots but still tracks in snow as she goes to the kitchen to get the yard stick. Six inches on the flat of the picnic table.

Retracing her steps back past the woodshed she digs for the scrap pans among the coils of stored sap lines. The rubber palmed gloves she wears for chicken chores are not as warm as her leather ones drying on the rack. She usually scatters the scraps on the ground when she lets her flock out to free range in the late afternoon. She is doing chicken chores early and no one will come out of the run today. She fills a pan with freezer burned broccoli and leftover corn. Another one holds spaghetti and sunflower seeds that got damp filling the feeder so she did not pour them back in the can.

She hauls the bucket of water to the run. The waterer is still a third full. The hens are all in the coop. Not drinking as much water so less eggs tomorrow. She hangs the bagels off the roost and puts out the pans of scraps. Going into the coop with the egg basket she tries to shoo them into the run to find their treats but they don’t cooperate. She goes to the box shed for scratch feed and scatters it on the ramp to coax them out. Dominica comes to investigate followed by Emmaline and plump old Strawberry. Soon the ramp is full of pecking, sliding chickens. They jostle around the pans. She leans against a pole watching, waiting for them to find the bagels. The snow drifts in. The wind is “wild and shouting". The hens are uneasy. Every time the plastic wrapping the run flaps a couple dart back into the coop.

She gathers eggs. She fills the feeder with layer pellets, quickly shutting the feed bucket between scoops. Chores take longer in the cold and snow. She doesn’t mind. She likes weather and winter and seasons. She battens the coop door against the wind.  Every path she just cleared is already drifted with a couple inches of snow. The snow is fast and furious as was predicted for midday.

Back inside she wriggles out of the coveralls. They go on easier than the come off. Despite the covering her corduroys are crusted with snow on the bottom so she switches them out for pajamas. She fortifies herself with a cup of hot bone broth she made a few days ago. She is not sold on it. The broth has good things in it: ginger, garlic, lime and nutrients leached from the chicken bones. There are no definitive studies showing that our bodies make use of these nutrients in this form. It is warms her anyway.

She cleans, counts and cartons the eggs. Twelve, including two that are broken, but no green ones.

She heats the oven for the Crusty Bread she set last night. She fills a pitcher with water. She might want it later if the power goes out. While the oven heats and the bread bakes she washes the few dishes not bothering to run the dish washer. The hot water feels good on her hands. Old songs keep her company.

The feeder outside the kitchen window is flocked with small birds. A fluffy Tufted Titmouse rocks on the top bar while Chickadees flit in and out. A Nuthatch hangs on the suet cage where a little Downy Woodpecker fed earlier.

Someone will come plow her out later. Her boys are on standby if she needs them. She is by herself but not alone.

  

Wounds, Scars and a Soft Spot

Today, in the wake of recent deaths and also some discussions about death, I was pondering grief. This is where my thoughts went:

A few years ago I had infection in my leg that caused a deep grievous wound in my shin. The Biker described it as a bullet hole. It literally kept me off my feet for six weeks. It was a long recovery. The  scar is deep. It hurt on occasion for a very long time.   

When Leroy died it was a deep, infected grievous wound that took many years to heal. I traveled a long journey though the dark winter of grief. The overwhelming emotions that came with his death, shock, fear, anger, pain, and confusion no longer weigh me down but they did leave scars. Scars that hurt from time to time. What causes these scars to hurt? Sometimes just missing Leroy. The wounds of grief can heal but the missing part never goes away. He will always be gone from this life and we will always miss him. Another thing that makes my scars hurt is thinking about the suffering of my kyds because Leroy left us all behind. Not only did they lose a brother and best buddy, they lived through some of the most crucial years of childhood with both parents lost in the wilderness of grief: broken, wounded, often without strength to cope or just be there for them. 

Secondary losses also make scars hurt. The fact that my grandsons will never know Uncle Leroy in the here and now of this life is one of those. The lost possibility of another beloved daughter-in-law and more grand children is another.

When I hear of the death of yet another child, it doesn't tear open old wounds but  Leroy's death left a soft spot that wells up with compassion for those left behind. I know there is a long, hard road of grief ahead of them. I know their life will never be the same. I worry about siblings. I pray in the night hours for peace, for sleep, for forgiveness for everyone involved. I also remind myself that healing will come to them. Yes, healing comes. And joy. After the long night of grief joy comes in the morning.

I love you bunches and joy in the morning,

Pat

What is life really like...

About a month after Leroy died, the ALC Fall Services were held at the Battle Ground High School. A man, whom I recognized by face but not by name, came up to me and asked if I was Leroy's mother. I answered "Yes". He looked into my eyes and said "What a tragedy." Only those words. They resonated deep within me and I have never forgotten.

A few months later Rick Wiinikka joined the Biker and I for supper on my birthday. As we settled into a booth at Denny's, he asked "So, what is life really like without Leroy?" Just a simple question but it spoke so many things. It let us know that talking about Leroy was not considered a taboo subject. It was a willingness to listen. It acknowledged that our life was indeed changed. Leroy's name was spoken. The honesty of the question gave us permission to be equally honest in our answers. I don't recall what those answers were nor any of the conversation that followed but I will always remember the question.

Until then, Richard E, until then...

Make a simple honest statement.

Ask a simple, honest question.

Wear red shoes for courage - Pat

Words

Words. Words at my house. "Is SISU a just a word?"  Words. Good words. Different words. Forays into philosophy. Types of government. Presidential assassins. Presidential candidates. The Scholar. The Reader. The Biker.  Bill Gates sandy white beaches. Calculator. Pentillion.  Folding a piece of paper fifty-two  times. EMP.  Lyrics. A song three times. Fat king. Google: cycle. Google: un.  "It's a frame of mind." 3:30 til 3 am. Iceland. Greenland. Too much shampoo . Kooky Cloud. "Is that Leroy?" Banana bread. Pizza Haven. Popcorn. Misfired twice. With his cane. Polynesia. Ewoks. Cubic inches. cc's. "I've never heard his voice." $100 bet. Doc said all went well. A sliver. Arthritis. Pen nibs. White grout. Iraq. Iran. The Listener.

"In three minutes I can hurt you with words.
 In three minutes I can love you with words."


Words and red shoes...  Pat

This Boy

I talked to this boy in my dream this morning. He looked like this but he was not two year old boy. He was a school boy. In my dream there were boys sleeping upstairs, other boys, not this boy. I got up in the night to pray the blood of Jesus over everyone in the house. I was standing in the middle of the living room with my hands lifted up when he came downstairs.

I said "Do you want to climb in my bed with me? I haven't seen you for so long."

He climbed in my bed and I got in with him. It was a single bed with a light color quilt on it. 

"What time does school start?" I asked.

"9:19 but only for today." he said.

"What time do you have to catch the bus?" I asked.

" I have a basketballer on my bus." he said.

My alarm went off and I cried. 

Little boy, please, come back to my dream. I still need to talk to you.

It was a teary day and I forgot to wear red shoes....

Celebrate Anyway

I have been reading posts about the holidays, how awful they are when a loved one has died, how hard it is for all who are grieving. Well, I have had a different experience. Our 8 year old son died in July of 1991. He is one of five siblings. My husband and I both come from large families. Holidays, especially Christmas, are a BIG deal in our family. After the Runner died I grieved deep and hard. It pushed the depression I already lived with even deeper. The holidays were a relief to me. It got me out of my house and out of my own little grief filled head.  Also in my world that had suddenly changed into a dark scary place, the ancient carols and the Christmas story remained the same. That was a great comfort to me. We always include the Runner in all our memories and celebrations; no one has ever had a problem with that. Yes, it is different, sometimes we cry and someone is missing but celebrations are still important. 

With big families someone is always missing because they live far away, may be traveling or celebrating with the other side.  My sister's oldest son died when he was two. She now has a big family and for many years would never have a family photo taken because one was missing. Then one year she came to the conclusion at some point her kyds grow up, one by one they would leave home and not be in the picture anyhow so she takes family photos now with whoever is there.  

 
Celebrate anyway. Choose joy. Wear red boots for courage.

The Stone Keeper

I have a friend who lives far away. She has been through hard things and many obstacles in her life. She has freely given her best years to help others. Today, from far away, I am able to help her. I gather a few cleaning tools, some rags and a bucket of water. These are the tools of her trade. The wind is wild in the treetops but fallen leaves are too wet to twirl and dance. This day is chosen for this task because the lichen is rain soaked and more easily removed. The first time I went looking for this stone I wandered searching because the names  are so obscured.

The first step is to scrub the stone with a dry brush. This removes a fair amount of lichen.

I soon find the tools I collected for the job are not sufficient so I improvise. A crunched empty water bottle, a Snapple bottle and a pick from a long faded rose are put to good use.

As I scrape, scrub and rinse I ponder things. Scrubbing is good like that.  I am intrigued by double middle initials. I wonder what J. M. and A. E. stand for.  I think of the baby girl who lived from June until July, all of one day. I picture the little boy playing in his front yard behind the stone wall, waving at the pay loader driver. I cannot imagine  the heart of driver when his brakes give way and he goes over the stone wall.  The mama who went through the heartbreak of laying these two angels here has long since been laid to rest herself but someone still remembers. Someone remembers the life, the death, and the heartache. Someone's heart still bears the scars. 

I think of stones on other little graves and other little ones from times past. I walk up the hill to remember.

The pinwheel whirls in the wind like life and time whirling by. It stops for a brief moment. Time stops and stands still when death comes crashing into our lives or at least it stops in our hearts for a season. 

Bubbles for Kerry and Mary

There is deep peace here but the wind and rain are picking up. The perfection part of me is loath to leave any lichen hiding in the cracks but I have long been on my knees. Anything that brings us to our knees is a blessing. It is indeed a blessing to be reminded how much Jesus loves the children. 

Lichen is beginning to grow on the Runner's stone. I wonder in the long years to come if someone will scrub his stone and find his name.  I wonder if we should scrape the lichens from stones. Should we clean the dust and cobwebs from little red bicycles? Maybe we should leave them be to show the years going by and time whirling on but today I am the stone keeper because someone still remembers. 

Rain and Red Shoes

In the morning we have appointments. I wear red shoes for courage. The weather is a special gift: seventy one degrees mid morning in mid autumn. There are trees, gowned and ready for the October Ball, just glowing in the rain.

The morning has many moments of waiting with book in hand: "With malice towards none; with charity for all; with firmness as right as God gives us to see right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves, and with all nations."  A. Lincoln

We dash through the rain into the Diner. A friendly lady at the next table shares her spinach artichoke dip with us while we wait for Yankee Pot Roast, a fitting feast for a late lunch after a long morning that needed courage. The friendly neighbor table is eating New England Boiled Dinner and a Hot Roast Beef Sandwich.

Home again through the pouring rain, the red shoes get swapped for red boots to go out to check the chickens. They have had enough sense to come in out of the rain, half in the coop and half under the coop. A little persuasion from scraps and some gentle lifting they are all in the run, raindrops rolling like crystals off red feathers. Except LunaMae. She runs around going back and forth and around again, frantic, looking like the proverbial wet hen. She finally goes in and the gate is shut behind her. There are six warm brown eggs  rain speckled in the egg basket.

Today I am grateful for books and boots,

 rain speckled eggs, 

and red shoes for  courage.

Today I wear red shoes

Last night we gathered to in support of the Biker's extended family. We honored a young husband, father, son whose life ended abruptly when living became too much to bear. The pain was deep, the understanding little, the friends and loved ones many. As I walked away last night I wanted to take my boots off, and curl up in a fetal position with a blanket and pillow. Instead the Biker and I picked up pizza and went to our own little family. The Biker played with the littlest one. I put together a jigsaw puzzle with my Mama and my kyds. We did normal things.  Normal is so far away from the family in the center of this tragedy. That road had ended and the one they now travel long and treacherous.

Today we will gather again to stand with them as they say farewell. And I wear red shoes for courage.

Following Your Footsteps

Down the cold and winter night road
Daddy speeding, Mama panting, down the cold and winter night road
Flashing lights and wailing sirens follow down the long cold winter night road
Such a hurry to start running
Running down your little life road.
Running, leaping, flying footsteps down your little life road.

One big brother, built in best friend
You the younger, he the older, 
Leaves behind his books and pencils, his beloved books and pencils 
Leaves behind his books and pencils
You the younger yet he follows
Follows flying over bike jumps, building high and leafy tree forts
Follows running, flying over bike jumps, leaping, climbing in the tree forts.

Little sister, almost twin sister
Chanting chicken soup with rice
"Going once, going twice, going chicken soup with rice"
Hand in hand, side by side chanting chicken soup with rice
Follows in your gift of friendship
Your sweet and twinkling gift of friendship
Finding, making, loving, keeping sweet and twinkling friendship.

Little brothers follow with their tiny footsteps
Follow with their tiny toddler footsteps
With their tiny trusting toddler footsteps
Riding high upon your shoulders
Riding high and safe upon your shoulders
Riding, laughing, flying safe upon your small and sturdy shoulders.

Down the hot and summer night road
Flashing lights and wailing sirens down the hot and summer night road
Follow flashing lights and sirens down the long hot summer night road
He is gone. Where shall we send him?
Send him down that road to heaven
Down that road of light to heaven
Down that road of light and love to heaven.
We will follow in your footsteps
In your running, leaping footsteps.
In your running, leaping, flying footsteps that lead us straight to God.

And I am okay.

Twenty-three years ago at the end of a long, hot summer Saturday God called the Runner home. And long, hot summer day turned to long, dark winter night. At first it started on Friday night in anticipation of Saturday and I would not sleep until the wee hours of Sunday morning. As time went on it was the twentieth of the month that would send me spinning. Then as the years passed it became July, sometimes just the long hot summer days that would set me off. For years I hated summer. Yes, I hated summer. Summer was out of control.  Summer was fear. Summer was paranoid thoughts flashing in my mind unbidden. Summer was some untoward thing just waiting to happen. Last year was over the top, worse than ever, maybe because it was just so long, hot summer. The Biker and I were getting ready to head south on the bike and my head was a jumble of paranoid and untoward thoughts. I did not want to go. I did not want to stay home. We left on a long, hot July day. A few miles from home the bike broke a belt. We had to go back and start over. While the Biker did repairs I did prayers calling in reinforcements from a few trusted prayer warriors. The next morning we headed out. The jumble of paranoid, untoward clouds over me lifted and I was okay. It was still a long, hot summer day but I was okay.

This year as summer approached I wondered if I would be okay. I wonder every year and every year I think. yeah, this year I will be alright and every year I was not alright and once again I hated summer. But this year, praise God, I am alright. Yes, twenty-three years and I am okay. Today is a long, hot summer day. We went to Hillside Cemetery after lunch and released balloons. We each chose our favorite color. The wind carried them away and I am okay. All my fear, and hate and paranoia has truly been carried away on the wings of prayer. He is still gone and we still miss him but I am okay.

Ninja Turtle Green

Purple for Royalty

Pink for Sister

Blue for Because

Orange Woody for Uncle Leroy

and Red for Courage

Farewell Yellow Ribbon

In 2007 our Memorial Day celebration changes though we celebrate just the same as we always do: two parades and a visit to the memory stone up on the hill.  It changes everything when you know your two middle children plan to go the next morning to sign on the dotted line to join the United States military. And sign they do. She leaves in September. Mama grieves. Daddy cannot understand because he is so proud he is busting his buttons until the day it dawns on him that she is actually leaving.  Christmas that year changes too. We have our traditional Christmas Brunch twice. He leaves for boot camp five days before she comes home for Christmas. Mama grieves. The first the yellow ribbon is on the mail box and more on the Christmas tree.

Oh, the places we go...
Road tripping to boot camp. Parade in Review. Mama's heart beats a proud cadence: "We are the Navy, the mighty, mighty Navy...". The next time we fly. Great Lakes in February is mighty, mighty cold.

A year in Monterey at the Presidio. Mama misses out but a special someone makes it there. A Sweet Sailor comes home to get married. Foregoing yellow we beribbon the church in blue and brown.  The Biker extends his annual bike ride south all the way to Pensacola to take a sailor to dinner. We celebrate a Hawaiian Christmas, a gift from sailor. Pearl Harbor. Hickam Field. Waikiki. Hanauma Bay.  All the family gathers in his unfurnished apartment at Mililani Manor. We decorate a pineapple with purple ribbon and watch ribbons of oil rise from the USS Arizona.

Hawaii again. This time Mama keeps the watch in a square chair at Tripler. Jaw surgery is brutal and it is successful.  The National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific in Punchbowl Crater and the Foster Botanical Gardens, both in Honolulu. And the ribbons of light coming into Phoenix.

We have Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant in Virginia Beach and we visit a little house in Augusta, Georgia. There is a blue ribbon on the mailbox to welcome our little Georgia Peach.

There are many comings and goings. Sighs and tears. Surprise visits and anticipated homecomings. At some point a bright yellow bandana becomes the permanent yellow ribbon on the front door. It weathers and fades. Then, after six years, they come home. In August the Sweet Sailor finishes her enlistment. They pack up the little Georgia house, the little Georgia Peach and move home. Three months later the Super Sailor follows suit from Virginia Beach. He is home in time for Christmas. There are job offers coming in from all over. In January his life starts over again, this time in Houston.

There are still comings and goings and Texas is too far away. The yellow ribbon is no longer on the door. Today there is red, white and blue to celebrate our freedom. Freedom that they stood watch for away from home and family. We are proud and we thank you.

Keep a yellow ribbon tied around your heart for those still coming home from far away places and far too many kinds of battles. Wear red shoes for courage.

And I cry.

All through the evening I think of her and I cry. I crawl into my bed and I think someone somewhere is not sleeping and I cry.  I don't really know her but her daddy is my cousin. She is a little mama with three white haired babies and one soon to be born and now she has to have an empty place and a grave and her mama lives far away. And I cry. I think about that far away grandma and I cry. I don't know him either but he is my sister's nephew and I cry. I think of another white haired boy and a brown eyed boy and other brown eyed boys and all the other little boys and I cry. I think of all the little mamas and all the pain and I can't curl up in a tight enough ball to make the pain go away. I couldn't curl up tight enough then and I can't curl up tight enough now and I cry. Today a little boy winged his way to heaven and tonight I just don't know if there are enough red shoes...        

Link: I've learned to listen differently

Once again sharing a link to another blog because it is so wise.
Never Forget Andrew

Choose Healing

I posted this today on a grief page where I am a member.  May it be a light on your healing journey.

In the past week or so I have read many posts here by bereaved parents who are 8, 12, 15 even 20+ years into their grief journey.
These quotes catch their general feelings:
 "They said it will get better but it gets worse every year."
"I have nothing to "go on" for in my life."
"I still have a boulder on top of my heart and feel kind of numb or frozen."
"I can barely find a reason to still hang on."
This just squeezes my heart and makes me so sad. Our son died 23 years ago as a 8 year old.  Leroy would now be 31.

The first years of my grief were a deep, painful journey, dark and lonely.  It was a terrifying place of sheer survival. As the years have passed I have found deep, deep healing. I no longer walk in the dark. I am not afraid. I have joy and laughter.  Yes, I miss him and yes I cry.

I faced the death of my son the same way I do any new experience: I read every book I can find on the topic.  I found a couple a rummage sale in my home town.  One of them, Don't Take My Grief Away by Doug Manning, became my grief manual.

This book is divided into 3 parts.  Part one is funeral planning which we had long passed when I got  the book but I was gratified to learn that some of the decisions we made instinctively were very healthy.

The second part encourages one to grieve as needed, in their own way and at their own pace, hence the title. Don't let anyone take your grief away. He says you need to give your self permission to grieve and not let anyone else dictate what that should look like.

The third part emphasizes giving yourself permission to heal. Just as we need to give ourselves permission to grieve, we need to give ourselves permission to heal.  Unspoken and deep within us we have the belief that if we stop grieving we stop loving and we have forgotten. We consider it a betrayal of our child. That is so far from the truth. If we do not choose to live and choose to heal we are in essence saying that the death of our child is more important than our child's life.  When we allow ourselves to heal there is nothing holding us back from treasuring every photograph and  reliving every memory with joy. There is nothing that stops us from enjoying every place we ever went with our son. We celebrate a little brown eyed boy by eating his favorite foods with pleasure. We celebrate his birthday every year with cupcakes frosted blue and decorated with sprinkles and gummy fish. Some years family members have made them in four different states.  We are sharing his life with the next generation who will grow up knowing Uncle Leroy from the stories we tell, his trunk full of belongings and pictures of him everywhere.

I want to leave you with two quotes I collected today:

"The last 20 years have been what "I" have called not kind. I have learned to go into my trials and pull out my joys and blessings."
Sandy Holombo-Olson 2014

"We can still choose to either die alongside them,
spiritually and emotionally, or to take this day and
soak up as many good things from it as we can muster."
Erica Farrimond 2014 TCF

Choose healing and wear red shoes for courage - Pat

A link: 15 Things I Wish I'd Known About Grief

First time for everything.  I am posting a link to another blog for the first time on and red shoes... because it is good.  I have read it all and even written some when it comes to grief and bereavement; this is among the best I have ever found.  May it be good for you also.  
 15 Things I Wish...Identity Renewed