Remembering. . .

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Do you remember the beautiful, strong web that sweet spider Charlotte weaved in the children’s classic Charlotte’s Web? The story is one of life and death and redemption and has charmed and touched both children and adults for years.

A certain passage has been on my mind lately. Sunday, August 26th, 2018, marked the three-year anniversary of our son Daniel’s death by suicide. How appropriate the timing! Because September 1 began the official month for suicide awareness and prevention. The day after Daniel’s funeral, my granddaughter, Daniel’s daughter, shared a passage with the family from the book she was currently reading to her daughter, Dan’s grandchild, only about 8 months old at the time of his death. You’ll notice that my granddaughter was quite progressive in her choice of reading material for her little girl of 8 months–the book was, you guessed it, Charlotte’s Web, by E.B. White. This is the passage she read that day, the passage she shared with family along with her comments:

This is going to be long but thought I should share with everyone. I’ve been reading Charlotte’s Web with Lorelai when we have time to read at night. It’s been a few days since we’ve had time for a chapter obviously but last night I sat down to read to her. Wouldn’t you know it was the chapter where Charlotte dies and I feel like the following quote was meant to be read by us after all of this:

“A little tired, perhaps. But I feel peaceful. Your success in the ring this morning was, to a small degree, my success. Your future is assured. You will live, secure and safe, Wilbur. Northing can harm you now. These autumn days will shorten and grow cold. The leaves will shake loose from the trees and fall. Christmas will come, and the snows of winter. You will live to enjoy the beauty of the frozen world, for you mean a great deal to Zuckerman and he will not harm you, ever. Winter will pass, the days will lengthen, the ice will melt in the pasture pond. The song sparrow will return and sing, the frogs will wake, the warm wind will blow again. All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours to enjoy, Wilbur–this lovely world, these precious days…”                                  (from Charlotte’s Webb by E.B.White, 1952)

Charlotte

This little lady has been weaving the most glorious web on our front window. She produced an egg sack, and, as nature goes, she has died. Watching her work and give her life for her progeny caused me to remember Kaci’s words for us as we grieved her dad. I am forever grateful that she shared with us that day.

Many of you readers have lost children by other tragedies–accidents, sudden illnesses, prolonged illnesses. We mothers and fathers experience a grief that is one-of-a-kind when a child dies. It is not the natural order of things to lose a child, and the pain of that loss stays with us until we join them in God’s presence.

It’s important, I think, to remember that the life we live after they are gone from us is important. Days and months and years pass. We should strive to appreciate and even enjoy the miracle of life as long as it is ours to live. Yes, our hearts will be pierced by moments of grief so keen that we mentally cry out or long to sink to our knees in despair. We must know those moments, but live the rest of the days to the best of our ability, with thanksgiving that we knew that child for whatever time, with hope that we will meet again in heaven, with intent to do whatever we can to prevent any other useless death, with loving understanding for the grief of other parents who have lost a child or grandchild or anyone who has passed too soon from this life.

It was no accident that Kaci found and shared those words that day. I don’t believe in coincidences, just the hand of God reaching down to comfort us in our times of need. The hurt is still with me, but so are the memories of Daniel before he lost his way. I pray for each parent who has lost a child. May God’s peace and comfort strengthen you today.

 

Memories…….

 

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Dear Daniel,

I found this picture the other day. It’s the way I like to remember you. Full of life and laughter and love. I still wonder sometimes if anything could have been done to save you. Fishing season this year I so longed to see you on the pond bank pulling a big bass from the water. Hunting season is here and I miss your excitement about it. You made such a production of planning and preparation and then the joy of the hunt.

Losing you changed us all. We still grieve. We still feel guilty at times. You would be, I think, I little irritated but a lot proud of me now. It’s been a long time since I’ve posted a blog. You were the one who prodded me to keep doing it. Therefore, you would be giving me a call to remind me that it is time for another post. I missed getting that call so badly!You were so proud of me when Freely Given was published. You wanted a signed (bad) proof copy that required corrections, acting like you were convinced that it would someday be of value. Now Colorado’s Choice is coming out, and you’re not here to cheer me on.

My writing has changed. My conversation has, too. Bringing suicide into awareness has become my soapbox. I share our story a lot. I don’t think it’s to get sympathy. I am just compelled to open the discussion, focus attention, direct people to sources of help, both to prevent suicide and to help survivors heal. I wish no other mother would ever have to lose a child in this way. I wish no other family would have to experience this pain. I long to be present and a source of support and comfort for those who fear a loved one’s suicide and for those who are living the nightmare.

You are always in my heart and thoughts. I see you in every picture of Kaci and Lorelai and recognize your love for the outdoors in your daughter’s joy as she becomes a “country” girl. Your craftsmanship is evident everywhere in this house. What creative gifts you had! I heard an author/speaker describe heaven as a place where we still use our God-given gifts. I hope that is so. It’s such a shame to waste yours.

I love you, Son,

Mom

 

 

 

Letter to Dan…….

 

DSCN0699Dear Daniel,

I’m really having a hard time with this blog, because it’s been nearly a year since I did much writing. It’s like your death redefined my life. I am now the mother of a child who committed suicide. It’s not a pretty definition. You were so very proud when I published that little novel! Since your death, I’ve written hardly anything. I think it’s time for that to change.

You know, losing you was a terrible experience, made all the more painful because you didn’t “pass away” quietly or die from some horrible illness or tragic accident. You chose to leave us, on your terms, your time. That has made this whole experience so much more hurtful, I think. Sometimes I’ve been just plain mad. How dare you hurt us like this? How selfish of you, thinking only of your personal pain and not thinking of our survivor pain.

I know, you didn’t realize, weren’t thinking. You were in such a deep, dark hole of depression and dismay, not knowing how to beat the addiction to methamphetamine, not having enough courage to own up to your mental illness, recognizing the hurt that you were causing the wife that you loved, the child you adored, and the grandchild that you felt you would never be good enough for. You had truly, as your loving wife explained, “lost your way.”

You are not forgotten. Steffie loves you still-she chose and designed your gravestone, and it is so much what you would have chosen. She even included your logo on the vase. As we drive by the cemetery each Sunday morning, I feel tears threatening. How I would love to see you and comfort you and make things better! Your brother misses you, particularly when he has some “project” to do, like jack-hammering concrete floor to fix a leak. And your little sister has been changed by your loss. She, previously so filled with the desire to escape her depression, now says openly that she would “never” hurt the family like you did. I am grateful, because I don’t think I could survive losing another child through suicide. Being a survivor of suicide is, indeed, a label one never wants to wear.

I think of you every day, son. I wear a necklace with your name on it in remembrance. It gives me comfort. Although I miss you with every inch of my being, I at last know that you are safe and at rest in our Heavenly Father’s arms. And, through it all, my faith is ever stronger. God is good. His love, grace, and mercy are enough to see us through the darkest of days. I only wish you had remembered those truths from your early years. Perhaps, then, you would have never chosen to leave.

Rest in peace, son.

Your loving mother