Are you grieving this Christmas?

My husband was born on December 5.  Christmas and birthdays were always very entwined for us, especially with a daughter and a son with December birthdays, the son's on Christmas itself.  When Val was taken from us, it seemed like Christmas was taken as well.  I tried hard to make it not be that way, but I know that we all felt it.

Christmas when you're grieving is so very hard.  You might be grieving a loved one's death, but it might be a divorce, a job loss, or one of a million other things.  Grief is always serious and should never be overlooked.  But how can you balance grief and normalcy on the holidays?

First of all, don't feel that you have to.  My husband died in February.  He'd been gone almost a year in December.  I really don't even remember that first Christmas.  But in the years that have come since, I find that I still think of him more, still remember his excitement, still wish with all my heart that he was here.  My husband was part of my life for 13 years and gave me 4 children--I will never leave his memory out of Christmas.  I choose not to.

But you have to learn to go on, and you can't wallow in pain every year, can you?  You can keep your memories alive, but you also need to make new ones.  If it's possible, you could go someplace you really love for the holiday.  You might have single friends far from family that you could gather together with.  You can always arrange for something as a memorial--maybe you and some (understanding) friends or family can watch a movie your loved one really loved in his memory.  But at the same time, the gathering can become a new memory, one that will slowly replace the agony of being without him.  For a time, my family and I went to the Sharing Parents Christmas memorial, where we put up ribbons in honor of our baby and then also Val.

If your parting was not amicable, that has to be dealt with as well.  Maybe you feel guilty that you actually are happy (in part of your soul) that he's gone.  Maybe you have the day-to-day reminder that he's with someone else now--you grieve divorce every bit as much as death (maybe more, since there's no finality, only a daily reminder of a love that went off the tracks).  Either way, if you need to, please don't feel ashamed or worthless if you need to seek outside help.  It is the steps that you take that make you who you are.  Counseling is a necessary step for many.  I know that I would not be whole if it wasn't for the counseling that I received.

As you continue to walk through this season, accept small victories and admit small defeats.  If you try something and it worked for you, rejoice in that.  Maybe you could buy or find a small memento to remind yourself.  If you try something and it falls flat or makes you feel worse, then realize that and go on.  Please don't think that if you try and miss you should stop trying.  It's the failures that help us realize that we need to go in a different direction.

If you are walking in the desert this Christmas, God bless you.  I understand and would love to pray for you.  Drop me a line at meggiev7777@gmail.com if you'd like--I promise to uplift you in prayer this Christmas season.

Never never EVER give up!

My story didn't start yesterday.  It didn't start last year.  It didn't even start ten years ago.  While my story, like all of yours, has been in a state of becoming since I was born, the part of my story that nearly killed me started in 1990 and first became traumatic in 1991.  That's over 23 years ago.  After my father died (not unexpected--he was 81), I felt the grief that anyone would feel at the death of a father.  I was the baby, so maybe it was harder for me; I'm really not sure.  However, in July, 1991, my world was shaken.  My baby, Tommy, died at 24 weeks gestation.  It was not a stillbirth; he lived for eleven days.  Miracles happened both during and after his birth; still, my precious son died.  I'm not going into that now--that's not the point of this post.  Thirteen months after Tommy died, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy named David.  Two months after David was born, I started a new job.  Four months after that, my husband unexpectedly died.  He had a cerebral aneurysm and lived for eleven days, just like my son.  I'm not going into any of that right now, either.  That's not the point of the post.  I struggled with grief, suicidal thoughts, horrible decisions, miserable choices, and then--I began to experience healing.  THAT is STILL not the point of this post.  But patience, friends.  I'm getting there.

As I began to experience healing, I was unable to do much more than receive for the first several years.  When I was able to reach outward, at first it was only through writing and singing.  But before too long, I began to want to serve others--to help others in the way that I myself had been helped.  I took 2 Corinthians 1:4 as my life verse: He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. However, the more I asked God to allow me a chance to help others, the less likely it seemed that he would do so.  I never understood why, but nothing ever seemed to work out.  Whenever I asked for a chance to help, the answer I got was "wait."  But I didn't want to wait!

Well, here it is, 23 years later, and I find myself preparing.  I know that the time is not yet at hand, but it is coming.  I am resting in the Lord, waiting on Him, and He is reminding me every day of something that He wants me to take into this new life.  One day I will remember a miracle, another day I will remember the sweetness of a healing, another memory will come of something that he showed me in his Word that brought an understanding that I hadn't yet received.  I see all these things coming together.

One thing, though, that I hadn't seen, was this.  I understand now why I had to wait all these years.  It took that much time for me to be ready.  Not healed, ready.  I couldn't have taken the steps that I'm about to take even 5 years ago.  It took people criticizing my Spanish to understand that people mean only good when they criticize.  It took people proofreading my stories (in Spanish) and projects for me to realize that you don't disintegrate when you receive criticism.  It took me having opportunities through the years to sing, to share my story, and to share my readings to understand that it moves people when I do so, and it can bring healing.  I didn't understand that 23 years ago.  I understand it now.

So I wait again, and hopefully for the last time.  I know that at the end of this waiting, I'll be free to help others receive the hope and healing that they can find through God.  It will be truly time.  And I will be so thankful that I waited.

So this is my point to you:  as Winston Churchill said, Never never EVER give up!  You might be in a holding pattern, too, and the days may see pointless and long.  Please do remember that God is walking your path with you.  He knows how long you need before you're ready to take wing and fly.  Please don't despair--he will give you the desire of your heart.  He WILL.  Just have faith.  

By the way, I'm discovering that you are leaving comments and somehow they're not appearing.  Please email me at meggiev7777@gmail.com until I figure out what's going on.  I so want to hear from you.

God bless you!

"Whose little boy..."

The middle-aged man strode down the boulevard.  He was in a particularly good mood.  Viv had been pretty chipper today.  Some days were better than others, of course, and on this day she seemed almost normal.  Almost.

As he proceeded on his walk, a child caught his eye.  No older than three, perhaps, he was nevertheless all alone.  He did not seem lost or afraid; in fact, he seemed to be waiting for someone.  He sat by himself on a retaining wall, and as the man approached, he raised his head.  He had the most beautiful blue eyes that the man had ever seen.

"Why, hello, Son!"  the gentleman said.  "Whose little boy are you?"

The boy didn't answer the question.  He said, "Play wit me!" and raised up pudgy hands.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

"Play wit me!"

So right there on the sidewalk, the man took the boy's hand.  They sang songs, the little boy starting. "Twinkle Twinkle", "Muffin Man", and "Deep and Wide".  Then they played clapping games.  "Pat-a-Cake" and "Ram Sam Sam".  Then they just joined hands and walked in a circle together.  A lightness began to fill him that he hadn't felt for years.  The boy said, "Lift me up!!"  He did as he was told.  The boy gave him an enormous hug and a kiss that smelled of milk and cookies.  "Bye bye!" he cried and ran off down the street.  The man watched him until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

Many years passed.  The middle-aged man was no longer middle aged.  Viv was no longer pretty chipper.  Viv was constantly on the verge of disaster.  One day she was drunk, the next she was sunk deep in depression, and another day saw her preparing her will.  She rarely spoke to him.  It was obvious that she blamed him for their misfortune, although he couldn't see how it could possibly have been his fault.

He walked down the lane, barely conscious of his surroundings.  To be honest, he was afraid of what he'd find when he came back home.  He nearly bumped into the boy before he realized there was someone else with him.

"Well, hello, young man!  Whose little boy are you?"  The boy, probably 10 years old, looked at him sternly.  "You asked me that same thing before!"  His blue eyes were piercing.  Somehow the man made the connection--that child he had seen so many years before.  He remembered those eyes.  What he hadn't noticed before was that his eyes were beautifully complimented by hair the color of an autumn forest.

"Are you from around here?"  asked the man.  He wasn't sure, really, what to say.  Viv had never been able to have children--not after that first disaster.  With no little hands to hold, he had filled his days with grown up pleasures.  Speaking with this child now was uncomfortable.

The boy ignored the question.  "You're sad, aren't you?  Why?"

He didn't know why he answered.  "My wife is very sick.  She's very sad, and it makes me sad that I can't help her get better."

"Give her this,"  the little boy said.  He handed the man a small package with a yellow bow.

"What's this?"  asked the man.

"Just give it to her.  She will like it."  The boy walked away without another word.

The man continued home, He couldn't get over it.  How could that boy have remembered him?  How could he have never seen him since that time so many years before?  It was so unreal.  He entered his house, looking for his wife.  It was not hard to find her.  Simply go to the couch, and if nobody was there, head for the bedroom.  He found her in the bed, huddled on her side.  It was obvious that she had been there all day.  "Viv, are you all right?  Vivian?"

His wife, once so beautiful and loving, looked at him and the hopelessness in her eyes broke his heart.  He reached out to stroke her hair, and the present caught her eye. "For me?  Do you really think that anything you could give me would help?"

He had totally forgotten that he was still carrying the boy's gift.  He said, "The strangest thing happened today.  I bumped into a boy while I was walking home.  Viv, he had the most amazing eyes!  They were so blue, so beautiful..."

"Jason had blue eyes, remember?"

Jason.  The son they'd named for him.  How could he not remember?  He had seemed normal and healthy when he was born, and he had a fuzz of red hair and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.  Nobody could explain how it happened.  He was healthy and normal at birth, and then six hours later he was gone.  It defied explanation.

He was devastated, of course, but life continued for him.  He had his job, his life that took him to the office and adult companionship every day.  Viv never recovered.  She never went back to work.  She spent the first weeks after Jason's death in a confusion of denial, anger, vindictiveness, and pain.  It spiraled out of control, and it all ended with her being committed to an asylum for several months.  Finally, she managed to convince her psychiatrist that she would be able to deal with everyday life, and he was thankful to take her home.  At first, she seemed better.  The hospital had given them a tiny lock of their son's red hair and a picture, and Jason had gone to the jeweler's, bought a locket, and gave it to Vivian.  It had seemed to help, for a while.  But after several years, the chain broke and the locket disappeared.  Without it, she seemed to have lost what little connection she'd had with life.  She began to spiral downward again.  But they both knew that she wouldn't go back to the mental ward.  He would take care of her as long as he could.  After that...

"Yes, he did, Vivian.  The bluest eyes I'd ever seen.  So beautiful..."

Vivian reached out, and for a moment he thought she would take his hand.  But no, she took the present.  "You say a boy gave this to me?  Do we know him?"

"No, he just said to give this to you, that you would like it."

"How strange.  What did he look like?"

He described the boy to her, but no light went off in her eyes.  He was a stranger to her as well.  She took the box and opened it.  A locket fell out.  And a note.  And a photo.  She picked up the photo--a beautiful boy with autumn-red hair and piercing blue eyes smiled at her, daring her to come out and play.  She picked up the note,

"Mommy, please don't be sad.  I am so alive here!  There are lots of other boys and girls to play with, and Grandpa and Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa love me and tell me funny stories about you.  Please stop blaming yourself, and please don't blame Daddy.  I love you, and I want you to find a little boy and give him the love you wanted to give me.  You should know how special you are--not every little boy gets to come from Heaven and give his mommy a present, but Jesus knows you need this back.  You lost it at the mall.  I love you bunches and bunches, Mommy, and I promise that I will be the first thing you see when you get to Heaven.  But please, find my brother before you see me.  He is waiting for you, too!  Love, Jason"

Tears streaming, Viv opened the locket.  The lock of hair and the photo were perfect--just as she'd left them.  The chain had been repaired, too, and was like new.  She put the locket around her neck and reached out for him.  He lay on the bed with her and they simply held each other.

Later that year, Viv and Jason were on a walk, down that same boulevard.  "Right here, Sweetheart,"  he said.  This is where I saw him.  Wait, what's this?"

There was a pamphlet on the ground.  They picked it up.  It was a pamphlet stating the need for foster families, that there were many children right here in their own communities that needed parents to love them.  Jason looked at Viv, and they ran home.  A new chapter in their lives was about to begin.  They knew that it would end with a new son to love--perhaps not a baby, but definitely a brother for Jason.

to my husband, dead these 20 years

Hello, Sweetie!!

Although it's been twenty years, I still remember it like it was yesterday.  Highs, lows, hope, dread, and then the final moments with you.  I remember walking around your still-warm body, touching your arms, already growing cold, and talking with you.  I knew that your spirit was still there.  It was so hard to say goodbye, so incredibly difficult to leave that room, knowing that I never would be with you in this way again.   At 36 years old, your life had already ended, and I felt that mine was ending, too.  This unbelievable thing was really and truly happening.

We never expected it, did we?  You were so healthy, we both knew that I would go before you.  You had so much ahead of you--seeing your children grow and find their own way, welcoming wives, husbands, grandchildren into the fold, growing old together, and finally retiring to that place in the woods that you longed for.  I know that we both envisioned you happily hunting and fishing in your golden years.  Instead, you left me to raise our children alone.  I'm not going to go into how good a job I did or didn't do.  I truly believe that you have been watching and praying for us, and you know it all already.  But I do want you to understand how it was after you left.

Your children all miss you terribly, even today.  David, too.  He doesn't remember you himself; he only sees you through the memories of others.  But every one of your children know that you loved them.  Every one of them still wants to make you proud.  And I think they have.  They have grown into such beautiful people.  Emily and James, Matthew and Michael live in the woods, just like you wanted to.  Emily has often said that you would love it there, and I know she's right.  Imagine a lake almost within walking distance!  Imagine being able to chop down your own Christmas tree and gather your own firewood (but no more picking up snakes from the road--that was way too scary for this woman!).  She is married to a good man, and though you wouldn't agree with his politics, I know you would identify with his gentle spirit.

Val has grown into a good man.  He struggles daily with the challenges of raising seven children on his own, but they're his children and he loves them and cares for them with a father's love.  He learned that from you, Val.  You showed him how to be a father.  It's tough, but he doesn't give up.  He learned that from you, too.  It rings in our ears:  A Villanueva never quits!  And now he is nearing the end of junior college.  He's majoring in archeology, another love that you share.  I remember all those mission trips and the fun you had exploring history.  Val is sharing that same love with his children now, as well as your love of the beach and camping.

Jeremy is amazing, too.  He and Michelle have done a great job showing solidarity and supporting each other in their lives.  Their children have great role models.  Jeremy is about to graduate, and I couldn't be happier for him.  I know that you know about the trials he has faced and the struggles he has triumphed over.  He is coming into the potential that you always saw in him.  I know that we disagreed about how to discipline, but there was no doubt, ever, that you saw greatness in him--in all our children.  You wanted him to discover it in himself.  He has.

David, to me, is the most surprising of all.  I never expected to see you in him, but you are so present.  It's there in the way he walks, speaks, thinks--even in the way he sometimes uses his hands.  I am proud of him.  He has Asperger's Syndrome, but he doesn't see it as a disability.  Instead, he says that it makes him into the person he is today.  He loves singing and acting and is determined to make it into a career. I see you in that as well.  One of my deepest regrets is that I wasn't as supportive of your jewelry aspirations as I could have been.  We see things so much more clearly from the other side of history, don't we?  It was more than a hobby with you, and you yearned to make it into a career.  I'm sorry that I didn't give you the support you needed to make that happen.  But I've learned from past mistakes with you.  As much as I can, I'm standing behind David and supporting him in his dream.  And he's good, Honey!  He has a great voice (so does Emily--I don't know about Val and Jeremy--remember him saying "I can't SING!" in children's choir?) and he evens helps others in his class with their singing.  I'm afraid, Sweetheart, that he takes after me in that, not you.  Remember me trying to teach you to sing?  But whatever the makeup of your voice, we all loved it.  I never forgot you singing "Streets of Laredo" and "Mariah".  Did you know Val even named his younger daughter Mariah?  Of course you did.

Val, life is so different now.  For many years, everything was a struggle.  I felt like half a person.  And I was.  I take seriously the Bible verse that says that you shall leave your father and mother, cleave to your spouse, and the two shall become one. When you went away, that left half.  I spent many years dealing with the loss and learning to become whole again. Our kids, especially Emily, have helped me in that.  She has spoken truth to me that I needed to hear, and it's really helped.  All the children have been affirming, and I've so appreciated it.  I know I made mistakes--too many to count--but they don't hold me to blame for it.  They have forgiven me, and that made it much easier to forgive myself.

Today is so different than it was with you.  I am my own woman.  I'm not afraid, not like I used to be.  I love my independence and wouldn't change.  I don't see a need to look for another husband.  I had that, and it was wonderful, but I don't need it again.  I have my memories with you, my life with my children, and my friends and career.  I'm truly happy again, and I'm thankful for every day that God gives me.

I am also looking forward in faith to that day when I will come home.  I will close my eyes, and when I open them, you will be there--you and Tommy and Leslie and my mom and dad and everyone else that I love and have lost.  I look forward to that day, but I no longer yearn for it with all my heart.  It will come when it comes, and until then, I have a rich and fulfilling life here.

So Val, be happy.  Do the work that God has given you to do.  Know that we all think of you and love you and are supremely grateful for the years that God gave us to be with you.  We all miss you, but we all know that we'll all be together again one day.

Godspeed, my Love, until then.
Margaret

write what you know

I went to a day-long (if you consider 8:30-2:00 day long!!) training for Stephen Ministries today.  It was cloudy and rainy, grey skies, and inside the training was on grief, suicide, and depression.  I was fascinated by what I heard.  The women who led the training sessions had all experienced the things that they were talking about, and they spoke from the heart.  I was especially struck by the second woman, who spoke on suicide.

Her name was Vicki, and she was preceded by another very knowledgable woman who told us about mental health issues.  She was very interesting--at a professional level.  I was interested but not absorbed.  Then Vicki spoke.  This brave woman lost her 21-year-old son to suicide four years ago, and her story was riveting.  She very forthrightly spoke about the mistakes that she made, the signs that she missed, and the grief that she was still experiencing.  One thing that she said struck me to my very core.  It was by no means the meat of the lecture, but it was life-changing for me. Forgive the paraphrase--it didn't occur to me to write it down.  But it's fairly accurate.

"There are others around now who can also speak, and at first I thought I would pass the responsibility on to her,  (but) I have assimilated the experience within myself.  This is what I know.  This is what I do."

Yes.  Finally I understand my own calling.  For years I have hesitated to write overly much about grief, death, suffering, but they are who I am.  I have dealt with loss from before I can remember.  I am 55, and in that time I have experienced the hospitalization of my mother numerous times, her stroke, heart failure and eventual death.  I have dealt with depression and mental health issues in my own life and in the life of my family.  I lost my mother at 15, lost one child through miscarriage and another through premature birth and eventual death, lost all my uncles and aunts and some cousins.  My father died when I was 34 (not out of time for him--he was 81).  My niece died when she was 20 and I was around 26.  On and on it goes.  But the most powerful loss that I experienced was the death of my husband when I was 35.  I did not recover from that for many many years.  You might say that I never will recover--you don't "get well" from grief.  You learn to live with it and move on, but it never entirely goes away.  Nor would I want it to.  He was my husband, and I loved him.

So what does all this mean?  Well, what it does not mean is that I go around with a cloud over my head all day every day.  Most days, especially now, are pretty good.  I can live from day to day with joy, because I understand that God is on the throne and I will see my loved ones again.  But it also means that I am different than many of you.  I come from a different place.  And I would not trade places.

When I lost little Tommy, I started going to a support group, "Sharing Parents".  This group was a godsend, not just for me, but for my entire family.  We all went, starting with Tommy's death and going through Val's.  One meeting in particular stood out for me.  We spoke of infant loss in general, with the speaker talking about doing funeral services for babies that were so young--miscarriages, really--that there was nothing to put in the coffin.  The speaker went on to say that the parents have been forever changed, but they would never go back.  It's the difference between being a virgin and getting married--you will never have the innocence again, but you would never want to go back to that naivete.

That's me.  I have learned many lessons in my life, and I don't regret a single one.  Not a single one.  If it were possible, yes, I would prefer to have my husband and son with me, but I don't regret the experience.  God became real to me in the pain.  I felt this from an early age, and it has just increased over time.  It was especially true in times of greatest need. For example, one day I was admitted to the hospital and it was determined that I needed to go in for gall bladder surgery.  Nobody was able to come and be with me, and I was very alone and very scared.  I keenly felt the loss of my husband.  As the gurney came to carry me to surgery, I called out for God to be with me, and I felt his presence beside me, holding my hand as I went down the hallway.  As I waited, it turned out that there was a complicating factor and I didn't get the surgery after all, but that sensation didn't go away.  It stayed with me as long as I needed a friend, and then it eventually dissipated.  Years later, my sister and my daughter were both at my side for my corneal transplant.  I was happy because they were with me, but of course, they can't go with me into surgery.  I was expecting God's hand to be there as I went down the hallway, and I was disappointed that I didn't feel it.  I questioned it as I went, and I heard God's voice, "I will be there for you when you need it."  Down we went to the operating room.  I saw the door open, the blinding lights of the room--and there was God's hand, right at the moment of my need.

When I moved from Bakersfield to Tucson, this relationship suffered.  For the first time since my youth, I was hurt and angry with God.  I moved because I knew it was the right thing to do, but there was no human companionship, either at church, at school, or in my community.  I realize now that I was very depressed and unable to reach out, but that was not something I could have helped at the time.  I'm grateful for my son, David's, presence.  But I've never felt so alone.

Slowly, gently, God took my hand once again.  As the years passed, I realized that there was one person that I needed to get reacquainted with--myself.  Through trial and error, with many steps backward and even more steps forward, I have been brought back to myself.  I'm thankful for that.  And as I've become more driven to write, I keep thinking, 'You have to write what you know.'  And what I know is pain and loss.  So I will not be afraid to write about pain and loss.

That doesn't mean that I will stop writing about other things.  God has given me a brain, and quite an analytical one at that.  I enjoy dissecting things.  I enjoy the idea of lectio divina, reading through scripture many times, with different intent each time.  I love exploring ideas.  All these things are fun for me, and I will definitely blog about them.

But I do believe that my first published works will probably deal with loss, with pain, with grief, with emotional trauma.  Write what you know.  But why write about this doom-and-gloom stuff?  Not to be maudlin, not to sink into the pit of despair.  No, to paraphrase the verse, I suffered and I was comforted.  And now I hope to write (and minister) to those who are suffering so that they can receive that same comfort that God gave me.

Going back to my training, when we finished and were preparing to go outside, one of the trainees remarked that the sun had come out.  We walked out of the building into the still-wet street, and the sun was breaking through the clouds.  I see both my writing and my ministry as that:  staying with others and sharing the walk through the rain and darkness until the sun finally comes out and it is once again possible for them to walk alone.  That's my goal. And I think it's a good one.