Buckets of Hope

Most people’s days are not filled with daily reminders that our beloved Jason is gone. Or, maybe they are simply because you read my posts or memories shared on IG and FB. But, many get to forget. I do not mean to minimize the impact Jason’s death (or more importantly, his life) has had on any of you. I know how impactful he was and still is. Many of you have shared those stories with me in person, via email, text, or I had the privilege to watch the impact made before my very eyes. I am not questioning that! I just mean that you get to move on. That is the way it should be! Jason would want everyone to continue living their beautiful, meaningful, fulfilling lives with the ones they love. I do, too! That is what he would want for the kids and I, as well.

BUT, for the kids and I, his family, and maybe closest friends, we don’t have the privilege of forgetting or moving on. Reminders of him and our loss are everywhere. The special days. The hard days. The joyful days. Mondays. Tuesdays. Wednesdays. Thursdays. Fridays. Saturdays. Sundays. EVERY DAY! And, at least for me, the more time passes, the harder it seems to get.

For the kids and I, it is in the open kitchen cabinet doors. Clothes that remain in our closet that smell like him. The table we gather around every day that he built that has yet to be sanded and sealed like he wanted to do. The home we do life in where every square inch holds a memory or story. The high school applications I am filling out for our sweet Elana with no “Second parent/guardian” to name. The “Hi, William” that pops up when we sign in to Netflix or Hulu. The awards ceremonies, games, vacations, school functions, worship services, family group, etc. I now do as a single mom. The nights on the couch after the kids have gone to bed spent with tears streaming down my face and an ache in my chest that literally takes my breath and never really goes away. Being forced to label myself a “widow” on applications and medical forms. Evening commutes home that are not filled with quick phone conversations to say, “how was your day?” “What are we doing for dinner?” “I can’t wait to get home to you!” and “Love you’s”. The mornings I wake up with our sweet Josiah in our bed instead of my partner and lover. Sunday mornings watching “Press the Meat” (as Josiah used to tell you it was called). Plain foggy mirrors in my bathroom after a shower without a sweet message written on them. The deep longing I have multiple times a day for a hug, a kiss, his voice, his words, his smell, his hand to hold, and his strong arms wrapped around me as he sneaks up behind me in the kitchen while I am cooking. The smells, sounds, pictures, dreams, and stories shared that trigger beautiful memories but also trigger traumatic memories of him being sick, quickly fading away, and taking his final breaths. I could go on and on. These are the reasons we can never forget. We are living out this horrific and unwelcome new normal and there is no way to escape it.

BUT, we keep living, seeking joy, clinging to hope…to each other, our community, and to God. For Jason. For each other. For ourselves. We keep taking that next right step. The kiddos go to school, I go to work, and from the outside looking in we are doing okay. Moving forward. And many days we are. God’s comfort has been tangible. We are daily experiencing the fruit of the prayers of our family, friends, and even strangers. But most days we are also still just struggling to keep our heads above the waves of grief that swirl around us.

People often ask, “how are you?” or “how are the kids?” My answer has become a bit of a reflex of “ok” or “the kids are so resilient” because that is all people really have time and capacity to hear. Sometimes I want to say, “how the f*** do you think we are? The other half of me has died. My children have lost their adoring daddy,” but I don’t. I want to say, “I feel empty and alone at night,” or “Josiah came out of the bedroom in the middle of the night crying for his daddy.” But, I don’t. I mean, I simply told someone who asked about the kids that “they miss their daddy every moment of the day” and they patted me on my arm, said “Cool,” and walked away. Not kidding! I do feel safe enough to share these things with a couple of family members, dear friends, and now my therapist. However, in normal, every day life, I feel like I have to appear as if I am “ok” because either one of two things will happen: 1) people will not know how to respond, showing how uncomfortable they are, or 2) people say stupid shit (that is well-meaning) that makes me feels worse. Like, “It will get better,” or “It’s going to be ok,” or ” God had a good reason for taking him so soon,” or…… “Cool!”

Why can’t we be okay with just sitting with others in and validating their feelings instead of insisting on saying something to make them “feel better” or to make themselves feel less uncomfortable? I am so thankful that I do have people around me that are okay with sitting in the mess, the ashes, the tears, the snot, the anxiety attacks, or the silence with me….without trying to fix or ignore it. What beautiful blessings you are to our lives!

I say this knowing full well that I have not always been great at this myself. I am sure I have said insensitive or unhelpful things to family or friends who have lost someone they love, were going through a hard time, or who needed validation and just my presence instead of an overused, hyper-spiritual, trendy catch phrase.

I am not sharing this for pity, attention, or sympathy. I just hope to encourage all of us to practice being comfortable with the uncomfortable. I am striving to do more listening, validating, and just being with people who are hurting. I have seen how valuable this is, now more than ever, as we grieve.

While you have the privilege to forget, maybe just remember that we do not. We still need many of you who are reading this in the coming days, weeks, months, years…and not to fix it but just be in it with us. Not to avoid asking the hard questions because it makes you uncomfortable. Especially for the kids’ sake…. reach out, send them notes/cards, let them know you are thinking about them and love them, ask how they are doing, or share stories about their daddy. Your continued support will make the weight of the daily reminders of our loss just a little lighter.

With Buckets of Hope,

Sophie, Elana, Josiah, and Jason in our hearts for-ev-er