For All Who Climb Dunes

Each step Vince and I took in the sand
last Monday we slid down the dune a little
but never enough to stop us, and each step
took us slowly, beautifully, up.

Not like the time I first climbed
a different dune without my father,

when six feet took six years,
and the sand of my steps filled his grave
as I staggered up a haunting hill that
crumpled with every step.

Even as my son and I conquered
this Memorial Day climb
I grieved for a young friend who was that same day finding no solace in memories,
her steps filling her cousin's grave as she numbly climbed a
steep, lonely, and crumpling path.

Vince and I climb.
We sit.
We rest.
We start again.
We ache.
We persevere.

This much I can do with you, too,
my weary, heartbroken friend who also climbs dunes.


(For TG, climber of dunes)

Struck Down, But Not Destroyed

It was Valentine's Day, 1951.Two brothers, Dick (11 years old) and Gary (7 years old), had just come home from a Cub Scout Party. The family farm was situated on the west shore of West Grand Traverse Bay, about five miles from town. The frigid February temperatures had just put a thin film of ice over the whole bay. The boys and a friend were excited about the new ice, and without saying a word to their parents they left the safety of the farmyard and headed across the road to the bay.

When the brother's dad discovered they had gone down to the bay he went running after them...but it was too late. Their dad nearly drowned that day. He searched desperately for the boys, repeatedly falling into the frigid water as the in the hole in the ice got larger and larger. But the three of them were gone. 

As their younger brother Ted grew up in their home, he heard many stories about the boys, about that horrible day, about loss. Though his parents endured by clinging to their faith in God and the community of their church, Ted learned what life looked like when it is scarred by grief.

Let's be honest: even those of us who have placed our hope and trust in God have our share of pain, grief and loss. 

Unexpected events can arise that shake us to the core and leave us wondering what happened. I suspect that every one of us could tell of events that have rocked our world. More than one follower of Christ has turned away from him because they could not regain their sense of stability following the pain or loss that came their way.

The Imprint of the Past

     
In my experience, there is a cycle to grief.  Something from the trauma of the loss gets embedded in us - in our heart, our head, our emotions, maybe even our physiology. I don't know exactly how to describe it, but I have noticed over the years that grief has left an imprint on my flesh as well as my spirit. My body remembers that something monumental happened on January 9, 2003, and it dutifully reminds me each year as the cycle of life unfolds.

Ten years ago today, my father died. 

     Reality shifted in a way I had never experienced before. Something in the world broke, not just in him but in me.  I have mended for ten years now, and much like broken bones can become stronger after they mend, there are parts of me that have matured in ways that could not have happened without that experience.  But for the past week I've been depressed, exhausted, on the verge of tears, unable to focus, using entertainment to get me through the evening on the way to a restless sleep.

     My body remembers. It commemorates that week in my life every year.  I have thought over the years that the world should have changed more when Dad died. Perhaps it did, and I didn't realize it. 

    A decade is a long time. 

     There are times I feel like I should be over it more than I am. Other times, I'm pretty sure that I'm always supposed to have a place deep inside that misses him. Somewhere between despondency and amnesia I have found a healthy place where I miss him gently, poignantly, during the moments when a good father ought to be missed. During weeks like this one, I am reminded that the once broken do not become the never broken. The broken become the repaired. Though they heal, they carry with them the history of their losses.  
      On rainy days, my surgically repaired knees hurt. I'm okay with that. The rainy days remind me that what I had been feeling every day has faded - not completely, but enough to make me grateful that broken is not the same as hopeless.
     On days like today, my heart hurts. I'm okay with that, too. These days reminds me that what I had been feeling every day has faded - not completely, but enough that I can recognize the gift of a father whose passing is worthy of my lingering grief.
   May his memory stay embedded in me, body and soul.

Hello, Grief, My Old Friend

While driving to Ohio this past weekend, I missed my dad.

It’s not that I don’t think about him a lot. It's just that life fills up so quickly that I can put the hollow part of my heart on a shelf and go about my day.  It waits for me (that hollow spot), knowing I will inevitably reach up, dust it off, and carry it around with me when the time is right.

The time was right as I was driving to Ohio this past weekend, and I missed my dad. I was tired; Skillet seemed like a good idea. When you’re sleepy, “Waking Up, Waking Up!” is a great stadium chant to sing in a car.  But metal mayhem gave way to a song I had not heard and did not expect:

“I went to bed - I was thinking about you

I wanna talk and laugh like we used to.

When I see you in my dreams at night

It's so real but it's in my mind,

And now I guess this is as good as it gets

Don't wake me, 'cause I don't wanna leave this dream

Don't wake me, 'cause I never seem to stay asleep enough

When it's you I'm dreaming of, I don't wanna wake up

These dreams of you keep on growing stronger

It ain't a lot but it's all I have.

Nothing to do but keep sleeping longer

Don't wanna stop 'cause I want You back."

"'Cause I want you back." I had dreams of my father for months after he died. I wish so desperately I could have them again (and yet I don’t – it’s exhausting to wake up sobbing). Grief is such a confusing mix of “I hate this” and “Please don't let me forget.”

BOOK REVIEW

As a self-published author, PR is crucial.  I have been overwhelmed at times by how many people graciously go out of their way to read, interview, and write as I bug them as part of my "Shameless Self-Promotion Tour." It's humbling, believe me.  I was just informed of another review today, and I am grateful once again.  An excerpt from CSI (Christian Schools International) 

In a grief memoir, I expected to find romantic poets, crusty theologians, and maybe a mega-church youth pastor or two. Instead, each chapter began with quotes from some of my favorite writers: Elie Weisel, J.R.R. Tolkein, Stephen R. Donaldson, Neil Gaiman, C.S. Lewis, Dostoyevsky, Stephen King, and Voltaire. And the quotes were thought provoking and, above all, authentic, adjectives that also describe the memoir that comes wrapped in these quotes.  

Oh, if you are interested in the book, click on the picture in the right hand column of this blog to go to the website, or just go to amazon.com.

If My Father Had Been Here

At a wintery party tonight, I saw my father.

I was sitting at a dining room table, recovering from ice fishing and snowmobiling.  He was sitting on a sofa in the adjacent living room, silhouetted by the crackling fire in the stone fireplace.

It was not my father, of course. My father is dead.  But I suddenly realized I had been staring for about 5 seconds at the profile of a man who, sitting at just that angle, in just that light, took me back 10 years, before life's final winter took my father.

I looked away, but my eyes kept drifting back. That initial moment brought out a child in me, a boy who would have gone and sat down on the empty sofa seat reserved for me.  I knew that in five minutes the moment would pass, so I lingered, creating and absorbing a moment beautifully false and achingly close.

If that man had been my father, I would have got up from the table at that moment and sat next to him. I would have winced as he told corny jokes, listened as he maneuvered through conversations of any topic, spoke boldly when he asked my opinion, watched the background basketball game with him, refilled his coffee when I got more for myself, teased him about not trying the polar bear plunge, and just been really proud of his presence among my friends.

That's what I would have done if my father had been there. 

Five minutes later, the moment had passed, dissolved into the dwindling stream of sweet memories.

Thirty minutes later, I was home, winter party and wintery memories left snugly next to the embers in a friend's hearth. I carried sleeping Vincent into the house, read the prologue to a story Braden had written, and sat down with AJ to watch Ohio State and Michigan play some hoops.

That is what my father would have done, if he had been here. 

Grief and the Art of Motorcycle Racing

     Bikers know what it means to “lean in” to the bends in the road.  If they want to turn right at a curve, they lean right.  At the same time, they countersteer by actually pushing the handlebars the opposite direction.  Lean right, but turn left.

   I have been known to do the opposite on both counts.  I intuitively tend to lean away from the curve (why would I want to be that close to the ground?), and I steer into the curve.  I even did this once with a friend’s three-wheeler.  It ended badly, but I’m happy to report the tree was fine.

   Those who learn how to “lean in” ride safely through the curves and continue on, the bike’s dirty side down and shiny side up.  Too often riders lay it down, much to the delight of thousands of people looking for entertainment on “Ridiculousness,” and much to the chagrin of the one who walks away with scars. 

    I have noticed there a many things in life in which the counterintuitive choice is the right one.  I intuitively want to lash out when I’m angry; kick the cat when it wakes me up at 2:00 in the morning last Monday; buy shiny things with credit cards; and eat whatever I want (hello, BWW!).  After all, it feels natural.  But when I do, I soon find I can’t handle the curves of life. The shiny side of my relationships, finances, and health go down in a hurry as I slide into the ditch, battered and scraped and in need of help.

    When I make the correct choice that goes against my initial response, I survive the curves.  I don’t hurt people when I’m angry; I don’t have to apologize to my wife about the whole cat incident; my credit stays good; my weight remains in the same area code.

    That’s a much better journey.  But in spite of all the positive results, counterintuitive is still hard.  It’s good, but it’s hard.

     Recently I was talking with some friends about grief.  One was grieving the death of a career and a dream: the other the death of a marriage. They approached me because they knew my father had died, and that I too was no stranger to grief.

     In the aftermath of loss, our initial, intuitive response is to lean away from the pain.  Even worse, we simultaneously steer our lives the wrong way and miss the curves.  This does not end well, as the curves in the road to grief recovery are not curves you want to miss. The ditches are deep, and very dark.

    But that’s what happens when we avoid leaning in and steering well.  In more practical terms, this involves leaning in to the depths of ourselves by thinking, talking and writing about deep emotions and poignant memories, and steering toward instead of away from God and others,

     The night may be dark, the road full of potholes, the driving conditions poor, and the turns hairpin. 

Lean in anyway. 

Somewhere down the road, grieving souls are lying in a ditch, waiting for someone who can nurse them back to health, set them back on the road of life, and teach them how to ride.

Odd Thomas

    I am re-reading Dean Koontz's Odd Thomas series. I had forgotten how talented Koontz is at addressing momentous topics with creativity and seriousness (read Out of the Corner of His Eye for confirmation). Close to the end of Odd Hours, Koontz gives the following monologue to Odd:

"Grief can destroy you - or focus you.  You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it hand to end in death, and you alone.  Or you can realize that every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn't allow yourself to consider the sacredness of it. But when it's over and you're alone, you begin to see it wasn't just a movie and a dinner together, not just watching sunsets together, not just scrubbing a floor or washing dishes together or worrying over a high electric bill.  It was everything, it was the why of life, every event and precious moment of it.  The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and when the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanctity of it, you can't get off your knees for a long time, you're driven to you knees not by the weight of the loss but by gratitude for what preceded the loss.  And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life."