Birthday

I'm having a birthday party in my head. Eighteen years ago my wife gave birth to our first child, a beautiful boy. If he had survived, we'd likely be celebrating more overtly, but he didn't. So, I'm having my party privately - much like I have for all his previous birthdays. I wouldn't consider myself consumed with grief or sadness today but I guess I am a little more reflective than usual. I suppose I could be more public but I don't think anyone really wants that.

Most (maybe all) of my coworkers are unaware of my first son. As far as they know, I have two boys - I talk about them often. Ask my coworkers if I am proud of my kids and I'm fairly sure they would say I am. I don't try to hide it. Ask them if I love my kids and again, I think they would say I do.

But I don't talk about my first son. I am proud of him, too. I love him, too. He changed me probably more than any other soul I've known. With his birth, I became a father. His death forced me to examine my relationship with God, to trust my faith. Losing him shaped how I would eventually parent his siblings. I take very little for granted anymore.

But I don't talk about my lost son with just anyone. It makes people uncomfortable and I don't know what the point of it would be. I'm not seeking any sympathy or, God forbid, pity and experience has taught me most of them wouldn't know what to say anyway. I'm a proud introvert and I'm perfectly satisfied to keep this party to myself. I will put this blog out there, for anyone to read without feeling obligated to respond.

Tonight, my family will gather together for dinner, just like any other night. At some point, my wife and I will probably clink our glasses  together and say a quiet "Happy Birthday" while our boys look on. They've witnessed this little celebration their entire lives. Sometimes, they join in., clinking their milk glasses. Sometimes, they just watch. Either way, I hope it shows them that we will never forget, we will never stop loving him or them.

Skating

My faith is like ice on a lake in winter.
I used to skate on it with confidence, carefree.
But things happened, bad things, and the ice grew thin.
Finally, one day, I fell through.
I fell into the despair beneath and thought I might drown.
Instead, I washed up on the shore, exhausted.
There, I watched the broken ice with fear and contempt.

Gradually, slowly, ice reformed over the broken places.
Not smooth like before, but jagged and scarred.
I watched and waited.
Finally, I took a hesitant step, close to shore.
Each day, I ventured farther.
The ice held me.

I am back on the ice again.
I skate cautiously, carefully avoiding the uneven, jagged places.
Gone is the confidence, replaced by hope.
Hope that the ice will hold me.
And knowledge that if I fall through I can survive.

Bad Driver

She was a bad driver.
She was first in line in the left turn lane, I was right behind her as we waited for the light to change.
Her right turn signal was flashing.
When the light turned green, she waited patiently for the oncoming traffic to clear.
Then she waited some more. I could see her looking at the stopped cross-traffic, apparently unsure if they were going to suddenly lurch forward.
Finally, she eased into the intersection and completed her left turn. Her right turn signal mercifully quieted.
I followed.
We came to a four-way stop where she slowed slightly before ignoring the other traffic and entering the intersection to complete a wide right turn. No signaling this time.
Again, I followed, reluctantly.
I was just beginning to wonder if I would follow her all the way to work when she abruptly turned right.
From the center lane, across the lane specifically for right turns.
Again, no turn signal.

The Sermon I Didn't Hear

This past Sunday in church, the gospel reading was about the feeding of the 5000. With a large crowd and little food, Jesus somehow feeds them all with more to spare. I've heard this story since childhood, it works well in Sunday School - I can even remember coloring a picture of Jesus and the crowd and the boy with the basket containing fish and bread. I think it was my kindergarten or first grade class.

On Sunday, our preacher zeroed in on the crowd and the limited food and the miracle. His message was one I'd heard a few times before: Everything is possible with God's love. I half-listened but my mind was still stuck on the beginning of the reading. And on my Mother.

The reading was the account from Matthew. Now, maybe I've only heard the story from other gospels or maybe I just didn't pay attention to the beginning in the past, always jumping ahead to the miracle part. This time, I thought about Jesus and how he must have felt upon hearing the news of the beheading of John the Baptist. How he fled to a remote and solitary place. I get that. I picture a saddened, angry Jesus wanting everyone to leave him alone so he could have some time to grieve and remember his friend.

But the crowd found him. They needed him. And, in his time of sorrow, he comforted them and healed their sick. He could have looked out on the crowd with anger or judgement. Why should their sick be saved when one such as John was allowed to die? No, like always, he cared for them, healed them, and fed them.

And this leads me back to my Mother. When my Father died unexpectedly, Mom found herself suddenly the sole caregiver for six kids that desperately needed her. The pain and shock of losing Dad must have been overwhelming, and I'm sure she would have liked to find a remote place where she could hide and grieve. But she couldn't hide. We were there, needing her. Just like the crowd that found Jesus. We needed comfort, and healing, and to be fed.

I'm no pastor so I can't say I know for sure what any of this means, but I wonder if maybe the path to overcoming grief doesn't lie in retreat. Maybe comforting and healing others is a way we can heal ourselves.

Or maybe it's all about feeding over 5000 with five loaves of bread and two fish - that's pretty cool, too.