Sunday, October 11, 2015



NO WORDS, No words, no words . . . the phrase that kept running through my mind at your 9 month anniversary. You and I—we went from conception to birth in 9 months. 9 glorious months of anticipation, falling in love with you before I was even able to hold you, waiting, waiting, waiting. 9 months from death—there is no celebration; there is still a lot of waiting. Waiting for the ache to hurt a little less, the tears to slow down, the finality to be something other than what it is. I took a cue from my heart and went silent. Another lesson from Patience. When the teaching moment presents itself, the words will flow. . . and so they do!

Your friends organized a golf tournament to honor you yesterday, a shared tournament for you and Hayden. Two men leaving this planet before their time—according to the left behind anyway. The weather was glorious as I’m sure you know. Bright, deep blue sky without a cloud. The air crisp and clean. The colors on the trees shouting their brilliance and announcing that another season is upon us. Your favorite season. The pumpkins are ready for carving, the corn stalks are standing tall, guarding our entryways. Heard some wonderful stories about you. Never tire of those stories! We laughed, we cried, we are ever so grateful to Matty, Kristen & Jim and all the volunteers that came out to help. Your kids are great. Bear, growing up, already a year old and Addy—what a conversationalist. Proud, Matthew is what you’d be, most certainly are.

Dad and I were talking this morning, reliving the special moments of yesterday. He shared what he believed the game of golf teaches and it turns out to be a metaphor for Grief. He played with the young ‘uns as he calls Jason and his buddies. Swinging that club, hitting that ball, trying to get distance just to keep up; he was pretty tired this morning! “The game of golf teaches you to play within yourself.” He was explaining that you have to know your limits. Play to your natural abilities. Keep your mental edge. He didn’t quite listen to the messenger yesterday!

In my grief journey, as far as I think I’ve come, I feel like I’ve finally put my glasses on and I can see that path is a lot longer than I thought it was. It’s not a road race, a sprint or a marathon. It’s a slow, calm walk in the woods. The pace allows me to become an observer—this is when I learn. Sometimes I have to take cover when the weather becomes inclement and other times I can walk until the sun stops shining. At my own pace—within myself. How many times have I read, heard, told myself this same thing . . . at my own pace, yet it really had not sunk it. I believe it has. No words at 9 months. The journey waits for me when I decide I need to take a break. 

Love you forever and always. . .