Tag: healing

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More Love

“Oh, where oh where can my baby be?
The Lord took her away from me
She’s gone to heaven, so I got to be good.”
-Last Kiss, Wayne Cochran

No, that’s not the way I look at things, but I have found a lot of reasons to be better since I lost my baby. The most effective reason has been for myself. When I increase my effectiveness in the world, I can provide more for those I love most. It’s a driving passion for me to be the most positive force I can be in the world and multiply the love that Mary and I felt for each other. Focusing on positivity in my parenting and all other relationships has gone hand-in-hand with a personal mission of self discovery and self improvement. It’s driven me into great challenges and eye-opening revelations about how I can find and produce more love.

God bless,
Jason

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Letting Go of Fear

I never expected to replace Mary. I never wanted to. I never could. I feared all the parts of my brain that pointed to my life with her. I wanted to turn away from all of it and make a brand new life. For a while I forgot how good it had been, how well we worked together, and how much I enjoyed doing the things a husband should do.

I’m letting go of that fear and welcoming back into my psyche the things I loved about Mary and our relationship. I’m no longer scared of pretty girls with blue eyes or paying attention to how they like their tea. I can care for someone’s needs in a similar manner as I did for Mary. I can carry with me the best of what I learned as a husband to a range of human relationships.

With a little more love and a little less fear,
Jason

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I Am A Bully

A lot of anger welled up in me this week. I tried to blame other people for perceived wrongs, but today I saw it and felt it emanating from inside of me. It’s a monster with a persona I crafted and used to great effect in my teen years. I had been surrounded by bullies for much of my youth. I was small, geeky, totally different. For years I was smart enough and fast enough to keep away from any real harm. Then, when I was twelve or so, I witnessed someone being bullied in school. It was just words, but the kid was big. Unprovoked, I threw some smart-assy dig at him. Before he could turn his attention to me I hit him with another. He was on his heels and I got the taste of that power. That year I decided that the world was made up of victims and victimizers. And damn if I would be a victim.

I didn’t steal lunch money or knock books out of hands, I used my energy and love of a good, nasty joke to build walls of safety and to strike out at those whom I thought might wrong me or get in my way.

It seemed to work pretty well. I chose my friends and didn’t feel the pressure of being a part of any of the various teenage groups. With an ever-sharpening tongue I was more confident and could impress girls by belittling teachers and other boys. On the soccer field I applied my energy more towards intimidation and violence than skill.

I cultivated the monster for years as he seemed to reward this still small kid who now could get in a mosh pit and instantly identify who to hit. I took him to the workplace and bullied anyone who couldn’t keep up with my pace.

Then I met someone who quieted the monster. Who was never a threat and not impressed by my clever nastiness. Someone who was genuinely kind, loving, helpful, and, most importantly to the monster, confidently independent. Mary wouldn’t be bullied. She had been wronged and was too tough for that. She wasn’t damaged. She didn’t use the lessons she learned against others as I had for a decade. She took her hurt and made it something positive. Mary quieted the monster just by being there. I have thought long and hard and cannot think of one time I said something intentionally hurtful to her. Insensitive? Thoughtless? Negligent? Sure, I said lots of stupid things, but she never roused the monster.

I was sitting pretty, all of a sudden I was a decent guy and looking to do right by people. I got comfortable and forgot about that beast I had fed for so many years.

As we had children, I took on primary care of them and after a little while I started to bully my sons. Usually when Mary wasn’t around, I would find things not going my way and the monster showed up. This abomination was not quick witted, it knew it was bigger now and didn’t need any of the fancy tricks. Yelling, throwing things, threatening…a big, scary, disgusting toddler trying to bend independent humans to its will.

I was in the car alone this evening and cranked up the heavy metal that had fueled my youthful anger. The grieving/healing process has taught me that leaning into unpleasant feelings is the only way to take their power away. The monster hadn’t really been let out in years, not in this off-the-chain, feel every panicked breath, physically paralyzing way. I pulled into the parking lot of a facility where I knew some friends were playing soccer. I was exhausted from keeping it together just enough to control the car. But the tears stopped and I was fearful of sitting there alone, so I went in to watch the game. It was halftime and my friends were playing a man short. “Get in! Get in! We need you!” Without a thought I ran to the car for my gear. Out in the cold I paused for one moment and looked up, “Thank you for bringing me here, God.” I was all smiles and calm and my body was light.

The monster is still there. I treated him too well for too long for ugly crying to chase him off or slay him. But this is the closest I’ve been to this part of my being without giving it control. I hope I can lean into the anger the next time it manifests and find a healing way to engage it.

God bless,
Jason

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Positive Parenting Challenge: Day Twelve

Disclosure: Some of the links below are affiliate links, meaning, at no additional cost to you, I will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase. 

It’s always intense here. Whether it’s fun, difficult, loud, quiet, angry, sad, focused, scattered, adventurous, or laid back, we seem to swing the pendulum as far as it will go.

Today was a rainbow of intensity. Early ups with cousins, off to jiu-jitsu, good-byes to family, long hike with friends, fights over lunch and screen time, a high-stakes South Phillyopoly game, collaborative dinner prep, more screen time fighting, and a post-dinner movie of surprising weight: The Man Who Invented Christmas.

As the movie tells it, Charles Dickens was of two minds. A giving and tireless lover of children and a man darkened by his creations. I’m no Dickens, heck, I’m no Dan Stevens, who brought the historical figure into pained relief on the screen. But I saw the monster rise up in the man as it rises in me. Taunted by the things he could not overcome in himself, or would not directly face. I think my sons saw it as well.

Jekyll and Hyde, the Incredible Hulk, this story isn’t new. But putting Dickens at the center, surrounded by books and characters, and a story fighting to be written put it right in our laps. We’re writing this story and taking power away from the past, taking the pain away from it and making it hope. Using freedom from the past to write today’s story, to lift a burden, and to make the world better for it.

Thank God it’s gotten easier to self publish since 1843.

God bless,
Jason

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Day Ten of My 10- and 30-Day Challenges: Thanksgiving

I gave myself ten days to be prepared to host my family for Thanksgiving. In the 24 hours before dinner, my sister and her husband were there with their sons to help with setup and entertain my boys. They were a Godsend and made the pre-celebration celebratory in its own right. As all of my guests showed up within a five-minute window, I went through my mental checklist and felt good about the work we had accomplished.

My sons are troupers when the stakes are high and today was no different. Playing with cousins and neighbors during the day and helping organize, and even create, desserts. We sat down after appetizers and my seven-year-old lead a simple grace. He was uncharacteristically nervous at the biggest table we had ever hosted. Before “digging in,” I was able to say a few words of thanks for having my family in my home, for having my sister’s family to help, and for all of the ways that this gathering would not have been possible without Mary. We still receive and re-receive gifts from her remarkable life, from a treasure of recipes tried and untried to a thousand lessons on how to host a party.

Unfortunately, I was not able to hold onto the thankfulness through the day. As more and more things fell into place and went smoothly, future tasks crept into my mind and I slipped away from being present in the moment. I resisted sneaking off to write the soccer emails that needed to go out; but my mind was there, wondering if I had already waited too long. I put the device away, but wondered who had responded to my morning messages. My thoughts were on the weekend, next week, my soccer future, my future relationships, and a hundred other unknowable things.

Typing this out in an exhausted state of mind helps bring me back. The sound of the tapping on the tablet is here and now. Another night brings another chance to close my eyes, sleep, and reset. Tomorrow can wait until tomorrow.

God bless,

Jason

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A Surprise Trio

Pork and kraut. Green lentil vegetable soup. Roasted beet salad. 

This Thanksgiving has already brought a series of surprises. Nine days ago I’m not sure whether I volunteered or was volunteered to host Thanksgiving. Either way, I’m excited to have my family for a big, grateful dinner in the house my late wife helped to make a welcoming home.

In an effort to clear the freezer before the onslaught of leftovers, I’ve been searching out every frozen item to heat up for recent dinners. The last one came out last night and my sons and I had pork and kraut, leftover from a good luck meal on New Year’s Day. Mary had prepared that meal and it struck us while eating that it was one more piece of her that would be gone before bedtime. It was hard. We all cried. We filled our bellies and went to bed without much discussion.

I was up early this morning to prepare for pre-Thanksgiving guests and plans to make a green lentil vegetable soup from Mary’s little pile of favorite recipes. I stumbled through and thought it strange that I didn’t remember ever having this dish. As I prepped the stock and tried to keep the printed recipe dry I noticed the date at the top. Mary had found this recipe only a week before getting sick. She’d be gone less than three weeks later. A smile came to my face. Not 12 hours after the last meal she left us, she left me something to make for friends and family on a chilly November day. She prepared me for these moments, prepared me to try new things and welcome new people to our table. The soup was a hit and, in true Mary fashion, it took me a while to stop running around and join my guests at the table.

Tomorrow comes Thanksgiving and the third unexpected food challenge from Mary: her Famous Roasted Beet Salad. I don’t have many food duties, but I’ve taken on the responsibility of one of my favorite salads of all time. It won’t be hers, it will be mine. As will the sole role of host.

Strengthened by hardships and envigorated by successes, I’m calm and resolved to make this Thanksgiving thoroughly special.

God bless, Jason

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Day Eight of My 30-Day Positive Parenting Challenge: Valley

Nearing total exhaustion. Familial pressures, homeschool programs, a friend in need, hours of driving, difficulty focusing on my parenting goals, Thanksgiving grocery shopping, outpouring of grief about mom, some of my own outpouring, and self pressure to create something positive out of all of it. Quite a day. 

It’s the kind of day you try to end as peacefully as possible, without doing any more harm. Dinner was rough, but bedtime is quiet and I’m able to sit here and claw out a couple lines. I can’t make sense of today now, but I’m looking forward to the rejuvenation that comes with exhausted sleep.

God bless,
Jason

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A Creative Space

When I suddenly lost my wife and the mother of my young sons, Mary, in February of this year, I felt an emptiness, a hole inside my personality. The edges were ragged and distorted. Sinews of what was left of me were pulled in and broken off in the black space. I was bleeding out into it, chasing the loss and disappearing.

God’s love poured into it. A healing light filled the space and touched every abrasion, laceration, and amputation. There would be much more work to come, but God saved me from that paralyzing pain.

Genesis 1:1 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

“Create”: verb: to evolve from one’s own thought or imagination, as a work of art or an invention.

Losing a spouse is an end and a beginning. I don’t know what I could create at the end of a story. I don’t know what work can be accomplished on a finished product. But I can imagine endless possibilities at the beginning. My imagination went to work in that hole in the minutes after Mary died. It was cautious and modest at first. I’d tend to the wounds that God had put on the path to healing and I would start to grow something in that empty space. Like an iguana, I limited myself to the size of the cavity. I didn’t see it at first, but all my imaginings fit in a perceived pit. This hollow space was part of my imagination. Maybe it had been there for a moment, but God hadn’t simply passed through and patched it up, he filled it with an immutable light that would never go out.

I was working in the wrong place.

I had the revelation that I was already whole. I wasn’t less, I was more. More equipped to handle hardship, more conscious of pain in myself and others, more understanding of individuals who I had previously thought different from me. It wasn’t a complete revelation. Nine months later and, at times, I find myself trying to fill a hole that isn’t there. In one moment, I’m learning, growing, and reaching out into the world with curious wonder. In the next, I’m longing.

I’m going to make myself stronger today, more whole. I’m going to wake up each day and renew that pledge.

God bless,
Jason

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Listening In: Matt Lewis with Andy Crouch on Putting Technology in its Proper Place

Matt Lewis recently spoke with Andy Crouch about his new book, The Tech-Wise Family.

Mr. Crouch has ten rules with implementable recommendations for how to take control of the devices that are running your life. Some are easier than others, but it wasn’t until the end of the conversation that the message spoke to me.

Rule #10: We show up in person for the big events of life, we learn how to be human by being fully present at our moments of greatest vulnerability, we hope to die in one another’s arms.

My late wife was present. She didn’t have a smart phone and her tablet was tucked away most of the time. She spent her working hours in front of a screen and spent every other possible moment with her friends and family.

At the very end of her life, the machines were disconnected, the lights were lowered, and she was surrounded by loved ones. It wasn’t planned, it was just right.

I’m working to reach that Mary-level of presence. It takes conscious effort as I try to find income online and quell an uneasy loneliness. I’m trying to connect with people on professional and personal terms, but not neglect my sons and the attention that they deserve from me at this time.

I type all this as they sleep and I hope to finish before they wake. I pledge to be present today and make a renewed commitment to show up for the big events of life.

God bless,
Jason

Hear the whole conversation with Mr. Crouch here and subscribe to Matt Lewis and the News on iTunes, Stitcher, or my favorite podcast app, Overcast.

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An Angry Ultimatum

In a recent conversation, I foolishly boasted that I had been spared the “anger” stage of grief upon the passing of my wife and the mother of my two young sons. This is an open letter to those who have helped usher in this state and to anyone who would dare bring his poison into my family’s life.

I wake up everyday to this reality. Most mornings I get up early, I’m positive, not lonely, content in the quiet house, and prepared to make our lives better. I think about Mary. I see her notes still on the backs of cabinet doors and on the fridge. I try to write something about her. I let myself cry. I don’t think about what she would do or if she’s looking down on us (although I know she wouldn’t be happy with the general mess or living-room-come-Lego-workshop). I think about God, myself, my boys, and how I can use my agency to make this sinful world a little more tolerable.

Eight months of these habits have served me well. I rarely get “ambushed,” that fearful moment when you’re off-guard and a crushing memory comes forward to sear your eyes and explode capillaries. I have few “shut down” days when I can hardly get the dishes done or pick up around the house.

And I am less and less fearful about talking about Mary. My sons and I are entirely comfortable remembering Mom, but sometimes I am unsure of myself around strangers and new friends. I can tell you that someone will listen to you intently when you are at a playground watching your children make friends and running and laughing and you look her (it’s almost always a mom) in the eye and say, “My wide died recently and we’re figuring things out.” As awkward as that can be, it feels good to have another human turn all of her attention toward you. I’ve quickly made deep connections with people because we start at this fundamental level.

Now it feels as if those who were closest to Mary are the ones who want to hear the least. Grief is impossible to understand, especially in others. Mine is active: engaging, moving, pushing, creating, loving, and wrestling. Now it’s angry. It sees people I love not doing the necessary work. It sees people I love letting their grief destroy them and separate them from those they love. It hears platitudes, empty answers, artificial timelines, and a piling of useless words between humans and their grief.

To you who are not doing the work: That pile you’re building is real and it is not sound. It is casting a shadow over you and letting that grief become a monster. When it falls it will bury you and if you happen to survive and dig your way out…the next thing you will see is a black claw closing around your throat, ready to finish the job.

I’m there too, amongst the piles. I’ve got my own. It’s a mound of dinosaur shit and every day I dig into it with my hands looking for answers. Sometimes it gets taller than me and that shadow hits my feet. That’s when I dig deeper, spreading it out to fertilize a greener and more fantastic life.

If you’re not interested in growing something wonderful right now, then stasis and death are your choice. I won’t have that in my garden. My garden takes plenty of work (have you ever tried to rake out triceratops poop?). You are welcome to walk away from your pile and stroll through my garden; Mary’s memory is living there, being cared for and cultivated, but I am not climbing into your shadow nor allowing your pile to soil my sight.

I pray to God that this is the angriest Jason you will ever know.

God bless,
Jason