Sing It Loud (Or Not)

Sing It Loud (Or Not)

Back in the Fall, my son decided he wanted to sing in Chorus.  Those of you that know him, know that he often is singing to himself, or making up a tune and words to go along with his thoughts.  When Chorus started, he was slightly disappointed – it is hard for him to stand for so long, and he has to learn and understand new terminology and sing someone else’s words – sometimes words that evoke emotion about his life and father.  We decided he would stay committed for the year, and to give more rehearsals a try, and he was assured that he would begin to feel more comfortable.

After a few months, it came time for the winter concert.  While my son was excited, I was apprehensive.  I always have this feeling that Wayne should be here, and it was pulling at me more intensely.  The selfish part of me didn’t want our son to be in music (keeping this thought to myself), but I cannot deny him that, and I must support him despite the pain.  Wayne would want him to love music and he does.  And, I know that I would feel differently if Wayne were here.

At the dress rehearsal, I was told that my son did not sing.  He said he was thinking about Star Wars, and I can imagine the scene that might be going through his head as he looked out at all of the empty seats.  Wayne loved Stars Wars too and coincidentally the movie trailers have come out, again making me wish he were here to see the new show.  I had not mentioned this to our son, yet here was with his mind on the same thing.

Our son has no problem reading in front of others, but in show performances, like the one back when he was in Kindergarten, where he stood behind and held a snowman, he was not a bold actor.  His choral group is huge – over 100 students – and I can imagine that one might feel lost and overwhelmed in such a size.  It didn’t bother me that he didn’t sing, I was proud of him for even getting up on stage.

I also knew that for the first time in 2 years that I would see the new band teacher conduct.  She’s lovely, but I want to see Wayne there.  This is the stage my husband stood on.  His feet have touched this place, his composed music has filled the auditorium with his voice and his music, and I could see and feel the love of his students and how far they had come and grown.  Now, that would be different, as if I was in … am in … a different world.

Now, when I go places, I have to have a plan.  I rarely hear live instrumental music anymore (other than keyboards and guitar).  It is still too painful for me.  I have to have a way to escape the room if grief takes over.  So my sister and her two children sat beside me, subduing the fact that I was sitting there alone, without Wayne holding my hand, taking pictures.  I know he would have helped backstage too, kept an extra eye on our son and his friends, and would have joined in on their excitement.  I sat in the balcony so that my perspective is different onto the stage; different than how I looked at it from up front; when Wayne was there.  I could be somewhat anonymous, but there are people that know me – however at least I could just be Mom.

The band was before my son’s group, and I tried to mentally prepare myself.  A friend patted my knee – when they played – which showed me that she too was thinking of Wayne. That was a gift that held me in place for a moment.  I found myself going numb to the music, as if I was an outsider looking in.  I noticed kids’ tapping feet, my mind grasping at tendrils of memories in fog, remembering Wayne’s red vest, Santa hat, and voice filling the auditorium.  I needed to leave – and thankfully my young nephew needed to use the bathroom.  I looked in the mirror while I was waiting and saw a pale and tired reflection.  Grief is exhausting.

Then, it was time for my son’s group to sing, and I felt more composed and ready.  My son wore a Peanuts Christmas bow tie (one of Daddy’s favorite Christmas themes), and it made it easier to see him in the large group.  I wondered if he would sing, and he did!  I could see his mouth moving from my bird’s eye view.  I sat in the balcony, looking down, wondering if God permitted Wayne a sneak peek through, so he could see his beautiful son.  I am so proud of him.  He was singing it loud, and beautifully so.

I was also recently asked to sing in Praise Band at Church, while I felt the pull to say “yes”, other circumstances put it on hold for a while, and now I know I wasn’t ready.  I cannot sing it loud yet myself, and that is okay.

After the concert was over, my son walked in a line with his group back to the holding area.  He saw me and flashed a proud sideways smile as he passed me by.  The same smile his Daddy would show.

My son will ALWAYS have a mom and dad ... I never wanted Wayne to miss his son's first concert, I never wanted to be the sole parent, I never wanted to watch someone suffer and die, I never wanted grief attacks because a trauma changed me in an uncontrollable way.  My grief is complicated. 

So, I do the best I can - My son is my priority - and I lean on God and those that just listen, validate, and support us where we are - imperfectly perfect.  I have to have hope that our journey can help another.

So appreciate what you have - if you have someone important in your life tell them so - don't wait - because you really do not have control over anything - other than your choice to be gracious, to love, and to forgive.  Whether your voice is singing out loud, or not, you can still show compassion, because everyone you meet is most likely carrying something. 

Reflection Verses:

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.  Corinthians 13:6-7 (NIV)

And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, “The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, … " Exodus 34:6 (NIV)

Choral Conundrums

Choral Conundrums

The swell of the music has crashed over me.  The day is here.  A day that would be considered quite "notable".

Last week, my son came home excited with the paper --- the one to sign up for chorus, requesting that I fill it out, so that he can immediately return it the next day.

My son frequently has a song in his heart.  If music plays that he likes, his body will bounce or move to the beat.  Recently, he was able to go into an electrical cage at a local Science museum, and he bounced his knees to the music as the bolts surrounded him.  He cannot resist the pull of music.  When he plays, he sings made up melodies to himself.  At times, he is found to have a conversation in song.  Like his Dad, he loves music, and even more so, it is embedded in him.

As I have previously written, music can be hard for me.  It is hard for me to NOT see Wayne there, involved, excited, passionate about the music.  It is hard for me to see others stand in his place.

Wayne sang in my ear when we danced our first song at our wedding.  Wayne would sing to our child when he was an infant, and I remember Wayne recording my voice with his on the computer to create a recording of "Amazing Grace".  He could even play and hum a harmonizing tune at the same time through his Euphonium - called multiphonics - a very cool technique.  Sometimes, I feel like I can still hear his voice in Church when the praise band sings, others singing with the same baritone quality to their voices, some of the songs the ones Wayne sang himself from the stage.

He also sang with his students in band when they put their instruments down and they sang the melodies and rhythm instead.  He was not afraid to sing in front of others, and encouraged introverted me to sing with him in a praise band when we were younger.  He had a way of drawing music out of others, with his grace, patience, and love for music.

While I have told my son that I wish his Dad could see him in Chorus, and that he would be proud to know that he is continuing a musical journey, the deeper layers and depths of grief simmer up during this time for me.  I will have to set foot into a concert again, I will see the places where Wayne has stood, surrounded by the beauty of music that for me, can rip through.  I want to find the inner strength to withstand this, for my son, for me, and for Wayne.  It is okay to grieve, to cry, but I hope for the strength to be able to stay put, to be able to listen, to appreciate the beauty of music.

The choral teacher in our school is new to the district, so I knew I had to tell her who we are.  Her open heart, willingness to learn about us, and her support of us on our journey connected our hearts to hers.  It will not be easy, for it never is, but I do know how incredibly proud Wayne is of our son.  And, so am I.

I can envision that in Heaven no one holds back.  The music produced in worship must pour out, without restriction, without grief, without pain, filled with joy.

Wayne is my song, a melody of my heart.  I talk about him to share my love amongst the longing and grief.  My son is my song too, another beautiful melody in my heart.   So even if I cannot sing, or play, or even listen at times, the music is there.  Inside, loving, reminding, and connecting still.

So on this first day of chorus, my son hesitantly stepped into the chorus room, and I simply left him there with a whispered I love you.  I busied myself with work, but in the hallway I could peek through to see him, standing, focusing, trying out the words of the song.  Looking unsure, but trying.  And, me hoping --- hoping he can find and share his song within.

Reflection Verses:

My harp plays sad music, and my flute accompanies those who weep.  (Job 30:31 NLT)

David and all the people of Israel were celebrating before the Lord, singing songs and playing all kinds of musical instruments—lyres, harps, tambourines, castanets, and cymbals.  (2 Samuel 6:5 NLT)

My Summer

My Summer


My summer:

     Missing Wayne.

Camping in a familiar place; Library reading; Chiropractor; Sparklers.

     Missing Wayne.

Bereavement Camp; Friend's cottage; Broken attic fan; Youth soccer, Eye doctor, Physical.

     Missing Wayne.

Beach at the lake; Museum camp; More cottage time; broken tailpipe; Physical therapy; Impossible birthday wish.

     Missing Wayne.

Boiler problems; Massage therapy; Dentist; Amusement parks; Appointments; My wedding anniversary.

     Missing Wayne.

Lesson planning; Urgent care; Crutches; Church camp; Haircuts; Cousin smiles.

     Missing Wayne.

Truck towed twice; Workshops; Financial decisions; Multitasking; Worries.

     Missing Wayne.

Flat tire on camper; Lesson learning; New camping place; Trampoline parks; Overloaded.

     Missing Wayne

Hot air balloons; Hot days; Swing set in the shade; Swimming pools; Friends.

     Missing Wayne.

Kitty cat cuddles; young son snuggles; sleeping in late; Sunsets

     Missing Wayne.

Back to school; Leaves fall; A different busy-ness returns

     Missing Wayne.

What-ifs; Longing; Remembrance; Grief; Grasping onto hope; Sunshine; Butterflies

     Missing Wayne.

Life moves forward; But Wayne is not here with me; Do they notice?

     Missing Wayne.

No length of time; No constraints of space; These will never change my love for him; Missing, Loving; Always thinking of ..

     Wayne.



Reflection Verses:

And may the Lord make your love for one another and for all people grow and overflow, just as our love for you overflows. (1 Thessalonians 3:12 NLT)

We grow weary in our present bodies, and we long to put on our heavenly bodies like new clothing. For we will put on heavenly bodies; we will not be spirits without bodies. While we live in these earthly bodies, we groan and sigh, but it’s not that we want to die and get rid of these bodies that clothe us. Rather, we want to put on our new bodies so that these dying bodies will be swallowed up by life.  (2 Corinthians 5:2-4 NLT)

And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation.  (Romans 5:4 NLT)

Becoming a Lefty

Becoming a Lefty

Wayne was my partner, on my team, completing the spaces that I didn't know were there, but now gape wide open.  Wayne was my right hand, the one that knew what to do, how to guide, the strong one.  Now, my right hand is gone, and I must learn how to be a lefty.  I cannot be the same, and must use something different, something that is left.  Using my left arm will make it stronger over time, but it will never be like my missing right arm.

When Wayne died, I was numb and in shock.  Sometimes I read what I posted or wrote in the months after he died - and while I know there is truth in there - I recognize that I was trying to convince myself that I would be alright - and I was trying to convince the world too.  I did and accomplished things in that time that were important but in this season of grief I now no longer have the energy for.  The reality of the world has come at full force, and I simply cannot do it all, and have to accept my limitations at this time.  I cannot be everything that I was once, and I cannot be everything I am meant to be all at once ... yet.

When my son and I are tired or sick, we miss Daddy even more.  Wayne was calm, introspective  and had the ability to think clearly even when tired.  When I am sick myself, tired, or in pain, I tend to feel quite inadequate. When I am awakened in the middle of the night, I can feel like another creature roaming in the dark.  Since Wayne died, I have been roaming quite a bit, hunched over, exhausted, feeling the absence of my teammate. 

Back in the winter months, my son had a cough, no fever, but a very sore throat, as well as being sick to his stomach. Our pediatrician has walk-in hours, so we arose early and headed into the suburbs. We came to find out that he had a bad sinus infection and the post-nasal drip from that was affecting his lungs, causing reactive airway disorder (asthma/tightening in his lungs). 

They brought in the nebulizer, and Adam asked if he was going to be intubated. His perfectly rational question, brought tears to my eyes, because I realize that this young child has seen so much.  We then had to go to get a chest X-ray, and ended up at the facility where Wayne had procedures done as well. I sat in the same chair, hoping to remember and feel the presence of him, as if he were there. I could feel the memories flooding in, and how we sat in the double bench so we could be near each other, instead of separated by an arm rest. 

When it was time for the Xray, I panicked a little when they closed the door and I could not see my son for a long 20 seconds. The Xray was clear - so no pneumonia.  Thus 8 over the counter and prescribed medications, one of them administered every 4 hours, had begun.  I remember being so grateful we were NOT admitted to the hospital, and didn't need an ER visit.  Although we have no control over anything, I have learned to be more grateful even in hard and tiring situations.  

In this past year my son also fell at the local bowling alley, and I felt myself go into a zone.  People watching us would say that I went right into caregiving, calming my son, checking him over, putting an ice pack on his head and arm.  I was hyper focused on him, but there was this piece in my mind that knew I had to take him to the doctor and this inner dread started to build up.  I have dealt with far worse things but going to see the doctor strikes this bit of fear in me - everytime I took Wayne to the ER or hospital he ended up with complications that just further weakened him.  My sister met me at urgent care, and thankfully my son did not have a concussion or broken arm.  She made us and the doctor and nurses laugh, giving me a gift that doesn't come in packages.  

Over the past year, there are others that have done this too - letting me cry on the phone as I talk, sitting with me and listening without words or advice, driving us places, grocery shopping for me, and watching my son so I can be alone - to walk, to go to the cemetery, or to sleep.  I must admit that it takes a lot of energy to have more people on my team, and sometimes I simply prefer to be alone.  It is part of my learning to be a lefty.  Letting others help me, but also being independent, with a huge learning curve, is part of strengthening my left arm.  However, becoming a lefty can be lonely, even amongst the willing people that offer help.  It is because no one can fill that space like Wayne did.  This is not meant to be ungrateful, for I am thankful for support, it is just that it is always different whether people help or whether I am alone.

Our world is a busy one, and I have found myself withdrawing, so that I am protected somewhat from the disappointments and the fragility of people's emotions, mine included, as well as the cares of the earthly world and politics that take place.  Early on after Wayne died, I had this numbness and shock and I was able to do things then that I cannot do now.  I cannot speak in front of large groups of adults without a wavering voice, I may struggle to make eye contact with other adults, my singing voice is muted with tears, and I am weary physically and mentally from constantly putting up a pleasant front, care-taking, and working.

We all have a multitude of responsibilities in life.  Within these responsibilities I take on the roles of mother, sister, child, employee, and I even need to be father-like - these are roles, that I shift between, or carry out at the same time.  The role of widower is placed upon me too, although this is one that I still struggle to accept.  It is a word I cannot bear to hear.  While I can never be my son's father - I can instill the same things in him that Wayne did - reinforcing them, and keeping his memory and legacy active and alive. 

My life with Wayne was very busy - and he was busier than I was.  Now, I find it very hard to do what we did as a family of three and have enough energy left to properly take care of the home or even myself, because I am doing the work that two once shared.  Retirement is very far in the future for me, but I know that God created us for work.  I must admit I now know the daily struggle that single parents may face as they balance each day.  My son comes first, and my goal is for him to feel safe, secure, and loved.  

My back gives me much trouble, and recent events have made it much worse.  I still go out and do things with my son.  Sometimes our extra curricular activities involve going to appointments, but even the simple things, like eating out once in a while is a treat.  Summer is when the bulk of home care and activities take place.

I feel that I used to be incredibly lazy at home.  I am on my feet all day at work, busy mentally and physically.  All I wanted to do was sit in the recliner and put my feet up.  All of my life, I have experienced physical pain and tiredness ... and Wayne stepped in and graciously did more than his fair share of housework for me.  I remember sometimes waiting until the recycling bin toppled and hoping I did not have to take it out.  I would put dishes on the counter instead bending over to put them in the dishwasher.  Even though Wayne stepped in and did these things, which may seem small, I feel this flash of guilt that I just let him, instead of helping.  Now, I must be efficient and precise in order to keep the house in order, and I can see the importance of even taking care of the little things on a daily basis, so they do not become big things by the end of the week.  Wayne taught me that, and I can live it out now.   I am finding and managing the time to get these things done, somehow becoming a stronger lefty.

Wayne was also the chef, meal planner, and grocery shopper in our home.  My skills in the kitchen are very limited, and my son's palate is very limited as well.  In my house cooking means if it's covered with cheese, it's edible.   I avoid buying things in a jar, because I struggle to open them.  I buy food that allows me to prepare it quickly.  We tend to eat the same things over and over, but there is some comfort in the routine of that.  I do not have to think much about what I need to buy or prepare.  It's a treat when we get to eat out because it's finally something different.

Often, I now wake early in the morning to take care of budgeting and housework.  I think about how in the past I would get annoyed with how much time Wayne spent on the computer, but now I realize that he was paying the bills, balancing the budget, and not really doing fun things but was taking care of us.  I wish I had appreciated that more because he took on the worry of such things so that I didn't have to.  It is my hope that as my son grows older that he will be able to help more with the daily housework, but for now, he can be a kid.  For now, he can cook his own mac and cheese in the microwave, hold doors open, set the table, and do some light cleaning.  My left arm is getting stronger, and so is his.

Wayne was my earthly protector.  His presence would ground me, keep me rational, and helped me gain perspective.  Isn't that what a marriage is for?  The person helps balance you out.  So at times, without that balance that I relied so heavily on, I feel disoriented and unsure of myself.  It can feel like I am in two different worlds.  This sense of living in an alternate universe is one that wants to be in the past tinged with the longing to see Wayne again, and the one where I must step forward physically without him.  

I still try to use my right arm.  Sometimes I have moments where I feel like the "old me", which helps shape who I am to be; my foundation.  The old me still works with my left hand.   I will always have a relationship with myself (I am stuck with me!), and I must take care of me too.  In the early months after Wayne's death, I tried to be who he was, but I realize that I can in no way ever be him as much as I try to do that.  I found pronouns like "us", or "we", were a difficult thing to say, because it doesn't refer to Wayne and I in the present anymore, but I realize that Wayne too is holding my left hand, the one that wears our wedding band, and that he is still affecting and changing who I am. 

We still do things, even though I often feel separated from the world.  Sometimes I catch myself distracted from the conversation, the presentations, the activity, and so on - my mind in grief, in memories, or just tired.  Sometimes I startle easily because I am not fully present in the moment.   I also think 'I hope I am acting "normal", like a real person'.  There are moments when I forget my sadness for a while, and I find myself laughing, carrying on a meaningful conversation, or having a moment of peace - feeling fully present in the world.  To be fully alive with grief is not easy, but it can be done.  I try to make plans, and show up and I can accept that whatever I am is okay for that day, or that moment.  I can say that what I am doing can be enough or it is too much. 

Since Wayne's death, there are times that I do not know how to comfort my heavily grieving son.   I grieve the future relationship of father and son.  I can hug him and pray for God to comfort his soul.  I was speechless once, when he said "I have not had any joy inside since Dadda died", tears running down his face, and then hiding under the table.  Over time, bereavement camps and programs, and through conversation, my sweet child is maturing and putting a deeper voice to his feelings and understanding of them.  His grief work is important, valued, and life changing.  In this current season, he is trying new things, feeling confident, and is experiencing joy.

I have a huge responsibility in raising my son, and while they say it takes a village to raise a child, I am learning that I have to bring the village to my child.  I entrust his care to teachers, to programs, to organizations, to friends that have his best interests at heart.  So when I don't necessarily have the energy all of the time, he is still getting experiences that will continue to instill Godly and moral character that shape who he is, from those that are also in his life.

My right hand still grasps air to hold Wayne's, yet there is the gentle tug of God, pulling on my left, lifting me up, guiding me forward.  He has got me in both of His hands.

Reflection Verses:

Give your burdens to the Lord, and He will take care of you.  He will not permit the godly to slip and fall.  Psalm 55:22

God will do this, for He is faithful to do what He says, and He has invited you into partnership with His Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.  1 Corinthians 1:9

But the dove could find no place to land because the water still covered the ground. So it returned to the boat, and Noah held out his hand and drew the dove back inside.  Genesis 8:9

We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps.  Proverbs 16:9

Instead, be very glad - for these trials make you partners with Christ in his suffering, so that you will have the wonderful joy of seeing his glory when it is revealed to all the world.  1 Peter 4:13

Hairy Situation

Hairy Situation

I have had a few hairstyles in my life.  My hair is (mostly) naturally curly, and has become curlier with age.  It seems like hair can be a big part of who we are, in regards to confidence and style, at least according to commercials.

As a young girl, I had soft wispy curls, and my hair grew very long.  I went through the stages of bangs, and in the 80s even got a spiral perm on top of my curls.  In high school, I had an unfortunate mishap when I tried to cut my own hair, resulting in disastrous results that left it way too short in one spot.  This forced me to have a pixie cut.  I had huge glasses back then too - the kind that seemed to be popular in those days, but really were not - I never have had much fashion sense.

It was in college when I met Wayne with this short hair cut.  I am tall, and back then my pants were always about an inch too short too (before it was stylish).  Wayne would jokingly look back on this time, and comment that despite my too-short pants, that he fell in love with me.

Often, I felt like an ugly ducking in those sensitive years growing up, but he made me feel quite the opposite.  Wayne treated me in a way that one loves another's soul and heart.

In college while we were dating and then engaged, I let my hair grow out a bit, a layered fashion to above my shoulders, and kept the bangs.  My hair in our wedding picture is simple, nothing extravagant.  It was long enough to pull back into a ponytail if it was too hot, and short enough to manage any curls or waves that sprouted.  My hair has a reddish tinge to it - making others sometimes think Wayne and I were brother and sister - because of our similar complexions.  Sometimes I would add blonde highlights myself, and the summer would often add them naturally.

As we moved into our teaching jobs, I let my hair grow out a bit more past my shoulders, allowing me to clip it up, and even occasionally braid it.  Then it would start to feel too long, making my neck feel too warm, and I would have it trimmed to my shoulders, repeating this process over the years.  I kept it long when our son was born, mostly out of convenience.

In Wayne's younger school years, he had longer hair - the kind where you could comb it into different styles.  I met him with buzzed hair - a preferred style for drum corps summer playing.  He kept his hair short for our marriage - often buzzing it off in the summer and for running.  Wayne often would grow facial hair -  which was more red than the hair on his head.  He would leave a small shaved space in the middle of his upper lip for proper sealing of his lip on brass instrument mouthpieces.  Often he would surprise me when he got out of the shower with a completely clean shaven face that would turn into scratchy skin.  He would often grow the beard right back out, because it hurt my skin to kiss him. ... I miss the smell of his aftershave.

When our son was in first grade, I decided to be bold and cut it short again, but to have it done professionally this time, of course.  I was ready to commit the time to make sure it looked okay each morning.  I got a wedge, meaning the back was layered and the front was longer.  I liked it, and it kept my hair always off my shoulders.  I wore scarves with my outfits, if my neck was cold, and liked coordinating outfits in that way.  My hair was in this style when Wayne was diagnosed with cancer.

When Wayne started chemotherapy, he had been told that the type they used would make his beard fall out.  He let it grow for a while, but it got too long and it bothered him.  So, he trimmed it back to the original style, but this facial hair never fell out.  I remember in the ICU one of the nurses trimming it for him, trying to bring him the comfort of routine, despite the ventilation tube and seriousness of the situation.  I remember this one white hair that grew amongst the red in Wayne's beard.  I liked it, it was like a symbol of wisdom, of age.  I wish I could have seen his beard go completely white.

Instead, Wayne's hair on his head started to fall out in the ICU.  This happened when his liver stopped working - no longer processing protein - when his body stopped working.  This is when I realized that Wayne would not be able to come home with us.  To know this about someone is devastating, and it is a moment of time and emotion that will never be forgotten.  I would touch Wayne's head so gently, so as to not cause any more to fall out.  I saved some of these precious strands.

In the Bible when Samson's hair was cut or braided, he lost his strength.  When Wayne's fell out, his strength was leaving too.

There are so many things that I promised to do in those days in the ICU, some have happened already and some will happen as time goes on.  One was to grow my hair, because Wayne no longer could.  While my longer hair does not necessarily give me strength, it is done in honor of him.  I do get it trimmed, since one side grows faster than the other, but for now, I will not cut it short.  I will grow it in honor of what Wayne's hair can no longer do.  Perhaps it will inspire me to continue to have the strength to live each day in a way that remembers Wayne, and honors God.

And I know that Wayne, my son, and God love me for what is in my heart and soul, not the length of my hair or the strength in my body.  It is important to love God in return with all of your heart, soul, and strength.

Reflections verses:

Finally, Samson shared his secret with her. “My hair has never been cut,” he confessed, “for I was dedicated to God as a Nazirite from birth. If my head were shaved, my strength would leave me, and I would become as weak as anyone else.”  (Judges 16:17 NLT)

And you must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your strength.  (Deuteronomy 6:5 NLT)

The Pain of Music

The Pain of Music

As you may have read in my previous writings, my husband was a lover of music.  Not only was it his job, but it was a hobby and passion.  Music is how I met Wayne (in conducting class to be exact), with me on the trombone and him on the Euphonium - instruments placed next to each other in the band.

I have found music to be both a (limited) source of comfort, as well as a tremendous source of pain.  Church music can be difficult for me because sometimes, it sounds like Wayne's voice is in there.  Music on the radio seems to be safe, until the words provoke some memory, or connection to the deeper meaning of these words.  It can be hard to hear others sing "Happy Birthday" because Wayne's voice and pitch helped us carry it through.

Parades are rough.  I tried to watch one last year, in July, about 3 months after Wayne had died.  I remember seeing people I knew, and feeling numb.  I couldn't participate in the excitement of candy as it was thrown to children, or people getting uncomfortably close as they passed me by or tried to hand me a flyer.  The marching bands as they passed were the most painful - thinking of Wayne's marching feet, or the sound of him on Tuba, or him walking along the side coaching students.  I had to stare at the ground away from the show, hoping the parade didn't pause with them stopped in front of me.

Many have encouraged me in saying that work will keep me busy, give me renewed purpose, and so on.  While yes, there is truth in that, it is also a source of pain.  Especially when there is a music assembly.  I am constantly facing grief and change in my home and at my work.  There is a fragility within me, where I am in places and around people that Wayne was connected to, and the grief ebbs and flows just under the surface.  When there is a music assembly, I see that he is NOT there, yet I can envision what he would be doing if he were.  And, then the grief attacks with a vengeance.

I read an article about how music affects the pleasure center of your brain, but for me it often does not.  Gratefully and thankfully, I have supports in place, if I need to step away - if the wave of grief pushes over me, pushing me under.  I have learned that it is better for me to have support rather than to try to force myself through music.  I have also learned that it is okay if I am just not ready yet.

I know how it important music was to Wayne.  There are even yearly events and awards to support music as a memorial in Wayne's name.  This is a way that I can continue to support music, even if I cannot always bear to hear it.

I do wish that music did not create such pain for me.  I want to be able to find joy in it like he did, and I know that he would want me to.  It was and is a large part of our relationship.  Our house is so much quieter because the music is not here like it was.  The car is much quieter too - the radio often turned off.  I play soft classical music at work, and that seems to be tolerable and helpful in creating a peaceful room.  I see that as progress.  Perhaps one genre at a time.

My son was generously given a guitar to play on.  And, as he strums, I can smile.  I see the same joy that Wayne had with music within our child.  He often sings too, making up words, and humming to himself.  Even if tears come to my eyes, I will bear it.  To me, it is Wayne's influence on our son, that keeps the music alive in his heart, and though the music does not come from me, it settles into my heart as well.  I see that as progress too.

Reflection Verses:

David told the leaders of the Levites to appoint their fellow Levites as musicians to make a joyful sound with musical instruments: lyres, harps and cymbals.  (1 Chronicles 15:16 NLT)

The trumpeters and musicians joined in unison to give praise and thanks to the Lord. Accompanied by trumpets, cymbals and other instruments, the singers raised their voices in praise to the Lord and sang: “He is good; his love endures forever.” Then the temple of the Lord was filled with the cloud ...  (2 Chronicles 5:13 NLT)

[ A psalm. A song. For the Sabbath day. ] It is good to praise the Lord and make music to your name, O Most High  (Psalm 92:1 NLT)

18 Day Fever

18 Day Fever

March was a rough month, yet again.  I grieved and remembered heavily over my husband's death.  In addition I had fallen on black ice, doing more harm than originally realized.  I was off of work for a few weeks, and on the day I returned, I was sick.  My back still was tired and sore, my heart heavy, and now I was coughing and sneezing, with a sore throat.  My son was currently on antibiotics for his own throat, and I wondered if I was headed for the same.  I had a mild fever, around 100 degrees, that would fluctuate making me feel dizzy, hot, and then cold.

As the work week continued on, my voice was lost, and my throat continued to hurt.  I went off to the doctor, with the results being only a virus.  And, the fever continued.  Even though low, it and the congestion I was experiencing, would wake me in the night - feeling too warm and unable to breathe properly through my nose.  I felt awful, yet what choice did I have, but to press on?

I was becoming upset and overwhelmed because I just could not rest.  I felt the weight of how hard it is to be a "single" mom.  My son is not yet old or tall enough to be completely independent so that I can rest.  And, my work is such that it requires me to be focused and energetic all of the time.  I was struggling, especially by the time I came home each day.  I had offers of help, but I couldn't even muster the energy to have someone in my home or to have conversation, and what I really needed most was rest.  Rest was nothing anyone could offer me anyways because sleep was evasive.

So, I continued to work, and press on, doing the best that I can.  I have to provide for my son and myself.  So, I coughed in my elbow, my skin cracking from hand sanitizer overuse, and drank water when I could.  I sat down when the opportunities allowed, and then when I came home, it was dinner, budget/mail, laundry/dishes, and getting my son to bed.  Then I would lay down exhausted but unable to sleep.  Then this repeated for what seemed to be a daunting numerous amount of days.

I went to the doctor again, because the fever was still going strong after 9 days.  Lungs were clear and it was still an upper respiratory virus; not treatable with antibiotics.  I could only treat the symptoms with pain reliever and a decongestant.  My doctor prescribed a few days of rest; off of work.  However, rest could not begin because I had to prepare materials for the person working in my place... details, times, and notes that took me more than a few hours to write.  However, this is the nature of my job, and it is important for me to make sure the information is there.

So, after a couple of days off, I went back to work again, with that fever, but I noticed that I seemed to be feeling better despite it.  I think that I was getting used to it, and was able to function better.  I related it to sin.  When you keep experiencing it, and start to dwell in it, you almost don't know it is still there, and it becomes acceptable in one's way of living.  To me that means it is time for change, and refocus must take place to get back to where you need to be.

At my work place we got back to basics as if we were learning a new job and rules, bringing back the consistency, and for me I had to go back to the basics too.  I had to evaluate myself up to God's standards and not what I thought I needed to do and be all of the time.  I had to give myself permission to just be; to let the laundry and dishes sit on the sidelines for example, because other things were far more important.  I had gotten so caught up in just pushing myself, beyond exhaustion to move through the day, that perhaps it was a fever that needed to take place, in order to make me realize that I needed to pause and adjust.

Grief alters you, and so does sickness.  The impact of it is seen in research, but I don't need the research to tell you that I feel it, every day.  If you were to walk in the cemetery, you might notice the small difference in the end dates of wife and husband on many tombstones.  While not true for all, many are only a few years apart.  Grief lowers your immunity.  My 18 day fever supports that thought.  And, while many of them are much older than I am at their times of death, these spouses must have felt the enormity of their losses too.   I most certainly know the heartbreak that comes, and the sickness that can come too.  The grief makes you susceptible to so much - the stress and upheaval of life as you know it, the change in finances, caregiving, taking care of a home, and so on, falls onto the shoulders of one instead of two.  And it is sudden.  While I do not know or have control over what each day brings, I must take care of myself and my son.

This time last year, it was only a month after Wayne had died, and looking back on it, I realize I was in an adrenaline shock, working on my yard doing physical activities that I never did before, nor would have had the strength for, pushing myself to the point of exhaustion.   I went to the cemetery nearly every day. 

This year, I've lived all of these days before - these days without Wayne, but now I have to do them all over again, and it can seem daunting at times.  Part of me expected to feel different after a year, perhaps feeling more at peace or not as sad, but I don't.  However, perhaps I am handling the daily life and flow better, while inside, the grief remains, and I am learning to live with that too.

As I learned to function better with my fever, I too am learning to function with my grief, living my life.  Hopefully, this is a life that is living up to the expectations that God has for me, and not my own earthly ones; focusing on what is truly important.

Reflection Verses:

The human spirit can endure in sickness, but a crushed spirit who can bear?  (Proverbs 18:14  NIV)

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.  (2 Corinthians 12:9  NIV)