GUILT, GRIEF & GRACE
-My dad's journal writtings.
My dear wife and I had just delivered the most difficult public address of our lives. It had never occured to us that parents don't typically spak at their child's funeral because emotions are so very near the surface. For some reason, we did.
After the funeral service we made the somber journey to the cemetery. My son was in the hearse in front of us and all I could think was, "He must be so cold and scared and lonely." I had those same nearly schizophrenic feelings when I was 19 years old and drove my father's casket alone in the back of a pickup truck from Edmonton to southern Alberta. It was snowing outside and I agonized that my dad was cold and I wanted to protect him like he so often tried to protect me. I cried a lot on that long drive - I was young, sad and very much afraid. Although those feelings of wanting to protect my father were strong then, they were so much more intense toward my son. What you read here was the most commute of my life.
As we followed our little boy I couldn't help but also think back on my life with Tegan. Instantly I had feelings of guilt and grief and a longing to hold him such that I had never before known. I cried on this drive, too - and my soul cried out even harder.
I couldn't imagine it then, but I see it now: death and dying, the funeral and all it's preparations, as difficult as they are... that's the easy part. It is in the quiet of things, long after death has come to steal away that which is most precious.. it is when the dust settles and the world spins madly on.. that is when the struggle truly begins.
I have heard many who wrestle with grief share feelings of personal guilt over a million-and-one things they wish done differently. I understand those feelings because I have felt them, too. I wrote in this journal last December, "That list of "what if's", however couterfeit and scattered with lies, remains glossy, persuasive and deceptively."
Though I may be tempted to feel guilt for what might have been, or perhaps even should have been, I know I always had the welfare of my family at heart and I did the best I knew how. I wasn't perfect, but I was perfect at trying - and that is good enough for me. Grief is hard enough - guilt makes grief more difficult. Guilt is a lot like fire: if it is properly managed it can wield great power and effect change. If mismanaged, or gets out of control, it can burn us and cause deep scars.
Yet there are so many moments that invite feelings of guilt: from the foolish things people say, to those who suggest we're grieving wrong... because we're not doing it their way. To all of the nonsense I say, ignore it. It is easy to critique the grief of others for those who never knew it or bore it. I don't feel guilty for having good days or moments of happiness - as though I've betrayed some unspoken rule of grief. To the contrary, I seek after such moments daily. We are made to find joy - and joy is what I seek.
On the other side of the grief spectrum there are some who suggest, "Tegan wouldn't want you to be sad." Yet, I am sad he is gone. I don't feel guilty for grieving or feeling deep sorrow over the loss of my son... for I believe he understands my grief.. that grief is the language of the heart and points to unspeakable love and unimaginable loss. Why feel guilty for that? I don't feel guilt for grieving and I never will.
Mixed in the many layers of grief are the questions "Why me? Why this? Why?" We may never know the answers.. at least in this life. But, I can't help but think there's a relationship between grief and grace. At least to me, it seems if we endure our struggles well, grief can become our teacher and open our hearts to a deeper compassion towards others.
Though I wish the death of my son never happened, it did. Shaking my fists at God in anger won't change that.. in fact, such anger would change me... and I don't want that.
I'll never turn my fist toward God. Instead, I turn my ear toward Him and do my best to listen. And, when I slow down and give my heart some space, I am convinced grief is a key to grace.
-My dad's journal writtings.
My dear wife and I had just delivered the most difficult public address of our lives. It had never occured to us that parents don't typically spak at their child's funeral because emotions are so very near the surface. For some reason, we did.
After the funeral service we made the somber journey to the cemetery. My son was in the hearse in front of us and all I could think was, "He must be so cold and scared and lonely." I had those same nearly schizophrenic feelings when I was 19 years old and drove my father's casket alone in the back of a pickup truck from Edmonton to southern Alberta. It was snowing outside and I agonized that my dad was cold and I wanted to protect him like he so often tried to protect me. I cried a lot on that long drive - I was young, sad and very much afraid. Although those feelings of wanting to protect my father were strong then, they were so much more intense toward my son. What you read here was the most commute of my life.
As we followed our little boy I couldn't help but also think back on my life with Tegan. Instantly I had feelings of guilt and grief and a longing to hold him such that I had never before known. I cried on this drive, too - and my soul cried out even harder.
I couldn't imagine it then, but I see it now: death and dying, the funeral and all it's preparations, as difficult as they are... that's the easy part. It is in the quiet of things, long after death has come to steal away that which is most precious.. it is when the dust settles and the world spins madly on.. that is when the struggle truly begins.
I have heard many who wrestle with grief share feelings of personal guilt over a million-and-one things they wish done differently. I understand those feelings because I have felt them, too. I wrote in this journal last December, "That list of "what if's", however couterfeit and scattered with lies, remains glossy, persuasive and deceptively."
Though I may be tempted to feel guilt for what might have been, or perhaps even should have been, I know I always had the welfare of my family at heart and I did the best I knew how. I wasn't perfect, but I was perfect at trying - and that is good enough for me. Grief is hard enough - guilt makes grief more difficult. Guilt is a lot like fire: if it is properly managed it can wield great power and effect change. If mismanaged, or gets out of control, it can burn us and cause deep scars.
Yet there are so many moments that invite feelings of guilt: from the foolish things people say, to those who suggest we're grieving wrong... because we're not doing it their way. To all of the nonsense I say, ignore it. It is easy to critique the grief of others for those who never knew it or bore it. I don't feel guilty for having good days or moments of happiness - as though I've betrayed some unspoken rule of grief. To the contrary, I seek after such moments daily. We are made to find joy - and joy is what I seek.
On the other side of the grief spectrum there are some who suggest, "Tegan wouldn't want you to be sad." Yet, I am sad he is gone. I don't feel guilty for grieving or feeling deep sorrow over the loss of my son... for I believe he understands my grief.. that grief is the language of the heart and points to unspeakable love and unimaginable loss. Why feel guilty for that? I don't feel guilt for grieving and I never will.
Mixed in the many layers of grief are the questions "Why me? Why this? Why?" We may never know the answers.. at least in this life. But, I can't help but think there's a relationship between grief and grace. At least to me, it seems if we endure our struggles well, grief can become our teacher and open our hearts to a deeper compassion towards others.
Though I wish the death of my son never happened, it did. Shaking my fists at God in anger won't change that.. in fact, such anger would change me... and I don't want that.
I'll never turn my fist toward God. Instead, I turn my ear toward Him and do my best to listen. And, when I slow down and give my heart some space, I am convinced grief is a key to grace.
MENDING BROKEN THINGS
-My dad's journal writtings.
It was late spring, Tegan's headstone hadn't yet arrived and each day was getting a little warmer than the day before. It had only been a few months since I lost my son and my soul was still dizzy with grief. Quietly, I was grateful for the warmer days because the cold winter air carried with it vivid memories of the bitter cold morning my dear son was leaving our house for the last time. I will write of that experience soon.
So, on this spring afternoon Aubree asked if I'd take her to see Tegan and I told her I'd be glad to. Just then she dashed into Tegan's room to grab something. A minute later she came back with one of her brother's favorite family picture and said, "okay, let's go". As we arrived at the cemetery I was curious what Aubree had in mind so I gave her some space and said, "Take your time sweetheart, I'll be nearby."
With that, she handed me Tegan's favorite family picture and gave me a soft grin, a confident nod, then sat on the grass and started talking to her older brother. I could faintly hear Aubree's young voice as she told her missing brother summer was around the corner, school was quickly coming to an end and a little about the movies she and Tegan wanted to see. Aubree told Tegan about some of the new friends she made throughout the year and how her teacher was so kind to her when she cried in class because she missed him. Aubree continued to tell her brother about the tree Tegan's friends and classmates planted in his honor.
It was a tender thing to see my youngest daughter struggling to sort things out. I sat in the distance and cried as I overheard Aubree tell Tegan how much she loved and missed him. I cried because I missed my Tegan with all my heart; I cried also because my youngest daughter was in pain, too.
The protective father in me was tempted to sweet Aubree away... to try and distract her from the harsh realities of life. But I knew that would not help my daughter learn how to deal with hard things. For life is full of hard things and if I'm to pass on something, I want it to be a knowledge of how to weather the storms of life. For if there if one thing we can be sure of, it is we'll all come to know hardship... we're all going to get broken in one way or another.
In this moment I realized my responsibility as a loving father wasn't to keep my daughter from breaking or being hurt, for that is impossible... but rather to teach my daughter how to mend broken things. I wanted Aubree to understand true strength isn't seen in pretending to be unbreakable but in having the courage to make broken things strong.
This is the thing I pray to teach my daughter; there are always broken things to mend - but if she's wise, she will seek Heaven's help and find the strength of a million men.
Though I am also broken, I seek after the very things of which I have spoken.
-My dad's journal writtings.
It was late spring, Tegan's headstone hadn't yet arrived and each day was getting a little warmer than the day before. It had only been a few months since I lost my son and my soul was still dizzy with grief. Quietly, I was grateful for the warmer days because the cold winter air carried with it vivid memories of the bitter cold morning my dear son was leaving our house for the last time. I will write of that experience soon.
So, on this spring afternoon Aubree asked if I'd take her to see Tegan and I told her I'd be glad to. Just then she dashed into Tegan's room to grab something. A minute later she came back with one of her brother's favorite family picture and said, "okay, let's go". As we arrived at the cemetery I was curious what Aubree had in mind so I gave her some space and said, "Take your time sweetheart, I'll be nearby."
With that, she handed me Tegan's favorite family picture and gave me a soft grin, a confident nod, then sat on the grass and started talking to her older brother. I could faintly hear Aubree's young voice as she told her missing brother summer was around the corner, school was quickly coming to an end and a little about the movies she and Tegan wanted to see. Aubree told Tegan about some of the new friends she made throughout the year and how her teacher was so kind to her when she cried in class because she missed him. Aubree continued to tell her brother about the tree Tegan's friends and classmates planted in his honor.
It was a tender thing to see my youngest daughter struggling to sort things out. I sat in the distance and cried as I overheard Aubree tell Tegan how much she loved and missed him. I cried because I missed my Tegan with all my heart; I cried also because my youngest daughter was in pain, too.
The protective father in me was tempted to sweet Aubree away... to try and distract her from the harsh realities of life. But I knew that would not help my daughter learn how to deal with hard things. For life is full of hard things and if I'm to pass on something, I want it to be a knowledge of how to weather the storms of life. For if there if one thing we can be sure of, it is we'll all come to know hardship... we're all going to get broken in one way or another.
In this moment I realized my responsibility as a loving father wasn't to keep my daughter from breaking or being hurt, for that is impossible... but rather to teach my daughter how to mend broken things. I wanted Aubree to understand true strength isn't seen in pretending to be unbreakable but in having the courage to make broken things strong.
This is the thing I pray to teach my daughter; there are always broken things to mend - but if she's wise, she will seek Heaven's help and find the strength of a million men.
Though I am also broken, I seek after the very things of which I have spoken.
This is one of the many pages my dad wrote in his Journal
after the tragic loss of my brother Tegan.
While he was on his way home he was hit by a drunk driver, where he later passed away at the hospital. .
“
ALL WE HAVE IS WHAT WE'VE DONE. It had been two days since Tegan passed away and I walked into my son's room with a quiet hope in my heart everything was just a nightmare. Instead, I found my wife in quiet agony. There she lay on his bed holding one of his pillows, which still bore the scent of our son. Our home was suddenly barren, our hearts desolate. Just a few days prior our home was filled with family to support us while our son was dying, each believing they were helping us in our hour of greatest need. What they didn't realize, what none of us realized, was that was the easy part, by comparison. Hell, with all its thunder and fury, happens in the aftermath.. Long after everyone leaves and you are left to navigate the bewildering wilderness of grief and desolation. It seems that everyone has it all backward - but that is a conversation for another day. Contrary to what many think, holidays aren't as difficult as one might imagine. Oh, they're plenty hard, but because you know it's coming and you're expecting it to be hard, you brace for impact and it somehow doesn't knock you off your feet. At least most of the time. While holidays are difficult, there are harder things still. It's the ordinary Saturday mornings when we work as a family to clean the house. I look to the windows my son used to faithfully wash, or the floor he would carefully mop.. and he is not there, nor anywhere. It's the absence of ordinary things that take your breath away and bring you to your knees. It's the empty bed, the vacant chair at the dinner table, it's the ordinary stuff we miss, the very stuff we take for granted. Among many layers, grief is a deep longing for the ordinary. So, as I entered Tegan's room and saw my dear wife in pain, my heart sank to the floor. I missed my son with all my soul - and though my heart wished otherwise, I realized my greatest nightmare was reality. I fell to my knees and wept... longing for the ordinary. I hurt for my tender wife and family. I hurt for my son. I later wrote in my journal, while pondering this moment of grief, "At the end of the day we all have is what we've done." That saying came to my mind with great force and conviction. All the things we work so hard to gether unto ourselves, the riches of earth and the praises of man can all be taken in an instant. I begin to think about the memories we made and the things we did as a family and the love we shared. Though death can take away my son, it cannot take away the things we've done. Though death and absence can hurt our hearts and wrench our souls, it cannot take away the love we shared or memories we hold; for love and memories cannot be bought nor can they be sold. At the end of the day, indeed, all we really have is what we've done. It has almost been two and a half years since I lost my little boy... my little soul mate. Though the weight of grief isn't as constant as it was last year, it is as heavy and visceral as it's ever been. I have a beautiful daughter who I am also losing. Though i am not losing her to death, i am losing her to time. Before I knew it, she was graduating high school, off to college, find her own purpose in life and already made the start of a family of her own. Everything I have today, everything I'm tempted to take for granted, will soon no longer be. One day, in the not-too-distant future, I will long to have my little ones back with me. I choose this day to make my moments matter, from here to evermore. I have come to understand with greater depth, because of my fallen son, all we really have is what we've done.
While he was on his way home he was hit by a drunk driver, where he later passed away at the hospital. .
“
ALL WE HAVE IS WHAT WE'VE DONE. It had been two days since Tegan passed away and I walked into my son's room with a quiet hope in my heart everything was just a nightmare. Instead, I found my wife in quiet agony. There she lay on his bed holding one of his pillows, which still bore the scent of our son. Our home was suddenly barren, our hearts desolate. Just a few days prior our home was filled with family to support us while our son was dying, each believing they were helping us in our hour of greatest need. What they didn't realize, what none of us realized, was that was the easy part, by comparison. Hell, with all its thunder and fury, happens in the aftermath.. Long after everyone leaves and you are left to navigate the bewildering wilderness of grief and desolation. It seems that everyone has it all backward - but that is a conversation for another day. Contrary to what many think, holidays aren't as difficult as one might imagine. Oh, they're plenty hard, but because you know it's coming and you're expecting it to be hard, you brace for impact and it somehow doesn't knock you off your feet. At least most of the time. While holidays are difficult, there are harder things still. It's the ordinary Saturday mornings when we work as a family to clean the house. I look to the windows my son used to faithfully wash, or the floor he would carefully mop.. and he is not there, nor anywhere. It's the absence of ordinary things that take your breath away and bring you to your knees. It's the empty bed, the vacant chair at the dinner table, it's the ordinary stuff we miss, the very stuff we take for granted. Among many layers, grief is a deep longing for the ordinary. So, as I entered Tegan's room and saw my dear wife in pain, my heart sank to the floor. I missed my son with all my soul - and though my heart wished otherwise, I realized my greatest nightmare was reality. I fell to my knees and wept... longing for the ordinary. I hurt for my tender wife and family. I hurt for my son. I later wrote in my journal, while pondering this moment of grief, "At the end of the day we all have is what we've done." That saying came to my mind with great force and conviction. All the things we work so hard to gether unto ourselves, the riches of earth and the praises of man can all be taken in an instant. I begin to think about the memories we made and the things we did as a family and the love we shared. Though death can take away my son, it cannot take away the things we've done. Though death and absence can hurt our hearts and wrench our souls, it cannot take away the love we shared or memories we hold; for love and memories cannot be bought nor can they be sold. At the end of the day, indeed, all we really have is what we've done. It has almost been two and a half years since I lost my little boy... my little soul mate. Though the weight of grief isn't as constant as it was last year, it is as heavy and visceral as it's ever been. I have a beautiful daughter who I am also losing. Though i am not losing her to death, i am losing her to time. Before I knew it, she was graduating high school, off to college, find her own purpose in life and already made the start of a family of her own. Everything I have today, everything I'm tempted to take for granted, will soon no longer be. One day, in the not-too-distant future, I will long to have my little ones back with me. I choose this day to make my moments matter, from here to evermore. I have come to understand with greater depth, because of my fallen son, all we really have is what we've done.
