Thankfulness and pain

I'm going to share a little bit of truth.
I've already heard this message a few times this week- "Be grateful in spite of your pain/grief and you will feel better". It seems to be the American way.
It is also patently untrue.
I AM thankful for some things. I am thankful for my kids. I am incredible thankful for my marriage, and how hard we are trying, even though every day is terrible. I am thankful I got to be Eli's mom. I'm NOT thankful to be a mom of a dead kid. I am not thankful to be alive.
My thankfulness does not alleviate my pain. It's both/and, not either/or.
Also, grief and pain and sadness are not complications or things to avoid or 'fix'. Although they are supremely sucky, they are natural processes and a part of being a human being. And while I am not thankful for it, suffering tends to make us better humans. All the best people I know, and the ones I only know through their story or teachings, have suffered greatly. They didn't claim joy everyday. They sat in their pain until they were able to stand in it, until they were able to walk in it, until they were able to shake some of it. Sometimes it's two steps forward, three steps back. Sometimes it's helpful to be grateful. Sometimes nothing is helpful.
I don't say any of this for pity. Please. I've had enough pity for five lifetimes. As Eli would say, "DisgUSting!"
I say it because so many people are hooked on positivity. Even many Christians who call it Christianity. Positivity is good and helpful, but it is not 100% of the equation. Some feelings demand to be felt before they will begin to fade into the fabric of who we are. Even if it's Thanksgiving. Even if it's Christmas. Even if it's a random Tuesday.
It's good to be thankful. It's also okay if your thankfulness doesn't take away your pain right now.

Four months

Four months

Today has been four months since Eli died. Four months since I held his lifeless body. It mostly feels like emptiness. And surprise. I don't know how I'm still alive and how I keep waking up every day. I'm surprised every time I look in my rearview mirror and I don't see him in his car seat looking back at me. I am surprised every time the milk goes bad before we finish it. Even though Eli was sick for a very long time I'm so surprised that he's dead. It's still really weird that he's not here. 

Some people seem to hear from their dead person on a regular basis. They see beautiful signs that their person has sent to comfort them, they see the silhouette of their person in the crowd for a moment, they sense them nearby. None of that has been my experience so far. I don't know if it's my doubting faith or my skepticism at finding meaning in everything, but my companion is emptiness.

There is an author by the name of Nadia Bolz-Weber whose thoughts on faith and God have been relatable and comforting to me. (Here is her blog: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/nadiabolzweber/) She talks about this idea of 'casseroles from God'. Casseroles from God are when you are strung out and something seemingly coincidental happens and it brings you comfort or keeps you going a little bit longer. A lot of times these casseroles from God come from people. 

I was talking with a friend yesterday about this concept and basically said it sounded great, but I didn't really buy it. 

Today I took Ty to school and came home and went back to bed. I stayed in bed for several hours and even though I had something pressing I just couldn't get myself up. Eventually I did get up and shower. The weather is terrible here. It is dreary and rainy and while it fits my mood it probably doesn't exactly help. I got in my car without noticing anything amiss. But as I pulled away from the house I noticed the grass lot across the street was absolutely covered in ducks and geese. There were at least 25 waddling around looking for food in the wet ground. It made me catch my breath. I immediately knew it was a casserole from God, or perhaps from Eli. 

If Eli was here he would have seen the ducks and the geese before we even got in the car. We would've had to walk across the street to get a closer look. He would have squatted down and just watched them for as long as I would let him. He would tell me about them and what they were doing. "Did you see that one, mama? He's lookin for somethin in the grass. He's so cute! He's with his family...." Eli would tell me all about it. It's so weird that he's not here to tell me about the ducks. 

It's hard to know.

It's hard to know. This is my favorite answer to things I should know, but my brain just flakes out on me. It's sort of a light-hearted, half-joking, but truthful response when my brain is worthless.

I had coffee recently with a grief sister and we were laughing about all of the inopportune times our brains go to mush and leave us feeling like complete morons.

Go to target and end up being unable to pay for your goods because you have no idea what your debit pin is? It's okay. It's hard to know these things.

Doctor's office asks for your address? Wow. It's hard to know.

Give exact change to a cashier, expect it's the completely wrong amount on the screen in front of your face? It's hard to know.

Last month I worked the pumpkin patch at Ty's school and I couldn't add 16+18. It's hard to know. (Even though I taught two digit addition to 8-year-olds for years as a teacher.)

My mom and I recently met up at a park to walk the loop trail there. As we finished up and were heading to our cars, we noticed her car door was wide open. Oh my gosh, did someone break in?? No. Her purse was still inside the car. We both just didn't realize her car door was open before hitting the trail. It's hard to remember these things.

So the next time someone inquires something of you and your brain turns to applesauce, just give a shrug and tell them it's hard to know.

Thank you

I have some real doozies of topics rattling around in my brain that I'm working on putting into words, but I also wanted to spend some time thanking old friends, new friends, and relative strangers for all of their love and support for our family over the last year-ish.

Here is what people have done for us: cooked meals, helped us pack and move (the bulk of it), painted our house, delivered chocolate to me at the hospital :), sat with us at hospitals, played with Eli at the hospital, sent countless care packages to Eli, sent letters and cards, sent pictures their kids drew, traveled to NC to be a friend, gave me pep talks, listened, sent money and gift cards, donated, fundraised, made tshirts, bought tshirts, made lunch for Ty all spring, included Ty in their family outings all spring/summer, completely made Eli's birthday by sending videos and pictures, prayed, told Eli's story, asked others to pray, cleaned out our Ronald McDonald room, towed our car home from NC, brought me coffee, fixed our TV, helped me sort through much of Eli's stuff, took stuff to be donated, cried with me, allowed me to be a little bit insane, sent memorial gifts, continued saying Eli's name.

I know there's more. This is everything I can think of right now.

I feel like I'm drowning. But I haven't gone completely under because you all keep pulling me up with your love and kindness. I don't think we could have made it through everything without you behind us. It has meant so much. At the same time, it's overwhelming and humbling. We don't deserve this much support. We're just a few people in the gigantic world of families with kids who have "rare" or life threatening diseases.

But Eli did deserve all of the love and care and kindness and prayer that you sent. It made a difference in his life. He LOVED getting packages. He was so limited in what he could do, but he loved opening boxes and exploring the contents. It was like Christmas, but more often. :) Eli loved notes and cards and pictures, especially from other kids. We would tape them up on the walls of his hospital room. He loved watching videos and seeing pictures you sent on Facebook. His 4th birthday was on a Sunday and I don't think he stopped grinning that entire weekend. He was so excited. Between all of the wishes/videos you sent and the party BMT threw for him, he felt so special.

Thank you for loving our family so fiercely and consistently. You made Eli's life better, and you're helping us survive.