This has been an anniversary year like no other. I’ve been frustrated all week. Typically, I spend this time in reflection and memorialization, trying to muster up something inspirational, hopeful, promising to share. This year, I have nothing to offer. Well, that may not be completely true. Since mid-December, things have been amiss. The annual Christmas flower donation to my church in Kitty’s memory was somehow misdirected and went unrecognized. I had recurring memories of the accident, the time at the hospital, the visitation at the funeral home, writing thank you notes. Thoughts – just like the funeral director said about the floral arrangements 11 years ago – “they don’t stop coming”. I mentioned to a friend that I was dreading “Kitty Week” because I was remembering far too soon … it was a month early. I expected a highly charged, emotional anniversary week. But, by the time January 18th – ‘Accident Day’ rolled around, my anticipation couldn’t have been more off the mark. Distractions, needs and outside demands have occupied my time. I’ve been busy with unexpected volunteer commitments, extra grandchildren on babysitting days, the death of a friends’ mother – other people needed me to step up for them. It was impossible to spend ‘Kitty Week’ in the way to which I’ve grown accustomed, focused on my granddaughter. After working my way through the final day of the week, January 25th, the 11th anniversary of Kitty’s funeral and burial, the arrival of all those early memories makes sense. I’d moped around all week, feeling sorry for myself because I wanted time to focus on remembering Kitty. And suddenly I realized that God put all those reminiscences on my mind early because, in His grand scheme of things, He knew my attention was going to be needed elsewhere during the week I typically dedicate to her. The time I spent remembering ahead of time was much preferred to not having it at all. Life doesn’t pause because I want it to …. Everything happens in its time, as we’re reminded in Ecclesiastes 3:1-18: For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away; a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace. [Ecclesiastes 3:1-18; NRSV]
0 Comments
Ten years ago tomorrow, my 9-month-old granddaughter, Kitty, was buried. Ten years. On this anniversary, as I've reflected on her short life and on her tragic death, I have no words. What can I say? What message do I have to lift others, to provide a smidgen of hope? As I opened my blog page this morning, I found this draft, started some time ago, and it gave me the words I need today - for myself and to share with you. Recently, at a weekend church service, our deacon did the preaching. Once every four weeks, he is present at all of the weekend Masses to deliver the homily. It provides a well-deserved break for our popular - and therefore, extremely busy - pastor. I look forward to these weekends. The gospel message comes through our deacon in ways I seem to be able to grasp, cling to and actually remember! This weekend's sermon did not disappoint. Forgiveness was the theme. He spoke on the parable of Peter and Jesus interacting about forgiveness in Matthew 18:21-22: "Then Peter came to Jesus and said, 'Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Up to seven times? 'Jesus said to him, 'I do not say to you "up to seven times" but up to seventy times seven.' " It was not so much the words, but rather this exercise that gave me pause. Our deacon asked us to think of a small object that we treasure dearly, close our eyes, imagine the object in our hand and grasp it in as tight a fist as possible ... hold it tight ... clutch it ... until he told us to slowly open our fingers. This part was easy. I was wearing my locket with Kitty inside, so I was fortunate to actually be holding my chosen object. While everyone sat in the pews with fists closed tight, our deacon continued talking for a few minutes before asking us to slowly open our fingers. How did it feel? Numb? Painful? Achy? Was your hand discolored? Could you open it immediately? He likened the physical feelings of our hands to the inner pain of not being able to forgive. I compared it to how I felt after Kitty died ... numb, in pain, not being to open up, emotionally bruised. I ached. I hurt. Fortunately, I never struggled to forgive. By the grace of God, being able to forgive was never an issue at the time of Kitty's death. Yes, I was devastated and still am to this day. On occasion, I feel sadness or am emotional for no apparent reason. But, I have been able to forgive - from day one. I imagine walking in my son-in-law's shoes and cannot fathom his numbness, pain, aching, the discoloration of his heart. To this day, he has not completely opened up. This homily delivered several years ago, and the blog I discovered today in my drafts offer the most meaningful message I can share on the 10th anniversary of Kitty's death. To move forward on your grief path, to find your way towards hope and healing, you must first and foremost forgive. When we are able to forgive someone else who may be responsible for our grandchild's - or another loved one's - death, when we are able to forgive ourselves for anything we may be struggling with, when we can forgive God for allowing our loss to happen, then we are helping ourselves. It is then that we can begin to heal and to find hope. Forgiveness has been my strength for the last ten years - I pray it sustain me for ten more! The week is dragging on and the ninth anniversary of Kitty's death feels different from past years. I feel as though I've reached a turning point in my grief journey. And I don't think it's just me experiencing this change.
On the past eight anniversaries, as a family, we've spent a week in mourning and remembrance, with emphasis on the day of the accident, Kitty's official date of death and the days of her visitation and funeral. This year, there was the usual focus on the day that the family car went through the ice, but the rest of the week seems to have waned. Or maybe we're just not talking about it. I know that I am remembering details from every day that week, but I feel like I'm grieving internally and alone. It's taken nine years for us to reach this point. Is this normal? Is it a longer or shorter amount of time from what others experience? I don't know. I believe in the uniqueness of everyone's personal grief, but I don't like this sense of fading ... the feeling that others are forgetting or caring less. I'm not comfortable with this shift in our normal pattern of memorialization and remembrance. Although it's not even remotely possible, I think I'm afraid that we're eventually going to stop remembering completely. For example: At the beginning of 'Kitty Week', we all change our Facebook profile and cover photos to pictures of either her or images that remind us of her. After changing my picture to one of my favorite shots of Kitty, a friend private messaged me, asking who the baby is in my profile picture. She is very familiar with what happened nine years ago, but she forgot and later apologized for making me re-tell her about the accident. One of my closest friends calls every year to express her sympathy and to let me know that she's thinking of my family during the week. This year, she called on Kitty's official date of death. We chatted for quite some time about many different things and just before hanging up, she quickly commented that she'd been thinking about us - an afterthought? When I thanked her and mentioned what day it was, she seemed almost surprised. She had forgotten the day. Is nine years a magic turning point for everyone? Every day, I learn more about grief - specifically my own - and how others view my time of mourning. Am I supposed to be 'over it' by now? What will be like for me, for my family, a year from now or farther in the future? I have no idea. What is important: that I never forget my granddaughter and my memories of her and that I cherish the time we spent together. It shouldn't matter whether or not family members talk to me about her or that friends don't remember dates ... or even the entire accident. I simply need to hold Kitty and our memories together close to my heart. Year number nine marks a shift - a change in how we memorialize Kitty as a family. Remembrance is now internal, belonging to each of us alone. The grief path is quiet this year and I am focused on my own week-long walk. I'm not used to going it alone, but I'll adjust, I'll welcome a more personal remembrance and I'll learn to appreciate the quiet time. A favorite tradition in my family is that when we gather together, we take a 'cousin picture'. My sister and I started snapping photos 42 years ago when her daughter was four years old and my son was born. As my siblings and I added to our families, we continued to press the shutters until our children scattered across cities and - eventually - states. It's rare to have the original generation of cousins in one place these days, but my own three kids have carried the tradition on with their kiddos, my grandchildren. Over the past few years, I've noticed that whenever a cousin picture is taken, there tends to be a space, a gap, room enough for another child to be positioned in the photo: a spot reserved for Kitty. It continues to be an amazing occurrence. When I first noticed Kitty's open spot in the pictures, I was rather taken back. I interpreted the curiosity as a sign or message telling me, 'Look at this ... this is where Kitty would be if she was still alive. This is where she would fit in.' Snapshots from the past several holidays and birthday parties have continued to leave me staring at the days' memories thinking, 'Wow, there's where she'd be placed in this one.' Except, she isn't. Realistically, I understand that Kitty is exactly where she is meant to be, where God intended her to exist: in our hearts, on our minds, with Jesus, watching over us. In past posts, I've noted how Kitty's death brought healing to our family, how it saved her dad from his own destructive lifestyle. For almost nine years, I've clung to the belief that in Kitty's short life, God's plan for her was fulfilled. Moments ago, as I was looking at one of the cousin pictures and preparing to write this, I recalled a recent message published in my church bulletin. Our deacon wrote: "It is so important for us to take time to drink in all that God gives us. Each day the Lord sends blessings into our lives. Some are evident, like winning the lottery! Others are more subtle, like a cool breeze in the evening or finding an extra cookie in the cookie jar." ... "There are so many ways that God is communicating his love to us in our day to day lives. There are little moments—little miracles—that we witness each day, if we open our eyes to see them." Our family tradition has become one these blessings, a little miracle that I gaze upon daily in the pictures that hang on my walls. Whenever I go upstairs and through the hallway, I am blessed by the memory of my grandchild and the reminder of how she healed our family. Praise the Lord for all of those cousin pictures that appear to be incomplete!! Along the stairway there are also nine black and white 8x10 photos in silver frames, one for each of my grandchildren, taken at the age of two-weeks. The portraits are hung in birth order with the first-born at the bottom of the stairs, winding to the top and descending back down to the youngest. As I make my way up- or downstairs, I am reminded that Kitty is truly the heart, the center, of our family. Her image is hung directly in the center of all of the cousins, with two wooden hearts above her photo. Those hearts were cut by her dad and painted by Kitty's little sister, the Dasher. So appropriate, so perfect, so very blessed. Holy Week is here and as Easter draws near, we, as Christians, have hope at the forefront of our minds. We rejoice in, and yearn for, the promises the Resurrection brings: eternal life, freedom from pain, reunion with our deceased loved ones and hope for the future. Merriam-Webster defines 'Hope' as "a desire accompanied by expectation of or belief in fulfillment; confident that something good will happen; a feeling of trust". For those of us grieving the loss of a grandchild, the meaning of hope runs a little deeper. It runs more akin to a definition provided by thefreedictionary.com where it is described as "a theological virtue ... the desire and search for a future good, difficult, but not impossible to attain with God's help." For those of us in grief, hope manifests in the form of being able to move forward in our lives with purpose, to be able to function positively in society and in our homes. It means being able to actively support our children who are struggling with their loss while we battle our own griefs. We need the strength that comes from God and from our identity as 'Easter People'. While we perceive Holy Week as glorious, miraculous and as the basis of our faith, we also know that hope is needed more than just one week of the year. I am thankful to have experienced glimpses of hope during the past 12 months. These seemingly small happenings helped me rise above my sorrow when grief bore it's weight. * My daughter-in-law chose to share a dinner-table discussion she had with my son and three granddaughters. The twins, Kitty's age and 2/3 of the 'triplet cousins', had a homework assignment that asked the often heard question, "If you could have dinner with anyone, who would it be and what would you talk about?" The very simple, yet beautiful response they gave was this: ' We would want to have dinner with Kitty so she could tell us what it would be like to be in Heaven.' My heart welled with love and hope. Of course Kitty is in Heaven and because of Easter, we will see her again. * During the pandemic, serving meals at Ronald McDonald House (RMH) has been on hold, keeping us from our biannual tradition of volunteering in Kitty's memory. Mandy called one day, excited to have an idea for an alternate activity that we can do as a family to support RMH. Following our conversation, I realized that my daughter's enthusiasm, her plan to memorialize her child through this volunteer effort, is a sign of hope. She continues to move ahead, using Kitty's life and death, for the good of others, for love of neighbor. “We are an Easter People and Alleluia is our song!” We are not looking for a shallow joy but rather a joy that comes from faith, that grows through unselfish love, that respects the “fundamental duty of love of neighbor, without which it would be unbecoming to speak of Joy.” - Pope John Paul II * Most recently, an email popped into Mandy's email from a well-credentialed, local therapist. The purpose of her message was simply to say 'thank you'. This therapist counsels DWI offenders and her tools include a few old newspaper clippings detailing Kitty's story, our family's legal and personal journey and a copy of Mandy's book, "Stella's Story, Dealing with Sibling Loss". She wrote about reading the book to her clients, mostly adult males, whose response is never less than emotional. She expressed gratitude for the impact our story has on her clients, giving them hope for the future. We find solidarity in hope. Alleluia! Throughout our celebration of Holy Week and with the joy that comes on Easter morning, hope is truly the highlight. I feel blessed to be reminded of it's presence not only during this most holy week, but at moments scattered among daily happenings all year 'round. 'Hope Happenings' may not always be obvious, but by staying open, listening and being aware, these blessings can be found. Prayers for you at Easter. May you find peace and joy in hope. oday marks the eighth anniversary of my granddaughter's funeral. Our annual week of painful memories will wind down this evening after I recall details of the luncheon and the multiple vehicles it took to get floral arrangements out of the church. I know that it has been months since my last entry here and it's not because I haven't had time to update or that there's been a lack of inspiration. Anyone who knows me is well aware that I always have an idea and something to say! The other day I realized exactly why I haven't posted: I simply have not wanted to. I wanted it all to myself for awhile. It's quite strange for me and I can only blame it on yet another phase of my grief process. The last time I sat down to write, I was starting work on Kitty’s unintentionally forgotten memory book, a task that was entrusted to me not long after Kitty was born. My goal was to complete the book in time to give my daughter on what would be Kitty’s eighth birthday in April. It was a goal I couldn’t meet – craft stores were closed because of the pandemic and online shopping proved frustrating due to sold out pink paper and scrapbooking supplies.
"Social Distancing". "Shelter-in-Place". "Stay home." This is our reality as we start the spring season. We've survived the long, cold winter months and are now ready to break out of our homes, get out and about with neighbors, friends and family, but we cannot, should not. We are threatened as COVID-19 spreads across our country and across the globe. Repercussions from the risk of socializing are not worth the cost.
These are difficult days. The other morning, I was awakened from a deep sleep to a memory from Kitty's funeral: my daughter, Mandy, standing at the ambo, delivering the eulogy with no sign of wavering, no indication that she would break down. She wore her carnation pink suit and led everyone seated in the pews in singing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." We all sang, we all cried. Mandy held herself together.
The priest presiding at the Mass didn't think she could do it, but promised her that if she was able to get through a practice run for him, he would allow her to memorialize her child during the funeral. And so, she did. I was proud of Mandy that day and I will never forget her courage and strength. But what made me recall that moment as I woke the other day? Why did it rouse me out of such a deep sleep? Christmas day is a mere five days away and I'm feeling really good about the progress that's been made in preparation for my family celebration. Cards and packages have been mailed, wrapping of gifts is well underway. Three out of four varieties of cookies are baked, frosted and frozen. Tree and decorations? Check. There is, however, one thing that I'm struggling to get done - one thing I simply cannot make myself do. It's neither physically demanding nor time consuming, but emotionally it's extremely difficult.
|
Archives
January 2024
Categories
All
|