Just out of earshot my heart strains to hear the faint echo of Dominic’s voice-his humor, his lively sarcasm and biting wit. I can almost convince myself that he’s there in the room as the two other boys banter back and forth.
I’m used to a trio, not a duet.
It’s like the blues without a bass line.
How can it be the same song and yet a different one altogether?
Oh, how I miss him!
One of the most difficult things to explain to anyone who has not buried a child is this: I didn’t just lose Dominic ONCE, I continue to lose him.
I lose him every single time there is a moment when he SHOULD be here but isn’t.
I lose him when his friends graduate, get married and have children.
I lose him again on Christmas morning when HIS face isn’t around the breakfast table and HIS name isn’t on the presents around the tree.
I lose him when I need to call and ask a question about my computer or need his opinion when trying to make a decision.
I lose him when everyone else is making their way home for the holidays or a birthday or just a visit-his car never rolls up the lane, his smiling face never emerges, his arms never reach out to wrap me in a bear hug.
I lose him when his siblings line up for photos-the space where he SHOULD be but ISN’T looms large.
I will never know the joy of standing at his wedding.
I will never be able to congratulate him on his first court victory.
I will never see his children
I won’t have his companionship in my old age.
He is gone-out of reach.
Untouchable.
Lost.
I will not get used to the fact that my son is beyond my reach. I have come to a certain acceptance of it as fact, and acknowledgement of the truth that I cannot change that fact.
The pain hasn’t become less painful, only more familiar.
Read the rest here: True Truth
I’ve struggled since the beginning of this journey to convey others the ongoing open-ended emptiness of burying a child.
There is simply no way to fill the void left by my son’s leaving.
No job, no hobby, no ministry, no person, no exercise regimen, dietary discipline or medical intervention can fix this pain.
So when people think I will
“get over”,
or
“move past”
my son’s death,
they profoundly misunderstand my experience.
I’ve probaby heard the question a half-dozen times in the past three weeks as doctors or nurses were checking my mom’s mental function during her hospital stay: What year is it?
And every single time-even though I know full well that it is 2017-the answer makes me suck in my breath. Because, really, how has the world kept turning since Dominic left us?
How, how, how can it be nearly three and a half years since I talked to him, hugged him, heard his voice?
But it is.
And the further we get from that point in time when the world as I knew it came crashing down, the harder it is for people around me to remember that I continue to carry this load.
I’ve gotten stronger. I’ve developed ways to work around the grief most days and in most situations.
Still, I find daily tasks more challenging than before. Sadness sneaks up on me and tears leak from my eyes. Anxiety stalks my heart and sometimes catches it.
I get tired-so, so tired-because there is just no reserve.
I wish I could press the “pause” button and give myself a little break.
But time (and life!) marches on.
I’ve been away from home for eleven days now. For a homebody, that feels like forever.
Most of those days I’ve been surrounded by unfamiliar people and lots and lots of noise.
But in the midst of all that activity and sound, there has remained a quiet spot deep in my spirit that holds space for Dominic.
No matter how frantic, how deafening or how crowded things get, his absence is the loudest silence I hear.
I’m driving down the highway listening to the morning news brief. A quick mention that Paris is likely to get the bid for the 2024 Summer Olympics draws my attention.
I begin to do the math-when are the next Olympics? Oh, yes-2020. Three years away.
Double the time I’ve been without Dominic.
How old will I be in 2024? Sixty-one! How many years will it be THEN since I last held my son’s hand, hugged his neck, heard his voice?
This happens in a flash. My heart goes from “just fine” to “I can’t believe this is my life” in sixty seconds.
But I can’t stay here. If I do the day will be shot. I won’t accomplish a thing because despair will drag me under and only a good night’s sleep will have hope of restoring me.
So I don’t. I grab those thoughts and wrestle them to the ground. I pin them with the truth that no matter how many years it is between when I last saw Dominic and when I join him in Heaven they will be short and swift in light of eternity.
I take comfort in accepting that my vantage point is limited to my handful of experiences in this life and to what I can see with my own eyes. But God sees the whole sweep of eternity, from beginning to end. I have found Him to be a relentlessly good and loving God. Because of my confidence in His character, I can rest in knowing that someday, someday, Katie’s [Dominic’s] short life and premature death will make sense to me. Someday God will scoop me, too, into His arms, and I will step into a world that until that moment I could only sense and never see. I will finally get it. And I will see Him face to face.
And you know who else I will see face-to-face on that day?
I will see Katie [Dominic].
Yes, God is merciful.
~September Vaudrey, Colors of Goodbye
I resist the pressure to give up and push back with the strength that comes from knowing that my opponent is no match for the Champion that fights for me.
Busyness has become a national idol-we rush from commitment to commitment, signing up to fill every single minute with something, anything that makes us feel important, valuable, irreplaceable.
Of course we have job and family obligations-as we should-but we don’t feel fully accomplished until we have colored in the edges of our calendar until no white space remains.
Because we think that if we don’t show up, people will miss us. We think that if WE don’t do this or that, it won’t get done. We are absolutely certain that our input is critical to the success of every mission, every committee, every project.
Can I let you in on a little secret? It’s not.
One of the inconvenient and difficult truths that has been burned in my brain since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven is this: his absence didn’t make a bit of difference to the world at large.
It only made a difference to the hearts that loved him.
He was editor of a law journal-guess what? It was still published.
He died days before final exams. They happened anyway.
His apartment? Cleaned out and rented to the next in line.
His commitments? The hole closed up around the space he would have occupied or it was filled with someone else’s body and energy.
He is truly missed by those for whom his absence was inconceivable, not by those for whom his absence was an inconvenience.
So my take away is this: I will not waste my time running here, there and everywhere.
I will not spend my life energy on things or projects or activities that don’t matter.
I am not going to invest the scarce resource of the rest of my life in busyness.
I will give everything I’ve got to hearts and lives and people. I will pour myself into projects I’m passionate about, people I love and pursuits that will outlive my few years on this earth.
Because busyness does not define me.
Love does.
Each day I am reminded by sights, smells, sounds and memories that Dominic is in Heaven and not here.
But there are moments and seasons when his absence is particularly strong-when I can’t breathe in without also breathing a prayer, “Father, let me make it through this minute, this hour, this day.”
And that’s when I need grace-from family, friends and strangers.
Read the rest here: A Little Extra Grace
Sometimes I schedule a post the night before and wake up to a day that contradicts everything I just wrote.
Grief is like that.
Good day. Bad day. Better day. Worse day.
I can barely predict one moment to the next, much less a day or a week.
It’s easy for me to become discouraged when I stare at my own feet-measuring paltry progress when I long for leaps and bounds.
But truth is, no life is lived primarily by giant strides. It’s mostly baby steps and falling forward.
Got up this morning? Step.
Remembered to make that phone call? Step.
Smiled at the bird outside the window? Step.
Looked at Dominic’s picture and treasured the memory instead of crying? Step.
And when I trip over my broken heart listening to a song on the radio and tumble headlong into wracking sobs-I reach out and fall forward, still making a little progress toward learning to live through a day.
It doesn’t matter how fast or how far I’ve traveled in this Valley.
It only matters that I refuse to give up.
![Gold Medal in Wrestling [Thoughts]](https://thelifeididntchoose.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/gold-medal.jpg?w=500)
thelifeididntchoose 