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Instead of taking my morning walk around my gardens this morning; I brought all the flowers in from the funeral. They had dropped them off on our back porch while we were in St. Louis visiting Karin and Gaylin yesterday. There are so many beautiful flowers; it will be nice to find a place for each one this afternoon.
I have always loved the early morning hours and feared the night. Night-terrors had always plagued me as a child. Now the nightmares are different.
On the way to St. Louis yesterday, I drifted off to sleep for just a moment. When I did, I had a quiet snippet of a dream. It was Dan chasing Emily, both laughing and playing. It took my breath away and woke me up. It was such a mixed feeling of longing, pain, and the beauty of seeing his face. It left me with the temptation to escape into sleep, in hopes of seeing a glimpse of him again. At very the same time I fear of falling asleep and seeing him because he will once again disappear, and I will face the morning without him.
It was good to see Karin and Gaylin yesterday. It was really good for Tom. I watched Gaylin put his arm around Tom and speak soft words of comfort to him.
We had to say good-bye to Brian and Debby last night. They stayed overnight and will be leaving for their home in Tennessee this morning.
It was so hard to let them go last night. Ever since the night of the accident they have been a constant presence for us. Like two parents running behind a kid on his first two-wheeler, with outstretched arms, balancing us, catching us when we fall, and picking us up when we couldn’t get up on our own.
We know they had to go. They have a wedding in a matter of days. And they want to get back in the studio and record Danny’s song. Their producer agreed to put it on the internet, and will put their internet person on it so it can be downloaded.
God’s finger prints were all over that song. Aaron heard God in the morning. That song has brought us so much joy and peace; it’s like a healing salve on an open wound.
So was the funeral. Who could have imagined that such a horrible thing as the funeral for your son could be described as beautiful—but it was.
People lining the walls, you could feel the love and support hanging in the air. Clara tried so hard to overcome her grief so she could sing Dan’s favorite song for us. It broke my heart to see her struggle so.
Then in true Christ like spirit, those who knew the song started singing along side her, her brother put his arm around her and sang in her ear, then when we got to, “there is a greater mystery, almighty God nailed to a tree! Taking the place where I should have stood…” her voice broke through, and you could tell it was flowed from her soul.
That’s what was so beautiful. Over and over we felt the hands of the body of Christ, sooth us, and sit with us, until we found our voice.
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2 comments:
Dear Rhonda,
My name is Christina Sanantonio and I work for the Illinois Family Violence Coordinating Council. I live in Monticello and write a local column called “Thinking Out Loud”.
I have followed your column and enjoy your writing. An old friend who shares your church told me of the loss of your beautiful son Dan last week.
I wanted to say how I have you in my thoughts. I have walked the path you now face.
Grief is such a small word and it has been given the task of encompassing so many thoughts, feelings and experiences that our written and spoken language simply cannot express. In 1990, my family suffered a similar loss of my 12 year old brother Nicholas. He died suddenly and unexpectedly from a massive asthma attack. Because my mother had been very young when I was born, she and I were more like sisters and when Nick came along when I was 8- I helped in every part of raising him. He was my beloved boy.
When Nick died, he died in my arms. I was in college at the U of I and he was spending the night with me. When he ran into my room in the middle of the night, he knew he was in serious trouble. I tried everything to revive him.
My mother and went into shock the night he passed and we had to comfort one another throughout the next few years as the waves of grief knocked us down and carried us.
I moved back home, dropped out of college and simply grieved. The pain is so primal and raw that those around us were frightened and had to withdraw. My college friends couldn’t understand why, after several months, I didn’t want to go to the movies or face socializing.
There are many aspects of grief that one doesn’t ever understand unless you have waded through grieving the loss of a child. People speak of the soul and the spirit, and knowing that energy doesn’t die- yet I knew every freckle, every curl on that boy’s head. The homesickness for Nick’s physical presence was overwhelming. Letting go of his physical form was absolutely excruciating.
I remember the first few weeks, surrounded by friends and family who felt powerless to understand what we were feeling. One woman repeatedly said, “I can’t imagine what your are going through. I can’t imagine what it must feel like.” My mother, sleep deprived and desolate finally said, “Imagine that your child is out in the rain and you can’t get to him to bring him in.” The woman burst into tears. Sometimes it is difficult to find comfort in contemplating the repose of the soul when the heart would give anything for one last hug.
The words of comfort sound trite with the grief I know you are experiencing. The only thing that helped me was time, God, and understanding that others have suffered similarly throughout history and have survived. Grief is a terrible, but amazing teacher. I have learned things about humanity and love through losing Nick that I wouldn’t want to forget. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t give it up for a moment in his presence.
Several books were useful and provided a modicum of comfort.
“How to Survive the Loss of A Child” by Catherine M. Sanders and A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis both captured some of what I was feeling and helped put it into perspective.
It has been a long road back for me- I did eventually go back to the U of I and graduate, I married and have three tall sons of my own now. My oldest some is named James Nicholas after the uncle he never knew. I still think of Nicholas Joseph every day. I now carry the grief instead of being carried by it.
Please know that even though we do not know each other, we share common threads of loss that are universal. I will be thinking of you and your family as you travel this dark road and be sending thoughts of peace and comfort.
Please feel free to contact me to talk at any time. My number is (217) 762-7519 or cell (217) 714-4597.
My mother coped with losing Nick and continues to teach in our Montessori School here in Monticello. She memorialized my brother by raising funds and building Nick’s Park. He would be amazed.
Please be gentle to yourself. You will be carried by grief, but also by God.
Warmly,
Christina Sanantonio
http://christina-thinkingoutloud.blogspot.com/
Christina, thanks for posting! You have lived grief and knew the peace that was upon Nick even in his death. You have walked through it just as Rhonda will walk through with hands held and tears wept and eyes lifted up to heaven and As we all sit in the dirt with Rhonda. Thanks for sitting in the dirt with her!
Rhonda...Christina and I have been friends since we were five. She too is am amazing woman like you! I hope she can meet you personally someday!
We all love you Rhonda...
Shari!
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