Stumbling Towards Perfect

  I've had a lot of people tell me how impressed they are with my strength. "If it were me," they say as their eyes dart quickly to the ground, scared for a split second that maybe the words might make it true, "I don't think I'd be as strong as you."   I'd hardly consider myself strong. I spent the 45 minutes of registration for our Avery Step You Take 5K holed up in an office praying and bawling my eyes out. Instead of preparing what I was going to say as a welcome, I sat and cried. I spent the whole next day in bed.   Monday was the all-school Olympics. Brody's first. I cried. Because his sister was supposed to be doing the Olympics, too. She should've been representing the 6th Graders. But she wasn't there.   Tonight was the 8th Grade Graduation. I cried. Because I won't ever get to see my daughter graduate.   I spend way too much time awake because I hate the thought of going to sleep. I eat tons of sugar and I

When you are told that your loved one is no longer living, you are handed a giant piece of fabric. Huge. The first thing you do is wrap yourself tight in it. Around and around it goes, tucking in your arms and legs, tightening around your chest - but you barely notice, because you can't breathe anyway. It's like you're swaddled up, just like a newborn. Because, in a way, you're just like that again. So utterly dependent on those around you. You can't think. You can't process. You forget there is a need to eat. Months later you'll reflect back and wonder if you had ever gone to the bathroom because you simply do not recall ever going to the bathroom. Being birthed into grief. That's what it is. And you're wrapped tightly, with lots of arms around you, promising not to let you go. But just as newborns grow into life, so we must grow into grief. The fabric loosens, our arms strengthen, we become stronger and here is where we have a choice. We