Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The boys and I are still so curious about heaven. Can you see us? Can you hear us? We hypothesize about it and share our theories. Gavin insists it is full of sand and ponds and houses because he saw a picture in a children's Bible one time. Grant wonders if there is pizza in heaven. I just wonder at the amazing unknown of it all.
The memory of the last week of your life is fading from me. I think I am grateful for that. At the same time, it scares me a bit about how everything else may fade. I look through pictures frequently to keep your smile embedded in my mind. I recap events for the boys of things they did with you and things we did long before they were born in order to keep alive the memories that I know will be nearly impossible for their young minds to retain until their own adult life.
I still refer to so many things as "ours" or myself as "us." I say, "Brian and I" a lot as well. I think that is normal. In fact, I dread the day when it becomes more natural for me to say, "my," "me" and just "I."
I haven't been getting too sad lately. In fact, my lack of sadness is almost frightening to me. Is it denial? It is delay? Is it distraction? Is it just a gradual acceptance of something that I knew was a long time coming? I don't know. I know as I sit and stare at the picture of you and me on my desk next to the monitor it doesn't sting as much as I had anticipated it would nearly one month after your death.
When I do feel sad about something, it is usually regarding the boys - the realization that they lost their Daddy forever. As much I intend to surround them with male role models and I witness our family willing to help out, it just isn't the same. I do ache with hurt that they will not have that closeness and that bond that a father and son share. I will do my best to fill the gaps for them, but I know it pales in comparison. I am just thankful for the influence you had on their lives to this point.
I really am not feeling sad for myself. And do you know why? I know you wouldn't want me to and I know you wouldn't do it for yourself. If this situation were reversed, you would grieve and mourn me with minimal energy focused on sadness and self-pity. No, you would pick yourself back up, grieve more for your boys' loss, and hold onto the happy memories, laughing as often as possible. You would begin to put your life back together. And you would do it with dignity, honor and integrity as you did everything. Your legacy lives in me right now as that is the route I am choosing. You always taught me in your brutally honest manner that my reaction to my situation was a choice. I could choose to wallow away in self pity or I could choose to live and laugh and love and look to Christ. I choose the latter.
I miss you, though, Brian. I do. I love you.