Speechless

2011 was the year I lost my voice. Today I found the courage to pick up where I left off. I opened the page to this blog, a chapter of life I’d long abandoned, and came up short when I looked at my very last entry. On December 31, 2010, I pondered what the New Year would bring, noting lyrically that “there are many things I can’t plan for or anticipate. Illness or financial setbacks may strike…”


Two weeks after I wrote those words, my father went into the hospital. By July, I had buried both of my parents, and stepped into a whole new way existing in the world. I have written before about the challenges of being sandwiched between aging parents and active children. Those years were exhausting and overwhelming. But oh. They were sweet, too.

When your parents pass the age of 80, it is true that their deaths should come as no surprise. But make no mistake, grief easily sidelines those who think they are prepared.

It’s been almost three years now, and I still feel as if I’ve come unmoored. Just when I think I’ve got my bearings, I’m going to be OK, the whisper comes in the night, the morning, the heat of day, “Your parents are dead,” and I am unraveled again, left threadbare and hopelessly tattered.

Tonight my son is at his high school homecoming game. Tomorrow he will attend his first high school dance. My daughter stands poised on the edge of adolescence, ready to leave play dates behind and make the leap into the world of periods and parties, and Jesus help me, boys. It seems lately life has demanded one relentless request of me – learn to let go. Hold the things you love with a gentle grip for they are not yours to contain or control. I have not mastered this lesson just yet.

I went to the cemetery only once, and it is doubtful I will go again. It was a cool April day in 2012, and although I asked for a map on my way in, my tears blurred my vision and I drove in circles looking for the right section of plots. Finally, I parked and set out on foot, weaving between headstones, glancing at names, praying I’d find them, hoping I wouldn’t. Just when I thought I’d have to give up and go back for another map, I saw my father’s name. Although I’d been searching for it for over 30 minutes, it seemed out of place, carved so beautifully in cursive on the granite stone my mother and I had chosen so carefully, like the clothes he was buried in. As if any of it would matter.

“The casket will be closed. Why are you taking so much time selecting a tie?” I’d asked her gently, just days before his funeral. “I just want him to look nice when he meets Jesus,” she whispered. It would be just a few months later when I understood this senseless sentiment, as I stood before an open closet struggling to select burial clothes for her.

I sat down where I stood, cupped my hand to my mouth, and let the magnitude of my loss wash over me in waves. When I caught my breath, I steeled myself to look just few inches to the left where my mother’s name bore tangible proof that her voice, her scent, her laugh were forever lost to me, at least on this side of heaven. Then I put my head down on that soft, damp grass, felt the sun warm on my face, and wept.

I don’t know how to end this post. So for now I will simply stop writing. It’s not much. But it’s a start.