I remember when my kids were babies and their ages were counted in months because each month represented such a large portion of their life. Somewhere around 2 1/2 -3 years old, life became counted in years. Well, we are back to counting in months. 6 months. Katie has been dead for 6 months. My insides wrench with simply typing that sentence.
So I would like to speak to what we need at this point. This point when life moves faster for others than it does for me. When people sometimes think that grieving should be finished and life should move on. Sometimes I even think that. I chide myself for not making forward progress. I told Chad just the other day, "I do all the things I have learned to do to help myself. I run, I cry, I talk, I write. Yet there is no equation. Some days I feel better, but some days I still feel worse than I did before." I hate that, but it is the un-linear process of grief, traumatic in itself as if the first trauma was not enough. Here is what we need (and the books I have read indicate these are fairly common so may apply to others who are grieving as well): - Say her name. Katie. Say what happened. Katie died. We all know it. We don't have to talk it about it all the time, but there is no reason to intentionally avoid the conversations. Avoidance can be a lot more painful than talking about someone I love so much. - Share your memories. If you think of Katie spontaneously one day, send a text or email or (even better) give us a call. All we have now are memories and we love hearing that you have them too. They are so precious to us. We even have a book in our kitchen that you can write your memory in when you stop by because we don't want to forget. - Don't be afraid of emotion. Mine or yours. When you talk to me, sometimes you may cry and I may not (tears are fairy unpredictable) or I may well up with emotion just in gratitude that you are willing to be present for us. The tears are almost always close to the surface and perhaps your conversation just allows for their release. Of course, there are other emotions as well. We may laugh together as we remember or you may see me suddenly become really angry. It has taken a good deal of counseling, but I am learning to be okay with these things called human emotions. - Be genuine. Ask. Listen. Encourage. We have a long way to go before we feel "normal" again. So many things are both really hard yet really good at the same time. I am learning to allow for these two seemingly opposing feelings to co-exist because, honestly, I believe the rest of my life may be both really hard yet really good. For those interested, we have uploaded Katie's service to youtube (see link below). Be forewarned that it is neither quick nor easy, and it took place in a packed gymnasium with poor acoustics. But it is awesome. Every time I hear the song "Glorious Day," I hear the sound of everyone in that gym shouting. Because that is how you celebrate a life. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Zh6LklnP6I&t=5s Blessings, Sarah and Chad and Forever Cobb 7
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Easter was a lot different this year. For one thing, it was Saturday night before I realized I had not once thought of coloring eggs. Also, I have rarely been one for Easter baskets or candy, but this year I even surpassed my own lackluster gift giving by tossing my kids a Speedway gift card across the bar while they were eating breakfast (for slushee purchases, of course).
I have spent a lot of time remembering over recent days. Last year on Easter morning, Chad and I were swapping out shifts at the hospital. Katie’s cancer had relapsed very suddenly during the week prior, and she had steadily deteriorated for several days. Easter appeared to be a better day for her physically, but the seeming improvement was a farce. On Monday afternoon, she was moved to the ICU; on Tuesday she was mostly unresponsive, using all her energy to breathe; on Wednesday, she was in a helicopter to Cincinnati as we hoped for a miracle. So Easter will likely always be marked for us. Yet we can’t go back, so we stumble forward. River Ridge’s Good Friday service is truly one of my favorite services of the year. Although I knew it may be difficult, I was glad we would be able to attend this year. As Andy began to speak, he had each person take a small river rock in our hand and begin to identify something, anything, to be represented by that rock. A struggle, a sin, a commitment, a blessing. Whatever God impressed upon our hearts as we sat there. I closed my eyes and held that small, black, irregularly shaped rock. “What is it, God? What does this rock represent to me?" “Katie.” “No, not Katie. Maybe a sin or something I have been struggling with. How about pride?” “Katie. Katie.” “No, something else.” “Katie.” “Ugh, God. Really? I know Andy is going to make us do something with these rocks like lay them down or get rid of them in some way. I don’t want to do that again. I already did that. Remember? I held her in my hand, my arms, and you took her. I don’t want to relive that in some stupid way with some stupid rock. Something else.” “It’s Katie. The rock is Katie to you.” And so it was. The rock represented Katie. My Katie. My first daughter. The one I named. The one I loved. The one I did everything for. Katie. The band sang, and I clutched that rock. My eyes stung. I carry tissues with me, but I rarely use them. I find that the tears rolling down my cheeks are too refreshing to wipe away. Aaron must have dropped his rock beside me a dozen times, but I clutched mine, not willing to let it go. Again. And then he said it. We were to walk to the front and drop our rock in the wooden tray, proceeding then to take communion. God and I got into it again. “See, God, I knew he was going to do that. Now I have to go up there and lay this rock down. Maybe I can just keep it. You know, a memento.” “Don’t you trust me?” (This was a repeat conversation. We have had this one before). “Don’t you trust her with me?” Crickets. Then sighing, I said, “Yes, Lord. Yes, I trust you.” “Then you can lay down the rock.” Once you have had something taken right out of your hand, the natural tendency is to grasp more tightly. I held that rock, squeezing, clutching, caressing, preparing to let it go, yet not wanting to. Dropping “Katie” into that wooden tray at the front of the church was not easy, even as it was just a rock. I proceeded to take communion and God reminded me: It is the broken body of the Son which allows Katie to dance before the throne of the Father today. Gratefulness for the Cross flooded me that evening as I imagined that girl with that smile enjoying life to the full. I miss her immeasurably, but I would not take that from her. Symbols can present a very powerful experience. I have a hunch that I am going to have to repeat this again - likely many times - until I can hold that stupid rock without sweating. Until I can let go of Katie with tears but without as much hesitation. Until I can hold this world more loosely. Until I can put my kids back into an open hand and hold that hand up to God and say, “I do trust you.” I’m not there yet. But, with God's grace, I will be. One day. |
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