A September Song

September has long been one of my favorites months.

There was a time, when I was raising my five children when the trees were heavy with fruit waiting to be harvested and to be preserved.

September days were filled with making breakfast, lunch, and dinner,

picking fruit and canning it,

picking tomatoes and canning them, and

caring for five children born in a span of ten years.

September was a happy, busy time.

There was a time in September, when I would walk out onto the back deck of our home and I could smell the fall air rich with the smell of grapes ready to harvested.

The air had cooled, and the first light frost would have set the flavors in the grapes.
Now it was time to make grape juice and grape jelly.

Julie & Sally harvesting grapes.

Once heated, the grapes were crushed, and soon I would make sweet tasting grape juice and grape jelly.

Now, September bring reminders of crushing grief.

September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month

September reminds this mom that she now has an awareness that she never could have imagined all those Septembers ago when days were filled with so much happy activity.

If September were a song ,

a verse has been added to my September song that I didn't see coming.

At the beginning of summer, on Memorial Day Weekend, eleven years ago, my beautiful Julie died by suicide.

The first night I returned home after my daughter's suicide, I wondered how I would make it.

I no longer understood anything about my life.

My past made no sense.

My future...well, I couldn't even foresee a future because I was trying to make sense of the present.

I no longer knew who I was.

““Catastrophic loss is like undergoing a loss of our identity.” ”

— Jerry Sittser from “A Grace Disguised"

Nothing about my life,

nor any understanding of who I was,

made any sense to me in the days just after my daughter’s death.

The words in the song of my life had been altered.

The happy tune I’d always sung was now a dirge.

A new verse to my song of life had been written.

It was a lament.

The song, this verse I kept singing over and over was

discordant

and out of

rhythm

with all the rest of the songs of my past.

For nearly the full first week after my daughter’s death, I was surrounded by family. My children and grandchildren all cloistered together at the home of one of my daughters. Here, sheltered from the outside world, shell-shocked, stunned by the shock of losing our dearly loved sister, aunt, daughter, friend, in such an unexpected and devastating way, we somehow simultaneously held on to each other and held each other together. There were arrangements to be made, decisions to make, breakfast, lunch, and dinner to make for our large group. It was a time of togetherness when family love and devotion became the glue that truly kept us as individuals and as a group from shattering into a million little pieces. As mom, I found myself both being protected by my large tribe and acting as the protector for the tribe and for each member of it.

Then I had to go home and face the rest of my life.

Climbing into my bed that first night after I returned home,

I was too numb to fathom how
I would get up and live the next morning.

A friend had given me a book at the service we held for my daughter. It was more a picture book than a story book. Pictures I could look at. Words I could not read. I picked up the book and began to glance at the back cover. On it I read these words:

“Thank you, Lord, for all that I learn from my brokenness, for the courage it takes to live with my pain, and for the strength it takes to remain on the shore.”

— Carol Hamblet Adams from “My Beautiful Broken Shell."

The story, the pictures, spoke to me. I had never felt so broken, and I did not know how one could find beauty in brokenness. Yet, somehow, my shattered soul, was comforted by this book, and this scripture from the Psalms.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted;
and those who are crushed in spirit He saves.”

— Psalm 34:18

Since those days when I first lost my daughter to suicide,

a new verse has been added to of my September song.
It has been added to the verses that speak of loss, remembrance, and broken hearts.
This verse in my song is sung every September when I am reminded that it is once again
Suicide Prevention and Awareness Month.

I am a suicide survivor.

In the beginning of my journey as the mother of one who has completed suicide, I did not know that I would have a new title: suicide survivor. This term is applied to family members or close friends of a person who has died by suicide.

Now, by sharing my story, I hope to bring hope to other survivors of suicide.

In time, the pain of brokenness became less devastating.

I began to hold both brokenness and beauty together.

Integration of loss and newness began to take place.
For me, this verse of my September song, does not end in hopelessness.
It ends in hope and healing.

Despite the verse in my song that I did not want included,
there is a refrain that is repeated throughout the song of my life.
This refrain speaks of
joy,
hope,
healing,
and of the faithfulness of God,
who now holds my sweet Julie in His arms
and comforts me with His presence.
He sends me
people,
so many wonderful people,
who have loved and supported me and my family.

This is my September song.
It is a beautiful song because it speaks of love.

A mother's song always begins and ends with love.

Julie & Mom celebrating Julie’s college graduation.

September Song ~ September is Suicide Prevention Month

September, you are both a hard and a glorious month.

September, you remind me of new pencils, new books, new school shoes, football games, and chili simmering on the stove.

I first became a mom in September.

First born son Ryan born on a September day when I was 21 marked the day motherhood officially became the best job I ever had, and my favorite.

In September, when I was a young mother, the peach trees in the backyard became heavy with fruit that did not wait patiently for the for the harvest. When the peaches were ready, they were ready. They had to picked, processed, and preserved.

My two sons posing in front of a peach tree heavy with peaches waiting to be picked. September 1979

There was a time in September, when I would walk out onto the back deck of our home and I could smell the fall air rich with the smell of grapes ready to harvested.

The air had cooled, and the first light frost would have set the flavors in the grapes.
Now it was time to make grape juice and grape jelly.

Grape harvest: Sally and Julie

The grapes had to heated and crushed to make the wonderful, sweet tasting juice.

Now, September brings me reminders of crushing grief.

September is Suicide Awareness Month.

Ten years ago, a verse was added to my September song that I didn't see coming.

I did not want this verse in my song.

This verse tells a story about a chapter in my life that I did not want included.

And, yet, because I have this verse in my song, I must raise my voice and sing, or speak, since I am not much of a singer.

The songs I knew by heart, the ones that had verses I would sing each September changed that terrible year when I experienced the death of my dearly beloved daughter Julie by suicide. Now, September reminds me that it is Suicide Awareness Month.

The first night I returned home after my daughter's suicide, I wondered how I would make it.

I no longer understood anything about my life.

My past made no sense.

My future...well, I couldn't even foresee a future because I was trying to make sense of the present. 

“Catastrophic loss is like undergoing a loss of our identity”

— Jerry Sittser " A Grace Disguised"

This quote spoke to me like little else I read after Julie’s death

I had experienced a major loss of my identity when I lost my daughter to suicide.

I didn't know who I was.
The script of my life had been altered.
A verse in my song had be thrust in that made every verse before it seem discordant and out of rhythm.

A dear friend, one the first ones I called to tell of Julie's death, came to Julie's funeral and gave me a book. It was called, My Beautiful Broken Shell. The title spoke to me. It was a picture book which was perfect because I really could not read books yet. I was too crushed. So this book was perfect for me at that time.

I read the book the first night I was home from spending a week with my family near the place where Julie had lived and died.  When I climbed into my bed that night I was too numb to  fathom how I would get up and live the next morning.

The narrator in the book tells of walking along the beach of an ocean. As most of us do at the beach, she begins to look for shells. She comes across a broken scallop shell, but leaves it search of a perfect shell.

Then, she see the broken shell as a metaphor for her broken heart. She also realizes that this shell had not been totally crushed by the pounding surf. She realizes she can learn from brokenness.
She also learns she will need

courage
 to remain on the beach,

courage
to live with the pain she is feeling,

courage
to not embrace
a vision of a perfect shell,

and she would need

courage
to embrace brokenness.


The message of the book spoke to me.
I knew with the Lord's help I could live with my broken heart.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted;
and those who are crushed in spirit He saves.”

— Psalm 34:18

The message of the book spoke to me. I knew with the Lord's help I could live with my broken heart.
Life was not perfect. It was never intended to be. Day by day, I would learn to live as a broken person in a broken world. I learned I could only do this by grace that was given me by the Lord who said He would be with me, the brokenhearted.

---

I reflected on the new verse of my September song,
the verse that speaks of loss, remembrance, and broken hearts.
This verse in my song now is sung every September when I am reminded that it is once again
Suicide Prevention Month.

Thankfully, this particular verse does not end in hopelessness.
It ends in hope and healing.

Despite the verse in my song that I did not want included,
there is a refrain that is repeated throughout the song of my life.
The refrain speaks of
joy,
hope,
healing,
and of the faithfulness of God,
who now holds my sweet Julie in His arms
and comforts me with His presence.
He sends me
people,
so many wonderful people,
who have loved and supported me and my family.

This is my September song.
It is a beautiful song because it speaks of love.
A mother's song always begins and ends with love.

Julie ~ A Blog Post and A Birthday Celebration During the Time of COVOD 19

Today, my daughter should have turned forty-four years old.

We should have been celebrating my daughter’s birthday with her today.

Julie, my youngest daughter, my fourth child, was born on this day forty-four years ago. As only a mom can do, I recalled details of that day which belong only to me. As I think of listing those details, I wonder if anyone would even care what those details were other than Julie because after all, she is the one who most likely would have been interested in the details of her birth.

If she were alive, as evidenced by this recent FaceBook comment that showed up in my memories, she might have even wondered what I would be saying about her and her birthday on social media.

In 2009, when Julie inquired if she would get a blog post of “17 paragraphs,” she did indeed get a blog post written by me in which I celebrated her birth and her life.

A year later, in April of 2010, we celebrated Julie’s birthday in grand style with a huge family birthday celebration. I snapped many pictures that day of Julie surrounded by her sisters and some of just Julie and her dog. On that day, we never could have imagined that Julie would die by suicide just six weeks later.

Keicha, Julie, Amy ~ Sisters

Julie and Phoenix

Now, here we are ten years later. It seems hard to even imagine that a decade has passed since I last not only saw Julie alive, but also since we as a family celebrated her and her life with her in our midst. It seems hard to imagine what my youthful, impish, springtime fairy would be like if she were alive today and celebrating her forty-fourth birthday. She always had such a sense of fun and of whimsy. Would she still? She loved playing around with her nieces and nephews. Now, they are teens and young adults. I often wonder what her interactions with them at this stage of life would be like.

Julie joking around with her nieces and nephews at the Salt Lake Zoo as she pretended she was being eaten by a giant lion.

Julie’s birth and life brought so much joy to our family. She was the fourth child born to a family of five children. She moved easily between the brother/sister relationship and the sister/sister relationship. I often think of her as our family lynchpin, the one who seemed to hold the parts and pieces of our complicated family structure together. Her life is one that is easy to celebrate because she brought so much joy to us all.

And so on her birthday this year, I decided I wanted to go to the cemetery where her ashes are buried to celebrate her and the joy her life brought to my life. Little did I know that as with everything these days, that simple exercise of going to the cemetery for a moment of remembrance would become complex.

Grief and Birthday Celebrations in The Time of COVID 19

Grief seems to be a constant these days.  All of us seem to be suffering from a deep communal grief.  And yet for those of us whom have recently lost loved ones, or for those of us whom experience anniversary date grief, it seems that the normal grief responses are made all the more complex in these days of the novel coronavirus.  

 For me personally, I think the weight of grief has been a constant in my life for over a year as I experienced anticipatory grief as my younger sister and my mother have both been in the last days of their lives.  In September of 2019, my sister passed away, and then just one month ago, on March 2, 2020, my mother passed away at the age of 103.

 Normally, we would have already had a memorial service for my mother, and we would have gathered at the cemetery as a family to inter her ashes.  None of that has happened because of COVID 19.  Not only that, I don’t even know when we will be able to have services for her.  This disruption to the normal grief journey seems to have compounded the complex feelings of grief that I have felt since of her death.

 For the past twenty-seven days, my husband and I have self-isolated and have only left the house to either walk around the neighborhood each day or to go to the grocery store to pick up pre-ordered groceries.  Today, the day that marked my daughter’s birthdate, I told my husband I wanted to go to the cemetery to visit my daughter’s grave, and to visit the gravesite of my parents.  

 As we approached the cemetery, I began to worry that it might not be open.  I did not anticipate there being people around because no one is having funerals or formal burials at this time.  I did not even have flowers to place on the graves because I didn’t want to enter a store to buy flowers, and we have nothing in bloom at our home.

 Driving towards the section of the cemetery where my daughter is buried, I noticed that a car was parked in the same area where we usually park.  As we drove closer, I said to my husband, “It looks like someone else is near Julie’s gravesite.”  

 It took me us driving right up to the car that was parked on the road for me to realize that my daughter, her fiancé, and my granddaughter were the people gathered at Julie’s grave.  My daughter lives in northern Colorado, about two hours away from us, and I did not know she planned on coming to town.   I honestly did not know what to do when we parked the car and I realized who was there.  

 My daughter, very private in her expressions of grief, was on the ground crying in front of her sister’s grave.  My feelings and emotions were all over the place.  Should I leave her in the privacy of her grief moment, or should I go to her?  I was more concerned about how to support her than I was about the social distancing practices that I have strictly adhered to for weeks.  It honestly did not even occur to me to ask myself, should we stay six feet apart?  Or, should I put on my mask?  No, I just followed my mother’s heart and rushed to her side to give her comfort.  I also wanted to feel her arms around me.  I wanted her to give me comfort too.

 We didn’t visit long.  It all seemed awkward in a way.  I had interrupted my daughter’s private visit.  I felt guilt for rushing in to give and receive hugs.  I worried that I might have passed along this terrible virus, and I worried that I might have picked up the dreaded virus from my family even as I knew that they too had been careful about practicing social distancing.  

 These times are not normal.  They are not natural.  So many of those practices that give us comfort and support during difficult times have been stripped away.  The normal responses of giving and receiving hugs must be restricted.  

 Quite honestly, I’ll never forget how comforting it was to feel Amy’s hug and to smell her signature perfume as my face brushed against her hair.  

 Unfortunately, I also know that I will never forgive myself if I unknowingly transferred a potentially deadly virus to her.  I also know that she would never forgive herself if she transferred that same virus to me.  I just hope she realizes that if she did, it will not be her fault.  It will be mine.  I was the one who threw caution aside.  I hope nothing bad comes from my impulsivity.  Too late, after the hugs, I went to the car and got my mask.

 We took photos.  Amy brought beautiful flowers for Julie.  They were perfect because the bouquet had bright, colorful flowers in it that included gerbera daisies, the same flowers we selected to blanket Julie’s casket when she died.  

 Then, Amy handed me flowers.  That girl.  She is always so thoughtful.  I don’t think she has ever visited me in the last ten years or more that she has not brought me flowers.  She had daffodils for me, and a note.  She had intended to leave the flowers and the note on my porch as a surprise as they left town.

The note said, “Love you lots, mom. Thinking of you on this trying day. I wish I could give you a big hug. xoxo Amy.”

 Too soon, we said our goodbyes.  My husband joked that lunch was on him this time, but they could buy the next time they came to town.  It was all so odd. We couldn’t even go to lunch.

 Grief in the time of COVID 19 brings such weird and unexpected twists and turns.  Time will tell what it all means in the days to come.  In the meantime, Julie’s birthday was celebrated in a very unusual way, and she got a blog post. I didn’t count the paragraphs.

Seasonal Thoughts and Thanksgivings

The seasons collide in the fall.

Halloween gives way to Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving bumps up against Christmas.

November,

I’m not done with you yet.

I need to hang on the last vestiges of 

fall and the Thanksgiving season

 before I am hurled into the rush and bustle 

of December and Christmas.

*************

My son called early in October and asked us to come out and spend Thanksgiving with them in Utah. I took him up on the offer.  They have a new home we had not yet seen, so we were excited to spend the inaugural Thanksgiving with them making new memories in their new home.  

On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Jim and I flew out to Salt Lake City, Utah, and my son Ryan picked us up at the airport.  We ran around town with him while he did Thanksgiving preparation errands, and he gave us a grand tour of his new neighborhood.  I so seldom get to spend alone time with my son, that I couldn’t help but comment how wonderful it was just to be driving around town with him while we chatted.  He always makes the best of times even better.

Fall is the perfect season to capture the beauty of my son and daughter-in-law’s new home.  A branch adorned with golden leaves formed a perfect frame for this classic craftsman style home. 

I love the neighborhood where my son and his wife now live.  On a small porch at the corner house down the street from them, two college age guys dressed in wool coats and wool caps were sitting in lawn chairs listening to classical music and smoking cigars as they played chess.  I said to my son, “I love where you live.  It seems so civilized.”

Jim and Ryan led the way as we walked past houses still adorned with fall decor and headed to our home away from home to spend a quiet evening together.  

Our airbnb, which was just a block and a half from my son’s home, was so nice.  We really enjoyed the experience of staying in this home and in this neighborhood.  I kept telling my husband I was ready to move.  I loved the area around Sugarhouse in Salt Lake City.  

This was just one of the cool houses between our house (home away from home) and son Ryan’s.  

The next morning Jim and I walked back to Ryan and Sheridan's house and the four of us and Sheridan’s two boys headed out for the mile and a half walk to get breakfast at the best bakery ever.  I had their steel cut oats with fruit.  Seldom does one rave about steel cut oats, but I raved about theirs.  Oh, and I had part of an orange cinnamon roll too.  I wasn’t going to pass that up.  I fear we would visit this place on  daily walks if we lived nearby.

There are shops all around the bakery.  Across the street is a wonderful bookstore called The King’s English.  We visited it on the day after Thanksgiving.  All of this makes the neighborhood a desired location for living a life where shopping, and restaurants, and grocery stores are just a short walk or bike ride away.

The door to our apartment...

leaves on the ground, they all became subjects for me to photograph.  On this beautiful fall day, I so loved the experience of walking around taking in the sights found in a neighborhood filled with architectural delights.  It was just what my soul needed.  

At home, fall had left us during a blistery and wet storm weeks before Thanksgiving.  I had not been able to revel in the glory of fall and give her a proper farewell at home, so these last days of November in Utah were a special blessing to me.

Thanksgiving Eve, Jim and I walked over to my son’s house to participate in food preparation (ok, I watched while they worked) and to await the arrival of Amy and Jewett whom were driving from Colorado, and the arrival of grandson Bridger whom was coming down from Logan, Utah, where he attends Utah State.  

The beauty of the day continued.  I wish I could have captured the full effect of the moon at dusk, but this photo does give you an idea of how beautiful the evening was as we headed into my favorite holiday of the year: Thanksgiving.

We were worried about the travelers as a huge wreck had closed down the highway, but daughter and her love arrived safe and sound at a much later time than anticipated.  Thank heavens for cell phones and Google maps.  Bridger also arrived safe and sound from his drive down from Logan.  I was struck by how thrilled we were when Bridger arrived.  Does everyone always shout with joy when he enters a room?  I think so.  He is such a special kid.

The bounty for the planned feast was plentiful. I was struck by the beauty of the preparation of the meal itself.  Part of Thanksgiving is the anticipation of what is about to transpire as family comes together.  There is so much work in preparing the feast for a family the size of ours.  I so appreciate all that Ryan and Sheridan did to make the occasion perfect.  Thank you, Ryan and Sheridan!

While my family is large, the gathering itself was a bit smaller this year.  Ryan’s two older children, Regan and Parker, are living and working in Montana where they will be attending college, so they did not come home for Thanksgiving.  Amy and Jewett came from Colorado, but Amy’s two children stayed home with their father and had Thanksgiving with their other grandmother, and Samantha and Jonathan and their two children had been in Paris, France, the week before Thanksgiving and they were flying home to Colorado on Thanksgiving Day.  As with most large families, we are scattered all over.  That is why being together whenever possible is so special.

Thanksgiving morning, the house had been transformed in order to accommodate the expected guests.  (Don’t you love Ryan and Sheridan’s home???)

The guests arrived, photos were taken,and soon we were ready to eat the scrumptious meal provided by our hosts.  Really, they out did themselves.  Everything was perfect!

Photos were taken,

Daughter Keicha with her daughter Gillian

Amy & Jewett

My girls on either side of me

Keicha, Sally, Amy

the turkey was taken from the oven and carved,

the lentil loaf prepared for and by Sheridan for the vegetarians in the group was also taken from the oven,

the food was placed on the beautiful tables, 

Holidays bring with them memories both happy and sad.  Often, we are reminded of those no longer with us.  Sheridan was my daughter Julie's dear friend, and it was at Julie's memorial service where my son Ryan met our lovely Sheridan.  Blessings come from loss.  I'm so grateful for the family that was created because of a lasting and long friendship between Julie and Sheridan.  Julie's ashes are on the mantle and the empty chair reminds us of the one we miss and wish were with us to share in this joyous day.  

The empty chair reminds me that Julie would not be in it even if she were with us.  She had way too much energy for that.  She would be cooking and cleaning and arranging, and laughing, and joking, and loving on her nieces and nephews.  I miss her arm on my shoulder as she would have stood beside me in a photo of me and my daughters, but her spirit is with us.  I rejoice that we as a family remain strong and together and so appreciative of fall days at the end of November when we gather together to give thanks for all of our many blessings.  

There was more!  

In the evening we followed the tradition started long ago by Sheridan's wonderful dad by playing a spirited and competitive game of bingo.  The prizes were both great and not so great.  That is part of the fun.  Bingo and Thanksgiving pie now go together in my mind. 

 I love this tradition of more guests arriving in the evening with pies and gifts.  Sheridan's sister and her family and her mom and dad and another couple whom are good friends came to the house to play bingo after their own Thanksgiving dinners.  There was barely room to move around.  Jim was schooled on how to be the Bingo game caller, and we ended the day by playing Bingo which led to much fun and a lot of laughter.  

The memories of Thanksgiving 2018 are stored away in that place were all that is wonderful about this holiday live.  I am so very blessed with such a dear and wonderful family.  My children are so supportive of me and of each other.  I do not take that gift of family unity lightly.  Our bonds are strong and our devotion to each other is firm.  That is one hope I have always had for myself and and my children:  that we would celebrate and embrace the uniqueness that each of us bring to our family bond and they would seek to always build and affirm that bond and devotion to each other.  I'm so very grateful that again I witnessed and partook in the fellowship of a family devoted to each other.    My heart is full.

Perhaps, Thanksgiving comes at the perfect time of year because just as fall leaves us, we are given the chance to embrace her beauty one last time as we gather to spend a day giving thanks while eating delicious food with those we love best.  

Thanksgiving 2018, I needed you to be just as you were.  Now, I can let November days give way to the hustle and bustle that comes in December.