1 comment on blossoming trees and other Spring pictures at the cemetery
Month: March 2007
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Some have asked me if I’m going to do the same thing on the anniversary of Abby’s death today that I did a year ago. Last year, the women from my bible study went with me to the cemetery. I invited others too. We stood in a circle and prayed. Then we went to my house for lunch. The answer is no. I’m not going to do that today.
But I thought I would do it in another month. Right now, the cemetery is brown and gray. Seems a lot like death. Very conducive to mourning. But as April marches in, the cemetery comes alive with the color of blossoming trees that line the avenues. Rich, green grass. The scent of apple and cherry blossoms will fill the air. Butterflies will emerge from their cocoons. It will be beautiful. The surroundings won’t be so mournful. It will be easier to celebrate Abby’s new life in heaven and look forward to our own.
Here’s an excerpt from my journal:
April 20, 2005 When Todd first told me that Abby was to be buried at the Lexington Cemetery, I choked up. I was very glad. I was glad because its a beautiful place. I had been there a couple times. The flowers and trees are simply breathtaking.
But when we went on March 26 to bury her, the cemetery wasn’t beautiful that day. It was gray and raining and muddy. No blooms. No flowers on the grounds. No buds.
But a couple days ago, when we went, it was the beautiful that I remembered! I wanted to go back and capture the Spring. I wanted time to stand still, for it to always look like this. Tulips and flowering trees.
So meet me at the cemetery in April.
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Tomorrow marks the two year anniversary of my daughter’s death. So what does two years out look like? Its easier than a year ago, two years ago. I didn’t say it was easy.
Coral, who is also remembering my daughter this week, wrote on her blog,
…The gaping heart wounds no longer bleed at mere contemplation – they ache as old bones before a rain. A quiet sadness, held close to a heart, expressed in solitary tears and unheard sighs. Thoughts of a hand no longer held, a smile’s echo in another face, a laugh whose sparkle is nearly lost in memory…
My daughter Mary was sick last night. When she woke up when others were sleeping, I held her. And I kept on holding her. I didn’t want to let her go. I never want to let her go.
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My comfort, my quiet place, my cemetery is a day away. 800 miles away. But I want to walk among the stones. To read names and dates. It’s been three months since Abby’s death. A quarter of a year. A trimester. A season. Spring has faded into the hot days of summer where there is no rain.
This is an excerpt from my journal, dated June 22. Today’s sermon at church was about heaven, the topic in Sunday school was heaven, so I was reminded of what I wrote nearly 2 years ago. The rest of the journal entry follows:
I asked Todd if he would please take me to a cemetery. He said, “A cemetery? You mean any cemetery? ”
“Yes,”I replied. He had seen one on his bicycle ride, so there was one close by. I was grateful that we didn’t need to go into the city.
When we got there, a butterfly stabbed through my sadness and made me smile. I let my eyes follow its flight til two others joined. They spiraled together heavenly out of sight in the evergreens. A butterfly dance.
After walking through the cemetery, I came back to that original place–a small clearing among the trees–hoping to spy a butterfly again. Yes, the butterfly, yellow and black, was visible again. It retraced its path again and again. It circled, going up and down. It’s flight was marvelous and as I stood there watching it, peace and happiness enveloped me.
I moved to the center of the butterfly’s path and spun with it, making myself dizzy. And I worshiped.
Worship. A little closer to God. A piece of heaven on earth. Is it possible that heaven isn’t somewhere else, way up high? Could it be that heaven is here, but just in a different dimension where our human eyes can’t see or our human ears just can’t hear yet? Angels all around us? Our loved one’s spirits all around us? Maybe. Maybe not.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud
that floats on high o’er vales and hills
when all at once I saw a crowd
a host of golden daffodils
beside the lake
beneath the trees
fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
I memorized this poem by William Wordsworth in eighth grade English class. This first stanza still runs through my head every once in awhile, especially now with the approaching spring, but I have no idea how the poem continues.I’ve always loved the daffodils by our front porch. They peek out of the frozen ground long before anything else tries to come up. I usually don’t realize they’re blooming until one of my kids brings me a few. Caleb, 6, has been picking daffodils this week.
Abby brought me a daffodil the day before she died. I’ll never forget it. I’ll always associate daffodils with her last week with us, and her first week gone from us. There is a statue at the cemetery near where Abby is buried that is surrounded with daffodils. They were blooming for her funeral. A couple weeks later when I went to take pictures, they were wilted.
Daffodils come and go so quickly. Bright and beautiful, then they’re gone. Just like Abby–bright and beautiful, the she was gone.
I looked up the rest of I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud:
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.My heart dances with the daffodils. That’s perfect. Thank you Mr. Wordsworth.
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The feeling of your hand in mine
your head tucked in my neck
The way I knew you loved me
Though you couldn’t say it yet.I see your face a hundred times
In every single day.
I pray that you will always
Come to mind this way.~by Coral Rose
Spring 2005 -
As the two year anniversary of my daughter’s death quickly approaches, friends and family have been asking me how I’m doing. Some wonder how I will spend March 22–do I want the women to surround me again in prayer at the cemetery followed by brunch at my house like we did last year?
Others ask if the second year is easier than the first one. A year ago, I compared my grief to labor and I said that grief can be overwhelming just like transition during labor can be overwhelming and I said that this transition will end.
So has my transition in grief ended? I would have to say that this approaching Spring is much easier than last year’s February and March. A year ago, it seemed like I had to force myself to put one foot in front of the other. I was walking around numb, dreading Abby’s upcoming birthday, upcoming heaven day, upcoming Easter. I felt nauseous all the time. Parts are difficult, of course, but this year, I have none of the dread.
I am reflecting on my 2 years with her and my two years without her. Yesterday, I read the journal I kept after her death. I don’t think I opened it since the day I stopped writing in it about 8 months after she died. The last couple entries are cynical; I had forgotten I felt that way. I’m paging through her photo album more often. I’m reading letters and cards that people sent me the first year.
Instead of my grief being tied to a certain day or the approach of certain days, it is just there. The reality of her absence is just here all the time. I look at my four children and think that there are five, there should be five, there are five. But one is missing. Always missing. There will always be that gaping hole between my second and fourth child because the third has slipped from this life into eternity.
As I reflect on where I was a year ago and where I am now, I am pleased at the healing I see. I am in a new transition.
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I’ve discovered that grief can be compared to pregnancy and labor.
Instead of one contraction at a time, it’s one moment of grief at a time. Just like a woman’s water breaks without warning, a mother’s tears flow at moments unexpected. It’s the big things that I know are coming and can prepare for that are easier to handle than the little things that happen without warning. Seeing a little girl with blond hair like my daughter had. Seeing a toddler near the street. Watching my infant daughter blossom into a toddler and start doing the things her older sister used to do. Doing girlie things her older brothers never did. Driving down the road and having to stop for a funeral procession. Seeing her birthday printed in the church bulletin. These are the things that have been hard.
A year ago, I never would have imagined that I’d be visiting the cemetery so often this past year. Last March, my 2-year-old daughter died suddenly and unexpectedly. I find solace in walking among the stones and beautiful flowers, a place to connect with other mothers as well. I sit in the dirt and share stories with others who have lost their babies.
In the couple days after Abby’s death, I was numb and not crying like my husband and sons and others around me were crying. I wondered when my sobbing would start. I was thankful for an empty house when my desperate, loud cries finally burst forth. I found a little girl charm that my husband had given me after our daughter was born. I shouted and screamed for her to come back to me. Just like my cries were primal during childbirth, so they were again. But this time instead of pushing her out of me so I could take her in my arms, I was pushing her down, down into the ground and pushing her out of my arms into Jesus’ arms, releasing her spirit up, up to heaven. I had birthed her 2 years ago and now I had deathed her. This release was altogether emotional, physical and spiritual.
It is said that anniversaries and birthdays are hard days. People who haven’t experienced the death of someone close to them can’t really relate. After all, it’s only another day on the calendar, right? Three months after my daughter’s death was particularly hard on me. Being away from home made it particularly hard because I couldn’t go to my quiet place – the cemetery. My husband took me to a cemetery 850 miles away from home and yet I still found comfort. Three months. A quarter of a year. A trimester. I was reminded of my sweet baby and the womb time.
As the six-month anniversary approached, I started to break down emotionally. My thoughts were six months would turn into a year, which would slip to two years and before I knew it, I would have spent more time without her than I had with her. That thought was unbearable to me. And I sobbed. Repeatedly. For the first time since two days after her death, my crying was body intensive. Again I compared my grief to labor. I realized that I had been “putzing” through early grief for months. I had moments far apart that weren’t too hard. Once in awhile, I would have a bad one, but I always had time to regroup before the next moment of grief would wash all over me. Now, I was in hard labor grief, in and out of transition. I was overwhelmed and needed to be left alone, yet fully supported.
Last week, I spent several hours with my Grandmother when she was in hospice care before she died. Now I am preparing to go to her funeral. A few days after that will be my daughter’s birthday, followed by the anniversary of her death. I am thankful for friends and family who want to surround me on those days. Just like I’ve always taken one contraction at a time during labor, I need to remember to take one day at a time, one moment of grief at a time. This transition will end.
~written February 2006
grieving with guinever 
