Category: grief

march 22, how has it been 20 years?

March 22, 2025

a pictorial walk through the cemetery, grief, loss, photos
I took flowers (expertly and lovingly arranged by a coworker) for Abby’s grave and a smaller bouquet for Alex’s grave. I also bought some daffodils for home. I wanted to take something in addition to the flowers and I decided on a pair of little navy shoes. Perfect. These aren’t the ones she was wearing the day she died, but another pair.

The day was a little windy, clear blue sky, a few clouds, and Spring had sprung. When we were here 20 years ago burying her, it was gray and cold and brown. No flowers yet. Today the cemetery was alive with color! Little wildflowers scattered around and forsythia was golden! And even the cherry blossoms were blooming in the palest of pink.

Dropped on the ground by Alex’s grave was a partially smoked skinny cigar. Was it left there by Caleb, Jeremiah, or Todd? It could have been any of them. I smiled and left it there.

A funeral was going to happen soon in Abby’s section. I started to feel nauseous as I thought of this new grieving mother. I took a tulip from Abby’s bouquet and placed it on the table that would hold the casket. Would anyone notice? Would they feel it intrusive or would they appreciate it? It was my way of saying I’m so sorry. You’re not alone. I see you. Below are the photos I took today.
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a poem by christina

November 24, 2024

grief

Bleak chill in the air–

Restless, heavy, obscuring,

Fled they–light and warmth?

Beckoned by the Light–

Stumble, crawl or be carried

Bides eternal warmth.

by Christina Scribner

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the sunday before thanksgiving

November 24, 2024

death, grief

The 19th of November has past, which is officially the first anniversary of Alex’s death. But just like Abby’s death isn’t necessarily March 22nd for me, but rather the Tuesday between Palm Sunday and Easter, here I have another child’s death forever tied to a holiday. Two holidays, actually — the Sunday before Thanksgiving and also the day after my daughter’s birthday.

This past year as I have stood at my kitchen window every Sunday morning before the rest of the house is awake, I remember. This is where I was standing when I saw the coroner’s vehicle turn down my street, followed by two police cars. Three official vehicles. I ran to the front window to see if they would pass. They didn’t. They weren’t coming. They weren’t just passing by on the way to somewhere else. I peeked out a side window and they had all stopped.

I quickly dressed, in case they were coming to my house. There was a knock on the door. My immediate thought was–was this about Caleb, my dad, or Alex?

I quickly took in the uniformed men before me, one up on the porch, two officers behind him with badges and holstered firearms. Kindness and concern.

The window. It was the last place I was standing, the last thing I was doing before I knew Alex was gone. I often think about that. The hallway. I often think about the last words, the last hug the night before when he said yes, he’d come over the next day to celebrate Mary’s birthday. Before he left, he reached out to hug me. That had become common in the last few weeks. Usually, it was me reaching out to him. Was he saying goodbye or was he trying to find a reason to stay?

This week has been filled with so much love and concern. Monday, a coworker took me out to lunch. Someone paid for my weekly eggs. Wednesday, another person brought me the most amazing box of pastries and a friend from church brought us a meal for the evening. An envelope with familiar cursive with a heart-felt card. A stone gecko from my brother arrived as well.

Wednesday the gravestone marker was placed. Saturday, the memory items were complete that I had ordered to be made with Abby’s and Alex’s clothing. Today, my sister and her family visited.

Life is good and life is full even in the midst of grief. People are remembering. People are supporting me.

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memory bears and an elephant

November 23, 2024

grief, loss

There’s a box in the attic filled with Abby’s clothes. I kept them, thinking that someday I would make a quilt with them–actually have someone else make a quilt for me because I don’t have the skills. That someday never came. 19 years passed. Until now.

Now that I’ve lost two children, it was time to make something with the clothes. I was torn for awhile. Torn because, what if I lost another, and already had this stuff made. . .once I got past that. . . I didn’t want a quilt. Seemed too big. Didn’t necessarily want a quilted pillow either. I had heard of a memory bear so I looked on etsy. Then I made some inquiries and found someone local to me.

She does elephants and other stuffed animals in addition to bears. I’m not sure why, but I fell in love with the elephant. Here’s a video below.

I also ordered two bears, one for my daughter and one for my sister. The one with the little pooh bar on the paw is for Mary. And speaking of paws, she informed me that elephants don’t have paws (referring to the video above). True.

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all saints’ day

November 3, 2024

christianity, grief

Two children gone

To the lovely lady at church who has a sister in heaven and understands loss in that unique way…thank you so very much for this beautiful remembrance for my two children in heaven. It means the world to me.

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an unexpected phone call

October 16, 2024

grief

The marker for Alex’s grave is in at the monument company, and the timing of this is completely unexpected.

I have been praying and hoping and yearning it would come in a month early and be placed before the first anniversary of Alex’s death.

Getting the call TWO months early was wholly unexpected. I hadn’t even started hoping it would be ready yet. I had not started processing that it was coming. I usually anticipate and prepare and overthink things in advance so that when a THING actually happens, I’m cool.

I wasn’t cool. I didn’t keep it together.

Although an answered prayer, I am emotionally spent, but so very thankful. I went to the cemetery today to see the foundation before the marker is placed. I took a video because it was a beautiful day and I wanted to capture the colors of the sky and trees and the sounds.

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i can hear my mom sing

October 14, 2024

christianity, church, grief

I attend church every week.

Every week our liturgy includes words that say we ascend to heaven and commune with the saints (Christians who have died and gone to heaven.)

Every once in awhile, I hear my mother’s voice during the congregational singing. My eyes fill with water when that happens. These are happy tears, happy that she’s in heaven. But they are sad tears too, because, well, I’m selfish, and I want my mom sometimes!

Each week, we sing the sanctus. That WAS Abby’s song. This song doesn’t make me teary-eyed anymore, but I do think of Abby in heaven every time I sing it.

As I’m updating my website in October 2024, I have a few posts I had started writing but never published. This is one of them. I wrote it February 26, 2016 (Abby’s birthday)

Today I’m finishing it up!

We don’t sing that version of the Sanctus in church anymore. It was simple and lovely.

Over the years, our song leaders have changed the Sanctus several times. Now we sing one in four parts in canon that is rather complicated. It is also lovely, but in a different way, an d it is not Abby’s song at all. I miss singing Abby’s song.

Several years ago, I asked if we could go back to the original version even for just one Sunday. The answer was no. The answer was that it wasn’t musically complex enough.

Good grief.

And grief!

Back to hearing my mom’s voice. Do you ever hear the voice of a loved one who has died?

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11 years in september

September 28, 2024

i still miss you mom
and i wanted you to know

this september has been hard
thinking of you being gone 11 years
realizing in 10 years i'll be your final age
abby gone almost 20 years
and now alex gone 10 months
grief

what did you think when you saw alex
were you glad to see him
do you know what he did
or is that knowledge kept from you
do you realize he was only 24
when he forced himself into eternity

you died unexpectedly
i wasn't ready to let you go
i thought i'd have you another 20 years
all my losses have been sudden
except the lingering grandmothers

mary got married
can you believe it
and now she and jeremiah are having a baby
your first great-grand-child
it's a boy
so much joy and expectation mixes with my grief

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10 months in september

September 15, 2024

grief, loss


bearded men just like him
i see them all over
white trucks just like his
everywhere
tall men wearing plaid shirts
alive
i used to have a son like that
but now he is vanished

i wear his shirts sometimes
it's a hug from him
he hugged me that last night
i didn't know it would be the last one
but he did
buried among the evergreen

why?
weren't we enough
wasn't i enough
thoughts of frank conversations
of suicide and depression 
you assured me it wasn't like that

the dream of a future
a wife and kids, a family
being an uncle
of holidays and every days 
vanished

but this horrific mixes with joy
a baby expected
your nephew
baby healing my soul
lord, please don't take another

i went to the beach
with your brother and sister
i sat in the water 
waves washed over me
warm and salty

i sat by the water
it was windy
ocean waves, strong and high
the sound and the site
healing salt and sand

i'm getting through the days
swimming my ocean of grief
sometimes bogged down
coming up for air
the grief washes over me
and i let it

remembering
my story silenced
when sorrows like sea billows roll
never drowning
always resurfacing
it is well with my soul

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