With New Eyes I see

This morning I realized that it is with Mario's death that I have been given new eyes to read scripture with a new and very different perspective. I am finding that there is a longing to understand scripture in a much different way. As I read through my devotions, the lessons seem to resonate at a deeper level and are applied to my life with more meaning. It has become personal.

I'm finding that I want to understand what Mario may be experiencing right now in Heaven, what he experienced in his death as he entered Heaven, how God sees each of us and how he saw Mario during his 17 years of life here on earth. It has been humbling to learn at a much more real and personal way that God provides for us by means that we often don't even recognize. A recent discovery that struck my core: Jesus intercedes on our behalf and the Holy Spirit does the same.

((Side note: Who better to pray for us than Jesus and the Holy Spirit. I could stop right there and just let that simmer...and I am in awe of it...Jesus, the one that was mocked, savagely beaten and hung on a cross to die for me and you - he intercedes on my behalf to the God of the universe - the same God that made you and me. Seriously, that is huge...and it is humbling!))

Since Mario's death, the actual inner workings of the Spiritual realm have become clearer and more prominent in the things read and heard. This is becoming so much so that it motivates an earlier than usual rise in the morning, a thirst for greater understanding of all things spiritual, and is producing in me a very different perspective around what is truly important in life.

I am by no means perfect in these things but rather have become more sensitive to the promptings and lessons of the Spirit...something I don't think would have happened had it not been for Mario's death. As such, I stand firm in the belief that Mario's death was not in vain.

It can easily be said that in Mario's death, he not only still lives, but he is quite possibly more alive than ever before.

God is brilliant.

"The Spirit of God, who raised Jesus from the dead, lives in you. And just as God raised Christ Jesus from the dead, He will give life to your mortal bodies by this same Spirit living within you." Romans 8:11

"Because Jesus lives forever, His priesthood lasts forever. Therefore He is able, once and forever, to save those who come to God through Him. He lives forever to intercede with God on their behalf." Hebrews 7:24-25

"And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow - not even the powers of hell can separate us from God's love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below - indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 8:38-39

Grieving is Twisted (Part II)

In my mind it is expected that as time goes on, things would be better. The pain of grieving would decrease. After all, isn't there a saying that time heals all wounds? Oh what a fool I was to think that.

Many of you have expressed how strong I have been through all of this. With desperation I want you to know that the strength you see is not me. Never would I want someone to see my life and my grieving process and think that there is something wrong with them for not grieving in the same way. You need to know that everyone grieves differently, at different paces even.

What you need to know is that I still cry...daily...without fail. Even in the firm belief that Mario is in Heaven, is safe, is happy, and is way better off than I can imagine - I miss him. In the midst of an emotional moment this week I tweeted exactly what I felt as if it were a new discovery for me: "It is not in his death that I am sad. It's the inability to touch him, hold him, talk to him & laugh w/ him that is torturous." Truth.

And there it is. My new reality. A new reality that is hard to grasp, hard to make sense of. Sometimes reality hits at the strangest times. And sometimes as I stare reality in its face, it oddly feels like it is not reality at all. Things are still surreal.

Over the past six weeks I have tried to set the table for 5, instead of 4. I have had confusion when signing a birthday card to someone from our family and getting stuck when it would have been the place to write Mario's name - I simply didn't know what to do. I have tried to make arrangements for him to get a ride home as that would normally be the case in the scenario at the time. His supper was mentally planned multiple times because what we were having wouldn't be something he would want. My parents, Greg and I sat in silence, head bowed, holding hands, all waiting for Mario to say the prayer before supper like he always did - before realizing someone else was going to have to say it. I've headed to his bedroom to say hello to him when I got home from work, to say goodnight before going to bed, and to wake him up in the morning. I have put some of his favorite "standard" grocery items in the cart before realizing it - and put it back because no one else will eat it. The moments like these seem never-ending.

How twisted is the grieving process? Very.

• I feel as though I somehow need to be strong for everyone else. 
• I feel weak for crying...and even more so when the tears begin to flow without my permission or control.
• I don't want to talk about Mario's death because I don't want people to get tired of hearing about it and get irritated with me talking about it. But I think about it non-stop. 
• I want to hang pictures up of him that we received already framed...but don't want people to think I'm setting up some sort of a shrine or something. 
• I want to share stories about Mario often - and always have done that - but now find myself hesitating because again, I don't want people to think I'm completely obsessed and unable to move on.
• I want to wear the shirts that his friends at the high schools made to honor him - but don't want people to think I'm out for attention.
• I don't want people to think they need to be careful around me - but at the same time, I feel unbelievably fragile.
• I want to do his laundry but somehow feel like I'm being disrespectful to him for even considering moving it.
• We used his room for a staging area for the big furniture that was moved from the Champaign house but I couldn't help feeling guilty for using "his space" for that. 
• Everyone talks about the guilt and/or regret that so many people have who are in this type of situation. Thankfully, so far, I haven't experienced that at all - but I feel guilty for not feeling it. (I told you this was twisted...)
• And there's more, but I'll spare you. 

I used to say that I was living day by day. My new life requires me to live moment by moment. I have been learning that I have to give myself grace, even if others don't at some point. I have to be okay with not being okay - and mean it. My life is different now. I am searching for the new normal because the old normal will never be normal again. 

All of this and I have Christ in my life. Don't even think about what my life would be like without Him! When I said earlier that the strength you see is not me, I meant it. That is the truth. As for me? I'm a mess. But what God does with that mess has been nothing short of a miracle. What you see is Him, not me. Please hear that...read it again...let it sink in. When speaking at Mario's Celebration of Life, at some point, I went completely off what I had prepared. I had no idea what I said. Literally I had to watch the video to see what came out of my mouth. That was not me. 

So many people say it is my faith that has gotten me through and I thought that was true. But it is not. Craig Grochele said the other day, "Don't put your faith in your faith. Put your faith in God." Whoa. It puts a different spin on things doesn't it? So, that means that instead of "hanging on to our faith", we should be hanging on to God. It is in that belief of God that our faith is made real.

(Inserting a little extra commentary here - 2/23/2016 - the other thing I have heard multiple times is about how I must be mad at God for taking Mario. I'd like to debunk that by saying I am not mad at God, nor have I ever been. It may sound crazy but I am incredibly thankful that God was merciful. Merciful? Yes. He was merciful in that He took Mario on impact. All evidence points to an instant death, on impact from the blunt force trauma. How is that merciful? That means he didn't suffer. He wasn't laying there in pain like some thought happened...all alone...out in the middle of a cornfield (by the time the car stopped). The first responders that I had the honor of meeting shared with me that when they got there, Mario looked as if he was asleep. No fear on his face. No pain. Just peacefully asleep. In my mind, there are a thousand or more ways that this could have ended. If it must happen, I'd much rather it be quick and painless. That, to me, is a merciful God at work. I'm not mad. I'm thankful for His grace and mercy.)

As the grieving process continues - as I suspect it will for a long time, know that your continued prayers, love, and support in various ways has made a difference. Thank you for your friendships, patience and kind words, your hugs and your smiles, for checking in on us and for loving us right where we are...even in the midst of the twisted mangle called the grieving process...

#aintstressin

#missingyou

Grieving is Twisted (Part I)

Getting close to the two year anniversary of Mario's death, I have noticed my mind and heart getting caught up in all of the feelings. Deciding to blog to "get it out of my head and onto a screen" (as I like to say) I noticed the blog post below that never was posted - on purpose. In fact, my feelings were running at such a high rate that there is a part 2. After reading through it all, my thought is that I could just say "ditto" and leave it at that. It's all relevant and it is as if I am starting to relive some of it again.

Please know that there is never a day or waking hour that Mario doesn't cross my mind for something. But this time of year brings a hypersensitivity with it apparently. I was hopeful it would just be the first year...I can confirm it is the second as well.

Although for whatever reason I was too afraid to post this six weeks after Mario's death, it's getting posted now. For anyone who is going through the grieving process anew, I hope it is helpful. A glimpse into my reality in April of 2014...(part 2 tomorrow)

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Grieving is twisted.

This blog post could close right there with that one sentence, those three little words, but I'll explain - if I can. 

Today marks the six week anniversary of that dreaded call from the Deputy Coroner who had been sitting outside the house in Champaign for well over an hour waiting for me to come "home", not realizing we had moved just three weeks earlier to Tuscola. She didn't want to deliver the news over the phone and hesitated many times before she shared that Mario was in an accident. It wasn't until I assured her that my husband was next to me that she finally said those words: "I'm so sorry. He did not survive." 

What the very kind Deputy Coroner didn't realize is that I already knew. I didn't know it for a fact, but I knew something wasn't right. Something inside me stirred and my heart dropped when I received a twitter notification from the local paper at 7:27 p.m. saying, "Police report an accident at Cardinal and Rising." I tried to reason with myself that Mario wouldn't go that way. He would take the interstate all the way to lacrosse practice. Then the internal wrestling began: "no, he wouldn't have known to do that. He would have taken familiar routes. Why would he do that? Why Rising? No, he would have just taken Staley. No, he could have taken Rising thinking it was a shortcut. I remember when he told me he thought it was a shortcut. What am I thinking? This is crazy. That isn't him. He would call if he was in an accident." 

A few minutes before 8 I gave in and sent him a text to ask if he made it; something I never do. No response. Again with the reasoning: practice started at 8. He isn't around his phone and that explains the unresponsiveness. More wrestling. When 9:30 rolled past on the clock and still no response even after practice should have been over, I reasoned he was a chatter box and loved to hang out after practice to talk and throw the ball around with his friends. But looking back, deep down, I knew. 

10:18 - Casting out the "bait" text telling him to invite his friend to supper to celebrate his birthday with us the next night, including in it a cautionary, "Get home safely" and seeing it turn green (meaning it is not connected to wireless or the phone is off - for iPhones), I knew. I knew but I tried to call anyway - it went straight to voice mail. I knew. Right after I told Greg we were going to wait this out, the phone rang. "NO ID". I knew. I'm pretty sure Greg knew too. And it was in that moment that life changed and the race was on to get in touch with our immediate family before the coroner's office had to release his name to the press who had already been out at the scene and showed footage of it on the 10 p.m. news. (So thankful we don't watch the news!) 

In the middle of the night, and into the wee hours of the morning, our house was flooded with the love and presence of Pastor Jerris and some of our closest friends. Even in the extreme emotional exhaustion, sleep did not come easy and when there was a momentary drift into sleep, my body would not allow it to continue and woke itself up with the groaning of the heart that escaped through my voice involuntarily. I cannot explain it - it was as if sound just overflowed from the breaking of my heart. 

For the next two weeks everything was on a foggy autopilot. There were momentary tears as the pain welled up but most of my waking hours were steeped in the details of getting his sister home from Spain, cemetery plots, obituaries, caskets, flowers, service information, clothes for him, clothes for us, and the list goes on...and continues to go on even to this day.  

And the grieving doesn't end there...