Day Nineteen of the First April Remembering

Being a high school teacher can be so much fun. Often, it's hilarious. Don't get me wrong-- it's crazy hard work and you're exhausted when you get home (can I get a witness? I know from your notes that there are more than a couple brothers and sisters-at-arms out there :)). I've been so lucky to have some seriously funny kids-- and it's usually about this time of year that I start getting sentimental about them. They're getting ready to leave me, all in various states of "undress" as it were... some are so totally not ready to be sophomores in any way. Some are still very much middle schoolers. Some started out sweet as babies and are ending the year tough and hardened. Some started off quiet and withdrawn, and are ending the year with the confidence of pop stars. I love teenagers. They're so complicated.

Probably because they are led by their emotions in so many ways, and we all know how complicated that can be.

One of my favorites (and I have quite a few this year) is a young woman from New York. She has this incredible accent-- she tells me that it's a Brooklyn accent. Honestly, I could listen to her talk all day. She sounds like she's 45 years old. She must live with her grandmother, too, because the stuff she says... she's such an old soul. Every day, I'm listening for something for her to say so I can post it here. More than once, she's done it...but I don't write it down and would rather have nothing than misquote her. But I'm on it.

In other news... As I was cleaning my home (um, have I mentioned that it's such a gift from the Lord? And that I am so grateful for it? And that it is beautiful but modest but also the home of my dreams? :) God is faithful) this weekend, this show that profiles Lotto winners came on TLC. One woman's story just struck me.

She said that she wrote a specific number down-- like 12.1 million or something crazy like that, folded the paper in half, and slept on it for a certain number of days. A bunch of details I do not recall came next, and then the next thing you know, she has hit it big for the exact same number... Really?

I mean, I'm sure she wasn't lying.

But dang.

Really?

So, how many of us immediately have a laundry list of things -- specific things, as specific as her number was-- that we would love to "sleep on" and welcome into our lives days later? Both hands raised here.

But it makes me wonder... you might think this is a weird connection, but there is a horrifying movie from the '80's that I see in a whole new light since losing my son: Pet Sematary[sic] (that's how King spells it in the title). The family buries their precious son in the pet cemetary after he is killed because they have discovered that whatever gets buried there does not stay buried. Baby Gage comes back, but it's not the baby they said goodbye to.

It's been so long since I saw the movie (I don't watch scary movies any more-- at all), but I have this one image seared into my mind-- the father is sitting on the floor in his kitchen, having lost everything to the grave, having tried to get everything else back in his own power, and the moment was so profoundly lonely and desperate.

I remember feeling that way last year. Desperate to wake up from this horrific dream. Desperate to say some magic words and make it all be different. A dear friend told me about her faith, in which there was hope that my son's spirit would come back in the body of my next child, and even though it is wildly at odds with my own faith system, part of me wanted that...but it felt like Pet Sematary. God allowed this and took him to His arms. I can't force him back in any way. No medium, no ghosthunter, no hokus pokus. No list printed on parchment and buried under my pillow.

But the desperation claws. How to change it, change it, change it.... It's why I haven't really felt a desire or really even a need to ponder the details of the mystery of his death. I have a couple of ideas, but my midwife is a close friend of mine who would discuss any part of it that I want and I haven't felt the need to bring it up. "Why" doesn't matter so much, still. But that longing for a re-do.

I have a short list of immediate desires. I won't list them here or put them under my pillow, but here is what the Bible says...

As a man thinks in his heart, so he is (Proverbs 23:7)

and

...whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things (Phillippians 4:8)

Remember that old worship song?

Jesus you're true
Jesus you're good
Jesus you're pure
and you are lovely
we will fix our eyes on these things...
Jesus, who is like You?

So I will dwell on the goodness of the Lord-- He knows my hopes and dreams and desires. He knows where and how and to what extent I still long for my son, and always will. He knows my heart more than I know it myself.

So I will stay my mind on Him.

He is lovely.

Candles

Hm. Why did I call this post "candles"? Dunno. Maybe it will come to me by the time I'm finished writing.... I feel like rambling.

So, I have a playlist on my iPod that I named after my friend's playlist on her blog-- my friend Susan, whom I have never met, lost her son four short (long, eternal, minuscule, gigantic, torturous, horrendous, heartbreaking) days after we lost Ben. His name was Will and it still kind of blows my mind how similar our lives are. Susan is an English teacher on the other side of our metropolis. She teaches 9th grade and has the heart of a poet, which you'll know if you read her blog. She finished her MAT program at Emory (alas, her only fault :)) in the last few years. And her heart is broken. I have no idea how we found each other in the fog of those early weeks, but I feel that she is a friend of my heart, though I've never seen her face and we've only connected through our written words. Survivor friendships.

Anyway, I loved the songs she had on her blog and I went and found all of them on iTunes and I named the playlist "Will's Playlist." I don't know if I've told her that.

And it's one of my favorite playlists to listen to. I've added some of my own songs to it, and I listen to it often.

Today, I asked a student to "go to Will's playlist" on my iPod and it occurred to me that I am keeping that boy's memory alive, though I never met him, just by calling out his name. I wanted my student to ask who Will was. I wanted to say, "A friend of my son's." They reached heaven around the same time-- surely God hooked them up, just like He did their mothers.

I gave my kids a writing prompt today that said, basically, "If you could change one thing, what would it be?" They listed all kinds of things. In fact, I'm still at school right now because I had to read all of them-- I had to-- and I had to comment on almost all of them (partly because they'll notice if they didn't get comments, even if they act like they don't care) because they were amazing.

Some kids said that they would change their pasts (at 14? Ah, life...). Some would change their parents' divorces. A couple of girls wrote that they would change what they had worn today :).

One boy wrote, in pencil, at the bottom of his paper,

"Mrs. Swaney, I would change that your baby died."

Oh, my heart.

I called his mom after school. We cried together for a second about how precious that was, and then my phone died and I was saved the trauma of trying to figure out how to end such an intimate phone call with a woman I do not know but whose son blessed me more deeply than he could have even known.

Sometimes freshmen drive me crazy. Other times, they make my heart all gushy and melty and I am so grateful that God created me to be a teacher.

I miss my son.

I've been thinking of all different ways that I can imagine this wreck that happened in the spring that was supposed to be full of dogwoods and roses and pollen and I think of

rose petals
crushed, they release their aroma...

marble
beaten, chiseled and scraped, it releases the shape hidden in the rock...

candles,
lit on fire, disintegrating under the heat, melting away, disappearing, only the flame survives all the way down to the bottom of the jar... releasing its fragrance until every thing is consumed.

Oh God, consume us in this fire. It's such a small fire compared to the infernos I have witnessed in the lives of others. But come and burn away the dross here in the light of this fire. Burn up the flesh and the bitterness and the fear. Keep doing miracles that I seem to only be able to see by lamplight. Kindle this fire and keep it stoked. Burn, burn, burn....

Publix

I love a small town.

I love MY small town. I don't care what all the complainers say-- it has heart.

And it's all happening down at the Publix on the north side of town. Here's what I love: when people say, "Excuse me!" or "Hey, you dropped this!" or "Can I help you with that?" I love when people smile at you, looking you straight in the eye, as they pass you on the cereal aisle.

Today, the grocery store felt like Christmas. People seemed to genuinely have good will toward each other. The smile and nod didn't feel rushed or obligatory-- it felt, when I smiled at this one lady squeezing past my awkwardly placed buggy, that I was pushing happiness through my face and that she reflected it back. No big deal. No commitment required. Just toss it back and forth, like a ball. Toss it and keep going.

Another thing I love about going to our neighborhood grocery store is the fact that I can always count on bumping into friends. Russell and I see each other the most often, and after that is Nancy (whom I haven't seen in a while). Caroline is another regular, as is our good mutual friend Beverly :) (haven't seen her in a while either, come to think of it). This afternoon I saw Carter and one of his beautiful daughters, as well as a couple from my Sunday school class and another family from church. On the way out of the store, I saw Moose, one of the nicest people I've ever met and the owner of my favorite local coffeehouse, Kaiteur.

Sigh.

Peace on earth, good will toward men... Christmas in July. Even though it's August.

It doesn't hurt that the weather in Georgia is gorgeous today. The high was in the mid-80's, which is unbelievably cool for right now, and there's hardly any humidity. The sky is full of gigantic puffy clouds, blown up here from the hurricanes threatening the gulf and the east coast.

Here's something I'm finding: it's okay to enjoy things. I feel really, genuinely happy, even though there are those moments where I remember that someone is missing. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking a tightrope when it comes to that... just keep moving, keep pressing ahead, experiencing things that come, but trying not to get mired down. Sometimes going to the grocery store makes me cry-- especially right after Ben died-- but sometimes it's like today. Either way, you have to go. Best to try to focus on the good. Just keep moving.

Keep moving. That reminds me of something funny. One of my students has, for some reason, starting calling me "Mrs. Dori" from Nemo. I have no idea when it started, but she loves calling me her "Dori teacher" and something in it just makes me smile. Is it that I said, "Just keep swimming" without realizing it? (entirely possible) Have I told them not to get mired down in failure and to keep moving when it seems like they're going to fail? Or is it that she thinks I'm resilient? I don't think I sound like Ellen DeGeneres, and I'm not orange...

But it's true. There is very much a sense of "Just keep swimming" on this season...

Anyway.

There's always more to write, but I have to go finish planning for the week. Many blessings on you-- and thank you for the notes of encouragement. It's so good to know that there are so many of us on this journey together-- whether you've walked through the same experience, your own grief, or you can just empathize... thank you. At the risk of sounding trite, let's just keep swimming...

** Update-- 8/27 So, I asked my student why she was calling me Miss Dori and I laughed so hard when she told me the answer. It's because this whole year I have been so forgetful!!! I've struggled with remembering their names, what time the bell was going to ring, what day of the week it was... ha!!! Oh well, I'm keeping the "keep swimming" thing... :)

journal, journal...

i've been told/that there are those/who will learn how to fly/and i've been told that there are those/who will never die/and i've been told that there are stars/ that will never lose their shine/ and that there is a morning star /who knows my mind/so why should i worry? why should i fret?/ cause i've got a mansion builder /who ain't through with me yet /why should i worry? why should i fret?/ cause i've got a mansion builder /who ain't through with me yet/ and i've been told /that there's a crystal lake in the sky/ and every tear from my eyes /are saved when i cry/ and i've been told there'll come a time/ when the sun will cease to shine/ and that there is a morning star /who knows my mind /so why should i worry? why should i fret?/ cause i've got a mansion builder who ain't through with me yet.. 2nd Chapter of Acts (band)

permit me to write without capitalizing today-- and forgive me-- lately, all of my blog entries seem to read like journal entries :)

sometimes i wish i could teach my students how to live without worry, and then i remind my heart that i need to learn this lesson as well. sometimes i wish that i could just tell them, children, it's all going to be okay. these "light and momentary troubles" you wrestle with in the hallways of your future dreams...they're nothing. they're just nothing.

but when you're fourteen, the hallway is anything but nothing.

do you know that some of them live in abject horror of transitions between classes? and i can tell you that the freshman hallways of our school are packed tight and they look like salmon fighting to get upstream from my desk inside the classroom, and i guess that's exactly what they are right now. fighting to get to safety, to the next level, to mating season, to open water... they are fighting to matter. they are fighting to be heard. they are fighting for a smile or a nod or a laugh or just to be looked at for goodness' sake... sometimes i think they'll do anything to be looked at.

i want to tell them, he's looking at you kiddo. he sees you. he sees me, i know it, and you're in the same room with me, so i know he sees you, too.

sometimes it feels like,

he sees me, kiddo. he sees me. he sees me, i know it, because you're in the room with me and his word says that you have angels watching over you, so i know he sees me, too, because i'm here with you...

i miss my son. and i'm ready to look at the possibility of another child. and i feel so good about being in that place, and i feel so on the very verge of panic over it because already my memories of the days in the hospital are fuzzy (um, the morphine haze didn't hurt in that department...). i feel like i'm looking through the bottom of a heavy green glass goblet when i look at those days in my memory. wavy. i see elizabeth, my midwife and dear friend, and i see dr. c, a precious and good man who will deliver my next child via c-section, and i see my husband holding my son and telling God that we will serve him and i think,

yes, i can do this again. i can.

but i want to build an altar. i want to create some testament to ben's life. the drowsy artist in me wants to build and i am thinking things over in my mind and heart. what to do, what to make....

and i want to do it now, while his loss is still in its infancy.

and i need to do it, because already i can tell that my wound, bruised and scarring, is still painful for others, too, in a different way, and it's easier on them if i don't talk about it. so i hold him, not forgotten, in my heart and i know that this child will never not have lived. his entire life was entertwined with mine, part of my bloodstream, held and cradled and nourished by me and the scar across my tummy is a memorial that i love-- his mark. he was here. he was there. he came forth and went ahead of me. he beat me to eternity but he was here.

but...oh, how can i explain it? the loss sometimes feels so lonely. like a spanish guitar, intense and intricate, filled with long silences, followed by complicated runs of notes and notes and notes.... my husband mourns with me, as do friends and family, but the scar stretches across my body and i think of him morning, noon, and night.

always thinking of you, dear baby ben.

so it's hard to describe the deep hope that i feel being born again in me. the sense that, while everything is changed for me-- even the way the light looks against the trees after a storm is not the same--something new is pushing forth. it's hard to describe the newly twinned nature of my heart: i'm both sad and serene. the part of me that had never known loss, was the uncolored page in the coloring book that was my heart, is colored with red and flesh and strawberry blonde hair, while the old me is waking up again. i am both old and new. i am here and there.

sometimes i leave.
sometimes i'm not in my eyes. sometimes i leave and i sigh. sometimes this blank heaviness is too much and i am sitting with you and then i am not. sometimes it is like this. sometimes i sink into remembrance that looks like forgetfulness to you and i am grateful when you let me go... i will remember myself again and come back again, but i'm always both here and there. lately i'm more here than there, but i guess i'm always both places anymore...

i wonder if anyone else sees it. that i'm older and different. don and i have done this together-- i think it's hard for us to see the changes sometimes. we had such a good relationship before-- i had no idea how powerfully tragedy would strengthen us.

i love him in a way and to a depth that i did not know what possible. i need him. i am so grateful for him.

and God?

this relationship is so complicated.

here is one thing i know:

in the beginning i never knew/just how much i really needed you/more than a friend/someone i could talk to/ you've changed me in so many ways/nobody knows me like you/ you put your arms around me and bring me through/there's many times i don't know what to do/ though some know me well /still nobody knows me like you/all of my secrets to you i tell/you saw each time that i slipped and fell/all of my faults, yes you know them well/but you've never turned me away, no no no/nobody knows me like you... walking in your presence is where i wanna be/ you said in you word/ you said you would lead me /yes i love you, oh i really love you/ i'll go anywhere as long as i know that you'll be there.... all of those nights that i was afraid/ i stood on the promises that you have made/ the way that i act sometimes i am ashamed/but you never turned me away, no no no... nobody knows me like you... (benny hester)

sometimes i think, you know, if i can still love -- me, a woman whose righteousness is as dirty rags-- if i can still love him after all of this... how much better than me, how much higher than me, is he? if MY puny love can survive this heartache that everything inside of me insists he could have STOPPED, then how much deeper and more trustworthy is HIS goodness? how much more amazing and trustworthy is His love if my flaky self can still follow?

friends, our hope is built on nothing less than Jesus blood and righteousness. it's all him.

First days

School has begun!

And it's weird. And good.

Freshmen are strange little people-- already at an incredibly awkward age, add this huge transition and they're even funnier.

I'm sleepy so I won't write too much, but I wanted to tell you about telling the kids about Ben.

I did exactly as I planned-- during introductions, I told them that I wanted to tell them something sad, but something that was important (I should add that this portion of class was very short. We only talked about Ben for a couple of minutes-- no more than one or two). I waited until the very end of my introduction-- I told them happy things and then told them this one very sad thing. Their responses have been so interesting. For one thing, I feel pretty certain that many of them already knew (b/c of having older siblings). That was nice, honestly. They were looking at me with such tenderness and sympathy as I was talking to them, before I told them what happened.

For the rest of them, their first response is mild shock-- a collective gasp and then the precious young teenager "Awww...." I don't know if you know any teenagers, but I've heard this expression of sympathy before-- there is a thing inside teenagers that somehow honestly feels for people. It doesn't show up all the time or in all situations, but when it does, it's uniquely...heavy. Beautifully heavy.

I asked them if they had any questions. Several shared that their moms had lost babies, either in childbirth or during pregnancy. Others shared that they had lost siblings or cousins to accidents or sickness. It was honestly one of the most fascinating "get to know you" first days I have ever experienced. It was not sad or depressing, but it was very real. I think they wondered about the fact that I did not cry as I shared with them (though I almost did yesterday). A couple asked me if this was my first baby and if I wanted to have more.

I loved how real their questions were, and how respectful. These children do not know me, and I do not know them yet, but they blessed me.

And while I have them to thank for that, somehow everything inside me only wants to praise Jesus.

Here is what I hope...

I'm hoping for a lot of things this next school year, but most immediately on my mind:

* to make at least one child feel incredibly good about him/herself.
* to speak encouragement into the life of some person I see daily, whether it's a child or co-worker.
* to be real and approachable with my kids.
* to let the light and life of Jesus Christ shine through my every action, while never proselytizing-- legally, I'm bound to do it with my mouth shut, and it's a law I believe in. I don't think that I would like my child to be evangelized by a person whose faith did not line up with mine, especially when they're in such a powerful position in my child's life. However, I am persuaded that the God I serve is the one true and loving God, and that His desire is to love every person created...and to use me as a vessel for that love. And that's legal every day of the week :)
* to not complain when I am uncomfortable or put out in some way
* to not join in complaining when someone else is uncomfortable or put out!
* to find ways to inspire my students and to coax their most creative, confident selves out into the open
* to add to this list as it occurs to me...

I'm also determined to separate "this time last year" from this year in my mind and heart. Already, I'm remembering that it was when we were getting school IDs made that my friend Joy looked at me and said, "You're pregnant!" when I told her I wasn't feeling great. And it was true. It's true that, "this time last year" I was about three weeks pregnant with my son and I did not know it. I did not know that the most exhilirating and heart crushing season of my life had just commenced. On Monday, I will re-live that day when I visit with Joy while watching the kids, whose names I do not know yet, stand in line for their IDs. I will remember that she told me that I needed to eat some crackers. I will remember that she looked so proud of herself that she had been the one to tell me, and that even the next day, when I wasn't feeling as crummy, she was still convinced.

It will be important that I not cry.

There are some times that it will be okay to cry, but on the first day of school, I don't feel that it will be incredibly important.

I've been asked if I'm going to tell my students about Ben and the answer is yes. I kind of have to. The thing is, we know that teenagers are really great at getting the word out about things, but sometimes their information is...questionable. Honestly, I don't know what last year's students know or don't know, even though the counsellors at my school are personal friends of mine (one of them is a very close friend) and gave them accurate information the day after he died. I heard from one woman (read it in a thread on Facebook, actually) that she was at her doctor's office the Friday after Ben died (it happened on a Tuesday-- but of course, you know that...) and overheard two students talking about it. They were saying that Ben had died of swine flu or something...nice. She set them straight, thankfully, but it occurred to me then: go ahead and just tell them the story. Keep it brief, but let it be personal. They know that it had to hurt, and they'll appreciate my honesty, and they'll appreciate being entrusted with that information. It's not a secret and it is one of the most important things that has ever happened to me.

Which leads me to the "how" of what my plan is. On the first day of school, we'll do lots of stuff, but one of the things we will do is an introduction piece. I will introduce myself to them and share with them about Ben. Then I will ask them to think of the most important thing that has ever happened to them-- doesn't have to be the saddest thing, but just the most important thing so far-- and write about it (of course, I will remind them that I am a "mandatory reporter" and they should be very wise about what they choose to put down-- if they don't want the social worker to know, they should consider not writing it down...).

And voila: we begin to know each other.

And I have a platform for talking about the importance of literature in our culture, in our lives, in the lives of writers-- everything.

Alright. Off to continue the work of school.

It's good to have this new season. Even if it's not what I had envisioned for this year. It's going to be okay.

Baby pic again!

Okay, here you can see his little head and his little hands, which he was moving all around. He actually turned toward us and I was hating that this wasn't the 3D scan, but no big deal: we'll see him for real in just a few weeks. I'm officially 8 weeks from my due date... oh my gosh. That's huge.

I'm off to bed for now, but I've been thinking on some things lately that I want to jot down. I'll be back in the next couple of days to do that.

Until then, let this bit of freshman wisdom tide you over: Did you know that Indians (Native Americans) did not bathe because they were afraid of water? Yes, according to my girl Ericka, that's the "God's honest truth."

One of my boys advised me to put that down on my list of dumb things freshmen say. Done, Hunter :)