When Jack passed away, 7 years ago, still seems like yesterday sometimes, he was trying to save for his first tattoo. He knew exactly what he wanted and knew what it was going to cost him. He could have done it that month in May or it might have been 2 years later, Jack wasn’t good at saving money. Since his accident I live with many regrets, him not getting that tattoo before he died is just one of many. Regrets cut deep.

Everyone that knows our family and knows Jack’s story knows that Jack tended to spend his money on others in need, which is how the #loveBIG foundation came to be. I think it gave Jack great joy to do for others. “Joy” is a difficult concept after child loss. There is a lot of personal guilt associated with having “joy”, it does not feel right. I often feel like I don’t deserve it. At some point a year or so after Jack died I was explaining that to a friend and he said “amor fati”.  What? He said it’s Latin, look it up. So I did: “The phrase “amor fati”  is Latin that roughly translates to “love of fate” or “love of one’s fate.” The idea is one that’s used to describe a state of mind that allows you and I to accept, and even embrace, everything that happens around us in our pursuit of a good life. In other words, we must find “joy” in our circumstance. Practitioners of Amor Fati argue that it isn’t enough to simply bear what life throws our way; instead, we should try to embrace and even cherish both the highs, more difficult situations, and lows we find ourselves in.”

I had to sit with that concept for a long time before it really made sense to me. I have to have “joy” in my life while I wait to see my son again. Joy for my wife and my girls and the friends that matter. Joy for my Faith that assures that Jack and I will be reunited and I will hear his laugh and get one of his famous bear hugs. Life would not be worth living without joy. It dawned on me that “amor fati” would make a cool tattoo for me, but there had to be more than just the phrase. So I stuck that Latin and the understanding of its meaning in my pocket and tried to live it while I looked to complete the idea for a tattoo. About a year ago, I don’t remember how or who or when, grief brain you know, I picked up on the meaning of a lotus flower. It means many things in different cultures but check this, “Because lotuses rise from the mud without stains and they return to the murky water each evening and open their blooms at the break of day, lotus flowers are celebrated as symbols of strength, persistence resilience, and rebirth.” It took strength, persistence and resilience and a rebirth of sorts to be able to live for myself and others joyfully without guilt. Some days I fail miserably and some days so does Sarah. There are still days that I do not want to get out of bed, same for Sarah. Those days we lean in to God and each other and we just go until the Joy finds its way in. Joining “amor fati” together with the lotus flower completed my idea for a tattoo. I knew instantly that it had to happen. I sat down with a great artist on a Saturday afternoon in April and 4 1/2 hours later, JOY! Playing on Sarah’s first year of 13 things on the 13th…

Here is my list for year seven- straight from my grief stricken simple minded thinking:     
1.    We are on this earth for a short time     
2.    We all have struggles     
3.    If you are feeling sorry for yourself, look around at what others are going through. You have it OK
4.    Do not carry guilt that you cannot alter     
5.    Live kindly     
6.    Find a way to help others     
7.    Practice being selfless     
8.    Love those that matter to you, fiercely
9. Always forgive, no one says you have to forget
10. Do the right thing
11. Surround yourself with your people and put your energy there – while always being open to expand the circle     
12. Have Faith in our Savior. He assures me that I will see my son soon and spend all eternity with those I love.     
13. JOY

I recently heard this question posed on a podcast and I have not been able to stop thinking about it.  My initial head voice was a bit sarcastic. Yep! It’s the gift that keeps on giving. It gives me: pain, sadness, anger, frustration, physical maladies, brain fog, a whole list of “what if’s”, regret, guilt, and questioning. But… then I had the opportunity to take several trips that calmed my world and opened space for true pondering. My first nudge to think differently, was a visit to the 911 Memorial and Museum. I went on my own, which by the way included my first independent Subway ride- I impressed myself. I actually picked up the audio tour and spent the time to hear the background and purpose for each item selected for the museum. The wall pictured below includes a quote made of iron. While the quote alone is powerful, it was the artists share that he used iron because when “iron is touched by fire, it goes through a transformative process.”

Hmm… I believe when I got the knock on the door 7 years ago this week, fire touched my life. It was immediate, physical and emotional pain. In that minute, what I didn’t believe was that I would ever find anything good resulting from the heartbreak of hearing, “Ma’am, your son didn’t survive.” As the days went by, I would slowly identify some good that would at least momentarily numb the heartbreak. My son was in the ultimate “good place” with no more sorrow or pain. That one “good” took me through a large amount of questioning. Selfishly, I would still prefer to have his big presence in my home, going through my pantry, making up Jackisms, and hugging me from behind while I’m at the kitchen counter. I found good in my son’s story and life choices, but that good could have been extended had this not happened. So, to keep that good going, the #loveBIG Foundation was formed. As his story and our response were shared, I started receiving requests from friends to help other hurting moms and dads that were walking through tough times, teenage angst, or even grief from child loss. This might be a text string or phone calls or FB messages, but I could do that. I could show up to explain there would be some good again, in time, after the heartbreak. This led to me joining the Stephen Ministry program at my church. If I’m going to use my experience, I want to use it well. This created a place for me to offer my ears and empathy beyond just the casual requests from friends. During these seven years, gosh that’s hard to type… how is it 7, our family has endured several other losses and changes. One endurance encountered is ushering our youngest though some tough stuff. Post Concussion Syndrome to physical ailments to mental health challenges… we have battled alongside her. I must admit during these trials, I am/was guilty of questioning…more heartbreak? Really? When does the break come? When does the good lighten the backpack we carry that feels full of rocks? During my more recent travels, it dawned on me, I really was enjoying traveling (which I always thought I hated). I was meeting new people, hearing their stories, slowing down to match their pace of life, and appreciating their history.  I could build connections, appreciate others, and empathize far more deeply than prior to that knock. Traveling allowed for more time to walk and appreciate my surroundings. Quiet the sarcastic voice and really consider the question I heard in the fall of 2023.   If you are still reading this very disconnected post, you may be putting it together. It took a lot of ah ha moments for me to receive the message. My belief system has changed a bit in the past seven years. Like iron, the heat of the fire of grief and life, has transformed me in multiple ways. The iron doesn’t form letters perfectly with one moment of fire, but the iron must be worked, molded, the heat turned up and down-a transformative process.  I am ready to say that, while I would not wish for a loss like Jack for anyone, ever, the heartbreak has become my gift.  In the transformation, I slow down, travel, listen, empathize, minister, walk alongside, and have more insight than I did before. I will forever have a before and after. I am confident in stating that out of heartbreak, I have found my gift.

When I realize that Easter is around the corner, I get unsettled. I admit I avoid identifying the date on the calendar until I am reminded by ads or a reminder that I get Good Friday off work.  Of course, I follow lent beginning with Ash Wednesday and there are always the Fish Fry reminders, but the moment that I get that date, something starts feeling off. I wish I could describe it better. It’s that… something is coming … and it creates anxiety. I am short tempered. I need more hugs (which most know, I’m not a hugger), but I crave being closer to Nathan and the girls. Almost six years in and I think I have put my finger on it. 

Easter was the last holiday with Jack. The last family church outing where we were all “dressed up”, took pictures, dyed eggs, and ate a meal with extended family as a WHOLE family. The picture of my beautiful boy that we used to celebrate his life was taken on our front porch Easter Sunday. I only like the pictures of him from his waist up because I could see the vape in his pocket on the full body pictures and I hated that thing. I complained that it showed in those pictures and he just smiled and said, “I know mom.”

This season brings the looping of the lasts. Where was Jack the night before Easter? He spent the night out at the last minute. The call that he was tired and didn’t want to drive and I was upset because I worried he wouldn’t make it home for church. But he did…

The loop of his world and the things we said and did in the coming weeks between Easter and May 13^th.  He did a lot “right”. Finished school, went to work, bought his first car independently (never even made a payment on it before it was totaled), agreed to live by our rules or acknowledged he couldn’t stay in our home. He experienced great loss in those weeks. One of his friends chose not to live and he struggled and hurt for his mom. I attended that funeral with him and I am so thankful we had that car time on the way there and home to talk. He was hurting. I don’t think I had the right words, but the time … together… he could trust me to cry in front of me for his friend.

He was constantly pulled over by the local police for random small infractions like… a too loud muffler and a mirror that was not turned the right way. I would go so far as to say targeted (in fairness, he had earned the reputation by making bad choices), and Nathan and I told him that he had to do what was right and follow the law and eventually they would get tired. We stood by our word that if he got pulled over and earned a visit to traffic court we were out because he was 18 as he constantly reminded us.  Interestingly, his Grandpa and Grana weren’t having that because they listened to his story and took the ticket to a friend that was an attorney and were prepared to help Jack fight it.  The day in court never came because of the accident. I wonder if when my dad and Jack were reunited Jack thanked him for having his back on that ticket. 

All the stories of where he went that last week. People he hadn’t seen in a long time. The number of miles he put on that new car in a week. The dirty hand print he left on my wall the day he walked out the door. He had been working on the farm in the rain and left his muddy boots and a dirty handprint behind. I told him to be careful that night when he left because it was raining and he said…”so drive really fast?” And giggled. Then he said, “I love you mom”. He left me with that and a dirty handprint. When we moved to Louisville in 2020, I left that handprint and apologized to the new owners that I just couldn’t clean it. I have heard from mutual friends that it is still there.  Several friends and family wear his fingerprint around our necks, but we don’t really need to… he left his handprint all over our hearts and minds.

So, the weeks before Easter starts this incessant remembering.  I listen to more music. I ingest the words and take them to heart. Music is powerful. Cathartic. I feel everything more. Weird, even TV Shows or News Articles generate more empathy and open the scab of the last Whole family celebration- Easter- to the knock on the door. While the bunny and the eggs bring fun family memories, the sacrifice of Good Friday to the tomb being rolled away flood my heart and mind with a mass of indescribable emotions. I am desperately thankful and appreciative because this gift… this sacrifice of our heavenly Father assured my son is living the ultimate. Until our reunion, I anticipate this season will continue to feel uncomfortable, but conclude with unlimited gratitude that the tomb was empty.

We recently started attending a new church. Finding a church is not an easy endeavor for us especially since one of us is a preacher’s kid who might be a bit critical of those that don’t do it “the right way”. No church is perfect- shocking I know. One might have the worship format we prefer, while another the music, and yet another welcomes questioning and includes an open invitation to the table.

We have seen the underbelly of churches by serving on committees and observing our parent’s ministry. What many don’t realize is that pastoring, at least for my dad, meant being a theologian, mentor, counselor, preacher, author, educator, HR Director, Buildings and Grounds foreman, janitor, community activist, and the list goes on- all while making sure not to offend any church members. Churches are like neighborhoods. There are Mrs. Kravitz’s, Archie Bunkers, Martha Stewarts, and armchair theologians. We love them all, but at times it can make us tired.

We have experienced hurtful situations in church and seen the hands and feet of Jesus serve us in church communities. During COVID we watched our friends turn to living room church and not go back. Others are deconstructing their faith and are not prepared to return to communal worship while they unpack it. This is a conversation that could be and is a book, so I won’t digress, but when noticing empty pews and wondering if the people are going to come back after COVID- know most have not walked away from their relationship with God, but rather their relationship with organized religion. Add the political climate that misuses religious assertions to inform policy and the church buildings will continue to be empty. Without reservation, using the Bible to exclude, hurt, or alienate any person or group is wrong. So… add that to the list of must haves in our church- one that knows we are right in our beliefs.  

Then there is convenience. This seems like an odd requirement, but we found one church in Louisville that was a fit, but it was a 20-minute drive and we had to really ask ourselves if we would commit to attending anything beyond Sunday morning.  Honestly, how do you build community if you are not engaged beyond an hour every Sunday morning?

Finally, the music can’t reduce us to blubbering fools. This is what has really kept us out of church. We have always been music people. After Jack’s accident, we returned to church. Faith that he was welcomed into the arms of our Father, that he has no more sorrow – pain, and that we will be reunited carries us and so worship seemed the best way to connect our faith with thankfulness for these promises, but then the first song started. Yes, just one song. Our first week back to church in 2017, lyrics that always had meaning, but now they rocked our world. 5 years later…still… we cry when singing hymns or worship music. We have gotten better at hiding the Kleenex and quickly re-grouping, but wherever we land for church they are just going to have to welcome our tears.

After sharing all these “requirements” and our history with organized religion, you understand how finding a church is not easy.  Add our grief baggage and we might be tough to love and welcome. From the first Sunday visiting we were challenged.  Remember the part about “right in our beliefs”.  The pastor shared that he studies, reads, and contemplates every side of a conversation or issue before he ever stands before us to walk us through the message. Honoring others’ opinions and listening is a lost art.   He did say, he usually isn’t swayed in his beliefs, but he respects the conversation enough to have it. That’s refreshing!

In a following service, we were asked to remember that all people are a child of God (even if they cut you off in traffic) and carry that through the week. This seemed so simple until we got to Sam’s that afternoon to do the shopping and realized that nobody but us knows how to drive a cart through a crowded store. We now find ourselves looking at each other and smiling through – “they are a child of God”.  It does open your heart a bit.

Next we try a Sunday School class and hear of community outreach and intentional inclusive efforts in the community. Good to know you don’t have to fit in a box to go to church here. That same class sat with us in tears the next week as we shared our story and giggled through stories of Jack and introduced them to the #loveBIG Foundation and why it was formed. We talked a lot! I’m sure they were overwhelmed, but frankly it felt amazing to talk about our son! We connected why the small things- like “everybody is a child of God”, including everybody, working in the community, and letting people you barely know dump their life story during small group was the epitome of loving BIG.  

Last week, we were challenged to be a light. If that isn’t loving BIG, I don’t know what is. Jack Paris was a light in this world! He wasn’t perfect and he messed up a lot, but his light always shined through. It was a noisy, hyper light… but an amazing light. Nathan does a better job of sharing his light than I do, because it makes me uncomfortable to start random conversations, greet people in Thornton’s that I don’t know, or be outgoing in engaging people and wishing them a good day. But… I am trying.

Just as I changed my perspective on what is important after the accident, my perspective on conversation may need to change. Part of my introvert tendencies are to only have conversation if it is meaningful – no general weather or small talk conversations. I’m not sure where this comes from. It is not the time commitment. Maybe it is because it takes energy to engage in small talk as much as meaningful discussions.  I make small talk all day at work with clients and by the end of the day, I have nothing left. Or do I? Could holding a door and greeting somebody with a smile take that much energy? What about the knowledge that I am greeting a child of God and being a light … can that rebuild my energy stores? In the process of searching for a church community, we have been challenged and we have found a place that gets #loveBIG. And … we got to tell the incredible story of Jack Paris to new friends which always makes it a good day.

5 years… still a grieving mamma

I can’t explain why this May 13^th is harder or more dreaded than all of them since 2017.  Maybe because I didn’t think I could make it 5 minutes, days, months, much less, years. I honestly dread every May.

It is the anticipation of the 13^th, but it is also the yard work that comes with spring, that was your responsibility that now falls to us. It is the cars that drive a bit too fast with the windows down and loud music up because the weather if finally turning. It is also graduations, engagements, weddings, and Mother’s Day. All life transitions and accomplishments that you will never enjoy and we will never celebrate as a family. I am happy for your friends as they continue their journeys, but I’m jealous and sad too. None of that is any different than the prior years so why is this year so much heavier?

As I try to identify the weight of 5 years, it’s just a number, I realize that the world did not stop and wait for me to finish grieving. Nothing fell apart without your smile, your hugs, your made-up words, and the fast food you delivered to friends because you really just wanted to drive your car. Not even me. Shouldn’t I have fallen apart?  How could I have left your home? Sold your dirt bike? Gotten new puppies? Taken amazing vacations? Laughed? And the list goes on… The weight just might be guilt that I made it 5 years without you. Not only that, but I had wonderful, memorable moments in those years.

Bottom line… I don’t know why the 5 year mark is a struggle. What I do know is…

·      Time does not heal all wounds.

·      Nobody knows what to say, so they often don’t say anything, which is lonely.

·      I love telling and hearing Jack stories and I twinge when it hits me again that there will not be new ones.

·      I still don’t know how to answer when asked how many kids I have- honesty shuts down the conversation and leaving you out just feels wrong.

·      No event occurs- church services, weddings, funerals, vacations, moves, new tattoos, graduations, going to the movies- that you are not thought of and your reaction pictured and discussed by this family.

·      Some days, I jump out of bed and start the day and other days I can’t imagine dragging out of bed realizing you aren’t here. But I do get out of bed.

·      As sad as it is to lose others we love, like Grandpa and Cousin Ryan, I am jealous that they are with you and our Father enjoying the ultimate home.

·      You would be so proud of your sisters and your dad!

·      #loveBIG Foundation established in your honor has helped many go to camp, have Christmas, play sports, transitioned addicts to working lives with cars and living arrangements and most recently endowed a scholarship for those needing assistance to attend vocational schools.

And… while the wound is healed a bit, it doesn’t take much to knock the scab off because after 5 years… I am still a grieving mama.

Preface to this blog post: There is really no point or great acknowledgement, other than … it is what it is.

 “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people just exist.” 0scar Wilde

Two weeks before our family lost Ryan Hall, son, brother, common law husband, dad, nephew, cousin, friend, provider, adventurer, sinner, A student, F student, athlete, substance abuser, recovered addict, Child of God and the list goes on… Nathan and I were in Hannibal for a wedding and a funeral. Our dear friend’s daughter was getting married and a high school acquaintance was burying her son following his suicide. The weekend was mixed.

We love spending time with our family and Ryan’s family. The wedding was beautiful and fun and … well weddings are hard for us… but we didn’t feel that this time. We were with people we loved that loved us and our hearts had healed a bit more since the last wedding attempt. Then the visitation rocked our world. As we learned about this child (19 is still a child), we couldn’t help but see the similarities with him and Jack. We hurt for the parents, friends, siblings, and- selfishly- ourselves all over again. As we got back to our family’s home, Ryan and his family were there to enjoy the day and he was riding his motorcycle- fast and loud! When he pulled into the yard, I fussed at him and I used my hurt mamma heart to say “… no mamma wants to go through what we saw today or the journey we are on so slow down and be extra careful.” Ryan chuckled (I wish I could describe it better) and said “… you only live once. I’m gonna live and have fun doing it.”

He then moved on to running the pitching machine for his 13 year old and coaching his 2 girls to track down the balls and bring them back safely. Interesting how he was so specific with his girls to keep them safe of the pitching machine and hit balls. So concerned for his own children. Fast forward to the end of the night, Ryan’s cell phone dropped out of his pocket while on this motorcycle driving to town to get a car part for his – well, she’s his wife… not on paper, but in heart and soul, – when he arrived after dark he had the broken phone and not the car part. I share this so that all those that have or live with a person that operates with an ADHD brain have a clear picture of what Ryan experienced every day. A Nero typical person would be so mad and frustrated at the events. How could he not have the part?  The exception to that response is those that have walked with an ADHD brain before. Ryan didn’t speak to us upon his return, but instead gathered his family and went home. What Nathan and I knew in our hearts after years with Jack and Olivia and meJ … is Ryan was beating himself up more than any outsider could. He lost a valuable phone in the pursuit of rescuing someone he loved dearly and it got messier from his actions, not better.

Fast forward two weeks, the call… I knew when Nathan’s phone rang at midnight. Intuition is strong when you have walked our path. I could hear through his phone as his sister delivered the news that she had lost her son, as we had, in a car accident. I can’t say exactly what I said or did, but inside (maybe outside) I screamed like you can’t imagine. My pain was so immediate, deep, and extended to so many hearts that just broke. I wanted to get in the car at that moment … surely I could do something … Ryan’s parents were integral to our healing and that has not stopped since May 2017! Then it hit me, Ryan has kids… property… he is an adult with tremendous responsibilities. I flashed on the pitching lesson from two weeks prior. Then my brain travels back to selfish territory… my girls. It is the same scenario. One is here, do we wake her? She is still in counseling from the PTSD of the night the coroner delivered the news of her brother. My other girl is in the same scenario as 2017 as well, in Macon, GA. Do we call now or wait until morning? Who can be with her? Our hearts tugged and broke all night. The questioning seeps in as well. Really God, the same family? Again?

Next I can recall, we are walking in the door in MO and as much as my heart wants to cry out and stop the world to hug on Ryan’s parents, I go into this mode of… what about this arrangement and that arrangement and this to do and that to do… My poor SIL’s likely thought I had lost it. I am managing this death like a major work project at which I must excel. Everything will be perfect and as the family wants. So much to do, so many boxes to check, so much training on how to do this. You see those of us that have been here know the steps, the order, the must do’s, the must haves. More than once people said to me, “…wow, I can’t believe you thought of that …” I wish I didn’t know. I am happy that I am helpful, but being helpful delays acknowledging the hurt.

My busy body self kicks in and lots is accomplished in the following days. I have managed to check boxes, accomplish the necessities, listen and sit with the family (most important), and make sure that my welcome is worn out before I head home. That was two weeks ago today.

Today I clicked on a podcast that featured a mother that lost her 3 year old to strep throat and as I am listening. I question myself. Why? Why do I listen to these podcasts? Why do I read the grief books and true stories about child loss? Why do I google the topic and send links to others in my spot? Why do I join FB groups for child loss? Why do I value conversations about our lost children so dearly? Then out of the blue, I think of the Ryan chuckle and declaration “… you only live once and I’m gonna have fun doing it…” Am I living in a dark place and missing the fun? Am I obsessed with sadness and grief? Did I miss Ryan’s message, which by the way, was pretty much word for word what Jack had said. Those two were scarily alike.

Maybe so… maybe I’m missing out. But… I, sounds crazy, find joy in sitting with other parents and hearing about their children. Who they were. What they did. How their journey to heaven went. I want to honor the lost children and walk with their parents through this horrific journey. I want to hug parents and tell them they did it right! You can’t imagine the questioning, guilt, and anger that parents experience in this walk. I want to affirm parents, we did our best. Our kids were wonderful, fun, thoughtful, kind, creative, loved, and valued no matter what journey they took… ADHD journey, suicide journey, substance abuse journey, never having a chance journey- died too young, any journey!!! We are and our kids are Children of God. We were created in his image. He too is a grieving parent so that our kids can dwell with Him forever.  Past mistakes, kids or parents, didn’t cause the death and we can celebrate the life and journey they had and we have.

I love Jack Paris. I love Ryan Hall. I love their families, my families, their friends (tattooed, felons, homeless, entrepreneurs, and the list goes on). I may not be able to jump on a motorcycle and ride away my stress, but I can share and appreciate the person that valued that experience. I must cherish every moment and not just exist.

“When you stop just existing and you start truly living, each moment of the day comes alive with wonder and synchronicity.” – Steve Maraboli

#loveBig Foundation, Inc and the Paris Family have relocated from Versailles, KY to Louisville, KY. 60 miles, 1hour difference, a world away… Sarah’s family is in Louisville, as is, Olivia Paris and so the attraction to take advantage of the strong housing market was too great and we just did it.  Literally, we decided on a Monday, listed on a Tuesday, put the sign in the yard on Friday, posted online at 6pm Friday night, and Saturday night we were under contract. The next 36 days are a blur. We had to find a new place to live. When the housing market is strong for sales, it is tougher and more expensive to buy so that was the first thing we had to address. We needed a place to lay our heads. Next was a flurry of appraisals, inspections, selling of all things needed for six acres that aren’t needed in the “city”, and the clean out of the past 12 years of our lives. That was no joke! It took a 30 yd dumpster and numerous trips to various donation and recycling sites. While packing, we pushed ourselves to embrace minimalization.  

During the process, the few friends that knew we took this on asked, “how are you doing with this?”. Frankly, we were so crazy busy and exhausted, we took that question in relation to all the moving parts and coordinated efforts required for a move. That question, of course we don’t know the true intent, took on a new meaning for us as we closed the garage doors for the last time and opened new ones.  “This” became about a change that went from a quick gut punch to a leaking of water from the eyes to a commitment to carve a place for Jack in our new home. Once the dust settled and we could breathe, all the feels crept in. While Jack was missed every day at the Paris Ranch, we had plenty of reminders that brought us joy.   

While we complained that six acres was a lot to keep up with without his help, mowing that six acres was an opportunity to remember teaching him to mow and weed eat and work outside. He was notorious for needing to step inside to use the bathroom and disappearing for hours- ADHD at its best.  

When we opened the pantry door, we smiled at the thought of the half drank coke bottle that he left on the shelf while getting a snack forgetting that it was there until we found it later. The chips in the drywall of the play room that reminded us of his drumming jam sessions, the slam of the backdoor, walking down the hallway with the memory of AXE spray that swept the hallway behind him, the greasy handprint that he left on my office door frame May 13th on his way out the door when he stopped to tell me he loved me for the last time…gut punch.  

Then the stuff… the stuff you keep because it was his or he touched it or used it… but why are we keeping a random lacrosse ball or a catapult he built in sixth grade? Why his little tonka trucks that were still dirt filled in our store room from years before? Why the drumsticks to the drums we donated to the church? None of this stuff is going to bring him back or move him with us.  The pieces of him that we want with us are the pictures, the memories, and his big heart.  

The big heart did move with us! His story continues with the #loveBIG Foundation. The address changed, but the mission did not. We never narrowed down our service area to just one town or city because we all know Jack didn’t stay in just one place. He went on adventures for fun and to help others.  #loveBIG can be housed anywhere and is our opportunity to tell his story.  As we unpack and weave in his pictures and the mementos we did bring into our new home, there are tears that he was never here and a feeling that we moved on without him, but we have to purposefully bring him with us by being intentional with our actions and the work of the #loveBIG Foundation. One thing we have all learned during 2020 is that anything can be done virtually! We have accepted requests and filled requests from the foundation virtually this year and look forward to continuing to do so without boundaries- Versailles or Louisville makes no difference. #loveBIG does not have one home or place, it has no boundaries all we have to do is be willing to go on an adventure and #loveBIG wherever we are or there is a need we can meet.  

She was so excited! Her dad and I were excited for her as she has thought long and hard about the tattoo’s. Once the excitement subdues, my brain starts in. Tattoo’s mean she is 18. Jack was 18. She has now lived longer than he did by a month. He wanted a tattoo, but his was so expensive that he was going to have to save for it. He wanted a 9/11 Firefighter commemorative tattoo. We paid for her tattoo’s because we didn’t want to regret not having done so if something happened- only a parent that has lost a child thinks this way about every decision. Next brain trick, he chose his tattoo because he wanted to be a firefighter in the military. The military wouldn’t take him because of his ADHD. He made mistakes in his youth that left our local fire department not interested in him attending their academy. He died with a whole life ahead, but also having walked through a whole lot of struggles. Sure, some were self created by choices, but others were just because of his chemical make-up, hyper -impulsive-dyslexic- these labels haunt our kids. We tell our kids they can be anything they want to be. We told Jack all his life- you are special, you are loved, and you can be anything you want to be. We sought diagnosis which led to labels which limited him. Next brain trick, should we not have labeled him? Should we have hidden all the diagnosis’ and let him navigate without the assistance, meds, and aid that the labels provided? If he couldn’t have been a firefighter or in the military, what would he be doing? Some of his friends are in College, some are working, some are married, and others are having babies. What would his path have been? One exciting moment, the celebration of a tattoo with my living child triggered an avalanche. So I sit with my thoughts and wonder. Then a text dings. Pictures of the new tattoo’s… Love Big in his handwriting and a semi-colon. Both carry so much meaning for my now 18 year old. She conveys that she wanted them in places the world would see even though her dad and I encouraged her to have the ability to cover them up for professional reasons. She says, “The world needs to see these and ask me about them so I have the chance to explain them and why they are so very important.” Maybe Jack is not moving on with life decisions and choices, but one choice he made everyday was to Love Big and his sister is going to tell the world. Now my brain has come full circle. This is an everyday occurrence. Living in the moment with Nathan and the girls- trigger-questioning-back around to #loveBIG.

Last Friday I was looking at the calendar to plan this week. This is always the last thing I do before I shut down on a Friday. I am a planner and I need to make sure going into the weekend I am confident in my preparedness.  I saw the date for this Friday. The 13th of every month stands out for our family, as much as I would like to say this will go away, after 34 months I am pretty sure the date will always create a gut tightening. But Fridays that are on the 13th are particularly difficult. Even though it was last Friday when I noticed, the loop of the night of the accident began playing in my head. I know what we were all wearing, what shows were on TV, where we had dinner, what shopping we did that night, where the dogs were when the knock came… and from there I can hear the conversations, feel the helplessness, the questioning, the defeat. 

What was one of my first thoughts when I heard the words that changed our lives? We don’t have any Toilet Paper! We had used the last that night at about 8 and I said I would worry about it Saturday and Kleenex would do. Then… the knock… and when the door closes behind the coroner and I look at Nathan and Olivia and say, “We don’t have any Toilet Paper.” The first person that showed up the next morning, Jordan Branham, Jack’s Young Life Director, asked what they could do and I said, “We need Toilet Paper.” While this seems completely unimportant in the grand scheme of what was going on in our household, to me it was a priority. I will never know why. (Although I did read an article this week that part of this innate need to have TP is because that is one thing we can control.) Interestingly, we received enough Toilet Paper from our community in the next week that we didn’t buy any for at least six months. It was such a relief to not have to go out in public when my heart was breaking and I didn’t want to see anybody and could just go to the garage and grab the next roll. It seems so silly and inconsequential but when I think back now, that Toilet Paper stock brought great relief. 

I make a mental note to prepare emotionally for this Friday so I am not caught off guard. The other advantage to planning ahead.  As the week progresses, my attention derails and I discover that I was totally unprepared for the week. I have seen comments about each day of this week feeling like a month. I couldn’t agree more. For those of us that are planners, this week was a living nightmare. Each moment the plan changing. Right when we adapt, another update, another change. COVID-19 knocked on our doors. At first, I will be honest, I was poking fun at the craziness. I refused to buy into the panic that was building. 

But as the week went on, COVID-19 began to disrupt our families ability to do our jobs (we both travel and have meetings), but even more so…the market. We work in finance and spend our days telling everybody to “stay the course”… retirement is a long term investment, but at night we check our accounts and wonder what is the best thing to do. The joking slows down a bit. We become torn between refusing to buy in, to wondering if we should stock up on Toilet Paper and food. Yes, we know that COVID-19 is not a gastrointestinal illness, but we don’t ever want that to be our first concern if tragedy strikes again. I’m sure the Branham’s don’t want to get the call to bring us TP again! 

Then I pick up on the fact that my 18 year old is not herself. Of course through the week we have had discussions about her Senior Softball Season being in jeopardy and I remind her that missing softball to keep G Pa safe is worth it. And while her head understands, her disappointment is obvious. Finally, she admits that she feels a profound sadness. She compares it to a weight on her shoulders that she hasn’t felt this extremely since 2017. It’s more than softball she admits, it is lack of control. It is the unknown. It is the ultimate question of should I make fun of the craziness, be angry about it’s effect on my life, or be in fear. 

Olivia… we get it! We are caught in the same circular thinking. One minute wanting to say, get over it people. The next minute, angry that we will miss your Sr. Season. The next minute, fearful for G Pa and Grana and Nannie and all the people that won’t get a check and all the small businesses that will go bankrupt and all the people that won’t have food or the ability to pay their bills and the kids that only get a hug or affirmation at school and …and…and… the list goes on. 

Today is the 13th. As I debated if I can get out of bed this morning, I have those debates a lot and 99% of the time my feet hit the floor, my mind goes to what the day is and what else can rock my world today. I ask myself if anything that COVID-19 brings can be worse than what Friday May 13^th, 2017 brought and I am ashamed. Ashamed that I am so self absorbed. After some puppy snuggles, thank you Mo and Gus, I pick up my phone and before my feet hit the floor I call the principal at Jack’s school and ask how I can show his kids some love during this unknown. Some of his students depend on school for food, utilities, and affirmation. After all it is the 13th. The day I am supposed to be reminded each month to #loveBIG everyday because you don’t know what tomorrow brings. Love is a Verb. 

I can’t…Olivia can’t… Nathan can’t…. Abbie can’t… nobody can know what the next month or six months holds. What we can control is how we respond. I am not saying I won’t continue to have circular conversations with myself. I am saying, that the ultimate action that results from those conversations needs to be to show up for my community and others that are most vulnerable right now. Please remember the foundation if you hear of youth struggling during this time. We educate and advocate and that really means… we show up and #loveBIG. I will even share my Toilet Paper because after all was said and done, Nathan ordered me 96 rolls from Amazon so I wouldn’t have to worry.  

The worst has come and gone. I don’t have to wait to hear from you and know you are safe on your 21st birthday in 2020. I know you are safe. You have been safe since that night in 2017 when I was left with the boots and fingerprints. My head says you are the lucky one. My faith dictates that your time on earth was merely buying time until you reached the ultimate celebration. My heart says this stinks. I fight a daily battle now. Waking to the realization that you are not here, I spend the day going through the motions of life while a self-talk reel runs in my head. In an 8 hour span I can move from… “why, not fair, what if, weighing the guilt, waking up my faith, running the same thoughts and questions past Nathan for the billionth time and he patiently walks me through the answers again, remembering the good times enough to pull out a smile, and complete the exercise with acceptance”.. only to go to sleep and start again the next day. This is just one element of the grief cycle. Grief work is hard. On birthdays it is suggested to write about the joy of your birth or celebrate with a traditional birthday party or focus on the life you had. I have done this the past two years and it was- ok. I found moments of joy in your birth story. I found moments of joy in going to your favorite restaurant and having cake. But always, lurking under the joy, is grief that is suffocating. Suffocating is not always the end. You had asthma when you were a tow headed toddler. You would struggle for air, your cheeks turning red and your gulps of air creating a cough cycle. We would administer the prescribed breathing treatments that meant you had to sit still, never a good thing in your world. Following that treatment you would breathe better and be filled with extra energy created by the albuterol. You would be very busy and motivated. Suffocation turned to energy with a little intervention.