Operation Finding Christmas Spirit

Christmas PJ party, Christmas Eve. He's sooooo loving the Santa onsie!!!! 

It's not that I don't want to do Christmas this year.

I flipping love Christmas.
I love everything about it.
I can't get enough of carols - and if some old school, Sinatra type crooner is singing them, even better.
It's not the lights or the tinsel that I'm against this year.
Again. .. love it all.

Christmas, Newcastle 2012.. see....I love Christmas.

It's the simple matter of what Christmas had come to mean to us.
We married on the 11th December 2004- hottest day in the history of Mackay summers.
And Christmas that first year was about us being a family.

Me and him.
And by the time Christmas 2005 rolled around,  well we had a 10 week old bundle of blue eyed perfection.
And Christmas was about us being a family.
Me, him and our son.

More Christmases and more babies.
Christmas became pure joy.
Nothing can replace the satisfaction of watching the delight in your child's face when they see that tree and the wrapped boxes beneath it on Christmas morning. The joy of giving. 

Yes... I love Christmas.
It calms something within me.
For a moment everything is ok.
And God is on the throne.
And He gave us Jesus.
Yes...  I love Christmas.

Christmas Eve, Mackay 2013

I love the tradition that has been weaved into this season. 

We valued our family traditions.

The Christmas Eve family movie and matching pj's. 

Sheldon's epic Christmas cake.

But right now. 

A month out...

Christmas is a sharp reminder that me and him can't revel in being our little family this year.

There's no epic,  month long preparation for his Christmas cake.

Good lord,  I don't even know the color code system to set up the stupid tree. I would 'try' to help,  but he would just mutter something about me being in the way and being a perfectionist (!!???!!) so I'd leave them to it. 

It was us.
Christmas was us..

Christmas lunch...a few years ago.

Waiting to open presents 2012. How little they look!!!

And now.
Well.
I guess it's them.

Our bundles of joy.
They really are still just little kids.
They have handled this year and all of it's pain so marvelously... but they are still just my little boys.

And they want the tree.
And the lights.
And the corny carols.
They want gingerbread men and matching pj's.

They want Christmas. 

Christmas tree, 2013

Even though it's the first one.

The first one without their daddy... Their daddy who would carry them to bed on every Christmas Eve, after they'd stuffed their bellies with gingerbread men and hot chocolate, after they'd tried to stay awake and watch the Christmas movie.

I'm aware that time will be our friend and Christmases future will grow gradually easier, and perhaps I'll bounce into some future Christmas season with all of the joy I can muster.

But this first... Well, to be honest it feels like a bag of salt on a raw wound.

It feels like a spotlight... A glaring spotlight.. has been cast on the fact that we don't have him here. 

I walked past the mens shirts at Myer yesterday and found myself holding a shirt, examining it. I was tired, and my brain was not functioning at 100%.. I know this because I was holding the shirt, thinking about buying it for Sheldon.. To wear for lunch on Christmas Day.

I put the shirt back.

And I realised that it's a case of muscle memory.

My brain and my responses to Christmas are so strongly tied up in who he was and what we had created.

Christmas was about our family... Me, him and our boys.

I'm retraining my brain and my responses to the sound and the feel of Christmas. 

There is a grief in this season that is tempered by the joy that Christmas demands.

And I see that joy.

I see kindness still... Always kindness.

In the way I've had offers of Christmas company and the suggestions to find this elusive Christmas spirit.

I am finding it.

I know where it is.

It's just a bit of a painful discovery this year.

But my little boys want Christmas.

And lights.

And the tree.

And gingerbread houses.

All I want is a phone call from heaven.
Not too much to ask surely?
Just one phone call.
So I can ask him how to set up the bloody Christmas tree.

Lessons of love and hermit crabs.

My sons are singing. Loudly. 

It's a mash up rendition of Waltzing Matilda/the Australian National Anthem, the Cowboys team song and les Miserables. 

Yes. That's how they roll. 

Did I mention that it's early morning... And it's loud? 

So I'm listening to them. Wanting to stop the loud but actually loving it.

I read something yesterday that said "Happy children sing".

And it got me wondering how my sons are going. 

I get asked the question on a daily basis, so it's something that is always on the borders of my thoughts. 

I watch them and worry over the lack of tears, or the flood of tears.

I observe and listen and discuss....

How are my boys?

How are they navigating these moments of tough? 

Well.

 Let's just say that I'm learning so much about life, death and the moments of grief from these little men.

Let me share with you a couple of these lessons:

LESSON ONE:

I'm learning that love is stronger than the last breath a person takes.

Sheldon was sent thousands of cards in that August-leaning-in birthday month. And amongst them was a CD from an artist we have always loved.

Sheldon had already planned his funeral when he opened this gift. He'd picked the plot he wanted to be his final earthly, geographical spot. He'd told the funeral director he didn't want any babies breathe in the flowers... 

All we had to do was find a song.

I already knew what song we'd use to say goodbye to him. 

But he wanted a song that would say everything his heart whispered.

So.. We were driving along, the new CD gift playing and a song started. 

And we started to cry. 

And then I started to sob.

"This.... This is the one.." He said.

I nodded.

It said everything his heart whispered.

Here's what it says:

The worth of a man isn't measured in minutes

It's a journey that's measured in years

And it doesn't matter where you begin

As long as it brings you here.

You'll learn more from getting it wrong

Then you ever do getting it right

And you tell your life story 

With the love you leave behind

Before my time comes

I'm gonna leave some sign that I was here

Won't be what I owned

A fancy home

A car

Or my career

If I've lived and loved too hard 

I've made good use of my time

I'll make the world a better place

With the love I leave behind

The worth of a man isn't measured in things

It's secret and silent and strong

It's in the pride that you take in your name

And the children who carry it on

You can live on this planet for 80 odd years

But it's only a moment in time

You tell your life story

With the love you leave behind..

(The love I leave behind. Graeme Connors. Kindred spirit album. ***do yourself a favour and get this song****)

 Oh.. The beautiful power of a song. 

The way the art of melody and lyric can capture the essence of what we need to express. 

It speaks of the shadowed parts of our hearts, where mere words are incapable of capturing and communicating meaning. Those parts of our heart... They need music. They need the rise and fall. The heartbeat of timing and rhythm. 

It was a spectacular moment.

At his funeral...

This song and the pictures of his life that played on those big screens.

His message was clear.

And it's a message.. The great lesson that my boys remind me of.

Love is stronger than death.

Love didn't stop when his heart did.

Love didn't get buried at plot 19, Mt. Bassett cemetery. 

His life story is shouted everyday, on display for everyone to see....

It's found in this love that his sons grip fiercely.

The adoration that they have for him..

The deep, beautiful knowledge that he loved them with an overwhelming love.

It's a lesson that I hear when they speak about him... The love... The mountains of unconditional love. 

Yes. I'm learning about love.

I'm also learning about death. 

LESSON TWO:

I'm learning that death is easy to understand when you know about hermit crabs. 

I've been worried about Matthew.

He's 8. 

And he's such a gentle heart. 

He's so calm. 

His brothers raged and pleaded and released their daddy on that tough, final Saturday.

Matthew was calm. 

And in the past weeks, I've worried that he just doesn't understand what has happened. 

I've laid awake nights and wondered what strategies I should employ to break his calmness down so that he can cry, so that he can grieve..  and so that he can finally come to that realisation that his dad is gone. (Because, I mean, mothers know best right??!!?)

It was my birthday this week. 

(Thanks for the birthday love by the way...it helped)

Wednesday night, my stunning sons dressed in suit jackets and took me to our favourite Italian spot.

It was such a lovely night.

On the drive home, I thanked my three boys for making the day lovely- and I told them that their daddy would be so proud of the way they were treating their princess mummy. 

And then... We just started talking about their dad.

How he had made a cake for my birthday last year that had been covered, and I mean COVERED in the sweetest icing we'd ever tasted. It was ridiculously sweet. And he was a sweet heart. 

And after we laughed about the icing, the conversation lulled. 

And then Matthew said this-

"Hey mum.... You know how we had hermit crabs in that fish tank at Uncle Brendan and Jimmy's place?"

I "uh-huh-ed".

"Well... I reckon that dying is like what happens to the hermit crab.."

I waited.

"You know... The hermit crab lives in his shell and everyone looks at the shell and thinks that's what the hermit crab is. The big shell. But then the hermit crab leaves the shell and moves to a new one. And the shell is just a shell but the hermit crab is always a hermit crab. The shell doesn't make it a hermit crab. The shell is just a shell...."

I was speechless.

And breathless.

My calm, gentle Matthew had just expressed something so profound. So true. 

I didn't speak.

He continued.

"And it's like what happened with dad. He left his shell because it was broken. Sometimes hermit crabs look for a new shell if theirs is too small or broken. Dads was so broken, hey mum??" 

I'm sobbing silently by now. Not an easy task to swallow back those deep sobs and smile at my 8 year old calm, gentle boy.

Yes... I wanted to scream... So broken. So ravaged by disease. 

I kept silent.

"And... Dad is still dad. Just like the hermit crab is still the same hermit crab. They just leave their broken shell."

Oh... Can I express the beautiful agony of this conversation?

I heard the Lesson that my Matthew-the-calm-and -brave needed to teach me.

Sometimes it's good to leave the broken shell.

The heart, the soul, the spirit... They just moved out of the broken shell.

Moved home to a perfect shell.

One that will not fade or falter.

That's the lesson of the hermit crab.

It's beautiful huh?

So.. It's taken me a couple of days to finish this letter to you..

The tears made it hard to see the screen.

I cry when I write

of my boys.

When I think of the bravery.

The character of strength.

The loud.

The calm.

The naughty.

The love.

I've heard their lessons this week.

They have sewn deep into my heart's fabric.

The lesson of a fierce love that no last breath can diminish.

The lesson of the hermit crab and his broken shell..

So... If you're wondering... And please keep asking... My boys are doing good. 

Kindness Personified.

Oh.. my boys.

They miss him with a rawness that cannot be explained away..

I try to find diversions.. Both for myself and for my babes... But tonight... there is no diversion that can ease the reality of this. This missing.

Trust me- as far as diversions go, I've tried a whole stack of them.

Tonight- my eldest son wrapped his arms around me and whispered, "I just miss him, you know??"

I know.

It's a complex thing- this grief.

We are doing fine- and we miss him.

We are running ferociously into life- and we miss him.

We are smiling at the future as it promises us good things- and we miss him.

We are planning tomorrows and adventures- and we miss him.

I'm reminded, again, of the magnificent tension that we traverse in this new normal.

The tension that exists where the truly tragic meets the astoundingly beautiful.

I felt it tonight when I put my darling hearts to bed and we softly spoke of their daddy.

The beautiful pride and honour that they hold for a father who is not here to receive it. 

Magnificent tension. Beauty in tragedy. 

How often do I find that unbelievable beauty has moved into the neighbourhood of abject grief...

That is the reality of what we live each day.

My sons and I...

We have not been left to this tragic loss.

We aren't untethered and adrift, without hope.

We know the depths of this grief, but we aren't consumed by it.

Do we miss him?

Wholeheartedly.

Undeniably.

Are we ok?

Certainly.

Yes.

And that- well.. that is the magnificent tension that we tread upon.

That is grief.

Working itself out.

Allowing us the privilege of missing his presence, while we celebrate the man we had. 

Letting us wallow in the misery of his going, while we rejoice in the knowledge that he has gone home, free from the scourge of cancerous cells and pain.

It's a magnificent tension.

I keep finding out things I didn't realise about myself. It makes sense that I become self aware.. I am almost 36.. (upcoming birthday hint subtly dropped).

I have realised that I love to talk.

No- don't laugh.

Seriously.

You all might have realised that fact some time ago- but I'm not talking about how much I CAN talk- everyone knows that I CAN talk the hind legs off a donkey. 

No. I'm talking about this new found love of talking about kindness. And how it won for my family.

I have realised that I love to talk about how, in our darkest moments, we were pulled into a safe place by the constant and overwhelming kindness of our people, of a community who threw kindness our way.

I love to talk about how kindness gets to take the spotlight in this tragedy.

I want to tell you about how the magnificent tension...how the kindness of beauty in the midst of sorrow, has changed my life. 

I could tell you a million tales- but let me share this one with you.

I have an Aunty Heather.

And I love her.

She's the family we got to choose. 

I have been thinking about her a lot lately. 

She is standing knee deep in her own moments of magnificent tension right now, but for those days and weeks and months that he faded, she stood in ours.

She heard a silent, desperate plea for help that I made a couple of months before Sheldon died.

I was coming to terms with his going and I needed.. well, I guess I needed Aunty Heather.

Aunty Heather showed up and helped to ease the burden of the fading.

She couldn't take away the truly tragic, but she shouldered it.

She shared it and she made cupcakes, and lasagne.. She made cups of tea and patiently listened to Sheldon's 3am rambling conversations when he couldn't sleep. 

She organised my linen cupboard and she drove us to the funeral home when Sheldon was ready to organise his funeral.

She held his hand in those final minutes as he prepared to go,  she whispered that I'd be ok and that he could leave the pain and the burden of cancer and run into eternity.

Aunty Heather was the embodiment of the beauty of kindness showing up in the neighbourhood of abject grief. 

And it mattered.

It helped.

It changed those days that we had to live through.

Kindness changed those days.

Someone showing up and BEING KINDNESS PERSONIFIED changed those days.

Take stock of the people in your life.

Is there someone you know who is living in the neighbourhood of tragedy? Or disappointment? Maybe they are just plain down on their luck and could use a friend. Could you perhaps be the beauty of kindness that moves into that neighbourhood of their tragedy, their disappointment, their run of bad luck... And could you be like Aunty Heather- and just let kindness win...

Just show up and shoulder the truly tough. 

Seek out ways to make life easier for someone who is on struggle street. 

Be kindness personified.

Be. Kind.

Because listen when I tell you- it matters.

It changes things.

That magnificent tension- kindness in the midst of someones toughest day... well. That's a game changer.

Running from silent.

Silence. 

Loneliness steals in with silence.

It replaces the lull and hum of conversation that used to fill our moments.

Even when he was so very sick, he would murmer his opinions... We would engage in conversations. 

I would lean in to catch each whisper... Now there is a strange silence that belongs to these quiet evenings.

That's the beauty of a love- the right to conversation in those moments before sleep arrives. The words that are spoken...the sometimes constant chatter as life is lived. Did I ever recognise the privilege that conversation afforded to us? When the kids fell asleep and the wine was poured or the coffee was made...We would speak. TV might be on... Computers would be resting on laps and a lesson would be planned, an email answered.. And we would chat.Sometimes about important things, often about nothing much. 

How wonderful to talk about nothing much.

How I miss the nothing much conversations.

I've discovered something about myself- this process of grief uncovers a new knowing of how I tick. 

I've discovered that I run from silences.

I fill the spaces with sound..

I talk to the cat.

I play the piano for long hours.

I sing lullabies to my babes.

I text and talk to friends who are kind enough to realise that I'm filling a void that I have never known.

And yet I know that there is coming a moment when I will have to stop.

Stop talking and singing my silences away.

Stop running from this void of quiet.

It is disconcerting. This new lesson of being alone.

But it's a lesson that I am learning.

I'm learning to be still.

To stop chasing the right to be heard.

There is a beauty in stillness.. I just need to linger there. 

After I have pushed aside lonliness, there is beauty in the calm.

If you are living beside someone who fills your moments with opinion and useless facts, reminders and nothing much conversations-

Do me a favour..

The next time you are talking to your love, in between washing dishes and folding socks, as you chatter about nothing much... Will you pause and relish that sound. The privilege of a conversation.