Progress?

This week, one of our Board & Brew tribe, Savannah, gave us a photo album she’d made. It is a grand tribute to Chandler-ness. This album is an Espinoza family treasure.

I’m not gonna lie – looking at the album is both heart-warming and heart-wrenching. If I can manage to separate myself for a minute from the fact that the handsome, dimpled guy in these pictures is not here any more, I can smile and think good thoughts about how much this young man loved life and loved his friends. That’s not a frame of mind that comes easily….not yet.

Seeing my son’s face makes me literally ache to hug him and tell him how much I love him. I think of all the birthdays and Christmases and Thanksgivings that will come and go without Chandler. There’s a feeling of profound helplessness that accompanies that thought. There is not a thing I can do to change it. I cannot bring him back. That’s where the serenity prayer comes in – God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

I recognized some progress this week, though honestly, what does that even mean in this context? A few families who toured our school saw my family portrait on my desk and asked, “Oh, you have four kids?” Without missing a beat, I responded, “Yep.” For the most part, I don’t struggle with that question now. It’s still not normal that all of my four kids are not here in a form that I’m able to see and hear and touch. But I do not need to explain or shrink from the reality that I have four kids. One just happens to be waiting for me elsewhere.

It is all still so close. The phone call – “Is this Chandler Espinoza’s mom?” The drive to the hospital. The waiting room. The initial news from the neurosurgeon. The sight of my son for the first time after the accident. Today I was driving by Board & Brew. I noticed the time – 3:30. If this were December 15, 2018, it would only be about 10 minutes before everything….EVERYTHING….would change.

I hate that it’s been so long since I’ve seen Chandler’s brown eyes alive, knowing, searching for the next adventure. I’m finding it is exactly like friends who’ve walked this road have told me – it doesn’t get easier. Just different.

This whole grief thing is a process. I’m not sure when I will emerge from it or what that will look like. I know I will miss Chandler until my dying breath. Among many things I don’t know is when the missing will be less palpable and relentless. Will it ever cease to be top-of-mind?

God, you are my faithful, loving companion on this journey of grief. You never let me go. Help me trust this process. Let me not try to rush through or past what I need to feel and sit with. At the same time, let me not become stuck in spaces that do not serve me or others well. Amen.