525,600 Minutes

 "Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes,
How do you measure, measure a year..."  (Rent)

One year.  How does one describe, explain, quantify a year that simultaneously passed by in an instant and a lifetime.  I don't have the words to describe it, really.  

Thirteen months ago, I didn't have trauma-induced fibromyalgia.  I didn't even understand what fibromyalgia really was.  Thirteen months ago, the notion of moderating activity to sustain energy and minimize pain level was not on my radar.  Thirteen months ago, I didn't know that hair could hurt.  I know that all to well, now.

Thirteen months ago, our schedules didn't include coordinated pick-up and drop-off times between grandparents and daycare, nor a weekly sleepover to give Mom a one-night "break".  I did finally update the calendar on the garage door.  It felt like it was time, and, unlike 13 months ago, our lives now include weekly trauma play-therapy sessions and grief therapy sessions, along with school, work, and church.  

Our vocabulary has changed over the last year, also.  Words like "special play place", "play friend", "Mom's talking friend", and "the virus" have been added to our lexicon.  Nightly, we walk out into the increasingly crisp air and look for the Daddy Star.  The stars are how Daddy comes and says 'hi' and 'I love you' to us every night.  Daddy is spoken of in the past tense, and our memories, too.  We talk a lot about Heaven, and we talk to Daddy, too.  I have to be more measured in what I say, and how I say it.  Words like 'died' and 'very, very sick' now have direct links to what happened to Andrew.  If you think about how many different was you can use the word 'die': the batteries died, this thing is dead, I'm dead, if [so and so] finds out, we're dead, etc.  I can be 'sick' or 'pretty sick'.  I can even be 'very sick.'  When I had Influenza B in January, I made the mistake of telling Mr. M that I was 'very, very sick'.  The same phrase I used when I explained that Daddy died.  The re-trauma that happened because of that one phrase was real.  Thirteen months ago, I didn't have to be so careful in how I spoke.  I do now.

On November 15, 2020, I went to visit Andrew's grave.  I went alone.  The weather was awful; powerful wind gusts, the air biting the skin, the sky was gray and gloomy.  I brought a small bouquet of flowers and a Lighting McQueen sleeping bag.  The tears started flowing long before my car made it up the hill to Andrew's grave.  I laid down the sleeping bag, I placed the flowers on his name, and I turned on "Grace to Grace".  In that sacred moment, my soul felt as if it was being rend in two.  Sounds from the depths of my being screamed out in in the windy air.  Sobs alternated with gulping breaths, which led to gasping for air, only to dissolve into sobs once again.  All the pain, agony, grief, hurt, sense of abandonment, fear, and anger that I had been holding came pouring out on that gravestone.  For 525,600 minutes I had not allowed myself to fall into the true depths of my loss for fear that I might not be able to get back up again.  Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes of putting one foot in front of the other, of crying myself to sleep, of making peace with our story, of loving my children, supporting my children, and seeking help and healing for myself and my children.  That day, in that cemetery, with my wails and screams being swallowed up in the gusting winds, I finally let it all out.

I'm not sure how long I lay there, curled in the fetal position, allowing my soul to be bare in front of God.  Slowly, the sobs eased into weeping, my breaths ragged instead of gasping and gulping.  When I did climb back into my car, my fingers numb and my joints screaming at me, there were only tears.  Different than the tears of earlier; these weren't tears of pain, loss, regret, or anger.  Yes, I found myself having tears of sadness for the man I no longer have next to me, and the life that now looks radically different, but also tears of hope and gratitude.  We have survived the first 525,600 minutes of life post-Andrew.  Not only did we survive, but we are living, and I know deep in my heart that we are moving toward thriving.  

I've shared before a line from an old hymn: 'When all around my soul gives way, he then is all my hope and stay.'  The imagery of this hymn is of a ship, sailing through turbulent waters.  On a sailing ship, the stay is a rope or wire used to control the mast of the main sail.  In a turbulent storm, the stay allows the captain to maintain control of the ship, thus avoiding catastrophic consequences.  Throughout the storms (tsunamis) of my life, the stay that controls the ship and maintains stability, avoiding catastrophe has been Christ.  This past year, I have been that ship in turbulent waters, being tossed about on the waves.  Just as I thought the sea might be calming, another wave would crash over my bow, threatening to overturn me.  While the sea hasn't settled to it's pre-hurricane calm, I feel like the worst of the storm has passed.  I'm still upright and moving toward the safety of home, all because of Christ.  And when the next big storm comes, because it will, Christ will still be 'my hope and stay'.  How can I know this? His Word tells me: "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever." (Hebrews 13:8)  He'll be there; He always has been, and He always will be.

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights,
In sunsets,
In midnights and cups of coffee,
In inches,
In miles,
In laughter and strife,
In five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes,
How do you measure a year in the life?

How about love, 
How about love,
Measure in love..."  [Seasons of Love, Rent]

"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in Him will not perish, but have eternal life." (John 3:16)