Reneé and I are dealing with mixed emotions as we enter the holiday season this year. We are so very thankful for the lives we have had, the opportunities that have been bestowed upon us, and the family we have raised, but I have to be honest and say that, in the midst of it all, there is a lot of hurt and some anger. Those that have lost children know the feelings.

Those we have spoken with have said that the holidays and birthdays never really get any easier, even years later. We were very busy on his birthday on purpose, but we celebrated and cried anyway. I’m sure we will do the same Thursday and on Christmas. We are so thankful for the years we had with Zack. The memories are precious and priceless. He was a challenge at times, but he was also intelligent and thoughtful.

On Thursday, we plan to gather with family and friends, to bask in the warmth of love shared, to eat too much and to reflect on the year. We will join hands as one and give thanks to the Father for all our blessings. We will cry from missing Zack’s presence among us, and we will laugh with the family that is there with us. There will be lively “discussions” and plans for Christmas to be made.

Afterward, or over the weekend, we usually we watch our traditional family movies: First is “A Charlie Brown Christmas”, second is “The Muppet Christmas Carol”, and then “Love Actually”. (I know its a weird combination.) We have always become emotional at the opening song for “A Charlie Brown Christmas” ♫♩ “Christmas time is here …” ♫♩. Those sweet children’s voices carry us back a few years. This year will be doubly hard, but we will watch it and remember days gone by.

We are able to do all this because we have hope. The very reason we celebrate this time is what gives us that hope: the birth of Jesus. The Father thought us worthy of the Son, and through that sacrifice, we can now hope to be together again.

A couple of weeks after Zack passed away, Reneé and I went to the Hanger Hotel in Fredericksburg to spend some quiet time together. The hotel was formerly a hanger and is designed to reflect an airbase in the time around World War II with drawings of aircraft on the wall and music from that era playing throughout the building. There is a balcony that overlooks Gillespie County Airport where we sat and talked and prayed. It was so peaceful and restful.

When we got into the room, we noticed that in each window there was a single candle burning. A note by the window told the story: the candle was for those away at war to be able to find their way home. When we saw it, our hearts were broken because Zack would never be home again. But we took up the idea and have had a candle in our window ever since. He may never come home to us again, but if he is watching, he knows he will never leave our hearts. We miss you, son.

It has been a while since I have written anything. I have wanted to put some things down over the last couple of months, but I wanted to write something with purpose, not just put words on paper.

As of this writing, it has been 161 days and some 5-1/2 hours since Zack left us. Some would say 5 months, some would say 23 weeks, but this is how I count it. Every day is another day to carry the pain, the ache of missing my son. I was the last to see him alive, and the last to hold him, the last to kiss him. I gave him his last hug, and the last to tell him he was loved. I am grateful that privilege fell to me. And every minute since then, I miss him.

I wrote earlier of the unpredictable nature of this blanket of grief, and it has not changed. The times of being overwhelmed are fewer than before, but they still occur. I carried the trash to the curb earlier and saw a sled that we have had for some time. When I saw it, I remembered him sliding out of our sight in it on a mountain after we bought it in Colorado when he was 7. We thought we had lost him then, but as we ran down the hill through the deep, packed snow, he came trudging back around the tree line pulling the sled behind him and wearing the biggest grin he could form. And I thought of Zack using it to pull his then-girlfriend’s baby around the yard in the snow one winter a few years back. The rope he used is still attached. I had to stop in the dark and cry for a while.

We recently watched “The Greatest Showman”, and enjoyed it very much, but whenever I hear “Never Enough”, I can’t breathe. The lyrics say, “All the shine of a thousand spotlights, All the stars we steal from the nightsky will never be enough, … Towers of gold are still too little, these hands could hold the world, but it’ll never be enough”. In my lifetime, I will never be able to attain or obtain anything that will ever be enough to replace his presence in my life. There will never be enough. The absence is too much to overcome. He was on this earth for 28 years and 133 days, and every moment of that time, I was proud of him.We have seen friends over the last few weeks that we haven’t seen since before Zack died. Most have said nothing and hugged us, some have said kind words, others have been very uncomfortable almost to the point of rudeness. Our friends need to know that we hold you all in our love equally, even if you don’t know what to say or do. You are right: most of you don’t know what to say because you haven’t been where we are, and I am most grateful you have not. If you want to do something for us, do this: hug us when you see us, pray for us when you think of us, and do not ask how we are doing. You don’t want to know, and we will probably lie anyway. We will never be the same again. Our “normal” is different than yours. Please don’t spout platitudes, they come across as insincere and thoughtless. Don’t be afraid of us. We need you now more than ever.

Jude starts the 3rd grade tomorrow. He is a fine student and a fine young man. He is thoughtful, helpful, and funny. Candace, Reneé and I are so proud of him and who he is becoming. He has begun to take great pleasure in scaring his mom and grandmother. He has yet to try it on me, but I think my time is coming.

I will leave you with this: when you pray for us, ask the Father to fulfill His promise of Isaiah 61:3 and Jeremiah 31:13. Look them up. That is your homework.

On March 9, 2018, the word “death” took on a new, heavier connotation for our family. On that date, our son and brother, Zack, died and our world changed. Now when I hear the word “death”, I cringe and shrink back a little. I guess it is because of the finality of it. You see, “died” is a single event, tied to a place and time, but “death” is on-going, only to be removed from our thoughts when we take that step ourselves.

We have finished the business of closing accounts and making the proper legal notifications. But with each of those transactions, we felt as if we lost a bit more of him from our lives and we wondered why we were doing it. Aren’t we willingly losing just a little bit more of Zack? We will not see his name each month on bills and statements and will stop being reminded that he was once here. But the truth is that the proof of his life was never in those envelopes.

The proof of his life is in the memories we have of his voice, his laughter, his actions. The pictures at which we gaze for long minutes and smile and cry and feel the ache of his separation from us. We still hear stories of him, but they have become fewer and further between.

The truth is that life continues around us. Zack was, and still is, a huge part of our lives. And, although he impacted many lives, that impact was more like a bump that occurred to them on the street. It may have changed the course of their lives, and possibly saved them from destruction, but most of them will continue on and their memories will fade. But we will carry him with us forever.

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Those who have studied grief will tell you that after the death of a loved one, a person will go through a series of emotions and will have certain thoughts as a part of the process, especially if the person that died is their child. What they cannot tell you is the order or the intensity that you will feel them. They talk about the “stages” of grief, and they are generally correct, but they can’t tell you your particular arc.

I am in the “anger” stage. The problem with anger like this is that it has no specific enemy: everything and everyone is a target. My actions and reactions to all the things to which I reacted strongly before Zack died have taken a major step up if I don’t control them. It has nothing to do with the person. They are the same. The situation to which I’m reacting usually isn’t anything new, and probably not unexpected. I am the one that’s changed. Priorities are different now. I now see through different eyes using new filters. So many issues that were so important before now seem petty and I don’t want to be bothered with them. This has impacted my family and my job.

Who am I angry with, really? It really is a short list. First, I am angry at God. Why did you let Zack die? What have I done to deserve such pain? (It has to be me. Reneé was the perfect mom to him and Candace the best kind of sister, so it had to be some serious shortcoming on my part.) Our family has served you all are lives. We have stood and ministered in Your name and declared Your goodness, and yet You let this happen. You know the end from the beginning. You knew it was going to happen, and You broke our hearts. I have loved you since I was a child and have served You, and will continue to do so, but I am angry. I have to see some real goodness come from our pain.

I am angry at myself. I play the scenarios over through my mind and wonder why I didn’t see or hear something that afternoon. Why did I doze off? I should have stayed awake. But I know that playing “what if” is a dangerous game. The conclusion of it is costly, not just to me, but to everyone with whom I interact.

The fact is that I can’t go back and change anything, but that doesn’t release the anger, so there it sits in all its ugliness. It is dissipating slowly, so I am still breathing before I speak and pausing before I react. The questions will always remain, and there may be no answers this side of the grave, but I have a life to live and a family to care for so I will continue. The pain is still there, but each day is a tiny bit brighter.

I have come to see grief as a piece of cloth with magic properties and a mind of its own. This piece of cloth was given to me unexpectedly and unwanted, and I have no choice but to carry it for the rest of my life. It can be as small as a handkerchief that can be placed in a pocket so that it isn’t visible but can be felt easily when doing the most mundane of activities. It can be a thin veil that lays in front of the eyes and changes everything I see just a little bit, just enough to know that the view is the same but different somehow. It can become a blanket so thick and heavy that it is all that I can see and it seems all life and breath has stopped.

The magical part of it is that the cloth can change quickly from one to the other, with the only constant being that it takes longer to get smaller than it does to become overwhelming. It makes up its own mind when to change. There is neither rhyme nor reason for the change it goes through, nor for the timing of it. There is no specific word, song, picture or circumstance that triggers it. It is ultimately and utterly unpredictable.

I have no choice but to carry it, but I do have a choice about what I do with it. As with any cloth, it is possible to make a coat of it, one that can be worn at all times. That’s the part that concerns me, but I have decided that I won’t do that.

Neither Reneé, Candace nor I want to be identified by our grief so we are rejoicing in Zack’s life. We choose to be identified with the person he was and the good he did. And we ask that you do the same. Don’t be afraid to talk to us or mention his name. We may cry, but we will also smile and laugh, if you will allow it. By doing that, the burden is lightened, the darkness is pushed back and we can breath. But don’t try to force sadness upon us: we are sad enough. Life continues, less joyful than before, but he brought so much laughter that it will not be possible to overshadow the laughter with grief, unless we allow it.