I drove by that street today. I looked down it, as I always do, forever-unanswered questions running through my mind.

I drove on to the church I go to once a year for this event, this gathering of the grieving; the grieving whose loved ones ended up being organ/tissue donors.

I listen to people sing and read and talk. I cry. I watch a slide show of your faces, the faces we no longer see except in a picture album or a frame. In your picture you are playing your blue guitar and smiling with joy. I cry. I say your name into a microphone and receive a sun catcher butterfly. I cry. I light a candle and think of you, your face flitting through my mind, different ages, different expressions. I cry.

I chat with people I see only here at this ceremony once a year. I chat with a childhood friend of yours. I choose a flower to take home to your daughter.

I cry on the way home.

I pass that street once more. That awful street where you were fatally hurt.

I cry.

I go into my room and put the new butterfly on the window. Your death will always haunt me, but your gift of life gave extended life to others -- your generosity lives on.

I touch the butterfly.......and I smile.

Ten Years

Ten years ago today I lost my beloved father to colon cancer. The first picture is of me and him at Easter, 1993. The second picture -- 1956, the year I was born.

My father was a rare person. Quiet, thoughtful, VERY witty, kind, put others first, wise...of course he wasn't perfect, as none of us are, but to desire to be like him would be a good goal.

One day, after beginning first grade, I announced that I was not going to school that day. My mother said she thought, "Oh yes, you are!" My father took me into my bedroom and began chatting with me. Mom said he and I came out after a while, with my father announcing happily, "Linda is going to school today!" Mom thought, "I knew that!!"

My Dad took the time to listen to me. Always. He found out on that day that I thought first grade took too long -- I hated being gone from home all day.

Dad listening to me never changed. I was always Daddy's girl. Whenever I had any problem, concern, or ahem, disobedience, Dad would come to my room and talk. I realize now that he did more listening than talking. My Dad KNEW me, and what he didn't understand, he accepted, and remembered.

My Mom and I are alike in personality, but not temperment, and often did not get along. Dad was the peacemaker, as he KNEW both of us, and could explain us to each other, and give us suggestions. I credit any closeness with my mother, to my father. Now that he is gone, I can truly see how much of a buffer he was; my relationship with my mother is strained. We love each other very much, and communicate weekly by letter, but it's not like it used to be when Dad was around. When Dad died, I had a sense of being orphaned -- he was the one person in my family who knew and understood me. (please don't get a wrong picture of my mother -- she is a GREAT person -- we are simply extremely different in ways that make it difficult to be close; sad, huh?)

I could fill pages and pages with good memories of my father. He even died as he lived. Quietly, loving us, and with dignity. The morning of the day he died I told my mother there were angels in the room. I was VERY lonely that morning, and the Lord knew I needed an extra something. I could see the angels with my spirit, not my eyes. That has not happened to me before, or since then -- it was a special "I love you" from Jesus! There was an angel on the foot of my Dad's bed, waiting to take him home. There was one in the far corner -- that was my angel -- and I felt there was an angel with my mother and another one with my sister.

I had great peace all that day. Great sorrow, but great peace.

So, Daddy, I can't believe you've been gone ten years. I feel your absence often and still cry when certain things spark a memory. I can't wait to see you and to never be separated again.

Forever Nineteen

I wonder today, "what would you be like at 24 years old?" Would you have more of a beard? Could your voice be any deeper than it already was? Would you still prefer the short short hair? Would you have your own apartment? A nice girlfriend...or wife? Any more children? Would you still be in the same line of work? Would you have taken your music somewhere you always wanted it to go? Would you have let the alcohol overwhelm you, or would you have won that battle?

A thousand questions with no answers. You will never be 24. You are forever 19. Not a boy anymore, but honestly, not quite a man. But always a son. My son. My baby boy. Taller than me, but my baby boy.

I couldn't go to the cemetery today, which is a first for me. Normally I want to go, to change the flowers, to spend some time. I don't know why I feel this way, and I don't care -- I have learned to feel what I feel, to go with it. This year, 2010, your 24th birthday...no cemetery visit.

Your daughter is so much like you. Consequences? "I don't care." You said the same thing to me. (but I learned from you to not give in -- I can outwait her in a way I never outwaited you)She is playing outside today. Like you loved to do. She digs. She climbs. She hugs. She is generous one moment and bullheaded and angry the next. Like you.

Happy Birthday, son, forever 19.

Paul's birthday

Today is Paul's Paul must have thought this was a
birthday. If he'd lived, he'd great book!
be 24 years old. As it is, he
will be forever 19. Here are
some pictures from 1987.

This is Paul and Laura having a tea party with a Christmas dog. I would love to tease Paul about

his pinky finger sticking out!

Oh how I wish Paul would have continued to have enjoyed helping me vacuum!

Here is Paul helping his Dad fix something. THIS did continue until he died -- the last project they did together was to paint a house.

DUDE!!!

Paul was cool before his teen years!

Busy boy -- who knows what he was doing, but he was intense, as always!

Paul and Laura, so cute!

And....the hospital picture!!! His poor little bruised face! They went away soon, though.

So, Happy Birthday to my boy. This day is difficult. A Mom wants to cook a favorite meal, bake a cake, buy balloons, wrap gifts.

thoughts

I was just reading through our monthly newsletter from Parents of Murdered Children. Here are two good thoughts:

"When we are bereaved we may never live at the top of the mountain again. That's just the way it is. A part of us will forever be sad. But if we let our sadness be more powerful than our happiness, death wins. If we embrace our grief, express the pain, accept it and blend it into our lives, then the joy and happiness of the lives of our children will once again fill us with joy and happiness. Don't let death win; let the life of your child win. Embrace the paradox of grief."Rob Anderson

(on how to help someone through grief) "It is seldom about saying the 'right thing'. It is not our words the grieving and brokenhearted hunger for; it is our acceptance of them as they are now rather than our insistence that they be as they were. It is our sincerity and kindness and patience as they make their way through the darkness on their timetable, not ours. It's

This is me and Paul, Paul at one month old.

Today I have no recent picture to post of my taller-than-me son and myself. Four years ago today he died.

When I was pregnant I got to hear his heartbeat through my belly and see grainy images of him on a sonogram.

When I died I had my arms around him as best as I could, with my head on his chest. I heard his last heartbeats, as I heard some of his first heartbeats.

Four years down the road, the pain is not as intense. I have "accepted" that I will not see him here again on planet Earth. But it does not mean I don't wish I could. I have an image of him....as I look out our front door, I can see him in my mind, as I saw him in reality so many times, walking home. Coming at me across the church parking lot across the street from our house. Black hoodie on. Hands mashed into jean pockets. Scuffling his big boots on the pavement. Head down, shoulders hunched against the cold wind.

I sometimes look out the front door and wish I could see him walking home.

I miss you, Paul. I wish you were here. I wish you could walk back home.

In October of 2005, Paul, Analice, and I went to Pumpkin Junction. Paul was off work because he'd been in a minor vehicle accident and had a hurt neck. I am now so glad he went to the pumpkin patch with us because six days later he was stabbed, and died the following day. These are the last pictures I have of him. These are the last memories his daughter will have of him, as far as pictures to look at and stories to hear.