You know, we really aren’t okay.  Four years have passed since Dalton’s accident and we still aren’t right.  We look alright, act alright, but we are anything but alright.  I guess that is what an “out of order” death does to a family.  There was no time to plan for it, no goodbye.  Death simply swooped in and took him from us one Saturday afternoon in November.

Why sometimes does it feel like we must pretend to be ok when we aren’t?  I have perfected the “we are doing good” response so expertly, I begin to believe my own lie. Most people would react uncomfortably if I told them the truth.  They don’t want to hear that I still cry in the shower and nearly every night after I put Dawsyn down to sleep. That I still function on an anti-depressant to help me get through the day and a sleep aid that allows me to fall asleep at night.  Then I wonder to myself if I’m going to have to do this for the rest of my life.

It is only in talking to other mothers that have lost children that I can be totally open.  I become vulnerable and shoot it straight.  I’m not okay.  Troy’s not okay.  The kids aren’t okay.  We’re all going to carry this pain forever in a world where people expect us to be normal by now.  Advice givers like to tell us that our children are in a better place, that “God needed another flower in His garden” (dumb, btw), or that our child is our angel now from Heaven.  Try applying one of those platitudes to your own child and see how that feels for a second.  I understand to a degree how Job must have felt when his three friends gave him lousy advice when he was hurting the most.  A person’s quiet presence trumps any well-meaning words of wisdom you can offer when a friend or loved one is experiencing grief.

Colton drowns himself in song lyrics all day long while at work or doing homework.  It’s how he copes, how he feels a connection to his brother.  I have watched how the two beautiful kids he fosters have slowly brought life back into his spirit and a twinkle in his eyes when he smiles.  He’s not okay but he gets up and grinds at life everyday like it’s his last.  His speech has become poetic at times, often criticizing musicians for taking the easy road with their empty lyrics and lack of depth just to get a number one hit on the radio.  He seems to long for things of substance and sustainability and I love that.  I wonder if he would be this way if he were “alright.”

Keely fights an everyday battle.  She operates hinged in-between two dimensions – life with two brothers and life with one brother and a two year old sister.  A recent relationship that did not work out has left her hurt and confused, but seeking God in the hungriest way.  She is not okay.  A spiritual battle surrounds her and the devil tries to tell her she isn’t good enough.  Debunking the lies, she has turned to God for strength.  He knows her and sees her pain.  I have watched time after time as He has picked her up and told her she is worthy and that she is a child of the Most High.  Seeing your child filled with the light only the Holy Spirit can provide is unexplainable.

The recent death of Dalton’s dog has really set Troy back in his grief.  It is like taking a scab and ripping it off.  I forgot how haunting his crying sounds.  That awful, throaty man cry.  I hated it so much after Dalton died.  Most of the time, I would be having a fairly good day when I would hear him crying in the bathroom after he got home from work.  It would echo and I would slump to the ground and cover my ears so I couldn’t hear it.  We never talked about his crying and sometimes I wondered if he even realized it was so loud, or if he cared.  Each night for the last four years, after he would eat his dinner, he would change into his shorts and grab Dalton’s dog.  Together, they would cuddle together on our bed until they both fell asleep.  In her absence, he is not okay.  That sick ache in his stomach has returned.  She was the best companion, the true definition of a therapy dog.

As I sit at my desk typing this, I am thinking about Dalton.  Thinking about our family and about Christmas coming up.  I am acutely aware of others in far worse shape than us all around the world.  Others that, like us, for whatever reason, are not okay.   We are frayed around the edges.  Broken in every sense of the word.  Yet, here we are.  Getting up every single day and putting one foot in front of the other.  Not having to be perfect.  Simply trying to use our pain for God’s glory and helping others to accept that we really aren’t okay.

In Angela Miller’s book, titled You Are the Mother of all Mothers, A Message of Hope for the Grieving Heart, she writes, “For whatever it’s worth, I see you.  I hear your gutteral sobs.  I feel your ache deep inside my bones.  And it doesn’t make me uncomfortable to put my fingers as a makeshift Band-Aid over the gaping hole in your heart until the scabs come, if and when they do.  It takes invincible strength to mother a child you can no longer hold, see, tough, or hear.  You are a superhero mama.  I see you fall down and get up, fall down and get up, over and over again.  I notice the grit and guts it takes to pry yourself out of bed every single day and force your bloodied feet to stand up and keep walking.”

I know I’m not alone.  There’s so many of you with your own hurts and hang ups in life. This Christmas, I want to tell you from my heart to yours that I see you.  I see that you aren’t okay.  And, you know what?  That’s okay.