Forever Changed - 11 Years Later

Eleven years ago on this day, I was at my best friend's parents' house. I had spent the day making last minute phone calls and meeting with friends to make sure everything was set for the big day. I was going to marry Doug in just four days! How would everything get done?

My best friend and I were up late, trying desperately to finish the white chocolate roses that were to be the favors. It was probably around midnight, and her parents had gone to bed hours ago. My friend was in the bathroom when I heard something...a soft knock at the door. My heart immediately started beating faster! It was scary, someone knocking so softly on the door so late at night! I ran to the bathroom and told my friend, "There is someone at your door!"

Together we opened the door, and my parents were standing there. The minute I saw my dad's face, I knew something was wrong. I thought something had happened to one of my grandparents. "What's wrong?", I asked, preparing myself for what I thought I was about to hear. But, I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready for the words that came next.

As I sit here, reliving it, I am amazed that I don't recall the exact words. You would think that I would remember the exact words that changed my life forever, but I don't. I would imagine that my parents discussed how to tell me on the way over, which words to use, how to say it, what to do to somehow, as if it were possible, make it easier for me. The strength it took for them to tell me astounds me. A parent's job is to protect their child from pain, whenever possible, but this time it wasn't possible.

When my dad told me that Doug had been in a motorcycle accident, and that he was gone, the room started spinning. I ran away from him, into another room to escape, but the words kept repeating themselves in my brain. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe, and this room was spinning, too. I went back into the living room and collapsed onto the floor. A sound that didn't even seem human filled the quiet room, or maybe it didn't. Maybe the sound I heard was only inside, echoing in the hollow space that once held my heart.

Last year, on this day, the anniversary of Doug's death, I said that I didn't want to be sad. Today, on the 11th anniversary, it's not that I want to be sad. It is just that sometimes, in order to truly appreciate the good in my life, I need to take myself back to that moment. To remember how bad it has been, and how far I have come. To remind myself of the strength I didn't know I possessed. To look at the people surrounding me, and to cherish them and the joy they bring to my life.

Jim, thank you for showing me that finding love twice was not only possible, but FABULOUS.

Dylan, thank you for bringing joy and laughter to each and every one of my days.

Mom & Dad, thank you for the millions of things you have done for me and continue to do.

To the rest of my family and friends (including all you bloggy ones), I appreciate each of you and what you bring to my life.

To Doug, I am so glad that we didn't hold anything back while we were together. You knew exactly how I felt about you, and vise versa. I can truly say that I have no regrets.

What about you? If today were your last, would you have regrets? Would you have said, "I love you" to the people who needed to hear it? What are you waiting for?

Hold This

The day was unseasonably warm, and the sun on my face felt like a surprise visit from an old, cherished friend. I grinned as I watched my son toddling around the playground, gathering sticks to put in a pile, a look of concentration on his face.

His tiny, dimpled hand reached for another stick, and he held it high, examining it from all angles in the sun. "Stick!", he exclaimed, to no one in particular. Then, he turned, and brought it to me, smiling, and saying again, "Stick!" "Do you like that stick?", I asked him. "Yeth!", he replied. He held the stick out, hesitantly, not speaking, but communicating with his eyes. "Do you want me to hold this for you, sweetie?" "YETH!", he shouted, before running off to resume his task.

I watched him from a distance, far enough to give him space to explore independently, but close enough to keep him safe. Every so often, he would stop what he was doing and come take my hand to see if I still had that stick. He would smile quickly at me, before turning to run away.

Working with children, I have been given many things to hold over the years - a paint-splattered paper, a colorful marble, a wilted flower, a dried leaf, a smooth stone. I can't even tell you how many times I would get home, and reach into my coat pockets to discover one or several of these items. It always seemed like a nuisance. Why were they asking me to hold it?

But, on that day, looking down at that tiny stick in my hand, it dawned on me. I was gaining his trust. God only knows why that stick was important to him, but it was, and he had given it to me. To keep safe. To respect. To cherish. To hold.

If I had thrown the stick on the ground, what message would have been sent? It seemed like such a small, insignificant thing - being given something to hold. But what about when he is older? Will he give me anything then? Will he sit beside me and share the stories of his days? Will he tell me about his new best friend, and why he likes him? Will he tell me how a classmates unkind words hurt him? Will he tell me about his first crush? Will he trust me enough?

I sure hope so. But, until then, I'll just clutch the stick, or wilted flower, or small stone, as if my life depended on it. And, if he does someday trust me enough to share those stories and those feelings with me, I will respect them. I will cherish them and keep them safe. I will hold on to them.