An Ode to April

I brushed my teeth this morning. That’s really my only act of self care for today. I haven’t worked out. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t met my selfimposed hourly water intake goals, yet. The dog training system I designed in my head on a fateful night of insomnia, recently, remains disregarded. The internet has been down for over a week, but I don’t seem to care enough to dive into the nonsense that would surely develop from a phone call to remedy that issue. My car is in dire need of an oil change. We are low on both dog and cat food. The appliance repairman who’s on his 7th visit in a month didn’t show up this morning to try to fix the washing machine, yet I can’t be bothered to inquire of his whereabouts. Clean clothes are a pipe dream. All of my important, impending projects remain foggy thoughts. I am uninspired. I am tired. And, none of this is news to me. It is almost April. She died in April, after all. So, the only thing I seem to be able to do is to think about her.

Lizzy Kartchner is a beacon of grace to me, if only for today. Have you heard of her? I’m guessing you have not. She’s the widow of Collin Kartchner, a motivational speaker who made it his life’s mission to educate parents of teens about the dangers of social media and smart phones in a child’s life. His TedX talk is amazing, FYI. Collin died unexpectedly in 2020. While there is no right way or wrong way to grieve, I can’t fathom doing it in the public eye the way Lizzy had to. Grief does not lend itself to composure, or neatness, or decorum, or even sanity. Grief is a feral, wounded wildebeest attempting to nestle itself into a closet full of delicate Wedgwood China. The outcome is uncertain, but certainly not pretty. Yesterday (in writer’s time), on the 4th anniversary of her husband’s passing, she wrote gorgeous words on her social media account. “Grief is so beautiful how it changes you. It’s sacred to me. Once you truly open your heart to grief, you’ll never be the same. And if you stay soft and open to this experience, you won’t want to be who you once were because you’ll feel how everyday you rise a little more evolved.” I was yesterday years old when I realized that it was more than ok for me to feel like I’m not me sometimes. It’s because I’m not me. I didn’t want to be me anymore. I’m evolved…by grief.

So far, I’ve managed to paint a very bleak picture of how time methodically grinds through the life of a bereaved parent. It’s not all bad. The things that bring me joy make my bones sing with happiness that is almost painful. Cats playing in empty Amazon boxes in the early morning light of my kitchen make me weep with delight. Clean sheets spritzed in lavender make me giddy. The smell of my grandchildren’s heads is cause for jubilation. Silly dogs, sappy love songs, sunsets, the smell of damp earth, my husband's cologne, a sniff of an old book, a phone call from one of my sons - these things are beloved to me. Neither time nor dark days nor a daughter who passed away can take that from me. In fact, I will go as far as to say that I once feigned happiness. Before I knew what it was like to wake up missing someone and go to sleep praying to dream of them, I couldn’t be bothered to be ecstatically happy or devastatingly sad. I was far too busy being, well, busy. With loss came perspective. For that I am thankful.

By the time you read this, Easter will have passed on by. But, in my home right now, there are cookies waiting to be iced. There are eggs of Tiffany blue, rabbits of powder brown and white, crosses iced with sepia shades that give the look of wood, and cream-colored cookies that, hopefully, will sport a banner from the book of Matthew. “He is risen.” The world tells us that things prone to suffer exist in agony. They forget to tell us that things prone to suffer often return on better days, with bigger blossoms and higher potential. Sourdough starter does this. Royal icing does this. Flowers do it. Bereaved parents willing to stay soft and open to the experience of grief do it, too. Jesus did this. I can’t think of a better example. There is beauty in suffering. If that is your season right now, hang on tight and invest in sunglasses. You won’t believe how bright the future can be. As always, I stand in awe of God’s grace and mercy. He really does collect my tears in a bottle. Amen to that, my friends.