But, I have already seen this one.

Sometimes my unspoken thoughts surprise even me.  They rise up unbidden and speak truths hard to absorb.  These thoughts are like the harsh light of midday, no shadow, no softness, just unforgiving awareness.  I was looking through pictures of Justin, and I could not believe when my heart said “but, I have already seen this one.”  I listlessly looked at a few more pictures of him, and knew what my heart had spoken was true.  I have seen all the pictures of Justin.  There are no new ones. There will never be any new ones.  Might seem so obvious, but it is those hard truths that take time to coalesce.

The reality that there are no “new” stories came first, funny that they are different truths. Stories, pictures, you would think that they are one in the same. But what rolled over me as I looked at pictures of Justin, is that my heart longs to see something new in his life.  I want to see a new picture.

You see, our love for Justin didn’t die with him.  We have all this love for him bottled up inside and seemingly no where to go with that love, so much so that it physically hurts your heart. Love is an action word, we were accustomed to expressing our love tangibly, hugs, gifts, cookies, shared laughter.  And when he died, what do you do with that love?   Do you love a headstone?  I have hugged his headstone and it is hard and cold.  Standing above his body only makes me angry, makes we want to beat my grief out on that hard marble.  Oh I know the pithy catch phrases, “let your love for him be your strength”, “you have another child to love”, it isn’t like I stopped loving Ryan when Justin died, and I am weary of being strong.  I have to find a way to express  love for my child who is dead.  A love that cuts and hurts.

We had stopped by the Grotto in Emmitsburg on the day they had Mass for those who had contributed to the building of the new visitor center.  We couldn’t stay, but we slipped in for a quick visit.  The permanent plaque of

donors is not up, but the coordinators had done a beautiful full-size likeness of the board, and there we found our boy’s name.  So painful, but also very dear.  As I have thought on that moment, I realize that it was a new picture.  Justin loved the Grotto from the time he was a little boy.  We would visit frequently and slip up for Mass when he was home from college, we even attended a Christmas Eve Mass there, so small and quiet.  When we stepped outside after Mass, the sky was teeming with stars on that mountain top, diamonds in velvet.  Now his love for that serene place is touchable, like a little part of him is there.  It has nothing to do with garnering attention for a donation, that is so missing the entire point of why we have things memorialized in our child’s honor.  For us, when we visit, we can go and see his name, touch his name, smile, cry, walk the grounds in silence. For a moment there is solace.  We have a new picture, a different picture, something new in his life and our memory.

Have you ever stopped to see how many truly magnificent places are donated out of love in the memory of someone who has died?  University buildings, hospital wings, museums, look next time you are out and about.  Stop, read the plaque, think of the family and their loved one.  We can’t all donate such significant structures or foundations, but the size of the gift doesn’t matter.  What matters is channeling that love and affection for our child, and his deep love for all things good and furry, into something that brings light. Something that might bring joy to someone else, brighten their day, or ease their burden. In doing so, we remember and honor him. Our dark eyed boy with wild professor hair and eyebrows that were nearly sentient beings in themselves, we honor and share his heart, the heart of a lion.

Miss you Justin, love you forever.