Happy Birthday Justin

Dear Justin,

Today is your 29th birthday, our fourth birthday without you. Seasoned parents suggest having a plan in place for hard anniversaries, like birthdays, death dates, even if you don’t follow the plan, have one sketched out. I have a plan in place, an unusual one. This year I am going to attend a three day conference, starting today, by myself.  A program I know absolutely nothing about. And I am going alone, on the beltway. We hates the beltway.

This program kept on popping up on my radar and I saw that the national conference was going to be close by, but it started on your birthday. How could I be out in public on your birthday? I am a raggedty, dripping mess.  Again it pinged, so I called the contact number. I told myself that they would most likely be grouchy sounding and then I could just cease and desist. The lady was as kind and friendly as could be, no help there. So I registered.

I have a different feeling about conferences now. You know how we used to be so goal oriented, focused on what we were supposed to get out of the conference, instead of just letting it flow. We have learned a lot from Ryan about looking at things from a different perspective. You would be so proud of him Justin, so proud. He has great insights and he is still teaching us new Navy language, I can’t write much of it without offending my gentle readers, but it does make your dad and I laugh…and cry, because we miss sharing the fun with you. Anyway, I am going to this conference for me. My goal is to have no expectations so as to appreciate everything and everyone I meet today. Today I would like to honor you by being kind, enjoying the moment, meeting new people, learning new things, maybe I will take some notes, maybe I won’t. At any rate, lunch and dinner are included and someone else is fixing it. Bonus, right?

I missed you so much last Sunday. We sit in the way back of church now. I can’t bear to sit close to where your casket was, still too much of a trigger. The hymn was announced, “Come to Me and Drink.” I know, right?  Your father wouldn’t look at me. I miss how I could catch your eye and make you laugh. We never needed words, you knew what I was thinking. Some folks like to teach that heaven will be the endless Liturgy, may God have mercy.  I hope it is more like the gathering table where the conversation and stories never have to come to end, where table time and laughter are never interrupted by sorrow.

They played a song from your funeral also, I threw up the partitions and blocked it out. I can do that pretty good now, stop the tape from playing your entire funeral. I watched out the window a bit and redirected my thoughts. Although I don’t care if I cry anymore, it is what it is and I yams what I yams.

We have a lot going on. We joined a CSA this year, Community Supported Agriculture. You invest in a share of that season’s crops and in return receive a wonderful box of assorted produce every week. I am going to be volunteering on the farm to work off part of the share cost. Weeding, digging, cleaning coops, all sorts of stuff, you would love all the baby animals they have on the farm. They even have a litter of kittens. And we are going to foster German Shepherds, our first foster may be a stray who was living in a cemetery.  My first thought was, well, he had plenty of bones – I know, so warped. But you would have laughed and you know it. I can hear you, “Mom, that is awful!” as you choked on your coffee because you were laughing so hard. Your dad entered his documentary on Hurricane Sandy in four film festivals. We won’t hear anything for months, but we have learned it isn’t about winning, it is about making connections, being willing to engage, and make yourself vulnerable. You would have enjoyed that project, we met a lot of neat people.  We miss you so much Justin, you are in everything we do.

Today is bittersweet, so many memories. They haven’t softened yet, we are told that the memories will become sweet again. I think of a piece of glass that has been tumbled in the ocean, still glass, but made smooth and soft by endless pounding and scouring with sand. Grief is endless pounding and scouring with sand. So perhaps with time, lots of time, those sharp edges that still cut will soften.

We think of you every minute of every day, miss you, love you forever.