Making Sense of It All, 2025

Dolores passed away in 2016, just short of a decade after her transplant. I wrote this after a meeting with her in 2012, and I've updated the post after seeing her picture pop up on my FB this morning. While my perspective has changed in some ways, the sentiments are the same. 

I had the privilege of meeting Dolores Lenc, the woman who received Mandy’s lungs after her passing. We met for lunch in Cookeville while she and her husband were visiting Nashville. Since she lived more than nine hours away, it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. Dolores was a kind and lovely 68-year-old woman who was married for over 45 years. She had two sons, six grandchildren, and a schnauzer puppy she absolutely adored. Some of you may remember the story we shared on WATE in 2010 about Dolores and David Wyatt, the kidney/pancreas recipient. Although we had corresponded via email before that, that day was only our second face-to-face meeting.

Dolores carried a heavy burden of survivor’s guilt, something many transplant recipients, including David’s father, experienced after their transplants. It’s a common struggle for those who receive such life-saving gifts, especially when they know their donors were young, healthy individuals with their whole lives ahead of them—like Mandy. As soon as Dolores saw me that day, she burst into tears. Her thoughts immediately turned to our loss—the pain of all the moments we’ll never share with Mandy—and it was all she wanted to talk about.

Of course, we talked about other things too: her surprise six-month-old granddaughter, her deep love for her family, and the daily routines that filled her life. We also discussed the health challenges that come with being a transplant recipient. She asked about Mandy—what she was like—and cried as I shared stories about her. It pained me to see Dolores struggle so much. I wanted her to embrace the “extra” time she’s been given and find joy in the miracle that Mandy’s lungs were a perfect match for her. She told me at that meeting that her transplant surgeon described Mandy’s lungs as the healthiest he had ever transplanted and was confident the surgery would succeed. During our visit, I found myself focused on comforting and reassuring Dolores, leaving little room to process my own emotions until later.

On my drive home, I reflected deeply on the experience. What I wanted most in that moment was to place my hand on Dolores’ chest and marvel at the fact that the lungs sustaining her life once kept Mandy alive for 18 years. It’s nothing short of miraculous! Yet even as I recognize this miracle even today, I can’t help but grieve why those lungs no longer belong to Mandy. I do know that the recipients we were lucky enough to know, Dolores, Jim, and David, embraced their second chance at life and used it to make a positive impact every single day.

I often think about how people navigate circumstances beyond their control and find meaning in them over time. Those reflections resonate deeply with me. David and I have worked tirelessly to find meaning in Mandy’s death—though I’m not sure we’ve done anything ourselves to create that meaning. Instead, it is through seeing how many lives Mandy touched in both life and death that we’ve found some solace. While this doesn’t bring her back to us, it does allow us to see how something beautiful can emerge from unimaginable pain.

I know these struggles will remain with me for the rest of my life. But my hope is that we can use our journey to encourage others—to show them strength in navigating loss and pain—and remind them that even in difficult times, connection and understanding can help us move forward.

Grieving for the Long Haul

One of the last selfies of Mandy

We have many reasons to be joyful in 2019. Matthew is happily married to his sweet Caroline, living his dream as a husband, father and an aerospace engineer, and our precious granddaughter, Emmaline, is PERFECT. Sometimes, however, joy and sadness mingle to create a strange and unsettling place in which the heart and mind reside, especially on significant days like today, the 13^th year we’ve lived without our precious Mandy.

As you well know, being a parent is a 24-7 job, even when your children are grown and on their own. We might not talk to them daily, but we wonder many times a day if they’re OK, if their work day has been good, if they are taking care of themselves…..you get the idea. In much the same way, like those of you with living children/grandchildren, we think of Matthew, Caroline, Emmaline AND Mandy every day, even after 13 years. The death of a child doesn't stop us from being their parents; we've just had to learn to parent a memory instead of a living, breathing person.

Burying a child of any age changes you to the core. We're much different people than we were before. Some of the changes are visible; some are so deep that we have a hard time understanding or accepting them in ourselves.

The physical toll of grief is intense. It zaps all your energy; your body and mind are working so hard to process all the emotions that go through your head every minute of every day. David's diabetes was out of control for so long after Mandy died, and I've been tested for multiple autoimmune disorders....who knew that losing a child makes you more susceptible to so many physical ailments? And let’s not go into the PTSD associated with traumatic loss……. I still can’t function if Matthew or David doesn’t return a call or text within about 15 minutes. My brain immediately assumes the worst and I am in FULL panic mode until I receive a call or text.

Our ability to think and reason was greatly diminished especially in those first years and still is at certain times of year surrounding special days. I thought I was going crazy when I first went to work at UT in 2008 because I couldn't remember how to do the simplest of office tasks. We made poor financial and personal decisions that were so out of character because we just couldn't think straight. We had to rely on the advice/guidance of others who were well meaning but didn't always have the answers that were best for us. Even now, we know that our decisions are still affected by the grief that is now woven into the very fabric of our being. I still struggle not to buy everything I see for Matthew, Caroline and Emmaline, and even David, because what if I don’t have tomorrow to do so?

After the initial couple of years of just going through the motions of life and trying our best to stay focused on Matthew, we've become more keenly aware of the struggles of others, especially other grieving parents. We know there is nothing we can say or do to make it ok, and that each circumstance is different, but we still try to be there for them because we KNOW.

We are more empathetic to suffering of any kind, and yet have zero patience with trivialities. For instance, I hate that UT lost and people were disappointed on Saturday, but the sun came up on Sunday for most everyone, didn’t it? Life is far too short to have your happiness dictated by the outcome of a ballgame.

We are keenly aware that nothing is promised and that every day might be your last, so you had better make it count. Forgiveness and grace flow much more freely when you are afraid there won't be a second chance.

We know that no matter how hard you try, some days the grief is simply unbearable and just getting through those days is a victory. We also now know that a better day will come....it may not be tomorrow, but it will come.

We've learned that there are some amazing people in the world that will do anything to put a smile on your face, and will listen to us tell stories they've heard a million times before and still laugh and cry with us, every single time.

We know that eventually, for every day when all you can do is cry and remember the end, there will be a day when you can laugh and remember their life and all the joy they brought to our lives. How different life would have been for our family had we not had 18 whole years of the craziness and joy that was life with Mandy!

Our faith had to be taken apart and completely reconstructed; "out of order" death has a way of really messing with all the things you thought you believed. I tell people that God and I have a very uneasy relationship now, but I know without a doubt that he is OK with that. He's shown me over and over that he is big enough to take all of my anger, my questions and my doubt and continue to love me unconditionally. I do not for one minute believe that the God of love, mercy and grace had a hand in Mandy's death, but I do believe that HIS same love, mercy and grace is my absolute assurance that I will see her again.

We've learned that there are many unexpected landmines that a family encounters when a child dies. Husbands, wives and siblings all grieve in very different ways, and that can create hard feeling and struggles along the way. Parents are changed, and the remaining siblings have to adjust to living with parents they don’t even recognize. Matthew lost his greatest protector and his first best friend. We've learned that tolerance, respect and patience are necessary, albeit difficult, traits that we must find in ourselves to give our family (and ourselves) the grace and space to grieve in the best way for themselves rather than the way we think is best.

I've just touched the tip of the iceberg of the ways we've changed. Some are for the better; some not so much. Regardless, here we are, on the 13th anniversary of Mandy's death, still wondering who she'd be today. My wish is that we can remember her with smiles and laughter through a few tears. We know, without a doubt, that our lives were changed for the better by the privilege of being her parents, and many other lives were changed for the better through knowing her, loving her, and the lasting gifts she left as an organ and tissue donor. Today, as always, we’ll try our best to make her as proud of us as we are of her.

Words Matter

Words have the ability to both hurt and heal. All of us know that, and yet we find ourselves saying hurtful things that we don't mean, often to the very people we love the most. We had a month long challenge at work last week,  and each of us choose something we wanted to improve on in our own lives. My challenge was not to "complain" at work or at home, for the entire month. I forced myself to think through everything that I wanted to say and decide both whether or not to say it out loud, and also whether or not it was kind, unkind, or even necessary. To say it was an eye-opening experience is quite the understatement. While I NEVER intend to be hurtful, I realized during the course of the challenge that my directness often comes across as complaining and can be perceived as unkind by the recipient if I'm not extremely careful. I learned all over again that "words matter", especially in the way that they are delivered, both in good ways and in bad.

After successfully finishing this challenge on Thursday, I was reminded again on Saturday that words matter for a very long time, albeit in a different way. While re-arranging my curio cabinet, I found a letter sent to us a couple of weeks after Mandy's death. I'd like to share it with you, not just because of the kind and wonderful things said about Mandy, but as a reminder of the lasting power of our words and actions. This lady did not have to sit down and pen this lovely, handwritten letter to us, yet she took the time to do so, allowing us a small glimpse into a side of Mandy's life and personality that we had NO way of knowing otherwise. When you encounter those who are grieving or struggling in some way, take the time to send them a note on FB, a quick text, or a card. Better yet, go somewhere and sit with them; listen to their words and really hear them for a change instead of trying to give them answers or guidance. Anything you can do to let people know they are loved and that someone cares for them is valuable; one small gesture could give them something to smile about during long and difficult days. That’s just a small part of what being Jesus is all about but it's an extremely important one. As for the words below, I know they most certainly made us smile again on Saturday (and yes, maybe shed a tear or two as well.)

September 17, 2006

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Harrell,

I was unable to attend Mandy's memorial service, but I want very much to write to you and tell you how very, very sorry I am for your tragic loss. 

I sat next to Mandy in the St. John's Choir. I've been a paid soloist there for many years now, and I have to tell you that her addition to the choir was nothing short of pure joy. She could sightread ANYTHING-I was always marveling at her tremendous confidence and musicality. Sitting next to her was such a great pleasure. 

And truthfully, we just adored her. We always wanted to see her latest pedicure and the latest pair of adorable shoes.....I think I was always touched at how she would talk to all the old, middle-aged women like we were just her friends-she never us feel like we were "old fogeys" or boring, silly old ladies. She was charming and sweet with a generous, kindly nature.  

That last Sunday, we were standing together in the back of the church, waiting for the service to start and the choir to process up to the choir stalls at the front. I noticed her new haircut that she'd gotten since I had last seen her. I whispered to her, "Mandy, your new haircut makes you look like you stepped out of a Renaissance painting-you look like a Renaissance angel." She just smiled-she was used to getting compliments and she never let them go to her head.

She is, of course, a real angel now- and more gloriously alive than any of us here. SO many people you have never met have cried with you these past heartwrenching days. We pray for your comfort through God's generous grace and love, and hope that the knowledge that Mandy touched the lives of many people in her short, sweet life will give you strength.

I picture her now, with angels resplendent in brilliant robes, gathered in heavenly choirs singing glorious praises to the Lord. And, as the chorus ends and they move with grace away from the light filled church, they gather around our little Mandy and ask to see her new golden sandals and her pretty pedicure. 

What a blessing she was to us. What a blessing she is to them now. God bless you and all of your family. 


PRICELESS-all because this lovely woman took a few minutes out of her busy day to minister to us through her memories of our precious Mandy. Be Jesus to those around you today in whatever way you can, and never think that there is nothing you can do, because even words matter.


P.S. Thank you for all of the kindness shown toward David and me as he leaves his position as Worship Leader at CBCFC. We have felt such love and gratitude in every word spoken-whether in person or via the many lovely notes we've received. Rest assured that each and every one those words will be carried in our hearts as we move to this next chapter of life. As I said above, words matter.  

What I Understand

Tuesday, September 5, marked 11 years since our precious Mandy died. Words can't begin to convey how much we miss her; it's a constant hole in our hearts that I suppose will never fully close. If we're honest, I guess we don't really want it to, because that might mean we've left her behind even though we know that is not the case. We appreciate how you indulge us (that means me) as we blow your newsfeed up with picture after picture....I know you've seen them all a million times, but they are all we have left until we see her again in eternity.

The moment you conceive a child, a part of your heart and soul belongs to that child FOREVER. Whether they never live a day outside of the womb or live until we are old and gray, having them die before us is perhaps the most painful thing a mother and father can ever face. Having experienced this, I feel obligated to walk with other hurting mommas that cross my path. I am not a counselor, and I can't take away the hurt, but I am willing to share the journey, even though it sometimes means I keep reliving my own. Certainly, I can't understand what it is like to watch your child die of cancer, or be killed in cold blood, or die before you ever get to hold them, or kill themselves via suicide or drugs, or even what it's like when YOUR child dies in a freak, tragic accident. All those situations are completely unique, but they all leave a momma spending the rest of her earthly existence missing a piece of her heart and soul.

Here are some other things I DO understand:

I understand that even when there is NOTHING you could possibly have done, you'll always feel deep down in your heart that your child's death is somehow your fault. 

I understand that you'll go over every single minute of your child's life and beat yourself up over and over for each time you weren't the kind of parent you wanted to be.

I understand that if there was an illness or accident involved, you'll wonder if you had just tried this treatment or asked the doctor to do this or asked them not to do that, maybe your child would still be alive.

I understand that you'll always believe that if you'd just prayed a little harder, God would have spared your child.

I understand that after one child dies, you'll constantly feel that you are failing your remaining children because you can't be the mom they want or need anymore.

I understand that you want to "fix it" for your other children or for your spouse and you never can or never will but you still keep trying. 

I understand that you'll feel as though you are failing your spouse, your other family members and your friends because you will NEVER be the person they once knew.

After 11 years, here are some other things I understand:

I understand that one day, you'll wake up and your child's death won't be the first conscious thought of the day. 

I understand that one day, you'll make it all the way to lunch, then dinner, then maybe a whole week without crying and know that it doesn't mean you've left your child behind or forgotten them.

I understand that one day, you'll laugh without feeling guilty because you "shouldn't" laugh after your child died.

I understand that one day, you'll be able to smile and not cry when you hear stories you've never heard about your child. 

I understand that one day, you'll be able to reach out to another mom who is grieving, not without crying, but with strength, grace and dignity to show them that they, too, will eventually be able to understand all these things as well. 

Jesus calls us to be His hands and feet to a world full of hurt and pain in whatever way we can. If I can do that by sharing the journey with another momma who has to walk this road for reasons neither of us will ever understand, I've given meaning to Mandy's death in ways that I could have never imagined. 

A Horrible Mess

I had someone tell me yesterday that in the first couple of years after Mandy died, I was a “horrible mess”. To be perfectly honest, this hurt my feelings terribly. However, as I have mulled this statement over, I’ve come to some conclusions I’d like to share and to have your thoughts on, too.

First, let me say that this came from someone who I consider a dear, precious friend, a person who has never been anything other than supportive of me, David and Matthew. We had not been friends for very long before Mandy died, so she was thrown into the fire, so to speak, before she really had a chance to fully know the “before Mandy died” Betsy. She is a bit older than me, and her friendship has been constant and unwavering for the last 11 or so years. She is one of the finest, wisest Christian women I’ve ever met. I value her opinion, which is why her words initially hurt so much.

As I’ve pondered the idea that I was (and some days still am) a “horrible mess”, it’s made me look at our society’s response to grief with fresh eyes. Quite frankly, we seem incapable, both individually and collectively, to effectively minister to those who grieve.  We are completely unable (or perhaps unwilling) to accept that grief, even though it evolves and softens over time, lasts for as long as we live. I just read a pastor’s blog in which he talks of people he recently observed who were so impatient that they could not stop just long enough for a funeral procession to pass, instead cutting into the line of cars and honking, etc. I see this as a metaphor for the much larger issue of expecting people’s grief to have a brief, set time frame, after which point, their lives return to “normal”. For most of us, we attend the funeral, say a few words of condolence to the remaining family, and get in our cars to go have dinner. For the family and friends of the deceased, “normal” is completely different than what is was just a short while ago. Normal looks, sounds and will forever be nothing like it was before. Why is it that we have people coming to us less than a year after the tragic loss of child telling us that we need to “get over it” and that “people don't want to deal with you” if you continue to grieve? Really? Are we truly so emotionally inept and shallow that we cannot allow people who are supposed to be our friends the time and space needed to at least get their feet back under them after a major loss? Being a "horrible mess" is exactly what a person who has lost someone they love deeply should be, and it is wrong to expect otherwise for a very long time.

 Grief is hard work, and being a friend to someone who is grieving is extremely difficult and emotionally draining.....it's not for the faint of heart. The griever’s behavior is unpredictable at best and downright bizarre at its worst, sometimes swinging wildly from moment to moment. However, if you were willing to do the hard work of friendship before that person experienced loss, why wouldn't you be willing to do the same when grief comes, as it inevitably will? Be willing to stand in that gap and be the buffer between them and the world, the protector from those who aren’t willing to understand, the advocate when they just can’t make another decision. Be the person who is there to let them wallow in self-pity for a bit, but also there to drag them out the bed and make them get dressed and go out for a few hours, just so they don’t forget how it feels to live. Be the person who patiently listens to the sometimes crazy rantings of a grief-stricken person for hours on end. Be the person who doesn’t put a time frame on their grief and understands that even though they are a “horrible mess”, and are forever changed, they are still worthy of your friendship and love. Reassure them that you will forever be a part of their “new normal” even if that means your place in their lives has evolved into something new as well. 

That I was a horrible mess should have come as a surprise to no one, yet it did to even the kindest and most compassionate of my friends. This speaks volumes about how we, both personally and as a society, are so poorly prepared to cope with those who grieve. I am thankful for my dear friend and her perspective, and I want you to hear the rest of the story, the really important, redeeming part of our conversation. She went on to say to me, “I had experienced loss in my own life, of course, yet I had never been so close to such unspeakable tragedy. Walking these last 10 years with you has taught me so much......while I still cannot empathize as someone who has lived it, walking with you has given me the insight to be more patient, sympathetic and understanding of others who’ve lost a child in a way that I could never have been otherwise. I’ve been grateful and honored to have shared this experience with you. ” I was so humbled by her words, because I wouldn't have ever considered the possibility that my grief could be a learning experience for anyone except me. 

If you live long enough, you will lose someone you love; we all know that’s inevitable. Those who have not yet experienced great loss can have no real concept of the sorrow, the pain, sometimes the tragedy of the situation. Be the kind of friend now you want walking alongside you when that day comes.

Thanks for Giving

Regrets

I never saw Mandy after she died......I just couldn't do it. When we left the hospital, after she was officially declared brain dead, she was still hooked up to machines that were keeping her body alive so that her organs could be donated. I never went back to the hospital or saw her body again after the organ and tissue recovery, even at the funeral home. My heart knew that she was no longer in that shell. Even though the days after the accident are forever etched in my memory, I guess I somehow thought that if I didn't see her cold, lifeless and empty, it would be so much easier to remember her laughing, smiling, healthy and whole.  Some days, that is true; on others, especially leading up to the anniversary of her death, not so much. There is a raw physical pain associated with the need to touch her again; if I allow myself to go there, I can literally feel her head on the exact spot it always rested on my chest when we hugged. I so desperately want to believe in Heaven and the promise of a reunion (and on most days, I do believe that), but I will always feel a deep regret that I didn’t hold her and say goodbye just one more time.

To borrow a phrase from another blogger whose words always touch me, Chris Jones (Mitchell’s Journey on FB), I have worked hard to “turn my regrets into resolve”, attempting in word and action to give Mandy's death a purpose and to honor her legacy in all that I say and do while taking care of my family that still lives. I have promoted organ donation, created grief support groups and given scholarships, all very good things. However, I have failed miserably in my personal relationships at times, unknowingly and most certainly unintentionally. It’s a delicate balance to honor the person who died while still caring for the family that lives.......one that is fraught with opportunities to create permanent hard feelings and rifts that you don’t even realize have happened until the damage is done. Looking back, I can easily see these instances and also see how they have affected and continue to affect those I love, and I deeply regret hurting anyone. I am sure that for many years into the future hard feelings might come to light. I continue to discover ways that I have hurt those I love the most by dwelling on Mandy’s absence at opposed to living in the present joy of the day or event. However unintentional, it has been hurtful to all and I am profoundly sorry. I don’t think I am alone in this behavior; I suspect it is very common for someone who deeply grieves a lost loved one to be fixated on their absence, failing to recognize the pain that causes for those still present, but I honestly don’t know how in the world such behavior is to be avoided. I hear similar stories over and over from others who are grieving a significant loss, and if you have not been in that place, you simply cannot understand, nor do we want you to understand. Another regret to put in the books, but this one comes with a determined resolve to constantly be mindful of living in the moment and to cherish each day as it comes with those we love.

We found out that Mandy’s lung recipient passed away about 2 months ago....Dolores’ husband called me to tell me the news. She was a dear, kind lady who struggled mightily to come to grips with the idea that we lost our 18 year old and she benefited from that loss. I immediately asked Tennessee Donor Services for a “welfare check” on the heart, liver and kidney recipients with whom we have never had any contact, something they are allowed to do for a donor family from time to time. Unfortunately, we were told that Mandy’s heart recipient passed away almost 2 years ago. He would have been 17-18 when he died, as the transplant took place when he was 11. I grieve for both of these families as well as for myself all over again. I so desperately wish I gotten to hear her heart beat one more time, but I certainly respect their wishes not to meet us. Now they grieve a teenager just as we do, and we will be forever connected in both our grief and our children’s lives, even though we will likely never meet. As a side note here, if you are a transplant recipient reading this, please write to your donor family, even if it's just a short note that says thank you and allows for no other interaction. It will mean so much to them, even if they are not able to respond to you through their grief. Thankfully, 4 of Mandy’s 6 recipients are still alive and doing well and hopefully one day, we will get to meet the 2 we have not yet met. While I deeply regret never knowing the young man who received her heart, I continue to find comfort in the additional years he had with his family, and I hope that he and Mandy had a joyful meeting in Heaven when he arrived.

Our society gives people such little space to grieve......a few weeks and the griever is supposed to be “over it” and return to “normal”, even though there is no more “normal” for our families because our loved one is gone forever. I have 2 dear friends that I have met through my grief group who are coming up on death anniversaries, just as we are. It’s the last day we want to commemorate and the one day that we simply can’t pretend doesn’t exist in our world. It’s the day that we now use to mark time, because major life events either happened “before” Mandy died or “after” Mandy died. Time stands still on that one day each year, and we replay their deaths over and over, wondering how or if we could have changed the outcome if we had made different choices or if the person who died had made different choices. Most of the time, of course, the answer is “no” and we do mostly come to accept that this is true, but we’ll still always wonder sometimes...at least I will. Our minds dredge up every harsh word that was ever said, every time we wish we had given them something they wanted, every time we failed as a parent (spouse, sibling, child-you get the idea), every missed opportunity to play instead of clean house, to sit and talk instead of spending time on the computer or with a video game, the list goes on. Did we make the correct choices about treatment when they were ill or injured, should we have insisted the doctors do something differently or something more? For me, why didn’t I just say NO, you can’t go? What if, what if, what if, what if........these things play over and over in our heads and drown out, at least for that brief time every year, the carefully crafted and artfully presented facade that we show the world. The regrets can be overwhelming, even in situations in which we know we did our best, as most of us do. Those who grieve have developed various strategies for coping with these times. and I always tell people that as long as their coping strategies don’t hurt them or others, it’s OK. My strategy has always been to share Mandy’s life with the world through the 6 people who received her organs, through up to 50 others who likely received a tissue donation from her (ligaments, bones, skin), through the scholarships given to several very deserving young people in her memory, and to share my regrets, my pain, and my grief with my little grief group and through this blog, all while continuing to love and care for my husband, son and daughter-in-law as best I can. I don't want anyone to feel alone and misunderstood in their grief. Thank you again for allowing me the privilege to walk with you as you grieve, and hopefully we can continue to work toward healing and restoration together.

Surviving the Holidays

Holidays are hard. Christmas music starts playing in stores the day after Halloween if not before. We are reminded constantly that Thanksgiving and Christmas are times for parties and celebrations. We are bombarded with the message that the only "right" way to celebrate the holidays is with a houseful of family and friends and that everyone comes home for the holidays because they want to.

But what if that cozy scenario is not your reality? What if your family is small or doesn't live close by?  What if you are estranged from what family you do have? What if you don't have the money to buy your children the "must have" gift of the season or possibly any gifts at all? What if you or a loved one is ill, physically or mentally? What if you've just gotten divorced? What if it's your first....or ninth Christmas without someone who left this world too soon?

I understand and respect the fact that people LOVE Christmas. I love Christmas, too. I love it because it brings out the best in people, most of the time. I love it because we celebrate Jesus, the one whom I strive to be more like every single day. I love it because the resurrection and the promise of eternity begins with His birth.

I don't love what we've made it.......spending too much money on things we don't need rather than ministering to the least of these. I don't love the fact that we have somehow made those who aren't "jolly" during the holidays to feel as though there is something wrong with them.

Whatever the reason you struggle during the holidays, I want you to know that it's OK. I hear you. I acknowledge and respect your pain. I want you to know that you are not alone, and most especially, I want to remind everyone else that you are important, too.

So, this year, while you are busy running from pillar to post, buying presents people don't need, decorating the perfect tree, and figuring out the next escapade of your Elf on the Shelf, remember those who are unable to "celebrate" the Holidays because they are too busy just trying to survive until they are over.

Unfinished Business

As we approach the 8^th anniversary of Mandy’s death (which is unbelievable to me), I have been thinking a lot about why grieving parents seem to struggle so much to move forward. Or, more accurately I suppose, why I have struggled so much to move forward since Mandy's death. I have come to the conclusion that the death of a child not only creates a void that can never be filled by anything or anyone else, it also causes a parent to forever have this sense of unfinished business. 

When our children don't outlive us, the circle of life has been violated. After all, aren’t parents supposed to die first? We hope and expect our children to grow up to be productive members of society and to make a difference in this world, so I think anytime that natural order is interrupted, it changes us in ways we could have never fathomed. We have to grieve for so many things.

• We grieve the loss of Mandy's physical presence. No more hugs, no more "I love you's", no more laundry (yes, we even grieve that!)
• We grieve for Matthew, who not only lost a sibling but also a close friend and confidant.
• We grieve every milestone Mandy didn't reach, especially as we watch Matthew and her friends reach them.While our pride is not diminished in Matthew, our hearts ache because Mandy is not with our family to share the joy we all feel in those accomplishments.
• We grieve the loss of our hopes and dreams that will never be fulfilled for Mandy.
• We grieve the son in law we will never have.
• We grieve the grandchildren that we will never have.
• We grieve for the grandchildren we will have because they will never know "Aunt Mandy".
• We grieve the sudden shift in the dynamics within our family unit. Matthew became an only child instead of the baby. We became the parents of an only child instead of 2 children. There was suddenly no longer a need to divide our time between two kids pulling us in two different directions. There was more money because there were now three of us instead of four to feed, clothe and educate.
• We grieve because sometimes, we can’t speak freely about Mandy. In the years since she died, Mandy has become the elephant in the room that no one wants to bring up. There is the constant fear that we have talked too much about Mandy, or maybe not enough. And then there's the group of people around which we can't really talk about Mandy at all because it just upsets them too much and we must respect their feelings.
• We grieve because as much as we would like to be the same, we have been forever changed. We aren't the same parents and it hurts us to know that we have hurt Matthew by being different. I can't be the same wife that David had before Mandy died anymore than he can be the same husband; truly, we are transformed in ways that we don't even realize or understand. It takes time to adjust to new personalities and new dynamics that are constantly changing in the midst of such profound grief.
• We grieve because we don't know how to answer the simple question, "how many children do you have"?
• We grieve everytime we meet someone new and realize that this person doesn't even know Mandy existed.
• We grieve because because we failed to protect Mandy as parents are supposed to do.
• We grieve every single time we failed Mandy, over and over again, because we can’t ever say we are sorry.

The death of a child forces us to close a chapter in our lives that we do not want to close. We fight, claw and scratch to keep from closing it, feeling as though we are somehow abandoning our responsibility to love and nurture Mandy as long as we are alive to do so. We will never stop being Matthew's parents, so why is it that people expect us to stop parenting Mandy, or at least trying to in some way? Continuing to “parent” a dead child looks different for all of us....honoring their memory through scholarships, or cemetery flowers, or little memorials at those special life events at which they should have been present. We become unreasonably attached to their ‘stuff” or their favorite colors or put little stickers on our cars and carry bracelets on our key chains. We build “shrines” in our homes to them, or sometimes instead we take down all their pictures and pack away all their things because we can’t bear to look at them. We become passionate advocates for causes they believed in or causes somehow related to their death. We obsess about whether the flowers still look OK at the cemetery, and why we can't get the grass to grow on their graves. We have to go to the cemetery on special occasions, even though we know they aren’t really there. We will talk to anyone who will listen about them when we know that we safely can, but not utter their name when we sense that it makes you uncomfortable. We hang on to cash register receipts and post it notes with their handwriting on them because we will never see that again. We cherish every memory, story and photograph that someone shares that we have never heard before. We even, sometimes, without meaning to do so, make that child into a "larger than life" human being that is a long way from being the real person that they actually were. We struggle to live in the present sometimes, because the present is simply incomplete without Mandy. Through all this emotion and turmoil, we do our best to move forward, cherishing the time we have with Matthew, Caroline, and each other, celebrating each milestone with them, yet living each day with the overwhelming fear that something will take one of them from us, too.

I wish that David and I could accept and reconcile the thought of no longer being Mandy's parents, but I think that's a quest that will go on for many years to come. This sense of "unfinished business" will likely last a lifetime. It may change and morph along the way but I doubt it will ever completely subside. My only hope is that others whom we love will know and understand that this doesn't in any way diminish our love for them or their importance in our lives in both the present and the future. Our hearts are big enough for everyone, both living and dead.

New Beginnings......and Some Age Old Questions, too.

As most of you have heard by now, David left the company he had worked with for 8 years to take a position as the Director of Development and Community Relations with the Salvation Army in Knoxville. This ended his way of life of the last 15 or so years-the life of a traveling salesman. On June 5, he started working 8 am-4:30 pm and, for the most part, gets to come home to me every night. (No sarcasm please! J) To say that we are beyond thrilled is an understatement. Travel takes a toll on a healthy person, so it is particularly challenging for someone with a chronic illness like diabetes. He has managed incredibly well over the years, but it is very difficult to keep tight control over your blood sugar in a hotel room alone at night with no one around to recognize a low blood sugar that can kill you. Needless to say, I am relieved that I will no longer have to worry when he doesn’t answer the phone in the morning, and I am so grateful that he has been given an opportunity to serve this community with a great organization.

Another life changing event was the death of our 2 miniature schnauzers, Hank and Thumper. The boys had been with us 14 ½ and 12 ½ years, respectively. Hank just became ill about 4 months ago and Thumper shortly after that. As is often said, the right thing to do is rarely the easiest, but very little can prepare you for the time when you have to say goodbye to the unconditional love of one dog, let alone two. Thumper had not lived without Hank since he was 9 weeks old. That attachment was so strong that we knew Thumper would have spent whatever time he had left both ill and grieving for his Hank, so we did the right thing, I think, and made sure that they were together forever.

David had applied for hundreds of job and gotten very few interviews, probably a combination of age coupled with the poor job market. When this job listing appeared, he was hesitant to even apply, as he really was not qualified based on their job description. However, as I have said through the whole process, all they can do is throw your resume out......it never hurts to apply. When he received the call asking for an interview, we were flabbergasted. So many resumes sent in with no responses for jobs that looked like the “perfect” job on paper, and the Salvation Army wanted to talk? At this point, David was jumping on any opportunity for an interview, as we felt certain that his current job would be drastically changed at the first of July.

After lots of research about the organization, interview day came. After a 2 hour long interview, he called and told me, “Wow, that might be the best interview I have ever had”. He came home, sent thank you emails to all of the participants and received a reply an hour later that said, “...we will be in touch soon about a second interview”. I think that was the first point at which either one of us gave any serious consideration that this job might be a real possibility.

The second interview took some time to schedule. The Salvation Army willingly waited 3 weeks to get David back in for the second interview with members of their Advisory Board. During that time, David began to research the organization and their mission. After another 1 ½ long interview on a Wednesday, he was told they would make a decision within 3-4 days. He headed off to Alabama for a food show on Monday......no call. He told me on Monday evening that he felt very comfortable that he would have heard if they were going to offer the position by then, but he did comment, “You know, at this point, I think I would have to consider a job offer from the Salvation Army as divine intervention, as we both know I am not qualified and it is crazy that I even got an interview in the first place.” Tuesday came and went.....still no call. On Tuesday evening, at dinner with his boss, he was told that on July 1, he would still be expected to do the same amount of traveling and sell the same dollar amount but his salary would be cut by over 40%. As you can well imagine, Tuesday night was a sleepless night for both of us, not over the money as much as the knowledge that he simply could not continue to travel this way and maintain his health and my sanity, especially for so little pay. On Wednesday, he finished up in Alabama and started home. Around 6 pm, he received a call from Major Villafuerte, the commander of the Knoxville Division of the Salvation Army, during which he was offered the position. He called me a few minutes later in tears to tell me the news.

Those of you who know me well realize how much I struggle with the role that God plays in our daily lives. While I am not suggesting that He is not with us and concerned about us, I really struggle with the idea that He is in complete control of every aspect of what happens to us. After all, if He “is control”, then why in the world were we given the free will to make choices? Do we just have the illusion of free will and He controls all the choices we make, like a puppet master? Should we ask for guidance on jobs, where to go to school or who to marry-does God really care about any of that? Is David’s new job a product of “divine intervention”? And furthermore, if He really is in control of everything that happens, then does that mean God killed my daughter? Does that mean God caused David to have diabetes or caused his horrible childhood? Why would I want to serve a God that could possibly be that cruel? Furthermore, why do we give God both blame and credit all the time? If there is a God who is inherently good then why don’t we accept that there are evil forces (you can call them Satan or use whatever name you choose) at work on this earth as well? I wrestle with these questions on a daily basis, and I suspect most of you do as well, whether you are willing to admit it or not.

I have come to the conclusion that having these questions is OK. As a matter of fact, I think questioning is part of what God expects of us in our relationship with Him. Blind obedience to some unseen force is not a relationship. Asking God why things happen the way they do, where He was and why He didn't do something to stop tragedy doesn’t diminish my faith or His power-it just serves to remind me that we live in an imperfect world, full of imperfect people who make really horrendous decisions every day. Those decisions past, present and future impact those that make them, and sometimes innocent bystanders and the world at large, either immediately or somewhere down the line. A mature, healthy relationship with our creator gives us the space and the freedom to wrestle with the hard stuff. Prayers and conversations with Him allow us to know Him more, to know His heart more, and to become more like Him every day. Through Bible study and community with others who are asking these same questions, Holy Spirit gently nudges me toward a more complete relationship with Christ. 

Ultimately, some answers won't be found on this side of eternity. However, it is up to me to nurture my relationship with God so that if there is an answer to whatever questions I might have, I am listening closely enough to hear it.

Contentment

Ever have one of those days when being content just simply isn't possible? That’s today for me. They come along every so often, the days when my mind refuses to shut off, causing me to relentlessly live through every mistake, every wrong word, every failure, every poor decision-you get the idea-over and over again. These are the days when living feels like being on one of those hamster wheels in continuous motion with little or nothing to show for it. They are usually triggered by some passing milestone, although occasionally it happens for no reason at all that I can see. Sound familiar to you?

I, like most of us, have lived a pretty decent life. I haven’t gotten everything right, of course, but I feel as though I've done OK with most of the big things. I raised a fabulous son of whom I am extraordinarily proud. He is kind, loving, hardworking and responsible, and has become the kind of man that anyone would be proud to have for a husband and father. Although we will never know for sure, I think Mandy was well on her way to being a responsible adult, too. I have done my very best to be a good wife and partner to David and I think I have done OK there, too. I am certainly working hard to be the best mother-in-law I can be, and I hope to be the “world’s greatest grandmother” J one day in the not too distant future (and no, that is not a hint for Matthew and Caroline).

All that being said, why do I have these days? Days during which all I can bring myself to do is think about the times when I haven’t been a good wife, mother, mother-in-law, friend, co-worker, church member or follower of Christ? These are dark days, not just fleeting thoughts, but real, soul searching self-loathing over my failures and shortcomings. Why do they happen? Am I the only one who has these days?

I expect some of you might be surprised that I ever have times such as these. My co-workers see me as a confident woman with no self-doubt whatsoever, and in reality, I am that way most of the time. I am extremely intelligent, relatively comfortable in my own skin and usually the first one to say, “if you don’t like who I am, that is your problem, not mine”. Some days, though, that shy, backwards little girl finds her way out of the person I have become and I can’t shove her into the background. The least little “rejection” or insinuation that I am not good enough sends me into a tailspin. I can hear my dad saying things like “women can’t drive and women don't do anything right” or my mom saying “why do you want to go to college” even though I was valedictorian of my high school class. I can feel my dad’s disdain for women in general and me in particular and his lack of interest in any of my accomplishments in school as strongly today as when I was growing up. Is that “rejection” what triggers these times? I have thought for many years that I was long past any of his opinions bothering me, and he actually told me I was a “very good daughter” the last time he came here to visit, something I truly thought he would NEVER say to me. 

I think we all know that our past very much affects our future, our self-esteem, our behaviors and, if we are honest, the way we view ourselves throughout our lives. Knowing this and overcoming it are 2 entirely different things. On days like these, I find myself turning to the scriptures for words of assurance and comfort such as these found in Matthew 11:28-30. “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” I find solace in the reminder that God is always with me, helping me to carry those burdens and insecurities. No matter how many times I have laid all them at his feet, no matter how many times I go back to the cross and pick them up, He loves me, and carries me, and allows me to bring them back....over and over and over again. 

Our Response to Loss

In light of yesterday's tragedy, I am reposting a previous blog offering my thoughts and opinions on how we can best support those who are left behind. I don't pretend to understand, but these are a few of the MANY things that we learned when Mandy died. We have all suffered losses of many kinds, so feel free to add any thoughts you might have to the comments below. Before Mandy died, I had said, done, and not done some of these things many times before....it is hard to know what is right and wrong until you have been there, and it is different in every situation.

• Say, "I love you", and "I am sorry" and "I am praying" or tell the family what an impact their loved one has made on your life.  Please do not say "this is part of God's plan" or any variation of that statement. That may be your belief and that’s perfectly OK, but that statement gives comfort for some and causes anger and hurt for others and I believe it is better left unsaid. There will be time for wrestling with the theological questions of loss later on.
• Do not try to keep the family from crying and do not think there is anything wrong with them if they don't cry, some people just don't. Just as important, don't be afraid to cry in front of them-there is nothing wrong with showing genuine love and concern for their family with your tears. It reminds them of how much their family member was loved by others, too.
• Do not say "Call me if you need anything at all." Instead, just do something-they have no idea what they need right now or for the foreseeable future. Mow the yard, clean the house, wash dishes, answer the phone, go with the family to the funeral home or the cemetery-the list is endless. However, be sensitive to the family's need for time alone as well. This is not the time that the family needs to feel like they must constantly have their "game face" on nor should they have to worry about routine chores than can be handled by someone else. This applies for many, many months, as grief makes even the simplest of tasks seem overwhelming.
• Do share happy memories of their loved one, and do not be afraid to say their name or talk about them. Many times, after the first few days, people stop talking about the person who died, believing somehow that they will make the family sadder if they bring it up. Listen to me people, it is terrifying to think that someone you loved so much will be forgotten. If you have stories to share, write them down and give them to the family. I have every card and picture I have been sent relating to Mandy's death and I cherish every single one. If you have pictures that the family might not have, scan them and make sure the family gets them-these are priceless memories the family might not have seen before. Our favorite and most cherished gift was a never before seen (by us) picture of second grade Mandy wearing a friend's mom's wedding dress.
• Do not disappear after the funeral. Respect the family's need for rest and alone time, but send texts, call, go see them, and continue to include them in the normal activities in which you would have naturally included them before their loved one died. Allow them to choose whether or not to participate and respect that decision, but do not stop asking, no matter how many times they decline-one day they will say yes again.
• Do not say, "I know how you feel" because you don't. You know how YOU feel. Even if you suffered the same relational loss (husband, parent, child, sibling, etc.) you simply do not know how they feel. You may understand some aspects in the light of your experiences, but their relationship with their loved one is unique to those 2 people and you simply cannot fully comprehend their thoughts and feelings. Also, do not make the assumption that everyone in the family is feeling the same thing. Each relationship is different, each person left behind is different, and each person feels the loss differently. Be respectful and mindful of that when you are with the grieving family and understand that these feelings may change daily, even hourly, especially in the beginning.
• Respect their decisions in the way they choose to honor their loved one's life. If they choose a party instead of a funeral, so be it. Celebrate and participate wholeheartedly. One of the most hurtful things when Mandy died was the criticism we encountered of how we chose to honor her life and remember her. It is entirely up to the family to decide how to best celebrate and honor their loved one, and there simply is no right or wrong way.
• Facebook and other electronic media is wonderful for sharing memories, pictures, and encouragement when you can't be there, but don't think for one minute that it can replace the power of human touch and your actual physical presence. It doesn't. Go to the funeral if at all possible. Until you have experienced loss, you cannot fathom what your presence means. You may think you are one person in a swarm of people and your presence or absence makes no difference but it does.
• Finally, pray without ceasing. Understand that all the family can do right now and for the foreseeable future is take life one minute at a time. Love them, carry them and be there for them with your prayers, your words, your stories, and your actions. Remember that you get to go back to your "normal" life after the funeral, but life is completely different for them now and there is no going back. Be God's hands and feet for this family for the long haul.

Finally, as Mandy said, "Life is Short". Don't let small disagreements turn into big ones, and don't let a day go by without telling those you love that they are valued and appreciated. If there are issues that need to be discussed, do it today. You do not know when you might not get another chance. Life is a very fragile thing.

Fabulous at Fifty?

Fabulous at Fifty?

Someone posted on David's FB wall on his birthday a couple of weeks ago that fifty is the new forty, whatever that means! Since most of you probably know that I am a scant 17 days behind him in hitting this milestone, I started thinking about just what it means to begin the 6th decade of your life.

David was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at 25, so honestly, we have wondered for years what his health would be like at 50. Having watched his dad's health deteriorate through his thirties and forties as a result of this disease, we expected to deal with many of those same complications. By age 50, David's dad had multiple health issues related to his diabetes. Fortunately, David has very few complications from this insidious disease so far. I have had a couple of breast biopsies in the last year or so and have been battling some other issues, and of course, we both have the aches and pains that come with aging and not living the healthy lifestyle that we should, but, overall, we are both incredibly fortunate to be in good health.

For me, turning 50 has caused me to look back on my life, more so than at any other age. I guess I was too busy at 30 and 40 to be introspective. While I don't know that I would say I am "struggling", I can say that this milestone has caused me to do some serious reflection on past decisions and behavior. What I see in the rear view mirror pleases me in some places, not so much in others.

·       I see a young woman who found the love of her life very early, at age 15. He didn't see that nor did our parents, but I knew just a few weeks after I met him that David was "the one”.

·       I see a young woman who was so eager to be a wife and mother that I took the easy road in college just to get out as quickly as possible instead of challenging myself more. I should have been a nurse or a teacher and left the business degrees to someone else. 

·       I see the look of sheer joy and sheer panic on David’s face when both of our children were born and knowing that mine looked the same.

·       I see a very young, clueless and impatient mom who missed many moments of my children's lives because I was busy cleaning house or something equally unimportant.

·       I see a young father who, in a span of less than 6 months, had to deal with a diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes at 25 and the illness and death of his mother all while working himself to death to care for his wife and young daughter.

·       I see all the up and downs in David’s dad’s health as years of diabetes took a huge toll on his body, including the miracle of him receiving a donated heart and kidney in 1994, but then ending with his death 9 years later.  

·       I see the sudden death of David’s dear Uncle Buds in August of 2002 that nearly killed all of us.

·       I see the suffering of my mom as she battled breast cancer and lost in March of 2003, the death of David's dad in August of 2003 and how hard it was for Mandy and Matthew to lose so many loved ones in such a short period of time, yet still feeling relief that Memaw and Poppy weren't suffering anymore.

·       I see a lot of financially difficult times. I remember lots of conversations with my kids about why they couldn't have the "stuff" that their friends had and why we couldn't go to the beach or Disneyworld every summer.

·       I see the conversations as they got older that told me that all those lean days were worth every gray hair. I remember one in particular when I went to work full time, right after Mandy got her driver’s license. Of course, things were tough, extra car insurance, gas, etc. so the timing seemed right. After a few months, Mandy and Matthew came to me one day and said, “We don’t need your money, we need you.” I quit and came home.

·       I see many hot, cold, rainy days at the ballpark with Matthew and Mandy, cheering them on in baseball and softball, church basketball, rec league basketball, and then later cheerleading and high school baseball.  I am thankful that we made it to most games, and I think it meant a lot to them that David and I were there. Certainly there was no place we wanted to be more. When David had to travel and miss games, I would stay on the phone with him constantly, trying to provide play by play so he wouldn’t miss out.

·       I see lots of church activities, teaching children’s choir, children’s Sunday School, nursery duty, singing in the adult choir, Adoration (the a capella group David and I sang with for many years), and all sorts of other activities at CBCFC for the past 24 years. We made a conscious effort to teach our children that church community was important and not something you did when there wasn't anything better to do.

·       I see many years of not always being the kind of wife I should have been, yet always knowing that I was loved, valued and cherished by one of the finest men I have ever met.

·       I see the unthinkable nightmare of losing a daughter to a random accident and watching our world change forever in just a few hours.

·       I see the pain in David’s eyes when we went to the car after we said goodbye to Mandy for the last time, and I hear the sound as he sobbed in my arms that night and being helpless to take away the pain.

·       I see Matthew looking so lost and yet trying to be so brave because that is what teenagers do, knowing that his biggest fan and fiercest protector was gone and again, being helpless to take away the pain.

·       I see the day that David was asked to be the Worship Leader at CBCFC for Catalyst, just a little over a year after Mandy died. I see the joy and purpose that this “job” has brought him and the passion with which he plans and leads worship each week over the last 7 years.

·       I see and remember meeting Caroline for the first time and knowing that this was someone very special.

·       I see Matthew struggling through college, but never giving up on his dream of being an engineer, all with Caroline right beside him, pushing him and encouraging him.

·       I see Matthew’s pride in Caroline as she received her degree and met her goal of being a deaf interpreter.

·       I see the look on Matthew’s face as he watched Caroline walk down the aisle to become his wife.

·       I see the look of absolute joy on David’s face every time I walk in a room that still amazes me after all these years and reminds me of just how blessed I am to receive that kind of love.

There are SO many more things I could list here, but the bottom line is that we have a wonderful son and daughter in law of whom we are extremely proud, and we have each other.  We also have a loving God who walks through both the good times and the bad ones with us, holding us in His arms as we continue to strive each day to be His hands and feet here on earth. Ultimately, I can say that in our house, despite some real struggles over the years, fifty truly is fabulous and I can’t wait to see what the next decade will hold.

Moving Forward

So….several months after Mandy died in 2006, maybe March or April of 2007, we made the decision to turn her room into an office. Although we had already given away many of her clothes and packed lots of other items away, it was extremely difficult to pass her room and still see her furniture sitting there, unused. We found a young friend whom she loved to take her bedroom furniture. We repainted her purple and green walls to match the rest of our house, and we bought some lovely office furniture with a distressed red finish and redecorated the room in red and black. We had Mandy’s letterman’s jacket put in a shadow box and hung it up, along with some fantastic pictures of Matthew playing baseball that we had been given by dear friends. We purchased a beautiful, double door library cabinet in which to display not only things that Mandy had loved, but also various items we had been given in her memory in her favorite colors of purple and green. Over the past 7 years or so, we have added memories from the Rose Parade, pictures from Mandy night at the football games at CHS, etc. and everything in this cabinet has been about Mandy.

On a side note, I doubt that this is unique to me as a grieving person, but I find it incredibly difficult to touch Mandy’s things. Clothing is the worst, but honestly, almost anything that is connected to Mandy is likely to bring tears if I have to touch it. Consequently, that library cabinet has been touched very little over the last few years; I just find it so painful that I open it only when I absolutely have to do so.

Over the past couple of months, I have become aware that perhaps a change is in order. While I have struggled with this idea and have not been entirely happy about it, I do believe that perhaps the Holy Spirit has nudged me to make another step in the journey forward. Understand, in this mother’s heart, I will never truly let Mandy go; no mother ever really lets her children go completely, and death has little bearing on that fact. Yet, the time does come when you realize that hanging on to the visible signs of a person’s life might no longer be healthy for you or for others you love. Over the holidays, I began by putting away many of the photographs of Mandy still on display at our house. We put her beautiful tree (made by her friends) in our backyard as usual, but we did not take a Christmas tree to the cemetery this year and actually didn’t even go over there through the holidays. Then, a few days ago, I spent the afternoon tackling the cabinet, aka “the shrine”. I pulled everything out and forced myself to look it over, assess its value as far as being kept or disposed of, and then divided everything up into categories: continue to display or pack for storage. I managed to reduce four, 4 foot shelves down to a shelf and a half of items to continue to display; the rest were boxed up and put in storage and some things were even thrown away.

Knowing in my head that this is the right thing to do has little effect on my heart. In my heart, I have betrayed Mandy. I have reduced her life to the contents of a box and put her away. While I am aware that those who knew her won't ever forget her, I am also aware that "out of sight, out of mind" is very much a reality, and if I put her things away, it feels as though I am relegating her to a distant memory, at best. Not matter how much my head tells me this is right, my heart will forever scream that it's wrong! Even now, there are so many people that never knew Mandy and don't even know that she ever existed. The majority of my co-workers have no idea I have more than one child, which feels so wrong. Those who have heard me speak of her know only what I share and never got to experience the joy of truly "knowing" Mandy personally. For a parent, or honestly, anyone who has lost a loved one, I think this must be one of the most painful aspects of dealing with that loss. Attempting to convey from your own thoughts and memories what a person was truly like is virtually impossible. I can’t make you understand how she made me feel, how angry she made me when she rolled those eyes, or how wonderful it was that no matter how angry or upset she was she still said she loved me at the end of every phone conversation.

Despite all those conflicting feelings for me, time marches on. There is nothing that can bring Mandy back and there is no possible way to help anyone understand what it feels like to let her go. It hurts…..all day, every day. It affects every aspect of life, and as hard as I try to keep that from happening, it seems inevitable that it does. A piece of my heart is gone. That piece can never be replaced and every milestone in life that comes along accentuates the hole. Matthew got married and she wasn’t there to see it. Matthew is going to have children that will not know her and she will never get to love. David and I are going to grow old and Mandy won’t be here to help Matthew deal with all of the inevitable decisions children face as their parents age. Thank goodness he has Caroline, but it is not the same as having a sibling to bear that burden. Mandy’s friend are marrying and having children at breakneck speed, and none of those children will ever experience the joy of having someone like Mandy to love them. Even while I am doing my best to truly live in and embrace all of those moments, enjoying these wonderful milestones with and for Matthew and others, the joy felt with them doesn’t take away the bittersweet ache that comes with Mandy’s absence.

I owe so many people a debt of gratitude that I can never repay for their continued love and support over these past 7 ½ years. Perhaps the most important of those people are the ones who stepped in to help us support Matthew at a critical time in his life, when I could barely get out of bed most mornings-especially Caroline, who was willing to step into the craziness and become Matthew’s best friend and biggest support when his mom and dad were too consumed with their own grief to remember his. Certainly, David, who has in the midst of his own grief and pain supported me so lovingly and so well. The people at Tennessee Donor Services, who have allowed us to remember Mandy through the Rose Parade and other ways with such generosity. Larry Rains, a stranger to our family, who took the time to learn the story behind the wooden cross Mandy’s friends erected at Windrock and has made a point to make sure it continues for many years to come to be both a symbol of her life and a reminder to all who ride there to be cautious.

I have always wanted Mandy’s death to “matter”, for her death to have value and meaning beyond being just another life cut short by carelessness and poor decision making. Certainly, being an organ donor matters, especially to her recipients. Her story has caused some who would never have considered being an organ donor to make the decision to do so. I have heard stories of others for whom her death was a wake-up call to change the direction in which their lives were headed. Personally, Mandy’s death has made me more conscious of the pain of those around me. It has given me a desire to minister to those who have lost a loved one, to be able to say to them, “you are not alone.” I have led a small, informal grief support group for several years now, and led a different group this past fall at Central Baptist called “GriefShare” that is continuing to support each other. This is my way of saying thank you to those who have loved and supported me and to pay it forward, so to speak, as best I can. Our society is ill equipped to deal with grief and grieving people, which seems so strange since all of us experience loss in our lives. My goal is to share my experience as you journey through yours, and perhaps together we can make the path a little less lonely for everyone.