08/30/2013

   In some respects, the second Sunday of our new life without Curtis would prove to be one of the most challenging days yet. My mom and stepdad were up early. They would be going back home, so they could attend church that morning. For my mom, she needed to be back in worship surrounded by her longtime friends, many of whom were our friends as well from our years at the same church. For me, however, I was just beginning to sense a growing awareness of something very negative deep within me. This would be the first day since the accident that I would have time to ponder such things.

After my mom and stepdad left, I found myself alone downstairs in our house. There hadn't been many of these moments of isolation in recent days. In truth, I had been afraid to be alone, forced to ponder the unthinkable.  Everyone had gone home. I don't remember where my wife, son, or daughter were, but I distinctly remember an overwhelming feeling of utter aloneness enveloping me. I had never before felt such a complete sense of loneliness in my life. What now? All the hustle and bustle was over. All the things that had seemed so absolutely necessary were done. The people had all gone home, the flowers were beginning to wilt, the food beginning to spoil, the plants, cards, notes, letters, tributes, posters, stuffed animals, candles only serving as reminders of the horrible truth. The services all done, the children all buried side by side in the cemetery, together forever.  None of that had been able to return my son to me. I felt more lost and alone than ever before. How was I supposed to go on from all this?

What was the point? I suddenly had to acknowledge that the negative feeling that seemed to be growing stronger by the second was an overwhelming sense of betrayal. I felt forsaken by a God I'd prayed to on the very morning of the accident for divine protection over my family. Had He not heard or didn't He even care? These first moments of despair and doubt would linger to one degree or another

for several years before I would be able to come to grips with them. On this Sunday, however, what shook me out of my depression was gazing at photographs on our living room wall. They were photos of our children over the years. There wasn't much different about them from the types of pictures many families proudly display in their homes, and I'd certainly seen all of these photos before, but this time I seemed to be seeing them for the first time. As I stared at them, I looked into my children's beautiful, trusting eyes, and I realized that somehow, someway, I needed to find the strength to go on. I had to find ways to not just survive for myself, but for my wife, for my surviving son and daughter, and, yes, for Curtis himself. How could I let them down by falling apart? How could I let down all of our family, friends, neighbors, and even strangers who had been so supportive? On that afternoon, I felt like I was in the center of a black hole of grief where no light would ever again penetrate. What I had failed to realize was that it was only my perception of reality that was cloaked in darkness. I was so deeply grieving and in such tremendous pain that I hadn't acknowledged that the true reality was that we were bathed in the love and light of all those supportive people, and had been since the very moment of the accident. In time, we had to find ways to get through this ordeal (you don't get over it, as some people seem to think you should do after enough time goes by, however long that may be, but you do learn to live with a new reality) as a family. If we could not get through it together, how could we possibly hope to do so as isolated individuals? I didn't fully comprehend it at the time, but  that rainy, gloomy Sunday afternoon would mark a turning point in my journey.