We are fortunate because we live near one of the 130 National Cemeteries in the United States. Everyone knows about Arlington National Cemetery near Washington, DC; few know about the others.

I say we’re fortunate for 2 reasons; one because our son Rhys is buried there and two, because being in the vicinity of a cemetery dedicated to our military veterans is a constant reminder of the sacrifices Americans make for their fellow citizens of the US and fellow citizens of the world. A visit to a National Cemetery is truly a humbling experience.

We put flags out every week on the graves of those brave men and women killed in combat during the current Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts, a mission that we have taken over for an aging and now sick veteran. We are proud to call Bob Markham our friend, a kind man, a former soldier, whose ministry in life since his wife’s death is to honor each young man and woman buried there who has died in combat in these current conflicts. We met Bob one Saturday while we were placing flowers on Rhys’ grave. We saw Bob many times after that, placing flags every Saturday. Often we saw only the results, as he was there earlier than anyone else. (more…)

It’s been 2 years since my son was killed by an IED in Iraq. The overwhelming grief has been replaced by bits and pieces of sadness and loss, tucked away in private moments. The amazing thing is that after this time there are still the dreaded “places to avoid.” They are not places like the cemetery where Rhys is buried. That is a place I love to go, to quietly contemplate a short life, well-lived. They are not places like Rhys’ room, or his favorite restaurant, or any of the places he like to frequent. The dreaded places are not even in the company of his friends.

The places I avoid have to do with the notification of a sudden, unexpected death of someone most dear to your heart.

Michael called me while I was driving very early in the morning on a freeway to get to a job. I thought it very odd that he would call me so early in the morning when normally he was still enjoying a warm bed. He casually asked me where I was and could I safely pull over to the side of the freeway for a second. It was LA traffic after all, but as I carefully made my way to the shoulder in the midst of the traffic, I heard Michael say, “It’s about Rhys.” My heart leapt to my throat as I pictured Rhys injured or maimed, my mind racing as to how we would get to him, how bad was it, what was expected. I stopped on the shoulder and asked, “What is it?” I will never forget that moment. “Our baby is dead,” Michael breathed.

That spot, that freeway, near the exit where I had to suddenly turn around is a place I try to avoid. I can’t completely avoid it of course, but it is definitely high on my list.

There are others, all of which have to do with that day, week, and month in time when life took a cruel and tragic turn. We cannot always avoid those places that suddenly bring that moment back as though it occurred only a moment ago. But it is best I think, to recognize the reasons that certain places bother us still, and to realize that this too is part of the healing journey we make. It is, I think, okay to avoid those places and not offer an explanation to anyone as to why we do.

As time passes, the desire to avoid a place may also pass. But the time for that decision if it comes at all, is entirely on one’s own timetable. Everything will ultimately fall into place exactly when it is supposed to. Until then, we journey onward.

Guilt has seeped in to the deepest recesses of my person lately. Not because I’ve done something completely wrong, but because of gnawing jealousy. It is the oddest kind of jealousy; the kind that stirs when you are really trying so hard to be kind and joyful for someone else.

The jealousy comes when parents talk joyfully about their sons and daughters, whether they are very young or they are tentatively entering the world of adult responsibilities. I love to hear about the accomplishments, big and small but the jealousy begins like a sound in my ears, like the sound of trickling water. Could it be tears bubbling somewhere from within, rising to the surface and then painfully tamped down and carefully choked back? I think about my son and what he would be doing at this point in his life. I wonder about the pride and joy that I would be sharing with others, maybe oblivious to their pain at tragic circumstances in their lives. (more…)