Tag: miss her

And Then They Sang

stephaniemoorewrites

This memory keeps coming back to me. Usually it means I need to share it.

The night that Rory passed away, Lance and I gathered our boys and went to my parent’s house.

There were a lot of people at the house. In the family room and in the front yard.

A lot of hugs.

A lot of questions.

A lot of disbelief.

A lot of sorrow.

A lot of falling tears.

In the middle of this tragedy, the three boys started to sing a children’s song from our church.

Their voices broke through the sorrow.

Their voices united them in their brotherhood. In their fear. In their strength.

As I was just trying to process what had happened. They were already searching for peace. In the best way they knew how. Music.

These are the words they sang that night:

Heavenly Father, are you really there?
And do you hear and answer ev’ry child’s prayer?
Some say that heaven is far away,
But I feel it close around me as I pray.
Heavenly Father, I remember now
Something that Jesus told disciples long ago:
“Suffer the children to come to me.”
Father, in prayer I’m coming now to thee.

Pray, he is there;
Speak, he is list’ning.
You are his child;
His love now surrounds you.
He hears your prayer;
He loves the children.
Of such is the kingdom, the kingdom of heav’n.

My boys face pain. Everyday.

The life they are living is different now. It’s harder. They carry a burden they can’t quite process and don’t fully understand.

I think back to that moment and tears instantly begin to fall.

They are light.

They are love.

These boys are my hope.

Family Prayer

stephaniemoorewrites

When we would pray together as a family at night, many times we would stay in a circle, holding hands.

Lance or I would say, “Time to pray.”

Crickets.

Crickets.

No sound of feet running our way.

Then we would say, “Someone else is going to hold mom’s hand.”

Mass running.

Children falling over each other.

Hands grasping at mine.

If Rory didn’t get there first, tears would fall.

Until one of the boys relented. And they pretty much always did.

Rory was a spoiled princess. And it wasn’t just by Lance and me.

During our church’s conference today one of the leaders said the above quote. “Families that prays together, ARE together, even when they’re far apart.

What a wonderful thought.

Our Rory running to the room, racing to reach my hand.

Even when she’s on the other side.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

stephaniemoorewrites

Lance and I love the 90’s movie, Fool Rush In. We’ve watched it tons of times. (Though, not since Rory passed, seeing that a side story is, “My only daughter.”)

But a major theme in the movie deals with signs. Isabel believes in signs. She believes if people look around, they can find clues to know what they need to do.

I think I’ve used the word “coincidental” when things like that happen to me.

I don’t know that I can anymore.

The number of times things have happened. The number of times a song has come on. The number of times a thought has come to my mind just when I needed it. Gosh, even down to that purple Jeep in the showroom when we bought our new van.

They help me to know I’m on the right track. I’m doing what I need to be doing.

And that Rory is beside me doing it.

Love you, girl. Every second, of every minute, of every day.

Mental Side Effects

stephaniemoorewrites

When Rory died, I feel like I was changed at the molecular level. That down to my cells, I would never be the same.

I’m not the same, but most of my cells probably are.

I’ve had quite a few mental side effects from the trauma of That Night.

One of them dealt with counting.

Since I was young, when my brain felt overwhelmed or when I was bored I would count things around me. It enabled me to focus in and make sense of my surroundings.

After Rory died, when I would start counting, I would be transported back to That Night. Counting the chest compressions.

What was once a coping mechanism was now a trigger.

I expressed this to our grief counselor. He gave me an exercise to help retrain my brain.

Every time I started counting compressions, I needed to replace the thought with something positive involving Rory.

I counted freckles.

I pictured Rory’s sweet face and would count her precious freckles.

Slowly, I’ve been able to count again. The thought doesn’t alway pop up. It still does sometimes, though.

But then I picture her chubby cheeks and find a small amount of peace.

Being a Bit Clingy

stephaniemoorewrites

I’ve become quite clingy. There are things in my life that I just to to hold onto for dear life now.

My husband.

My boys.

Memories.

Pictures.

Family.

And faith.

If I were to say my faith hasn’t stumbled, that would be a lie.

How could I not question? My daughter is gone. For the rest of my life.

But at times when the questions become overwhelming, I hold onto the things I know.

I don’t understand why Rory isn’t here. It’s not fair! It isn’t!

I cling to my faith that I’m going to see her again.

Life sucks! It’s so hard living without her.

I cling to my faith that I’m not going through this alone, that I have a loving brother, Jesus Christ, who knows my pain.

I understand that I won’t have all the answers.

The best I can do is hold on to those I love, trust in what I believe, and share as much love as I possibly can.

It’s not the life I thought I’d have but it’s the life I’m living.

And I believe Rory’s going to be right by my side.