Silent Symphony

I wrote this for a dear friend, who is the parent of an autistic child. It’s one of the many things we have in common and I’m so thankful for her friendship. Sometimes it can be hard to get people to see past the autism and appreciate the magnanimous wonder that is your baby. If this is your journey, know that every child has a voice- and no one understands them better than their mother.

Silent Symphony

No one else may hear it, but there is a symphony in your silence.

There is melody in your movements. A tip of the head or touch of the mouth. A flicker of your fingers play the keys in your chord. Often considered a cacophony, but I can hear your chorus. 

Accepted is the unspoken language in paints, film and dance. Dialogues that stream in your mind are inaudible, yet study you like sheet music and I can keep the cadence. 

Beethoven couldn’t hear a note when he composed Symphony No. 9. He sawed off piano legs to feel closer to the vibrations. How close were we to never knowing music’s greatest work had he not been allowed that accommodation?

Your masterpiece already arranged is lost trying to harmonize in a world so unfair. Slow down now and listen close, you yearn to make us aware.
Methods applied to curb your conduct never consider you the Conductor. What would happen if we followed your baton? Lessons I’m learning as your mother.

I’ve been stripped of my materialistic definitions. I mourned them before I realized you loved me without knowing those positions. Gone is my profession, possessions, hubris and expectations. My truest self reflects back at me through this work of dedication.

So when the house lights dim and the orchestra has gone, I will play your silent symphony, for you are my swansong. 

My courageous boy, my one man band, however the scales may change-

Together, we will build a place where you always belong onstage.

The Girls in the Back Pew

I’ve been thinking about friendship a lot lately. Thinking about how we show up for people in our lives, how we are present in hard times, how we find language to articulate support when our friends are struggling. We model the qualities of a good friend to our children- share, listen, take turns. But somewhere down the line, the role of a friend becomes more challenging, and more often than not, being a true friend cannot be taught. It is an innate instinct to do the next best thing you know to do for someone you love.

The Girls in the Back Pew

I’m not sure how they found the old church. It has no physical address, instead you are guided there by landmarks: old oak trees, a downed fence, a fork in the isolated road. To find it generally means you know the way, like a blind dog that can still maneuver their path home. Giving directions to this place would be like tracing a map made entirely of memories. I was mostly familiar with stories of it- ancestors who built the chapel, weddings, baptisms, loved ones long lost. 

But now it had my mother, so it had my everything.

I had turned down their offer to be there. It seemed the right thing to do, not to burden them with my burden. My violent, messy, incapacitating loss was one I would not ask them to bear with me. I already understood the concept of pity and felt I’d been doled my allowance for it while she was living. Pity seems to be easily given. Solace is harder to come by. 

My presence in the receiving line felt as foreign as the notion that she was truly gone. I grasped numb hands methodically like a worker on an assembly line: shake, nod, thank, repeat. The stained glass windows could do little to punctuate the bleak, gray February light. Instead the sanctuary was washed in a dull sepia hue. She was gone, and all life’s color went with her. 

That’s when I saw them- a row of girls filed in the pine door. I exhaled deeply, feeling my chest tighten with more tears, unable to determine if the pang was one of happiness or sadness. Like a cosmic defibrillator shocked my broken heart- it was never going to fix the break, but with luck, it buys you more time to heal.

As they slid into the mahogany pew I scanned their faces. My incredible girls, all so different in their own ways. The gamut of tenacity, tenderness, humor and heart encapsulated in them. Yet on that day, their faces mirrored mine. My grief and sadness reflected back on me as if they carried my heart in theirs. The perfect amalgam of solitary strength sat in the back pew. 

They had come for me. 

As I processed behind the white coffin, I stopped and looked back at them, woozy with anguish.

“I can’t do this,” I mouthed. No words came out.

“Yes, you can,” one said. Her words landed firmly over the piano’s music.

“We’re here,” one said. Her words were soft.

Then fervent nods in unison from them all.

I nodded back and found the stability to keep walking, not sure of what stunned me more, my current loss or the acute realization that my friends intended to walk the longer path with me. 

Decades go by and these girls, now women, don’t shrink away from my melancholy moments. 

They found the place with no address that housed all of my hurt, opened the door and sat in servitude with my grief. A seemingly small act, but it taught me everything I ever needed to know about compassion and friendship.

To the girls in the back pew, wherever you go-

I will brave your violence.

I will help make sense of the mess.

I will carry your burden and I will hold your trembling hand.

I will stare into the darkness with you, until the small glimmers of light begin to emerge and we make eye contact once more.

As you walk, you need not look back. I will be there, as you were for me. I will sit in your pew and pray so fervently for your healing, because you sat in mine. I am humbled by your friendship and will carry it through.

This pew, reserved in solidarity for you. 

Back to School from My Point of View

I want you to know that I see you when you are trying to be invisible. 

I watch you quietly trying to calm your nervous baby as he clings to the door jam, desperate to not make a scene. We’ve learned to be good at orchestrating situations to navigate the swells, but the beginning of school can feel like a tidal wave. 

We are the mothers who don’t have pictures of their babies on the first day of school because sometimes it’s too painful. While some parents are excited for new beginnings, we worry about transitions, meltdowns and tears. We are the ones that spend weeks trying to explain a new schedule and often end up just as confused as our children. 

And while we layer a pandemic on top of another school year, it is understandable why parents worry about effects on their child’s “normal” experience. Our neurodivergent children never had one. 

If you are a mother of a child like mine, I want you to know that you are not alone in this.

I feel your stress as you attend open houses and fill out fresh evaluations. I hear your love when you delicately describe your child’s strengths to a teacher. I understand the importance of explaining how your child chooses to self-soothe. I carry your hopeful heart as you tenderly give your baby’s hand to an aid. I realize that quite often, there are two people crying at drop-offs. I also embrace your small victories and acknowledge that we measure success in inches when others have milestones.

Your child is a beacon of Light, and you shine brighter when you are closer to her. This school year will provide challenges, but I pray it also brings infinite growth- for your little one and you. 

And when your child comes home one afternoon with an inchstone, write it on a chalkboard and snap a picture of her holding it. Be proud in that moment and know you are both seen. 

“We are all fearfully and wonderfully made”

— Psalm 139

Gayle Brooker Photography

My Darling Child

I dedicate this post to every woman and couple struggling with their ability to start or continue a family. You are not alone. We need to remove the stigmas that stand in the way of building families. April 21-29 is National Infertility Awareness Week. Learn how to help continue the conversation by following the website www.infertilityawareness.org.

#infertilityuncovered

My darling child,

If I never get a chance to meet you in the flesh,

Please know I will always consider myself your mother.

You were a product of deep love.

Unlike others who enter into parenthood with reckless abandon, your life was sparked with articulate consideration.

We acknowledged finances, family dynamics and changes to our work schedules.

We re-evaluated priorities to make you paramount.

We moved homes to make room for your nursery.

And when we couldn’t see eye to eye, we counseled with the most experienced advisors to make sure our marriage was healthy enough to welcome you too.

It has been years now. The time goes by not in months, but in cycles.

Fertile and non-fertile days tick by like the beeping of a basal thermometer.

Digital happy faces mock me at the end of a stick. It should be fun, but it feels like a chore.

Days are regulated by powders and vitamins, PH strips, alkaline tests, homeopathic teas, reduced carbs, eliminated sugars, castor oil wraps...tears.

We have all the best doctors. We’ve had all the tests modern medicine can provide. We’ve learned about sperm size, shape, mobility and count. I’ve watched the screen as the contours of my uterus are traced and discussed flatly in front of me like an architect would a blueprint. I’ve seen blue dye swim through my body charting out the map of your potential journey.

Countless vials of blood from my arm seem almost given in sacrifice to determine my worth. I watch the vials slowly fill and think maybe it is coming directly from my half-empty heart. Laid on the altar of a lab desk, I’d give it all for you...but all the results came back the same.

“Unexplained Infertility.”

Two words so clinical in definition, yet so cutting to my soul.

So when Western medicine failed us, we turned to the East.

I dabble in oils and supplements. I burn sage in our home.

Afternoons spent with tiny pricks of needles canvassing my skin and hot cups sucking out bad “chi.”

As I lay on the table, still and in silence, I do my best to pray. But each time I feel like my prayers are muffled, as if spoken into a pillow or gargling underneath water. My own words choking under the weight of my growing doubts. How could they possibly reach God’s ears?

God may not be listening but the rest are questioning.

“When will we hear some baby news?”

“You better not wait too long!”

“You should start trying now if you want more than one.”

And the most somber question of all, offered up to me at home, in tender surrender…

“How long do you think we should keep trying before we stop?”

The answer in my head? I would try forever.

The answer from my mouth? Silence.
I want you to know, I dream of you often. I’ve pictured your face like a ripe peach and I’ve watched you bounce with laughter into my arms. Once I imagined you so vividly that I woke still feeling the impression of you warm and tingly on my chest. In my dreams you are a little girl. Perhaps you are the one who will help mend my open wounds with my own mother...Perhaps just the thought of you, in a way, already has.

So you see, my Heart,

If I never meet you in the flesh, know you were born from our passion.

Conceived in my Soul,

Birthed in my mind and kept in my faith.

If I am never able to be your mother in the physical world,

Then I will still mourn you.

Because you are mine. My body, blood and spirit gave everything they could to have you.

Know how deeply I love you and how I still feel your presence even if we never meet.

Forever and always, yours I will be.

Sunday Suppers

I've been feeling pretty low these past couple weeks and I haven't been able to pinpoint just why I feel that way. Any normal gal might just call it a slump or not delve too deeply into finding out why she feels that way, but unfortunately I'm not able to really ignore emotions like that. I've been trained to be just a bit more intuitive when I find myself in a depressed state- there's just too much DNA in my blood that might cause me to stay wallowing in a puddle. 

This past Sunday, just like every Sunday before, I began to set our dining room table for supper. But this night was different- less napkins, less silver, less settings at the table.  Then the tears hit me. 

She's gone. 

My sister, Alison, has been a staple in our home for the past four years. She lived 5 minutes away, in a little apartment close to the MUSC Dental School, where she poured her whole self into becoming an A+ student and a model dentist, which didn't come easy for her. Looking back I want to say that our Sunday Suppers began as a tradition to give my step-children an example of what it looks  and feels like when a family comes together, puts work and distractions aside, lays cloth napkins in their lap and finds something in life special enough to deserve a toast. The kids have certainly internalized it that way and I cherish how much they look forward to helping with dinner and spending time with us. 

But as I set our table last week for just the four Dudleys I realized that Sunday Suppers initially became an institution in our home for Alison. During her first two years of dental school she would lose count of the days in the lab.  I could hear the exhaustion in her voice as she whispered to answer my phone calls in the library late at night. Knowing that she wasn't eating a full meal all week, my husband and I made such a fuss over "Aunt Ali" coming to dinner with us on Sundays that, even if she wanted to, we made it too much of a production for her to refuse the invitation. Once a week we would lay out the silver, prepare a special meal and let the children regale Ali with their weekly stories. All the while I studied the circles under Ali's eyes and my husband made sure to send her home with leftovers. 

So it functioned over a course of four years, until she graduated. 

Graduation Day. 

Ali packed up all her things and moved onto the next chapter in her life, practicing dentistry in Chapel Hill, NC. She went from five minutes down the road to a city five hours away from me.

It may have broken my heart a bit. 

I realized that we began this family tradition in an effort to feed someone, when in reality her presence in our home was feeding my soul just as much. (Tweet that.)

Holding my sister's hand in my hand as we said the blessing solidified her place at our table, but also made me feel, in a way, like I was holding my father's hand while he lives three hours away, and my mother's hand long gone. With one sister in tow I felt like I had a bit of all my siblings there with us, sharing inside jokes and stories. What began as a family meal quickly became the weekly revitalization my soul needed to feel the magnitude of love in our family. 

On April 3, 2001, my mother wrote in her journal:

“Keep Alison close, sweet Jesus. She is having a hard night. Look after each child when I cannot. I turn their health, happiness and safety to you dear God, please take care.”

Next Sunday Supper I will say a similar prayer, "Keep Alison close to my heart, sweet Jesus. I am having a hard night. Look after us all when we cannot be together. Thank you for this food to nourish our health. Thank you for the happiness we feel together as a family. Separated, we find our safety in you. Dear God, please take care."

I am thankful for the three wonderful loves in my life that grace my table every week. Their constant presence is reason enough to celebrate. I encourage you all to raise a glass to the faces you see around the table every night and to the ones you long for in your heart. 

Cheers to you and yours!

And if you like the dinner photos, you should know about Caroline Howard, the immensely talented photographer that became our colleague when she shared her passion for suicide prevention, our friend when she shot our wedding and part of our family as she continues to photograph our lives. 

Project Semicolon

Whenever I see someone with a tattoo I always wonder about the meaning behind the ink. What did that person admire so much that he decided to place it permanently on his body? Or even further, whom did that person love so deeply she had to inscribe a physical image on her body to  share that person with the world?

When referencing tattoos, it seems most camps divide into either passionately for, or passionately against the idea. No matter your stance, you have to respect an ink lovers commitment to longevity. 

And in that vein of respect, I came across an article about Project Semicolon that I connected with and wanted to share with you all. Have you spied these tattoos on anyone yet? 

These small tattoos have started quite a trend. While most are simple and some almost unrecognizable, they gained popularity when the founders of Project Semicolon found a voice on social media and began sharing photos of the sign drawn on different people. As the images began to spread across the internet, so did their message of hope and love for those individuals struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts or tendencies. 

Their metaphor is a simple one. "A semicolon represents a sentence an author could have ended, but chose not to. The sentence is your life, and the author is you." (Tweet that.)

The tattoo, an instant conversation starter, could at any point in time spark a discussion of self-injury, struggles and survival. These small grammatical signs are actually giving a voice to a subject that all too often goes unspoken. For those individuals sporting the semicolon, it acts as a physical manifestation of a struggle they endured- whether battling their own afflictions or watching a loved one decide how he or she would punctuate their own life. 

And that, ladies and gentlemen is a movement I can get behind. The National Institute of Mental Illness reports that nearly 1 in 5 Americans suffers from some type of mental illness. Imagine if we could all help those individuals by talking, sharing, imploring them all to see another volume in the library of life. 

I wish I could've convinced my mother to view her dark times as a  novel, use a semicolon to find time to breathe and understand what happened before, but remember there was another chapter to her story. I wish I could change her punctuation. 

But since I can't change the ending of a story written in ink, I can support those using ink to remind us that all lives are valuable and deserve a sense of permanence. 

For whom will you sport your semicolon?

                           I wear mine (in Sharpie ink) for you, Mom. Your story continues. 

Listen to Your Mother!

So here's the deal, I did something I am pretty proud of. I had the privilege of being a part of Charleston's Listen To Your Mother! cast. What is LTYM? It's a live reading by local writers on the beauty, best and barely-rested tales of motherhood, in celebration of Mother's Day. It occurs in cities all over the country and they just published their first book of writings if you care to share these powerful stories with someone you love (hint, hint- mother's day gift!)

I auditioned for the cast on a whim. My always empowering (and insanely talented) writing partner, Laura, sent me the call for auditions two days before they were set to take place. "You have to do this!" she exclaimed. I think my response was, "GULP."

The guidelines read as follows: 

It should be about 5 minutes when read aloud. It should be a personal narrative. It should be, primarily, about motherhood or mothers or mothering.

That was it. Pretty opened ended, right? "Just start writing it, Erin!" Laura urged. "You already have it in your head!" 

So I churned out my emotions on motherhood and spent a good majority of the night prior to the auditions forcing my husband to listen to me read my piece, revision after revision, into a hairbrush as I stood on a makeshift stage, aka the coffee table in our living room. Two weeks later I was elated to find out I made the cut. Now to share my story with hundreds in person and the world on the internet...again, "GULP."

Thankfully we had some good practice. In fact, the practice may have been my favorite part. Our first meeting was a round table reading. All of a sudden I became acutely aware that I was surrounded by a group of people that I would have never met had it not been for this very experience. No matter how different we all were, we were connected by the bloodline of resonating, one way or another, with the theme of "motherhood." (Tweet it.) As I listened to each person share his or her writing, I could feel my soul settle with humility like silt under a foundation. No matter how heavy my story with my mother weighed on me, the stranger sitting next to me was grappling with a much more egregious load to bare. I couldn't fathom that they could really be carrying the weight of these experiences around with them and still be able to function? 

Not all stories were sad, in fact many broke us all into hysterics.

                                    The cast that laughs together stays together.

And then it was my turn to share my story. I stood in front of the strangers and watched them weep as I spilled my words. Within my five minutes these acquaintances became my covenant, and in a way this small group knew me better than some colleagues I've known for years. As my eyes rose from the page I met their gaze and internalized their heads nodding in understanding. 

These were my people.

Before we knew it the big day was upon us! Over 300 people came to the Charleston City Music Hall to hear our stories. We had a little time to kid around before the show:

                                                                               Cheese!

But aside from the initial laughs, the general consensus back stage was one of nervousness and anticipation. These were our stories; our experiences carved on our hearts in the letters, "M.O.M." These had never been shared in a public forum. We were trusting this audience to handle our most intimate experiences with care while we offer them up like baby lambs at a podium. 

                                        A view of the podium during dress rehearsal. 

I was third in the lineup. If I was playing softball that meant my coach thought I was a strong hitter, but my doubts lingered in my head making me question my validity to belong on the stage. 

But more than anything, my mother urged me to speak. I had to tell this story. Her voice ended prematurely and too often the survivors of suicide feel ashamed to share their stories of losing their loved ones, as if suicide somehow categorizes us to feel a  "less than" loss that doesn't deserve to be grieved publicly. So we mourn our mothers in the shadows. The truth is that there is a subset of people in this world that don't understand the valiant effort and struggle to stay alive that happens before someone takes their own life. (Tweet it.) In my opinion it is just gallant as a cancerous battle. 

I am proud to share my small contribution to this cause with you. If you have anyone in your life that may need to hear it, please share. 

Erin Dudley talks about losing her mom to suicide and what she learned years later, when she discovered a trunk full of her mom's handwritten journals. LTYM: Charleston ● 5/3/15 ● Charleston Music Hall http://listentoyourmothershow.com/charleston/

But I also encourage you to listen to all the heartfelt stories shared on that stage. Every one of them left a marking on my heart. I know you will feel the same. Because after all, can you think of a more universal theme to bring us together aside from "Motherhood?" 

"

Nine Lives

I was born in Charleston, SC. I came into this world, completely clean. Like all newborns, I began my life free of any judgement, unable to find fault in any race or skin color, without bias to any region or country and devoid of any political party affiliation.

Isn't it amazing to know that no matter how different we are, we all start this journey with our heels in the very same starting block? (Tweet it.) 

Somewhere down the line we all lose a bit of that purity. If you are lucky you are brought up by parents who instill faith and tolerance in your heart. I was raised to respect elders and be thankful for my blessings. But for many others, a once white slate can become tarnished with layers of learned habits.

The term "habit" often has a negative connotation, but we often develop positive habits: prayer, exercise, volunteering, etc. The negative habits are the ones that can often get top billing in a person's character. Over time, a tea bag can rim a once white cup with an herbal film. A person's character can be stained the same way. Whether it be by family members, television, a group of friends, or even learning about our own past history, those negative habits layer onto our white yet porous character and dye it over time.

The tricky thing about this calcification of character is that it happens gradually, the way plaque attaches to a clean tooth. You might not notice it until it becomes too difficult to scrape away. This is the revelation I had Thursday morning, when I woke up in our beautiful Holy City, turned on the news, and heard of the bloodshed in the historic AME Church. There were nine lives lost that day and it was as if someone had taken a crow bar to my chest and cracked away nine ribs, exposing my open heart to the elements.

I recognized something in Dylann Roof. Not in a sense that we have met face to face, but I resonated with his overwhelming sense of being too full of emotion. I could imagine Dylann, sitting in that prayer group with a twitching leg, battling the demons in his own mind. There are those people in this world who feel too much. Some are much more docile, being overwhelmed with compassion, grief, or disbelief. My own mother felt too much sadness. She fought sadness like a trained ninja, but ultimately lost the battle. But the thing that unites all of these characteristics is the sense that there is no other option than the extreme. While a healthy mind can understand the limits of traditional logic, an unhealthy mind, riddled with layers of plaque, can see nothing other than decay and death.  

 I realized, just like that tooth, it was too late to give Dylann's conscience a good descaling. 

I think what Dylann Roof was trying to do was shock the system here in our peaceful community, and he succeeded. But instead of causing a cataclysm of hatred, Mr. Roof placed a metaphoric defibrillator on all of our hearts and gave us a jolt of octane so powerful that we could only react with love. (Tweet it.)

That love exists only to bolster the weak hearts that are in mourning. A mourning so great it reverberates through our entire community. I can tell you that we will continue to have a solemn shroud over this city for a long time to come.  But this veil of grief is also a powerful agent of positivity that descended on our city and caused us all to look internally, analyze the areas of our own hearts that are broken, and give the rough patches a good scrub. We will not be a community defined by hatred, we are not a city known for terror, and we will not be a population that continues to let something as superficial as race continue to stymie the desire for our city to be more than just a town, but a commonwealth. 

Mr. Roof, if I can even address you as a "Mister" because the title itself implies age or wisdom and of which you have neither, I cannot fathom how you doomed your life to lay in a bed lined with the most sinful sheets imaginable. You took nine lives. And by the grace of God, through verbal admissions you were forgiven nine times by the survivors and victims of your egregious acts.  By an act of the highest divinity, you have received the holy pardon only cats that exist in fables hope to achieve, using all nine lives of their cosmic score card. 

Matthew 10:18 says, "And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul."

Nine lives became nine souls. Amazing how those souls in heaven are making a higher impact on this world than most living beings will ever attempt. 

Charleston has shown that we will not cower in fear, because our collective soul exists indefinitely. We are the nine and we recite them by name: Clementa, Cynthia, Sharonda, Tywanza, Ethel, Susie, Depayne, Daniel & Myra. We will count your names like rosary beads for all our prayers yet to come. May you rest in sweet peace and light everlasting. 

Memorial Day

I found myself cursing a mundane task today. I was in the laundry room after work, folding what felt like my 100th towel and I just said out loud, "I swear I spend my life in this damn laundry room!" I pressed my last item and began to strip off my sweat soaked uniform. 

Something bit my neck and I winced in pain. I looked down at the lapel of my dirty shirt and saw it, a tiny gold American flag pin dangling from the cuff. And then I felt it, a pang of guilt echoing through my brain knowing that I had no business complaining about the banality of my life. Today is Memorial Day, and so many veterans have died in order for me to even have the chance, no more, the privilege to complete the utmost routine tasks of my every day life. We are the fortunate ones that get used to taking everyday chores for granted. I am one of those people that chose to complain about it on Memorial Day. "Bitch." I said to myself.

I meant it. 

In my evening haze I forgot the reason I put the pin on my shirt in the first place. Memorial Day is the day we recognize all those brave men & women who died for our country. While we mostly think about those losses in the field of battle, I placed the pin on my lapel today for those veterans who died at their own hands. 

The fact is that we lose more veterans to suicide than fallen military in active duty. On average we lose 22+ veterans a day to suicide. That's roughly one an hour. (Tweet That.) Statistics show that the suicide rate for veterans is over 50% higher than civilians in their same demographic conditions. 

The LA Times explains, "Men accounted for 83% of the veterans in the study and all but 124 of the suicides. They were three times more likely than women to take their own lives. Female veterans, however, killed themselves at more than twice the rate of other women — a difference much bigger than the gap between male veterans and non-veterans."  (Read the full article here.)

In my tiny laundry room, I stripped my polo off my chest and the tiny gold pin scratched a thin line of blood on my neck. As I dabbed the trail of raised skin I thought long and hard of those veterans who found their lives all too overwhelming and perhaps found a soft place on their flesh to relieve their inner pain. 

Charles  Spurgeon once said, “The Lord gets his best soldiers out of the highlands of affliction.” (Tweet That.)

Alone in my laundry room I thought about the affliction so many veterans carry. How their war stressors echo so loudly in their minds until the crescendo plays double forte and they can't do anything more than find an infinite silence. 

And then I thought about their families. I wondered, does the mother of a soldier suffering from PTSD still get the folded flag handed to her when her son takes his own life? Does that mother's loss hurt any more or any less than the mother that loses her son from battle?

This Memorial Day please say a separate prayer for those soldiers continuing to replay the damages of war in their minds. Pray for those soldiers who can't grasp assimilation back into our world, those who can't even process the simple task of doing laundry because their very existence is too broken by experiences we can't even begin to process as reality.

Timothy 2:4 says, "No soldier gets entangled in civilian pursuits, since his aim is to please the one who enlisted him."

Today let's remember that all soldiers are aiming to please all of us at home, to protect us and honor us, whether they are pledging to serve complete strangers or their direct family. We have enlisted these soldiers, and it is our duty to bolster their minds and spirits when they return home. Otherwise we will continue to have "Memorial Days," rather than "Veterans' Days." 

Hebrews 2:10 says, "For it was fitting that he, for whom and by whom all things exist, in bringing many sons to glory, should make the founder of their salvation perfect through suffering."

Suffering is real

existence is constant

glory should be offered

 and salvation is earned by all of those veterans who suffered.

A Single Celebration

I've been a permanent fixture on a graduation circuit lately. It's that time of year when all graduates are donning their caps and gowns and I've been privy to attend two ceremonies back to back. The first of which belonged to my baby sister, Jackie. 

Jackie's graduation was unique for two reasons. The first reason being that she graduated from the University of South Carolina. Now before you smack me with a dictionary and tell me to look up the definition of "unique," you must know that Jackie comes from a long lineage of Clemson graduates. Both my parents graduated from Clemson along with myself and our sister, Alison. So given that she was our first family member to incorporate garnet into her wardrobe, I find her choice to attend USC a bit of an anomaly. 

But to me, the real reason that Jackie's graduation was so special is that we got to celebrate Jackie all by herself. You see, Jackie was lucky enough to be born a twin. 

Obligatory Embarrassing Naked Baby Photo. Circa 1993

Jackie has had the privilege of sharing most every life experience with her twin brother, Jimmy. Every birthday, class party, holiday or life milestone has, up until this point, been shared with someone else. As much as I've always considered this a blessing, looking back I started to wonder, were the twins ever slighted by being considered a package deal rather than celebrated individually? 

I felt a wave of guilt rush over me and I simmered in the idea that I may have let my siblings entire lives go by without catching what could be an egregious error. So I wrote out a long, heart-felt card, picked out a special gift and I did my best to make the focus of the day entirely centered on her. I think she appreciated the sentiment, but I wasn't entirely convinced.

I decided to approach Jackie about it the other night. I offered up the question softly, "Did you ever feel like your childhood was slighted by being a twin?"

"Nope. Not at all." She retorted. "Jimmy and I are so different that I never felt pressured to be 'the twins.' It's all I've ever known. It doesn't phase me. Never." 

Her tone cruised with confidence as she answered me. I had a flashback to the twins as toddlers, learning to speak. Jimmy would always whisper his requests into his sister's ear, begging her to speak his demands. Jackie would confidently offer up Jimmy's appeal. I can hear her small voice resonate into the adult responding back to me. I'm amazed at her innate cognition to embrace her twin. He wasn't present for me to pose the same question to him, but I'm confident he would look at his sister and nod in agreement as she answered. 

Jackie & Jimmy Circa 1995

Watching Jackie at her graduation I realized she is truly never without a smile. Her grin might be the largest feature on her petite frame, stretching as wide as the brim on her mortarboard cap. Even in the dead of winter, her skin is always tan, as if the sun never stops shining on her. There isn't a sharp angle to her body, every aspect of Jackie is as soft as her genuine heart. Maybe that's why her friends circle her like a nucleus? Maybe that's why her soul has the gravitational pull to help keep our sensitive family unit spinning in constant rotation? 

There's something special about twins, already a step ahead of the rest of us because they have the backing of their partner from the time of creation. I think that God can see that a certain child's path is going to be more rugged than others, so he gives her a twin to walk along beside her. (Tweet That.)

My mother once wrote in her journal about her twins,

Never in a million years would I have believed I would cause you so much trouble in the first year of your precious lives.

That early trouble, I imagine, they do not remember. Her presence during those formative years, I'm sure they do remember. I wish my mother could be with us to celebrate this individual milestone in Jackie's life. 

The most ironic thing about twins is you can go out of your way to celebrate one or the other individually, but you will never be able to share a moment with him or her solely the way that they will inevitably share it later together.

"It's all I've ever known." She said. And isn't it perfect that way? 

Jackie & Jimmy at her graduation. (I must note that Jimmy will graduate from Clemson next year from a 5-year program so I will be sure to follow up with his story for you at a later date.)

Mother's Day

I did a really good job of not thinking about her yesterday. 

Sounds mean, doesn't it? I didn't want to think about my mom on Mother's Day. It's the antithesis of anything you might find in a Hallmark card. Rather than focusing more attention on my mother, I woke up yesterday morning intent on occupying my brain with anyone or anything else. 

The truth is, Mother's Day makes me angry. I'm not typically ridden with angst regarding my mother's suicide. I've met many other survivors who's anger bubbles within them so fervently that even speaking about the loss of a loved one causes heated outbursts of pain. It's an understandable emotion that deserves validation- I just don't typically carry that anger. 

But Mother's Day provokes me. 

I avoid social media on Mother's Day. If your fortunate enough to still have your mother, you should post your happy photos for all the world to see.

But I can't.

So rather than sit indignantly behind my computer screen scrolling through the flicker of joyous images, I chose not to open my laptop. 

I made a conscious decision not to dine out yesterday. Too much risk involved in being seated beside the table of children showering their mother with gifts, exchanging hugs and embraces. My eyes might stay too long on the grown child that still has the privilege of holding her mother's hand, my jealous stare making her uncomfortable. She wouldn't be able to register the yearn in my gaze, a longing for my mother to have a healthy enough mind to foster a desire to stay with me. 

So to complement my brooding mood, I decided to delve deeper into my melancholy by going to see Ani DiFranco perform live last night with my little sister, Alison. (Ali and I share a passion for Indie female singer/song-writers and Ani is just choleric enough to serve me the indignant cocktail I needed to take the edge off on Mother's Day.)

The lights were dim, the lyrics were boozy, and I wasn't thinking about her. Mission accomplished, right?

Then it happened. The melody picked up and an unfamiliar tune hit my ears. It wasn't enraged. It was forgiving...

Growing up it was just me and my mom
against the world
and all my sympathies were with her
when I was a little girl...

I felt my sister's hand slide against mine and lock fingers. 

I just want to walk
through my life unarmed
to accept and just get by
like my father learned to do

The tears welled in my eyes as I felt my sister's hand tighten. I glanced at her but she wasn't looking at me. She was looking upward, a tight smile pursed on her lips, as if she knew we were playing a cosmic game of Truth or Dare with our mother. We dared not to delve on her that day and as usual, she held all the Aces and was calling our bluff.

I just want you to understand
that I know what all the fighting was for
and I just want you to understand
that I'm not angry anymore
I'm not angry anymore.

Towards the end of the song, I was mouthing along the words, "I'm not angry anymore." All the while my throat burned with heat, choking back the sob. You see, I want so bad to be able to sing a song of acceptance. I yearn to not feel the anger pool inside my heart. But it still puddles there at times. 

I'm not angry anymore.

What a liberating phrase. I woke up today realizing that maybe we all need to be a bit more gentle with ourselves when trying to arrive at a healthy emotional diagnosis. No matter the struggle, if you chose the path of avoidance you will inevitably find yourself being lectured by the very distraction you found intoxicating. 

I'm not there yet, but I'm really trying. Like Ani says: 

we learn like the trees
how to bend
how to sway and say, I think I understand.

Next Mother's Day I hope to be a bit more like the trees, swaying my avoidance towards understanding. 

Because, let's be honest, I spent every minute of yesterday thinking about her anyway. 

Committed

I didn't realize how much I disliked the word until I heard her say it.

"Our best friend committed suicide." She said. 

I was at my friend's home helping her set up for a party. She was grieving the loss of her friend and in no state of mind to plan an event. But there it was, that word, "Committed." My stomach turned a bit as I heard it hit the air, and I realized I never use that phrase when I reference the death of my mother. "My mother took her own life," is my blanket statement. She wasn't committed to the idea of dying. 

Or was she?

When I think of the verb, to commit, I always defer to the positive definition, "to pledge or engage oneself." Growing up I was the committed daughter, committed athlete, committed student. Later I life I was the committed employee, committed wife. My entire life I've strived to commit to all of my endeavors.

When do  your commitments stop being what you live for and start becoming the things you run away from? (Tweet that.)

There is the other definition of the verb that I became familiar with at an early age too. "To place in a mental institution or hospital by or as if by legal authority." I've begged for my mother behind several glass doors and looking back now I can feel when the seeds of disdain for "committed" were planted in my memory. 

Back to my friend who just lost her friend, the one that took his own life. I watched her cry and listened to her offer up the question that we can never answer, begging to know the information to which she would never be privy. 

"WHY?"

I knew I would not be able to give her any resolution to that question. My only offering at that time was my empathy. But days later the idea of committing yourself to something is still lingering with me. So I thought I would look the word up in the dictionary once more to find clarity. And there it was, the one definition I never really considered. 

Commit: [kuh-mit] verb- To entrust, especially for safekeeping

I have spent many an angry night cursing my mother for her commitment to leave this world. But what if way the ones we loved and lost to suicide weren't really committed to leaving us? What if they were just so broken that they saw no other way but to give up and entrust their soul to God, asking him to hold tight for safekeeping?

Please don't confuse my musings on this verb as me condoning or romanticizing suicidal behavior. I can assure you that's not the case. I'm only saying that researching it a little bit more has softened my un-easiness with the phrase.

2 Timothy 4:7 says, "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith."  

Who can say how long someone can fight the good fight? We all are on different tracks in this race in life, some longer than others. I prefer now to think that those who commit left this world with faith in God for safekeeping. (Tweet that.)

Why Write This Blog?

I'm not a therapist. I don't have a psychology degree. I've never even taken a psychology class.

But my name was listed in an obituary as a survivor of my mother. I did spend my adolescence watching her unravel. I attended countless family counseling sessions. I can recite the Serenity Prayer by memory. 

So why write this blog? 

My mother, Nancy, once wrote these words in her own journal: "Dear Lord, if it is your will for me to bring some good from my horror I have lived through these years, I need you to give me the strength and energy to be persistent. Help me find the time to volunteer and learn how to help women broken like me. Use me Lord, as your vessel, through me may your will be done. Amen."

I'm writing this blog because I know my mother's life and words can help others struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts and actions. I'm writing this because there are so many people in this world just like me, grappling with the emotions tied to losing a loved one to suicide. 

I'm writing this to prove that no matter how broken a life may be, your shattered parts may just be the very piece someone else needs to repair their own cogs. Tweet This. But you never know until you open up and share what you have, who you are and what you are made of. 

So consider this blog a vessel. I hope you find some comfort in following me as I share my story.