Music’s Role in Grief or The Day the Music Died (with apologies to Don McLean)

I have shared before that I come from a musical family which instilled in me a love for music.  My parents were both involved in church choir and often my dad was used as a soloist.  It was a yearly tradition to have dad sing a-cappella, “Sweet Little Jesus Boy” at Christmas time. He would always put such emotion in it.

I hold dear, from earliest recollections, singing in the series of children’s and youth church choirs at First Baptist/Orlando under the wonderful tutelage of Alberta and Ed Irey.  All of the choirs began with “C”:

Celestial

Cherub 1

Cherub 2

Crusader

Carol

Choralier

Concord

(FBC/Orlando choir alumni, correct my 50 year old remembrances if I have the names wrong)

I won awards for perfect attendance and hymns memorized.  There were the coveted harps with stars that were put on your choir robe like chevrons on a military sleeve.  There were statuettes of the famous composers you were awarded like baseball trophies. I remember going to Harmony Bay music camp at Lake Yale due to receiving so many points accrued throughout a year of church choir. It was an enjoyable and educational musical upbringing that the Ireys’ provided to me and countless other children that attended First Baptist in the 60’s and 70’s.

Karen and her family, as well, had a deep love for music, particularly instrumental music.  Karen’s mom made sure that each of her daughters learned how to play the piano and organ.

It was at a church choir, called “New Wind”, sponsored by First Baptist, that I first saw Karen, and quickly knew she would be the one for me.  So you can see music was instrumental in bringing Karen and me together (pun fully intended)!

After we married and began my church ministry, Karen dutifully and beautifully, played the piano and/or organ at several of the churches I served so each of our children naturally acquired a love for music.  Ben and Katie would sing in the church choirs and they both took piano lessons.  Katie, in particular, embraced her talent and would also sing in the school choruses.

When we found out about the medical challenges that Jacob would face when he came into this world, music began to be a salve and a refuge for us.  We would draw needed strength from songs like,

Because He Lives   

How sweet to hold a newborn baby, And feel the pride and joy he brings;
But greater still the calm assurance: This child can face uncertain days because He Lives!

Great is Thy Faithfulness

Great is Thy faithfulness,” O God my Father, There is no shadow of turning with Thee;
Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not; As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be.

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow, Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!

Then as Jacob made it through each surgery we would sing our praise and thankfulness to God and soon Jacob also joined the family in exhibiting a great love for music of any kind – Christian, Country, but particularly musical theater!  What was especially ironic was that Jacob’s musical voice was terrible due to the many intubations he experienced after each surgery.  But his chorus teachers would always put him on the front row – partly due to his small stature, but mostly due to his facial expression in singing.  He could brighten the entire stage!

And his facial expressions in singing worship songs at church would often stir others to a deeper sense of worship when he caught their eye.  I have had numerous people come tell me that they had sensed the presence of God in a special way when they gazed over at the first row of the balcony on the piano side where Jacob would always sit at First Baptist/Powder Springs and see his countenance beaming his love for God in spite of a raspy voice.  He truly praised God with a joyful noise!

BUT THEN THE DAY CAME THAT THE MUSIC DIED  ….

On this day seven years ago, Jacob was in ICU at Egleston, undergoing treatment to try to reverse the rejection his body was inflicting on his second transplanted heart.  He had just endured his first round of treatment with Karen and me by his side when he suddenly gasped and his body seized up rigidly.  I remember lightly slapping his face desperately trying to get him to snap out of whatever he was experiencing.  The team of doctors and nurses rushed in, escorted the two of us out to the other side of the hall, and began, ultimately in vain, to counter his cardiac arrest as we watched and wept helplessly. He was gone.

On that day, the music died for me. I have tried to explain what I mean by that before.

 (see http://embracinggrief.blogspot.com/2015/02/what-wicked-and-worship-have-in-common.html)

Since Jacob’s death I have not been able to worship through singing.  When I attend a worship service and they begin the singing portion of the service, I am transported back to the sanctuary of First Baptist/Powder Springs and I see Jacob, with his arms raised in worship and praise to God. I see him with his eyes shut tight as he positioned himself alone in worship to his Creator and Sustainer.  That vision never fails to steal my voice and pierce my heart.  I am, at once, thankful for his worship of God and the knowledge that he is now in the heavenly choir worshiping God with a strong and healthy voice… but I am also stricken with a new wave of grief as I sorely miss my son.

There are some songs that can lead me to worship through the hearing and meditating on their words but those words rarely escape my lips. Here are two for example:

Blessed be Your name, When the sun's shining down on me.
When the world's 'all as it should be', Blessed be Your name.

Blessed be Your name, On the road marked with suffering.
Though there's pain in the offering, Blessed be Your name.  (Matt Redman)

Or another one …

The pathway is broken and the signs are unclear; And I don't know the reason why You brought me here.
But just because You love me the way that You do; I'm gonna walk through the valley if You want me to.

It may not be the way I would have chosen; When You lead me through a world that’s not my home

But You never said it would be easy; You only said I’d never go alone.   (Ginny Owens)

Then, as a result of Jacob’s love for musical theater, there are other songs (or certain phrases in songs) in some Broadway productions that rip the scab off and renew the pain of grief, such as:

Defying Gravity (from Wicked)

Because I Knew You (from Wicked)

Bring Him Home (from Les Miserables)

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables (from Les Miserables)

Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again (from Phantom of the Opera)

Some would ask why we inflict such pain on ourselves when all we need to do is avoid those plays or songs.  And for those people, that is entirely logical.  But for someone who has lost a loved one, part of enduring the pain those songs or other “grief triggers” we experience actually brings us closer to our loved one in those fleeting moments and the tears we shed are a mixture of pain and the residue of sweet memories.

 

It’s been seven years. In some ways, it feels like a lifetime ago.  So much has changed in our lives – new home, new place, and new people in our lives.  And we’ve lost friends and family as well. All of this Jacob has not been a part of. Yet the grief still lingers, his presence is ever with us.  He is in our music. He is still a part of the conversation. And he always will be. 

Missing you today …. and every day … but today in particular.

The Strange Dichotomy about Cemeteries

Several years ago Karen and I moved from Marietta, GA after thirteen years that provided a roller coaster ride that took a toll on our emotional, spiritual, and physical lives as we experienced the highs of high school and college graduations, a marriage, and the entrance into the world of grand kids.  We also raised our hands as the roller coaster screamed into the depths of hospitalizations and surgeries, boyfriend breakups, and deaths in the family. However, the steepest descent on this ride was naturally caused by the sudden death of Jacob in 2009.

When we moved, one of the more difficult things about the move, besides leaving friends behind and increasing the physical distance between us and Katie, was moving away from the cemetery where Jacob was buried.  And this is when a strange dichotomy about cemeteries developed.

Nobody likes cemeteries (with the possible exception of funeral directors).  They are used as the scenes of many horror films and the subjects of countless scary campfire stories. There is even a great idiom about them …. “Whistling past the graveyard”.

Yet they are a quiet, peaceful place to go if you need solitude and a place to think or to read.  And they are a great place to teach a fledgling student driver how to drive (just ask Karen).

But when we experienced the death of Jacob, the cemetery where he is interred developed an odd dichotomy in our mixture of feelings.

It is a place we dread and try to avoid because of the pain that inevitably appears when we approach the property….. yet it is a place we feel compelled to visit whenever we are in town for reasons we can’t put into words.

Whenever we visit Jacob’s graveside, we never stay more than a few minutes because you stand – and weep – and stare at his gravestone…..yet it is always with great reluctance that we walk back to the car and leave ‘him’ behind.

It’s hard, no, it’s impossible, to explain this conflict of feelings, but I’m going to try.

We understand that the plot of land with the bronze marker at its head only contains the earthly remains of our son.  The soul, the essence of him that was a delight to be around, is not there.  That place contains only the broken down body that wore out on June 14, 2009.   So we get that.

The many memories we have of him are constantly with us.  So we know that we don’t have to be in proximity of the graveside to conjure up those great times.  Those memories come frequently but can also catch us as unexpectedly surprises.  They bring us great comfort and laughter even as the tears stain our faces. So we understand that there’s not a need to go to the cemetery to keep his memories nearby… yet there is to go there.

Every time I consider going to the cemetery, I tried to talk myself out of driving there.  It’s a pain to drive there, traffic is always bad ... but the pain of grief that floods over me when I drive through the stone gated entrance is even greater.  Why submit myself to that pain when Jacob is not really there any way, I try to reason to myself …. yet I still go when I’m in town.

And when I do arrive at Jacob’s grave site, I’m only there a few minutes.  I stand there staring at the grave marker, sometimes with tears welling up in my eyes but other times I’m dry eyed.  It’s really a kind of an awkward time.  I know he’s not there. I know he is no longer suffering. I know he now has a perfect body and is in the precious presence of God.  Yet when I’m there, I sense his presence in a strong and different way.

Sometimes, certain memories come that causes a smile or a sigh.  And then the moment is gone. I sense it’s time to leave …. yet I’m reluctant to do so.  Why?  He’s not there.  He’ll be with me on the walk away from the graveside and when I leave in the car.  He’ll be with me for the rest of the day and the next day and the next.  So why the reluctance? 

 Grief is such an odd companion.

Woulda Beens

Today is Jacob’s birthday.  He would have been 28.

I always wince when I utter that phrase ‘would have been’ because it inevitably brings pain and sadness to me every time I say those words or think those thoughts.  It also conjures up a basketful of ‘woulda beens’ to sift through, like:

What would’ve he been doing today?

What kind of career would he have had?

Where would he have been living?

Would he have been married?

Who would he have been married to?

Would he have had any children? How many and what would have been their ages? What would their names have been?

The ‘woulda beens’ can go on and on if I catered to them.

But I realize that it serves no good purpose to participate in this type of exercise.  It only stirs up the grief yet again and picks at the scars. You can’t change the past.  Dandy Don Meredith, that happy go lucky Dallas Cowboys quarterback who played in the 60’s and was also Howard Cosell’s sidekick when Monday Night Football first started, coined a well known phrase. He used to like to quote during a football game that had run off the tracks, “If if and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a merry Christmas.” 

We can’t torture ourselves with the “if onlys” and “if I could go back and do it over again” scenarios.  There is no time traveling DeLorean that Dr. Emmett Brown has created that we can jump into and go back to change the future to our liking. We have to accept the fact that we did the best we could at the time and in the light that we were given for our loved one. To do otherwise is only to cause damage to ourselves and, in a sense, dishonor the memories of our loved one.  It is better to focus on the memories that bring the tears of joy rather than cry over ‘what could have been’.  That does not negate the pain of grief. It’s a natural desire to wish to have the lost loved one back in our lives.  But due to the imbalance that sin has wracked this world with, the loss of a loved one to a disease, to an accident, or becoming collateral damage in someone else’s poor decision making, we have to endure carrying this burden. It’s only those memories of love that can make the burden more bearable. But there is no going back.

I find it strange where I’m at in the grieving process. Now, when I begin to formulate the ‘woulda beens’ about Jacob’s life there is a wee bit of warm whimsy and sentimental thought that gets mixed in among the grief.  Here’s what I mean:

·         I can only imagine, if he would have survived and lived, that he would be enjoying life to the fullest…. because that’s the way he lived life in his first twenty-one years.

·         I don’t know what kind of job he would have held, but it would have been with a crowd of people around him … for he loved people and being with people.

·         I don’t know where he would have been living …. but I don’t think it would have been far from Karen and me … or his sister, Katie, whom he loved so much.  He didn’t like to be too far from home and family.

·         If he had been married, he would have been a loving and caring husband …. because he cared for others and wanted to see to it that they were happy.

·         If he had been married, Karen and I would have had a lot of explaining to do with his patient and loving wife … because he didn’t keep the cleanest house and he was basically useless at fixing things. But the woman he would have fallen in love with and committed himself to would have been the luckiest woman on earth … because he would have doted on her hand and foot.

·         If he had children, they would have been the most loved kids on earth (nosing out only his nephews and nieces by only a little) …. because Jacob LOVED kids!

But tragically and sadly, these are only ‘woulda beens’ because Jacob died at age 21 and he will forever be that age in our minds … except for when we share other memories of him at other stages of his short life. 

Easter 2009

And so we will have to be content with shuffling through the memories or the photographs and videos of him at different ages and stages …. remembering, reminiscing, laughing, crying, and sharing the ‘woulda beens’.

Happy ‘Woulda Been’ 28^th Birthday, Jacob.  We love you and miss you.

Jacob's Journey, a video tour of Egleston

This 10 minute video was recorded by a good friend of ours, David Doyle, following Jacob's first transplant.  David and his wife, Lesa, were part of a support group of friends in Houston that cared for us during some difficult times in our life.  Now, David and Lesa have joined Jacob in heaven.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nm9ptKCUAq4

Great Friends who are missed.

These Two

These two.... (warning, long post ahead)

This Friday, March 11, would have been Jacob's 28th birthday. Richard and I have shared often about his life and how he impacted so many. Today, I want to share a little bit about Ben and Katie.

This week is always filled with lots of memories for us, so bear with me. On March 8, 1988, Richard and I boarded an airplane to Philadelphia to deliver a sick baby at an unknown hospital. His future was so grim and we were going to a place where we knew nobody and had no idea of how long we would be there. At that time, the treatment of HLHS (hypoplastic left heart syndrome), was in its infancy stage and we were going to one of two hospitals in the country that were having any success with surgeries.  Jacob was scheduled to be the 76th baby to have this series of procedures performed on him.

In the weeks leading up to us leaving for Philadelphia, I would have uncontrollable crying spells over the thought of leaving Ben (age 8), and Katie (age 2). We lived in Houston, Texas, at the time and had no family nearby. Richard's parents came out to take care of them, but the kids weren't really used to them.
Fortunately, we had wonderful friends to fill in the gap. I will never forget pulling out of the driveway and waving to Ben, who was crying inconsolably, and Katie, who was waving at us with an adorable smile. In the few days before Jacob was born, our access to them was so limited (this was before cell phones, FaceTime, etc). There were no phones in our room at the Ronald McDonald House - just one phone for the whole floor. Hospital phones were almost nonexistent.

One night, the song from the movie "American Tale" (a family favorite) came on the radio in our room. When we heard those words:

"Somewhere, out there, beneath a pale moon light,
Someone's thinking of me, and loving me tonight,"
"And even though I know how very far apart we are
It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star"
"And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby
It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky"

Richard and I were overcome with such anguish and grief over missing these two. Today, whenever I hear this song, sung by Linda Ronstadt and Aaron Neville, I am still transported back to this time in my life and overcome with deep emotion.

From the time we came home with Jacob, Ben and Katie's lives were changed. I was totally housebound with a very medically fragile child that no one, not even our doctors, knew how to take care of. I missed many important school events, baseball and soccer games, church events, etc. I spent several birthdays holding Jacob on the steps in our kitchen, watching while Richard held outdoor birthday parties for Ben and Katie. Our doctors were adamant about Jacob being around as few children as possible. This meant no play dates or sleep-overs at our house for Ben and Katie. Their childhood had to adjust to the needs of their sick baby brother. They grew up learning how to read pulse oximetry machines, taking blood pressures, giving lots of meds, spending endless hours in doctor and hospital waiting rooms (before you had smart phones to entertain them).

When they became teenagers, they were not allowed the luxury of teenage drama. Somehow, they both just knew that Richard and I couldn't deal with any more stress. They did well in school, had after school jobs, made good friends, and were always there to help when there was a crisis, of which there were many.
They both had to change schools several times during their middle and high school years due to church changes. It was very difficult, but they handled it with grace and dignity.

Today, they have successful careers, married perfect mates, and live meaningful and purposeful lives. Somehow, despite having a childhood that meant putting their brother's needs before their own, they have never shown any resentment towards Jacob. I am sure they must have felt it, but it never stopped them from loving and taking care of him and each other. He was lucky to have them for a brother and sister.

It is hard for me to write about these "two," when it still should be these "three;" however, it is what is. I have always said that the best job I ever had was being a mom and these two made it such an honor to be their mom. They somehow just know how to step up and support their parents, whether it is in the years following the death of their brother, or burying a beloved grandmother, or helping us deal with the aftermath of a flood. I love them both and am so proud of the adults they have become. I look forward to see what the future holds for them.

Under a Canopy of Blessing

by Richard Edfeldt

I woke up today and started my routine like any other morning … took the 3 dogs out for their first walk of the day and brought them back in for their morning feeding.  Then I fixed my first cup of coffee when I was reminded of the significance of the day.

Today is the 8^th anniversary of Jacob’s second heart transplant

Yes, these anniversaries of special events in Karen and my life still affect us.  Our emotions are still stirred.  We may not weep as much as we have in past years due to time’s way of equipping our coping mechanism to handle such occasions more effectively.  But the melancholy is still there, the grieving of who and what is missed still bubbles toward the surface a little more forcibly on days like today.

But today is one of anniversaries where we celebrate a day when we were able to ‘renew the lease’ on Jacob’s life, albeit at the horrifying cost of another and that person’s family.

I always approach these days as an opportunity to write something.  It is a way to share a tribute to Jacob’s life – a way of helping me to remember – and a way to allowing you to share in the memories.  I know some are hesitant to speak of Jacob because you think it brings pain to us.  I will admit that often when we speak of a time in his life with someone who shared that event, a tear does come and a catch in our voice does occur.  However we agree with Elizabeth Edwards, who also lost a child, who said:

“If you know someone who has lost a child or lost anybody who’s important to them, and you’re afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died, they didn’t forget they died. You’re not reminding them. What you’re reminding them of is that you remember that they lived, and that’s a great, great gift.”

So I will continue to post these remembrances and my feelings for as long as they come to me.  There may come a day (which almost happened last year, http://embracinggrief.blogspot.com/2014/11/some-would-say-this-is-good-thing-if-so.html) when an anniversary will slip by or a time will come when I feel that I have nothing to share.  But today is not that day.

But let me get back to what started this today - that first cup of coffee. The cup that jogged my memory is special because it was one that Jacob had made for us back in 2006 (Little did we know that a year later what we would be enduring).  We have several ‘works of art’ that Jacob made at a pottery shop we frequented back then.  The shop would have different things already made that you could choose from and then paint. They would then glaze and fire them for you.  We have a chips &dip bowl and a creeping frog among several things that Jacob enjoyed painting and giving to us. They may not garner many bids for them on Ebay but they are priceless pieces of art to us. This coffee cup is one of those and this day it brought this memory from November 15, 2007.

Karen and I have shared other times about that day.  Here are those articles:

11/15/09 - http://embracinggrief.blogspot.com/2015/02/november-15-2nd-anniversary-of-surreal.html

11/14/10 – (by Karen) http://embracinggrief.blogspot.com/2010/11/november-14-what-day.html

11/15/13 –  http://embracinggrief.blogspot.com/2013/11/another-anniversary-by-richard.html

The memory that came to mind today was the last moments before Jacob was carted away to his second heart transplant surgery. Karen mentioned it in her posting by in 2010.

We had received word that a heart had been located and was being transported to Egleston around midnight ushering in November 15.  Four hours later, the team of surgical nurses and technicians came with a gurney to cart off Jacob from his ICU stall.  Remember now, this was a children’s hospital so at that time Jacob was one of the oldest ‘residents’ of ICU.  All the other patients were infants or small children and all were asleep or could not grasp the severity and sacredness of the moment.

But as we escorted Jacob and his medical entourage down the long center aisle of the ICU, each doctor, nurse, and technician paused from what they were doing and whispered a blessing on Jacob of some sort …

“Love you, Jake”

“See you soon, Jacob”

“Godspeed, Jakey”

Or they would say nothing but salute him with a ‘thumbs up’ sign as we slowly walked under that wonderful canopy of blessing and prayer.  What a solemn, holy moment!

I’ll save other memories for another anniversary but that one is one that will always be dear to Karen and me because of the bond we had with the excellent medical staff at Egleston and that canopy of blessing they provided on that eventful day eight years ago.

The Silence of God

(by Richard)

I readily admit that I am not an intellectual giant (and I’m sure I can find plenty of people who would be quick to step forward and testify on my behalf on this).  I have tried to read C.S. Lewis on several occasions and after a paragraph or two, I would have to pause and say to myself, “wait, what did he just say?” and feel the need to break it down one word at a time.  And with that much mental overexertion, I would quickly lay aside the book.

However, after Jacob’s death, there have been times when I had an insatiable need to read in order to find some sense in the pain experienced in the loss of a loved one and to find answers to questions such as:

Why did God allow this to happen?

Where was God in all of this?

Why were my prayers unanswered? As well as the prayers of many others on his behalf?

How can this be part of God’s plan?

Does prayer really accomplish anything?

I tried to read many good books that helped me cope with these questions but doubts still remained.  Being a minister actually made things worse because I had spent my career teaching and telling people to ‘have faith’; that ‘God is in control’; to’just pray about it’; and on and on my words of ‘comfort and counsel’ had gone.  But now, I was the one that was feeling empty and those ‘comforting words’ were only hand full of thorns that had caused additional pain.

That is until I read C.S Lewis’ “A Grief Observed” … and came across this quote:

 But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence. You may as well turn away. The longer you wait, the more emphatic the silence will become. There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited? It seemed so once. And that seeming was as strong as this. What can this mean? Why is He so present a commander in our time of prosperity and so very absent a help in time of trouble?

Wow, he described that same deafening silence I was hearing from God!

As I continued reading on this subject I began to find other people who are well known and well thought of in spiritual circles who described their times of ‘spiritual darkness’ or ‘spiritual dryness’.  And as a result, I quit persecuting myself and came to realize that this is only a part (though a very painful part) of the spiritual maturation process.

I have found myself on a part of the spiritual path I was never aware of before the death of Jacob and one I was not prepared to journey, no, not one iota.

For a period of time I felt I had been abandoned.  Lewis’ description of the doorway was all too real to me.  But now I’m realizing, in the midst of the silence, a very different type of closeness to God  -  one that is difficult to describe.

In recent years, my mantra has become “expect nothing and you won’t be disappointed”.  As cynical and skeptical as that sounds it has really helped me to cope with a lot of things. And in a really strange way, it has simplified and deepened my faith and relationship with God.

Let me explain before you say (if you haven’t already been saying it), “Poor, poor, Richard.  He has really slipped down the steps and gone off the deep end.”

In expecting nothing, it has caused a shift of focus from the gifts desired and now onto gratitude for the giver.  Before, prayer and my entire relationship with God hinged on what I hoped to receive out of it. I always came with great expectations.  And those expectations would sometimes end with disappointment.

Now I come with no expectations. I only strive to be aware of His presence.  I have slowly come to appreciate the small things that come my way now.  I have lowered my expectations of great things and big answers.  Now whatever good comes my way, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, I try to celebrate on the gift given and, to a greater extent, the giver giving it.

I now find joy and express thanksgiving in things like:

- a car starting (and stopping)

- the wag of a dog’s tail

- the quietness of early morning

- a night sky full of stars

- the sound of rain

- sunrises and sunsets

- the wonder of hummingbirds

- the comfort of the company of friends

- another day with loved ones

- a comfortable home on a cold, rainy night

- knowledge that my children are well for the moment (and that Jacob is well forever)

- the silent, loving presence of my wife

- acknowledging the worth of a person with a smile and cheerful word

- hearing from a childhood friend through Facebook

- walks in the woods

- watching squirrels quibble over a piece of birdseed

- the babbling of our backyard brook
- viewing a deer grazing in the meadow
- gazing at a picture of my grandchildren which brings a tear to the eye

And yes, even in a death of a loved one. Though, I must say, this one brings no joy and, often, very little verbal thanksgiving.  It does result in a quiet sense of His comforting presence.

I could go on listing things and, I hope, you could too.

All of these ‘insignificant’ encounters assure me that God is present.  He has not forsaken me.  This list of things is evidence of his love and concern for me.  Though I may repel from His love at times, though I may even question His love at times … these items are often used to remind me that He is there.

I’m sure you are thinking that this is the strangest tribute to Thanksgiving you’ve ever read.  But I can say that I am thankful for the silence of God in my life.  For as devastating as it has been, it has also opened up a new dimension of God and his presence in my life.  Happy Thanksgiving to all!!!