"Heavy"
by Mary Oliver

That time

I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had His hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it --
books, bricks, grief --
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe
also troubled --

roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

20.

I remember when we celebrated our 18th birthday. Yours was one month and a day later, but we decided to celebrate together anyway. The venue of celebration? There was no question about it...we absolutely positively had to go to Chuckie Cheese's. There was nowhere else that could embrace the fun we wanted to have. It was decided.

So there we were. Two barefoot teenagers running around together in a place meant for five year old's. We pigged out on pizza. We crawled around in the play place, laughing hysterically and throwing balls at each other. We played those silly little games with such a determination you would've thought it was for money. And when we gathered all our tickets, we happily collected our cheap prizes and carried them home like gold.

Later that night, you gave me a card scribbled with your Micah handwriting.
"I hope you never 'grow up' too much that you can't have fun," it said.

Another birthday means another year from you, another separator. I'm reminded that in a month and one day, once again you won't catch up to me in age. Stuck, like some Neverland boy. Stuck, in that 18 years. Stuck, with the thoughts you were thinking that day and the way you walked into the music room in your sandals and gray, striped shirt and the way your voice trailed off saying "I love you" before you hung up the phone.

But you were supposed to live on. And that's valid enough to carry you in my heart so that every year I celebrate my own birth I'll carry you with me in age, too. That because you can't grow up to have that fun, I'll do it for the both of us. I do it this year and I will do it every year until I'm 100 years old.

11/8/10.

Hello. I miss you.
What's wrong is that a year and seven months ago today you died. (Or something like that. Something long and awful like that.) What's wrong is that it's been even longer since I saw you alive and fully as yourself.

The 8th of any month still sticks out against the other days; a subtle reminder of Time. One month Grandma took a scissors and cut out the 8th in her kitchen calendar, leaving a future month's day shining through the empty hole.

I wish I could do that with life. I'd cut "today" out and throw it away and make sure it never happened. I'd make sure it was just another sunshiney day.

10/31/10.

Halloween was this weekend. I remember "Masquerade" senior year and having so much fun dressing up with Micah as a German couple. (OH the lederhosen! Too much to handle.) We made up this cheesy dance where I ended up sitting on his knee, then we both yelled, "ACH JA!" with awful big smiles. So much effort went into that little dance, but when we got up there we were so embarrassed that all we could do was laugh. Oh Micah, we were so fun together.

Sunday afternoons are meant for playing pick-up soccer, sitting in the sunny-grass and talking to your parents for an hour, making cinnamon rolls, doing laundry that's been sitting there for weeks, planning a "wedding" with a friend. And of course: only starting homework until 11:00 pm. Oops.

Goodbye October, you were pretty good. November, what else will you bring besides a 20th year of life?

10/25/10

I want to write more on here. I always admire bloggers that do that, write daily. I feel like I only write when super inspired...that's not necessarily bad, but it would be fun to write more casually.

I was blessed with a wonderful week and weekend. For one, my phone has been completley un-working, and surprisingly that was really nice; to get away from texting and phone calls. Second, my dorm floor continues to make me smile. Such a perfect combination of supportive friends that also know how to snap instantly into a spree of spontaneity and laughter. Sometimes I just stop and appreciate how rare and wonderful college is, to be so close with so many people, psychically and emotionally. Yes, there are reasons to complain, but overall I feel grateful that my college experience has been both meaningful and educational---for some, that's rare.

Fall Break was nice. My goal of the weekend was to 1) sleep and 2) eat. Both were more than accomplished. I think I spent 90% of the time in bed just relaxing with my cat...ha! Funny how I've always hated cats until I adopted Ramona.

Homework calls, as usual. Hope you've enjoyed this little update.

Lean on me.

I found this picture on my computer last week. My junior year of high school I visited Goshen with Micah and several other friends; a road trip to check out the college. It was at just the end of winter, with snow melting on the ground, and my sister snapped this picture as we were walking back from the Music Center---Micah and I leaning on each other, the sun illuminating our backs.

Last year in college I leaned on Micah tremendously. I held on to the identity I felt with him, the identity we had formed together, and the identity his death had given me. I needed to lean on that. It was the only way I could endure my grief and in turn survive being away from home after everything. My lens of life was solely through leaning on him, and that's how I interacted with people and the world.

Last weekend was 1.5 years since the accident. Am I still "leaning" on Micah? It's a question I've been trying to ask myself. In many ways, the pure absence of him has taught me independence of self in a way I don't think I ever would have imagined. I've found ways to incorporate his absence into my life, ways I certainly didn't have a year ago. I've been to workshops and sessions and therapy and read books and journaled and cried. I've done as much as I've can, or at least as much as I've been able to do.

And yet such a large part of him makes up my identity. A part of me that I'll never let go. A part of me that will always want to claim that Micah and I shared something wonderful but it was so unfairly, prematurely whisked away.

In some sense my transition back to Goshen has been rougher than I've imagined it would be; mostly because I feel more in a limbo of these two identities than ever before. Now that I've "worked" through my "stuff," who am I? Last year it was okay to be where I was, but now what? After a year and a half of intense grief, I'm ready to be "me" more than I've ever been before---how can I be true to that yet also honor the identity with Micah I know I'll always have? I want to be able to lean on both, proudly and confidently.

Return home.

An emergency call finds me hurtling down the highway, after dropping everything and just going. An unexpected ten hour drive home, not sure if the phone call will bring bad news. It feels like we're racing death itself.

A timid first step into the hospital that held everything a year and a half ago--I knew one day I'd have to be back here. But why so soon? Why another loved one? The smell whisks memories back. That stale air that held so many tears and hopes. That elevator with its ride of eternity, dread, doors that opened up to a floor of so much pain. A waiting room with stiff couches and tired faces. This place really existed. It really wasn't a dream.

There you lie, Grandpa. Tubes and beeping noises and the rise and fall of a chest. I want to breath for you. I want you to open your eyes. I want you to feel no pain. I want you to know that we are holding your hand and saying, "I love you." These are all too familiar and I feel overwhelmed.

A week later, and we are still waiting for you to wake up. I am reminding myself that this hospital is not just a place of death--I was born here almost 20 years ago, a new life. Somewhere there must be hope. We are holding on to it and waiting anxiously to hear your laugh again.

Goshen here we go, here we go.

Wow.
Bags packed, room cleaned out.

I've spent 8 months here. EIGHT! My goodness. I feel speechless trying to give words to it. The only thing I can muster up is, "Wow. That was the best decision I've ever made in my life."

Thank you thank you thank you to every minute of grace, solitude, sleep, tears, laughter, and thought that has passed my way here...thank you, time, for stopping. Maybe that was what I needed all along, and couldn't have gotten it otherwise.

Home. So many places I will miss, still, but so glad I got to soak them up to the bone. My heart is overwhelmed with gratitude for the incredible time I've had here. Thanks again to you all for your support.

And so, Micah, time ticks on again...
Dominik's a senior, Jeremy's an 8th grader, and I'm back to school. Are you proud of us? You should be! We love you so incredibly much...

Today I am thinking about death
And how two people you know can leave the world in one day:

One, a family relative and my high school music teacher,
Jolly and warm and full of music
Until a brain tumor stopped everything in its tracks.
Dying quickly, he carved his own casket
And sat at his own memorial service
with his family by his side.
Half a year later and he passed away today.

Second, a distant memory of a face in elementary school
Our paths went completley different ways until
I noticed the paper today--
Missing 19 year old discovered today, a cliff, drowning.
Messages flood onto facebook and I'm
reminded of Micah's accident...
"How could this happen?!"
Friends are lost and come to each other in disbelief,
A bright light gone out so quickly.

Two lives---one sudden, one anticipated---one young, one already filled with years. And yet a death is a death, and it comes for both. I'm sad today for these families and appreciating the awakening that life is delicate and to be cherished.

Canada stories

-Sitting on a curb and eating a huge chunk of garlic/olive foccacia and mozzarella cheese. (Debatably the best five minutes of the trip.)
-Running through the rain in Montreal city, dodging under shop roofs to keep cover.
-Walking for hours in Toronto, unaware that it was the hottest day of the year.
-Fresh omeletes and coffee for breakfast at a busy diner.
-Thrifing at Value Village, putting Lancaster's thrift stores to shame.
-Watching Spain win in the World Cup at a local sports bar; Spanish fans beeping, waving flags, and running through the streets for hours to follow.
-French words, signs, accents---everywhere!
-A huge international market with fresh fruit samples everywhere: tomatoes, cucumbers, peaches, nectarines, pineapple. So refreshing to eat after eating camping food for so long.
-The best falafel of my life in Montreal, so worth the money.
-Mont Tremblant National Park, where we camped for two nights after hitting the cities: beautiful like nothing else. Huge mountains, hundreds of lakes, green everywhere. Could have easily stayed there for a week and have been totally content.
-CouchSurfing: staying with two awesome host families. So accommodating and friendly; taking us out at night and showing us around, even feeding us. Makes the world seem smaller to realize that literal strangers can become friends so quickly.

And, of course, the sibling memories.
Cracking up together over the stupidest things. Creating "fairy names" for ourselves. Getting the giggles on the way back from our 4 hour hike and not even being able to walk straight, we were so slap-happy. Cramming into a 4 person tent. The travelling gnome. Molly acting as our "translator." Enduring several rainy nights and thunderstorms (+wet sleeping bags, yikes.) Making awful food that somehow always tasted good. Singing to Lady Gaga on a crazy 12 hour drive home in a packed car...
Ok, so maybe we got a little tired of each other at times, but in retrospect it was so worth it.

So fun, so good, so many memories. Something I won't take for granted for a long time. Thanks to my parents for the trust and freedom, and thanks to Molly/Jacob/Emily for an unforgettable trip.

Happy news:

The gravestone has been in place at Micah's grave for about a month now. It turned out to meet all our expectations and more---even the business that engraved it was surprised how great it turned out. All-in-all, it has been a long process with a lot of emotions, what with the designing/perfecting/engraving and so on. To finally have it sitting at the grave is shocking but also really meaningful. It adds a sense of surreal-finality but it also feels right to finally have the spot officially marked.

I would post a picture but I don't think it would give it justice; it's just something you have to see in person. If anyone would ever like to see the grave, feel free to contact me, I'd love to take you--we can have a picnic! :)

The spot has become warm and alive with plants, flowers, and a butterfly house--nothing like a cold, gray, usual cemetery plot. It's very Micah-like, and that's all I could ask for.

Handsome.

Handsome. Beautiful. Hunky. Whatever you want to call it, that's what you were.

I came across this picture today; I couldn't help but stare at it for awhile. There's certain pictures that do that to me, captivate me like that. They make it seem like just yesterday you were here; then my heart drops with the realization that you're not.

"Take me to the end so I can see the start, there's only one way to mend a broken heart."

I forgot that summer means searing heat, sticky skin, and frizzy hair. Today has been so hot I've felt like my eyeballs are melting...and it's not even June yet! Yuck.

Nevertheless, it's been great to have my sisters and friends home from college. Summer is looking to be a great balance of relaxing and fun. I'm still in job-search mode, but most likely will end up as a part-time nanny for various families. (I'm making business cards for my babysitting services...how exciting is that?!) As far as vacations, I'll have my family's annual Outer Banks trip, a sibling week in Canada, and probably random camping weekends here and there. Then it's back to Goshen in late August.

I guess this means that my semester off has come to an end. Of course I'll still be inner-processing a lot this summer, but it'll have a different feel to it...more random; not as deliberate. And certainly not as grief, anger, and pain-filled as last summer was.

This semester has turned out to be just the sabbatical I dreamed of. Yes, there were the moments of boredom and regret, but the moments that I thought to myself "I'm so glad I'm home for this" made it worth it. Being home for the anniversary, helping with the gravestone, volunteering, having time to journal and think, getting to know my parents better, spending time with so many inspiring kids, getting more involved with my church...it was so, so worth it. I feel like I can come back to Goshen as a whole different person; ready to actually learn. That's exactly what I wanted. Maybe this semester was more about stopping my life just so I can start it again; not living halfway in-between like I had been trying before.

It will be sad to leave here again in the fall. I've loved being home. I've loved going to Micah's house every Tuesday, hanging out with his family. I've loved stopping into my grandparent's home late at night to catch up with them. I've loved sleeping in with my cat on my side. I've loved snuggling up to my mom watching junk TV. I've loved hanging out with my brother, one-on-one. I've loved the solitude that has allowed me to just think...

I've loved it all. But I'm grateful for three more months to appreciate it before I re-enter the life at Goshen that I started.

Daydreamer.

You'd be home from college by now.

How was your year? What were your grades? Who were your friends? How have you changed, or not changed? Are your dreams for the future still the same?

What are you doing this summer?
Are you working at the cafe? Hanging out with friends? Will you become dark tan like summers before? Will you hang out with your family around the supper table and make them laugh? Will you be stopping by my house at night just because you say you want a kiss? Will that feeling of summer magic surround us and make us feel like nothing in the world can ever go wrong; that life is invincible?

[Becca, stop imagining. You know that dreaming makes the reality only harder when you finally wake up.]

Recent events that have made me happy:

Finally (finally!!!) getting Micah's grave stone design officialized so that it'll be blasted and completed in about two weeks or so.

Meeting Micah's 96-year-old great-grandpa and feeling absolutely blessed to get to talk to him---what a privilege! Discovering that our great-grandparents were friends...and then our grandparents were friends...then our mothers were occasional playmates...and then, years later, not even knowing the history, Micah and I met and began to date. It's such a crazy, small world, after all.

Having a McDonald's burger picnic with Josef at the grave and chatting about our lives.

Planning a Goshen visit this coming weekend and feeling beyond excited to see wonderful friends.

Knowing that my semester off is winding down, but realizing it has been so, so worth it.

Looking forward to a wonderful summer full of adventure, laughter, and fun...sisters home, friends home...it's going to be great.

Mommy.

I know you've wished this year that you could just take my pain; make it all better. I know it hurts you to see me crying and not sleeping and feeling alone. I know you wish you could help by holding the pain for just one day. I know that in the first months you wondered if you'd called the right people, said the right things, made the right choices.

But you've been perfect.

You've let me own my grief. And given me space to be what it needs to be. And I couldn't ask for a better mom...happy Mother's Day.

Questions.

The conversation with the little boy I'm babysitting suddenly takes a turn for the serious side. He looks up at me from his bed, where he's tucked into pirate-themed blankets and pirate-pajamas, fake pirate swords at his side.

"The only way to die is by getting stabbed in your neck, right? Like a pirate?"
"Yeah...that's one way. But there are many, many other ways you can die, too."
"Like how?"
"Well, sometimes, if you hit your head really, really hard, your brain gets so hurt that you die."
"Oh. Did that ever happen to you?"
"Well...no. But it happened to my really close friend, my best friend. He was in a car accident and hit his head really, really hard."
His eyes widen and he frowns with confusion.
"...What was his name?"
"His name was Micah."
"Oh."
"They took him to the hospital, but he died."
"But...was he okay?"

How do you explain death to a young child, when you yourself can't even comprehend it? I so badly wanted to tell him, "Oh yes...Micah's ok now." But instead I had to tell him that no, death means your body does not work, so it shuts down as if you're very sleepy, and that's what happened to Micah. My answer must have consoled him, because he soon went back to his innocent state of childhood, where pirates are the worst thing that can happen to someone.

Although children grieve, they grieve differently. It would be impossible and exhausting for them to grieve intensely for days on end, so instead they mix grief with play, so that it translates into their world. Grieve a little, play a little, alternating back and forth. From afar it may look like they're normal, but deep down they're processing things just as much as adults are.

As the one year anniversary is a month behind, and time continues to march on, I wonder if grieving like a child is a paradigm I can move into. I will always grieve Micah's death, but I'm ready now for some play, too. I'm ready to alternate back and forth, not just stay on one or the other.

(rain-rain-rain.)

I'm sad today. Comprehending that time will continue to go by no matter how hard I want it to stop. Wishing Micah would walk in the door and crack a joke/tickle me/do something to make me laugh. Wondering how another summer without Micah can be approaching. Tired of only being surface-happy and wondering how long it'll be that way. Tired of being optimistic and deep-insighted and brave and in the spotlight and "beautiful" and mature...sometimes I just want to be a normal 19-year-old and not have a care in the world.

And then I think, "If only this all had never happened." Then you really could be here. So many things would be different." But why do I torture myself with that question? You're not here and I'm here instead. I can't go back.

A Meeting.

In a dream I meet
my dead friend. He has,
I know, gone long and far,
and yet he is the same,
for the dead are changeless.
They grow no older.
It is I that have changed,
grown strange to what I was.
Yet I, the changed one,
ask: "How you been?"
He grins and looks at me.
"I been eating peaches
off some mighty fine trees."
-Wendell Berry

What's "stressed" spelled backwards? "Desserts"!

Today I made about 30+ of these scrumptious cupcakes (chocolate with peanut butter icing!) and delivered them to people. I always feel better after 1) eating chocolate 2) blasting music in my kitchen while baking and 3) making others feel happy from a surprise bakery delivery. In this game, everyone wins.

Here are some things I continue to fill my life up with...

1) Being a "swim buddy" at Schreiber Pediatric Center---helping preschoolers swim in Schreiber's awesome indoor, heated pool. Some have evident physical or mental disabilities, but a majority of them are mildly-diagnosed. Either way, its always a blast (and sheesh, its always a workout.)

2) Volunteering at Clare House, a temporary home/transitional center for homeless women and their children. Basically I babysit the children for several hours when their mothers have house-meetings. Clare House is a really neat program and its been eye-opening to be around poverty in a way I've never been before.

3) Being a soccer coach/helper for TOPSoccer, a program through Schreiber. This is a six week program that teaches basic soccer skills to children with disabilities. Micah loved soccer and would be proud...so this one is for him. :)

4) Babysitting, at least once a week, which is always rewarding because the kids are so cute.

5) Various other jobs that arise...like teaching Sunday School every couple of weeks or so, or random art jobs.

Besides that, relaxing, reading, hanging out with family, not cleaning my room, watching Lost with the Bertholds, cuddling with my kitten, going on adventures with my Grandma, staying up late and sleeping in late...it continues to be a great semester off and I'm super grateful to be here.

The Year of Magical Thinking.

"Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends."

This is the first sentence in Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking." Joan is a novelist that writes about the first year of her husband's instant death, after he has a heart attack. Ironically, I had read her book several years ago, but I recently reread it, of course now with a completley different perspective.

I've tried about 50 times this past week to sit down, reflect, and write about this year. But somehow I just haven't been able to do it. I think it's because this year has been something far beyond words. It forced me to wrap my mind around death. It took my previous standards for life and threw them out the door. It ripped from me something I loved and cherished, and shoved me instead into a world of confusion and loss.

But these things I can say with confidence from this year. I've learned them from Micah, in both his life and death:

1) Life is fragile. It is short. Accidents happen, dreams break easily, loss is inevitable.

2) You've got to make the most of life, because it is short. You've got to fill it with things you love, things that you can say, "No Regrets" to. You've got to relax and laugh at the top of your lungs and take risks. You've got to cherish those around you, and welcome them with bear hugs and surprise gifts. You've got to praise God, or whatever keeps you grateful and going. You've got to find the perfect balance of living for others, with compassion; but also living for yourself, with forgiveness.

3) In the darkest of darks, there somehow always seems to be a distant glow of hope. For me, it has been the support of my community; and for the bond I've found with Micah's family. The trick is to learn to keep the glow at a close enough distance to let it light your future; even though it may often look dark.

Micah died. Yet Micah also lived. I'm slowly learning to incorporate the first, but hold tightly onto the second.

Maybe Joan's words will only ever give it justice. It has, indeed, been The Year of Magical Thinking.

4/8/10.

"He made the world to be a grassy road; before her wandering feet."

One year later, and I still can't find the words to say goodbye.
But maybe I'll never have them.

Flashback.

Monday night. The hallway light streams into my bedroom as my dad opens my door ajar. Becca? Can you wake up? Before my eyes can adjust, I'm sitting up in bed, trying to understand the words coming from his lips. Phone call. Micah. Accident. Hospital. But we had just said goodnight. But you had just told me you loved me and would see me in the morning.

Late Monday night. A claustrophobic waiting room in the ER. Why is everyone looking so somber? Only when a doctor enters saying, "he's alive" and everyone sighs with relief do I realize how serious it is.

Early Monday morning. An eternity of waiting. When I hear the words "almost died in surgery" I put a blanket over my head and whisper "breath in, breath out" for you, for hours. I want to be able to breath for you, to somehow make this nightmare stop.

Tuesday. By now word has broken out, and friends pour into the hospital by the dozen. We sit together in shock and silence. They say you've squeezed a nurse's hand--there's hope and we cling to it desperately. If he just makes it through this night, they say, it'll be a good sign.

So I go to bed in the waiting room, only to stir awake suddenly at 4:00 am.

Wednesday. When I wake up in the morning, they tell me you began to decline, irreversibly, sometime around 4:00. Death is not the release we wanted, but at least it is a release.

My first visit to the accident site.

This morning our wheels follow the path that yours did almost a year ago--with flowers in hand we trample over weeds and grass. We stare back at the road, silent. I try to comprehend what I'm feeling. Anger? No. Panic? No. It's disappointment. I had half expected to find you here, somehow, even if it meant twisted rubble and wailing sirens. I had half expected to see your car fly by, to yell STOP, to yell WAKE UP, to yell SLOW DOWN, to do something, anything, to make this end differently. But there's nothing here but concrete, and my heart sinks.

What happened here that night, almost a year ago? Somehow this simple road became more than a road--it became a spot of broken dreams, just as broken as your body. It twisted our lives like the metal of your car, instantly and irreversibly. It startled us awake from our slumber and from our innocence of life. The what-if's and how's and why's echo with every passing car.

For this we have to be thankful for: that God was with you, that your friends were there, that no one else was hurt, that you weren't killed instantly, that it was what it was and nothing more--that this place was once lit up with light, sirens, and chaos; but now the neighboring field sits calm, peaceful, and at rest.

Last day of March--

Next week is approaching fast--too fast. I don't feel ready in any sense to be in April and I don't feel ready in any sense to relive Micah's death. I'm angry at time for moving at a pace I'm not ready for, and I'm uptight-exhausted-jittery. My dreams are slowly beginning to become simultaneously become wackier and scarier...everything has built up to this week and I'm feeling all sorts of anticipation.

Today was beautiful and I felt like I had to make the best out of it, being the last day of March. So I brought out my sidewalk chalk and doodled for awhile...

Hello, April.

This moment is sacred.

They are walking towards me
Their faces are solemn
Their steps are long and last forever
They are saying something now
"Becca, Micah is taking a turn for the worse He is not going to make it"

This moment is sacred It is just me and a huge universe It is just me and eternity It is just me and God dangling by a string

My body slinks My heart stops The earth spins My world shatters.

Recent events that make me happy:

4:00 in the morning hikes that result in laughter and exhaustion in a memorable attempt to witness a glimpse of a Virginia sunrise.
Buying a pack of sidewalk chalk from Walmart and knowing it has endless possibilities to be used.
A new kitten that sleeps in my bed at night and wakes me up in the morning.
Jumping on the trampoline with Jeremy.
Italian ice, skirts and flip flops, open windows, morning runs.

Spending a sunny afternoon on the back porch, surrounded by my two families, one biological and one not. Knowing that we've spent endless hours together this year, at first gathered around a hospital bed, crying, but now gathered around a table, laughing. Knowing with comfort that we will always have each other.

11.

You were here. And then suddenly not here.
But maybe now you're a combination of the both.

I never know what quite to do on the 8th of each month. Usually I end up doing ordinary things, but sneak in a Micah-like action as a tribute. Today my tribute was a solo dance party in my car, which seemed like a Micah thing to do.

Tradition also calls that I take a bubble bath. Sometimes I also sneak in a bowl of ice cream. (Sometimes you just deserve to spoil yourself.)

I'm loving this sunshine, though it is also a physical reminder of how time has gone by. One of those mixed-feelings things I love but hate.

I want to thank those that have already begun to think of me as the one-year mark approaches. Yesterday I received a 45 minute massage certificate as things "get more stressful." It's the little things like this that remind me how I've been held so lovingly in my community this year. My gratitude overflows.

So yes, here we are literally one month before April. I'm trying to tell myself to live in the moment and just appreciate each day, instead of always thinking about what's going to come next. Perhaps that is easier said than done.

3/4/10.

If you would have told me last year that I would be spending my day, one year later, designing Micah's gravestone, I wouldn't have believed you.

Yet it's unfathomable how life can alter in a year. I spent several hours today slouched over a giant piece of paper, working on the lettering and design to be etched into Micah's large sandstone rock.

It's a surreal experience to have to do this for someone you love dearly, and I certainly could never have imagined I'd be doing it for Micah. Somehow seeing "1990-2009" written in my own handwriting brought an ache to my heart like nothing else. That's only 18 years. It should have been so many more than that.

Around this time last year, I took a Drawing class that required daily sketches. Micah would help me sometimes on my assignments, coloring in different parts or giving advice. He always claimed he wasn't artistic in the least bit, so he was impressed even with my mediocre art skills. I smile to myself remembering this, because he probably would have stood back, aghast and impressed, if he could see what I ended up doing for his gravestone, as simple as it is. Josef and I laughed together today, remembering that Micah was never a detail person--he was all about the big picture.

All in all, however, I'm grateful to be contributing to the design, and it does mean a lot to me. It's things like this that I can't even imagine being in Goshen during--staying home is worth it even in this sense.

This world still seems dream-like and I still awaken by the second in shock. Micah died?--no. He is gone for the rest of my life?--no. Come Monday will be the last "anniversary" before the actual one-year marking. Where did time go? When will this "new normal" actually feel normal? When will we be able to feel full again? How will I pull through this already dark and bleak March?

I'm glad this week is almost over. It's been one of the more difficult ones in awhile...I look forward to sunshine.

You.

I miss your beautiful face.

Welcoming in March with the moon.

Midnight has revealed a perfectly full moon, so I've decided to sit here in the patch of moonlight streaming through my skylight...

Welcome, March. May you bring some needed sunshine and happiness, and may these four weeks feel steadying as we hold hands and brace ourselves for April.

[When Molly was home this past week she helped me carry out an idea I had in my head, for this blog. I found a can of alphabet soup and sorted through it until I could spell out "Tear Soup." Then she used her nice camera to take a picture. Cool, huh? I'm about to tiptoe into the kitchen and eat the rest for a midnight snack.]

Life is too short...

Life is too short to not have a room to call your own.

Introducing my newly-cleaned, organized, and decorated room.

After sleeping in Emily's room since the accident, and really only using my room as a place to journal/think/cry, I'm ready to move back in. I've been sleeping by myself for a month now, which is monumental in itself, but moving back in here feels monstrous.

It's weird to think that the last time I slept in here I was woken up by my dad and told that Micah was in an accident. My mind drifts there sometimes, and then I feel a little panicky and nauseous and scared. But generally I am comforted by the fact that of course Micah would me to be back in the room where we often hung out---and just like when I first cleaned it, the good memories far outweigh the bad ones. After all, this is where I spent every night sleeping when Micah was alive and we were together--in that sense, as simple as it is, doesn't that bring me a little closer to him? It's comforting to be near the normal life that once was.

Tomorrow I'm presenting the children's story at my church. For the first Sunday of Lent, the theme is "holding on and letting go." I thought about that today as I cleaned my room. I'm moving back into my room, holding tightly to the memories in here, yet also cleaning away the dust, throwing away the unwanted's. Maybe allowing myself to let go, piece by piece, also allows me in the end to hold on tighter to the things I cherish.

Life is too short....

Life is too short to...not go stargazing in your room.

Wahoo weekend! Babysitting tonight and tomorrow, cleaning this weekend, and then my sisters and friends come home for Spring Break to stay at my house for a crazy and fun week. It's going to be great to see them again. I'm excited for some adventures.

Life is too short...

Life is too short for you and your dog not to wear cool socks.

Life is too short...

Life is too short to...
forget your colors.

I started attending a young adult grief group. Today during the first session we made beads out of clay that hardens when you put it in the oven. The directions were to pick three colors:

1) One color for yourself.
2) One color for your loved one.
3) One color for a memory or feeling you had with your loved one.

I ended up picking orange for me (just because I like orange) a deep blue for Micah (because it reminded me of a shirt he wore) and yellow for happiness (which I always felt around him!) Next I twisted the colors together and pinched and rolled off pieces until they became marble-like beads.

I like my bracelet because the simplicity seems to speak louder than any grief book I've read--and hey, I've read a lot. Although you can see each color in the bead, it would be almost impossible to separate one from another--because at that point they are so intertwined and meshed together that they become one whole entity.
In other words, when you love someone, and more so when you lose a person you love, your experiences and memories of that person become so entangled with you that they actually become a part of you. It would be impossible to just plain extract the parts of Micah out of my life, because they've become so ingrained into who I am now. Slightly cheesy, yes, but whatever, I still love it.

Later this evening after cooking the beads, I added my own touch: I sewed on a ribbon that I wore in my hair to Masquerade when Micah and I went as a German couple. I don't know if I'll actually wear my bracelet, but I'm into simple yet meaningful crafts like this these days.

Life is too short...

Life is too short to not be this happy about getting your nails painted by your babysitter.

(Remind me again how I got so lucky to hang out with cute kids and get paid for it?)

Life is too short...

Life is too short to not give a proper "testing" to your new mattress as you "clean your room."

Valentine's Day.

I tried really, really hard to be grateful today, instead of falling into a depressive slump of loneliness, self-pity, and chocolate-eating. The second option would have been so much easier, considering that the whole world practically seemed to be screaming, "If you don't have a significant other today, you're an insignificant loser..."

However, I somehow made it through the day quite well. I spent the morning teaching my Sunday school class, and the earnest faces of the kids brightened my mood almost instantly. Later in the afternoon I invited my younger cousins over for a Valentine's Day tea party. I slipped on my Banquet dress and decorated the kitchen with colorful paper hearts; and when everyone arrived we ate little treats together and pretended to be "proper."

In the evening I spoiled myself with a chocolate-chip pancake supper, then went upstairs and paged through letters and cards that Micah has given me over the years. It's always comforting to see his handwriting on paper again and reread his thoughtful, loving words. I even found the dozen roses he gave me junior year, which I dried and kept. He was such a romantic boyfriend...always something up his sleeve to bring me happiness. Last year he got me a hamster--what in the world would he have done this year, I wonder?!

I really don't like to feel lonely because I know Micah would hate me for doing so, but sometimes it still seeps out. Because Micah was basically a best friend, more than anything I miss having someone that understands me completley; someone that is solely mine. And that's where the loneliness comes in. I miss him, but I also miss what we were together, and the support system we created for each other. To not have Micah there, and so suddenly, was like having a safe, warm carpet ripped out from under my feet.

People have asked before what I consider my "relationship status" to be. Single? In a relationship? What exactly do you call it? The only way I can describe it is a weird state between widow and girlfriend--widowed girlfriend? Micah and I weren't serious enough for marriage at the time, obviously, but we sure were quite serious at the time, for where and who we were, which twists my mind because what if we had had several more years, beyond college? We had talked already about trying to stick it through college, after all, so what would have happened? There's no way to ever know, though after experiencing his death now, of course I would have been so happy to spend years and years and years with him! This question just adds one more giant unknown into the mix, bringing more "what-if's" that spin my head in circles.

I guess the only thing that matters is that Micah died being my boyfriend, and I his girlfriend, and something about that will always bring me a sense of happiness. I like to know that at that point in time, the core of "us" was at it's peak of love and excitement, strong as ever--and even death can't argue with that. I also have no doubt I will always carry that role of girlfriend with me. It never has and never will be a burden. I say it with a smile, to have been known and loved by Micah.

On that note, Happy Valentine's Day, boyfriend.

Blizzard.

Wow! I'm in awe of this beautiful snow. It hasn't blizzard-ed since I was about 6, but I feel just as enthralled by the magic now as a 19-year-old.
After a tough day yesterday that contained several hours of pure tears, a midnight walk was just what I needed to clear my mind and welcome a sense of peace. Thanks, life.

An entry from my journal yesterday:

2/5/10
Ah, nothing like the quiet walls of Goshen's public library to provide a nice little journaling haven. I'm visiting Goshen this week with Grandma and Grandpa. So far it's been good. Somewhat boring at times, but otherwise great to giggle with friends again and have an exciting social life surrounded by wonderful, caring people.

Yet college is still college. There's sill the absurd lifestyle of busy busy busy, go go go. There's still all homework and no sleep.

Somehow being here has secured my decision of staying home. Yes, Goshen is wonderful, but I'm at a place still where I need me-time. I want to live, now--not spend time studying how to live when I'm out of college. I need to feel in control of my life again; I need time to rediscover Becca to some extent; and I need to find hope within this first year that life is, and still can be, beautiful.

February has arrived. I feel like yelling at the months to slow down, to stop flying by me so fast that I can't even keep track of the day.
After February, March. And after March, April--
April, when the ground begins to thaw and buds start to show on bare trees and flowers peek out from muddy soil and the earth prepares for a fresh start; and Easter, where new life was welcomed and people gathered to meet the loved one they thought was gone...

Instead April holds that D word. Dying. Died. Death. A late night phone call that wakes me from my dreams and brings me into a reality I wish could only be a dream. Exhausting days spent in a hospital with disbelief and fleeting hope. Voices gathered around a bed with hands held, grasping for the words that will somehow say goodbye...how do you release someone into the hands of God when you never wanted them to leave in the first place?...
"Micah, you are known and loved by God..."

As I look ahead to April I wonder how I will greet the one year anniversary. There will be so much pain reliving those days--but there's also so much beauty in being able to celebrate Micah's life. There's also something significant about being able to say a year has passed; and to look back on the year and see the blessings and people that helped every day of that one year somehow survivable.
So maybe it will be a mixture of gratitude, relief, pain, sorrow? I'm both dreading/curious to see how it will balance out. This mixture of feelings seems to be quite a common occurrence in grieving...there never can just be one feeling, can there? That would be too easy.

I once heard grief described as a dance. I like the image of that. Lately I'd like to think I've been able to be more of a graceful ballerina, but of course there's still many moments of pure-chaotic-awkward-fumbling-angry-stomping dancing, like a giraffe on ice skates, or something.

Better get back to the college. I think these people are beginning to wonder who the crazy girl in the back of the library is, sitting at her journal laughing and crying at the same time...whoops.

On a final note, often I just think of Micah and smile. Oh, that boy. Lately I could so go for a good Micah-Becca-uncontrollable-laughter moment, one where we would both be frozen with laughter together, and he'd slump over me because his body would practically go limp from all the laughing, then our eyes would tear up and our bellies ache and the cycle would just repeat again. Happiness.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
(Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die.)

-Song sung at Micah's tree planting

1/25/10.

Gone?
A searing pain straight to the gut. A missing too deep for all the words in the world. An aching in the heart that paralyzes and consumes.

How can the human brain fully comprehend the meaning of gone? There one day, but then not the next?...cherished so deeply, but gone so suddenly, without a warning, without any mutual goodbyes?

It wasn't just goodbye to you--
It was goodbye to normalcy, structure. To golden adolescent years where anything is possible and nothing is stoppable.
It was goodbye to your dreams, Micah, and a hopeful future and thoughts only thought to yourself; unspoken personal desires to explore and discover this world and this life.

To miss out on life. To have lived a full life in the 18 years that were, yes, but to also have been robbed of even more full years of life to come...

Oh, many days I grieve for Micah more than anything.

My best friend, how I know you would've hated to miss out on anything close to a party. I'm so, so sorry--it hurts me so much. I'm sorry it was cut short, and so suddenly. I've shed so many tears for the years that were erased...if only I could lend you some of mine, and then we'd all be together again like a big happy family, exploring and conquering life together.

A quick home update.

This evening I'm babysitting two little girls from church. I'm basking in that lovely high after everyone has been pajama-ed, read to, and tucked in. So while I'm here in this quiet house and the girls are still asleep, I'll give a quick update.

It's been about a week since I arrived home, and I'm still feeling really content with my decision. Already I'm loving the feeling of relaxation that home welcomes. I've loved waking up without any stress; going to bed without any stress; and filling the points in between with no stress. It's also been neat to spend time with my parents as a semi-only child, which I've never experienced before.

I have no regrets at this point about leaving Goshen, though I am beginning to feel a twinge of missing the friends I've lived with for half a year. I keep reminding myself, though, that it requires a sense of boredom and almost isolation to get the stuff done that I need to get done. (Which is hard to say, coming from an extrovert that doesn't mind excitement 24/7.)

My main project right now is cleaning out my room to move back into. It's been an emotional process to even move the furniture around, but overall I feel ready to move back in. From April into the summer, I needed that room to stay the same, but I've reached a point now where I need it to be different. I need a place where I can call my own again, where I can sit and reflect and remember without being scared to move anything because that's how it's "always been."

Other things I have planned for the next month or so:
-Babysitting and doing small jobs for anyone that offers; maybe working at my aunt's thrift store.
-Volunteering: babysitting at the Clare House in Lancaster, and maybe being a dance instructor or "swim buddy" for children at the Schreiber Center. Hopefully other volunteer options will arise.
-Reading, writing, and maybe starting some sort of art project--if I can get around to it.

That's all for now.

Change.

Right now I'm sitting on my couch in Lancaster, my dog snoozing next to me, my Christmas tree still set up in the corner, my familiar kitchen clock ticking in the background. And I'm home.
WAIT...what?
I'm HOME?!
How did this even happen?

To be honest, I'm not sure. It has certainly been a crazy last 24 hours, of many mixed emotions.

What I do know is that I woke up several days ago with the idea that maybe taking time off this semester would do me more good than anything else I could do. After talking with my parents, therapist, friends, siblings, and so on, I decided to go ahead with my decision. So I officially withdrew from the college, packed up my room, gathered with friends and laughed over the crazy memories we've had this semester, gave hugs and tearful goodbyes, and eventually traveled the 9 hours home, where I am now.

For being an indecisive person, I'm quite impressed with myself for coming to terms with such a significant decision. But I also know that I haven't felt more at peace for a long time, and maybe that in itself is a sign that this will be good for me.

It's hard to verbalize the craziness of feelings inside of me, but I think I'll at least try to explain what I want this half-year to be like/why I am doing this.

1) I'm a kind of person that really loves to be 100% "into" whatever I'm doing. But I feel like I'm still at a point where I can't commit fully to my classes, because I'm still occupied with processing Micah's death. It doesn't seem right to be trying to learn things about the world when all I really need is to learn about myself and the things I've been experiencing this year.

2) It is extremely difficult to grieve at college. With such a busy schedule, little privacy, and so many people around, I've found that it's hard to process what I need to process. Being at home will give me time to just pay attention to my feelings without the distractions; and I'll have the alone time I need.

3) In retrospect, I can't deny that I rushed into college. At the time, I never considered not going, simply because it was the one planned thing in my life at that point, and it was the easiest thing to do. And I really am glad that I went first semester, because it taught me to share openly about Micah and live with everything. But now that I think about, I could just benefit from more time, and second semester would be a good time to do it.

4) To some extent, being at college hasn't allowed me to really "test" out the things I've been learning. I feel like I've almost become a completley different person from a year ago, and I want opportunities and experiences that will broaden that side of me, instead of constantly doing homework. Being at home will allow me to volunteer or do something that feels meaningful to my inner self.

5) Goshen is 9 hours away from Lancaster, and as the one year anniversary approaches, I can only imagine that I will be needing the extra-support from my family as I am reminded of memories of the accident. I also will be able to spend time with Micah's family, which makes me really happy because I love them so incredibly much and truly feel close to Micah around them.

6) On top of everything, I still feel very undecided about majors, and maybe even a little burnt-out from 12 years of continuous school. I hope that time off to journal, travel, babysit, read, write, or work on art projects will be renewing to both my motivation and my future.

So all-in-all, I'm expecting these months to be re-energizing so that I can return to Goshen in the Fall feeling ready to tackle whatever's next.

However, I'm sure they won't always be easy, and I am expecting to be quite bored at times. I also realize that I've left a lot of wonderful friends back in Indiana that mean the world to me, and have already helped me through a semester. But I also know that by doing this, it may be the only way I can be with them again in the future. (But I of course will miss them all and love them so much!)

So that's it for now; hopefully I can share my thoughts throughout these months on this blog. Thanks to everyone for your support; hugs to Goshen people; and a hello to Lancaster people!

Thoughts that come late in the night when sleep is unreachable:

There is a weird correlation between missing and remembering.

On the days I do not remember, I almost do not miss. I might feel a deep inner feeling of emptiness, but it is so deep that it may feel natural, even normal.

But then there are the days where I remember.
I remember kind green eyes and a rambunctious laugh and a gentle spirit and a caring best friend. And then the remembering outlines the empty hole in my life, and there is nothing left to fill it but missing.

Must you always remember to miss?

What if one day I do not remember? What, then, will bring the cherished memories flooding back? And if I don't have memories, what will I have?

I want to live in a way that remembers you and then integrates you into my life. I want to carry you with me so I can never lose you again. I want you to be proud of me for living for you, but also for myself.

"I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me, to see the beauty of the world in my own eyes..."