The end? The beginning?

Dear family, friends, followers,

Next week, the date "April 8" will appear on a calendar for the sixth time since Micah died in 2009. With the sixth year of Micah's anniversary comes the sixth year of this blog.

I began as an 18-year-old trying to make sense of a loss so deep that the world itself seemed to drop out beneath me. Now, I live in that "future without Micah" that was so dark, so unbelievable, and so dreaded to me back then. But day by day for the last six years, that "future" has become my present. My life still unfolds before me with many uncertainties, and I now know much more about the multi-dimensional losses and injustices that make up life. But I am happy, stable, and dream of new things everyday to write or create or discover or love.

Every year or so---usually during these chill April beginnings, when Holy Week reminds me of my own loss to come---my wind wanders back to this blog and I flip to page one. I reread every single post. I find words capturing sadness and pain and yet words that still aren't big enough for the canyon of loss. It hurts. I want to hold my young self and tell her she will be okay, but I can't because I know she has to Go Through It. I know that the Going is what creates the Healing.

This post will be my last post here on Tear Soup. My end here is not a bookend, but rather a mark of the past six years and the outward way I've processed Micah's death. Now, this processing is deeper inside of me. It's like holding a stone in my pocket that only I know about; I can hold its warmth or grasp it when I choose to do so. Now I have more control of my narrative. But I know I'll never lose it.

I'm glad these posts exist because they were heartfelt and real and essential to my processing. I'm glad that many "widowed-girlfriends" have found this and sought solidarity in my words. And I'm very much grateful to the readers who have supported me in various ways.

I promise to keep this page up and will be in touch if I find another platform for my writing.

I dedicate the closure of this blog, of course, to the person who brought me here in the beginning. The person who could make me laugh in a heartbeat, who was wildly compassionate and curious, who was stubborn and gentle all at once, who loved and was loved by his wonderful parents-brothers-grandparents-cousins, who I will remember and love forever because how could I not? Micah:

living memory

I carry you with me into the world,
into the smell of rain
& words that dance between people 

& for me, it will always be this way, 

walking in the light,

remembering being alive together.

Becca

"Rich in loss."

There have been good times.

Living with a wonderful group of women this past year that showed me what it means to have community through food and stories, to support each other through the nitty gritties of the self, even when it’s hard and frustrating.

A final year of college that showed me the joy of spontaneity and goofiness, the destructive but rewarding feeling of stress and no sleep, the joy of a community that has met me where I “am” for the last four years.

Living in Goshen for the summer, working 40 hours and paying rent…feeling like a grown-up but still shedding professionalism after 5 p.m. for the dearest, wildest times with close friends.

Accepting a dream internship next year with Sojourners magazine in Washington, D.C.; knowing I’ll be out my comfort zone and challenged but it will all be in the name of growth.

Getting to know someone this summer who has listened and cared with the deepest respect; the vulnerability and thoughts that come within all of that.

From A Field Guide to Getting Lost :

“Of course to forget the past is to lose the sense of loss that is also memory of an absent richness and a set of clues to navigate the present by; the art is not one of forgetting but letting go. And when everything else is gone, you can be rich in loss.”

Yes, I have not forgotten the past. I remember the richness of the past that was once my present, it is that memory that has propelled me and told me to embrace what is good.

I’ve been rich in my loss. For the art is not of forgetting, but of letting go. These days are good, and that’s to be celebrated.

An update.

It has been a long, long time since my last post.

Since then, I have:
Lived in China for 3 months in the fall, an incredible, meaningful experience full of hundreds of stories.
Declared my major, finally(!) : English Writing.
Turned 21.
Nailed a summer internship at The Intelligencer Journal/Lancaster New Era newspaper company. I'm on my second week now, working full-time as a reporter.
Found out that I'll be the editor-in-chief of my college's newspaper in the fall.
Went on a date, which was part weird, part nice.
Marked the 3rd year of Micah's death in April on Easter Sunday.

This semester has felt slow and uninspiring at times, but in general I am pleased with the momentum gathering in my life and where it's taking me. The years since Micah's death have been in slow-motion...a lot of that due to my need to process my grief, and a lot due to my own development of my identity. Life feels like its picking up again, and I'm at a place where I can embrace that momentum.

Life after college feels terrifying and enticing (I think all good things in life should be made up of some combination of those two feelings.) Luckily I've still got one year to ride this college wave, but knowing how quickly this year went, soon it truly will be over!

This summer will be full of work-work-work with my internship, but also hopefully time for reading, writing, family, camping, the beach, sleeping, and enjoying Lancaster folks.

Hope you are all enjoying where you are and what you are doing. Lots of love your way.

Third summer.

Micah, a third summer without you.

Tonight I just want to sit close to you on the couch, rest my head on your shoulder and talk. Talk to you--you who knows me and loves me and cares--about everything and anything. I want to talk about how your "little" brothers are now freshmen in high school and college. How your dog still barks at the top of your steps. How I visited the cemetery where our great-grandparents are buried recently and how amazing it is that they were friends. I want to talk to you about high school memories and the latest pop music and the messiness of my room and my ridiculous summer jobs.

I want to talk to you about me moving to China in a week to live there for 3 months. I want you to reassure me that it will be okay and you'll send me emails to make me laugh about my Mandarin mistakes. I want to say goodbye to you like the other long-distance relationships and count down the days to seeing you when I get back.

I want to talk about love and jobs and how growing up is the most difficult task in the world. I want to hear your thoughtful advice and then sit in the silence knowing I've been heard.

I want you by my side these days more than ever, Micah, for your love and support and laughter. I know that no longer can be a reality, but it stings again and again as I accept it. You are so deeply missed and remembered.

Circular staircase.

"Acceptance.
I finally reach it.
But something is wrong.
Grief is a circular staircase.
I have lost you."

Mandarin and May Term.

 I'm learning Mandarin right now as a requirement for my study-service term in China next fall. Usually language classes last a semester for Goshen, but since I travel in the fall, I'm learning it during "May Term," a month-long term that Goshen has where one class is offered all day.

Basically, in other words, I'm learning Chinese in a matter of THREE WEEKS. Don't worry, it sounds just as ridiculous to me. I don't think I've ever taken more of an intense class. 8am-3pm every day with at least 50 vocab words to memorize every night...wowza. Stress has been high but it's been an exciting challenge. Tomorrow our actual language teacher will be arriving from China to teach us. It's the real deal!

I'm getting more and more excited about traveling next year. As a guest speaker described to my class, China is not a "typical" SST in that there is mass poverty, no-running water, and small villages. However, it is still an entirely new, complex culture that will require mass adjustments. Already hearing a bit about the history and cultural implications of China makes my adventurous side just want to know any and every detail. It's just a matter of surviving this craaaazy language part.

That's my brief update! In a short few weeks I will be back in Lancaster for the summer, working (somewhere) and preparing for late August. It's hard to believe this school year is ending, it's been such a great one.

Zai jian! (Goodbye.)

Writing to grieve.

"The meaning of the the word memory for me is enriched when I see that its tangled Indo-European roots run through the Latin memor (mindful); the Greek martus (witness), which became martyr; as well as the Germanic and Old English murnam (to grive). We write to bring things in mind, to witness, and eventually, to grive."
                                   -Julia Kasdorf, Writing Like a Mennonite

I discovered Julia Kasdorf's Writing Like a Mennonite last semester in a Women's Studies class, but it resurfaced again recently because I'm taking a Mennonite Literature class this semester. Julia is a Goshen grad and has gone on to write incredible poetry and nationally-recognized books.

I grieve in writing, and I always have, even since elementary school when I would journal my little dramas of the day. When Micah and I started dating, I wrote about him and the many stories we formed. I even have little stories involving him and other friends from middle school.

The night of the accident I sat in my bed and journaled that I wanted an adventure in my life and that I wanted to feel 100% alive. Ironically, the next time I opened my journal was two days later in the hospital, scribbling that Micah had been in an accident, and begging God to keep him alive. The next day he died--an adventure? Yes. Did I feel 100% alive? Yes. But in a way I wanted, through death? No. My journal entry that day is only several words, but the pain they hold seeps from the pages.

Unfortunately I haven't been able to publicly write as much as I wished this year---it's been a crazy semester full of many involvements. But I am grateful for the writing I've been able to do these past two years. I am grateful for the many people that have felt benefited from my words, those who have experienced loss and the cases of other girlfriends who have lost their boyfriends and discovered these chronicled two years. What is the future of this blog? Maybe one day it will be more officially published, who knows. But as of now I still appreciate being able to write, grieve, and bear witness. Again, thank you deeply to my family, friends, and readers of this blog. Just by listening you have helped me greatly.

Two years ago tonight, my dad answered the phone and woke me up with the news. I remember sitting up and immediately clutching his arms. It was surreal and awful, but reflecting on it now I'm more able to see the beauty of that moment. Those first several minutes spent hugging while the rest of the house peacefully slept are something only my dad and I will ever know, but I find peace that we shared it together.

I am trying to not think too much about the details of what happened tonight two years ago, as they are painful to comprehend, even though I don't exactly know what happened during the accident. Yet still, memories of a hospital seep into my consciousness and will continue to tomorrow.

Several weeks after the accident my dad wrote this poem. I share it because it is beatifully written and speaks memories that are now on my mind.


I don’t want to tell you

I don’t need to tell you

Oh young daughter of mine,

Of the thrill of new found love,

Of the maturation of well grounded friendship,

And the pleasure of balanced partnership.

I don’t want to wake you,

Oh beautiful daughter of mine,

From the sleep of recently whispered love,

From the slumber of contented relationship,

And the dreams of life milestones yet to come.

I don’t want to tell you,

Oh innocent daughter of mine,

Of collisions and twisted metal,

Of broken flesh and shattered bones,

Of collapsed lungs and cerebral oxygen levels.

I want to protect you

Oh beloved daughter of mine,

From endless unknowing emergency room hours,

From clutching hugs and somber conversations,

And hesitant visits to critical care rooms.

I don’t want you to have to see,

Oh sweet daughter of mine,

The quiet form of your beloved,

Artificially maintained by IVs and tubes,

Gently marking time with rhythmic mechanical breaths.

How I long to spare you,

Oh wonderful daughter of mine,

From the premature grief of lost love

From the instant insertion into the adult world,

And the incapacitating emptiness of absent companionship.

My whole parental being cries out,

Oh dear daughter of mine,

Against your precocious introduction to death,

Against this gut wrenching soul depleting loss,

And the life long fallout of this moment.

But, at one o’clock AM on a Tuesday morning

Oh sleeping daughter of mine,

I can do none of these.

My parental bag of tricks is empty,

And I can only approach your bedside as a fellow mortal.

Becca, can you wake up?

-6/17/09

This week.

Next week marks 2 years since Micah's accident, with Wednesday being the night of the crash and Friday the evening Micah died.

Gratefully my mom has room and time in her schedule to drive to Goshen to be with me. It will be great to have her present and hopefully will alleviate some of the weirdness of not being home. Last year was so nice in that I was able to be in my own space and have my feelings link to the literal places they stem from. This year, however, I'm away from home and only have my memories to connect me to two years ago, not the places. All in all, it'll be very different, but hopefully still meaningful.

I don't know what to be more shocked at---that this year flew by so quickly, or that it's been an entire two years since the accident. Both feel unbelievable. I can so clearly remember sitting alone in my room several days after the accident, thinking to myself, "I can't do this. I can't possibly live a month or a year or a lifetime with Micah and with all of this."

Fast-forward two years, and somehow I've made it through...with meaning and learning along the way. For this there is celebration, my therapist reminded me this week. And so I anticipate leaving room for not just grief this year, but celebration...celebration where I've found growth in my own life these two years.

Yet still, I dread hate kick scream punch detest this week. My entire being mourns and misses and cries. Feelings already begin to swell, and I know all I can do is step into their stream, let them take me, and float.

Day of Love, year Two.

Valentine's Day, year two,
And I am not as lonely as the first.

I fill my day with women friends,
Homemade paper cards,
Pink striped socks.
And when other boyfriends give
their girlfriends cards and kisses,
I smile from afar and think of you.

What you've taught me is this:
Love is all around,
It should be shared,
It should be grand,
And it does not stop with death.

New Year

-At the end of senior year, a tree was planted for Micah at the high school. This plaque sits at the base.
This break my family decorated the tree with pine cones ornaments for the birds.-

2010, you started with a breakdown of tears because I didn't want a new year to begin without Micah. All I could think about was how a year earlier we welcomed in the year together in Germany.

But you ended up being unique and beautiful. You were precious in that you were the out-of-this-world year after Micah died, horrific and terrific all jumbled together. I knew you couldn't go to waste, so I held every second of you, even if it meant dropping everything else to be fully "in" it. I'm so glad I did and I will always cherish you.

2011, you are bittersweet, as always. A fresh slate is ahead, but I still remember sadness and tragedy and loved ones so far away, in my life and in others...
Still, I'm excited for you. Bring me some adventure, security, energy, change, love, guidance. I want to approach you with as much deliberateness of life as the last.

"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.