So my sister called me the other night. I saw “Angie” on my phone and immediately thought something was wrong with our parents.
Why is that my first thought? Why does it have to be a tragic one?
Well, here’s the deal: I never talk on the phone anymore. If I can help it, that is.
People who know me well don’t call me. They text me.
I hate making phone calls. I hate making doctor appointments. I avoid talking on the phone at all costs.
There are many reasons for this. It’s generally inconvenient for me to be on the phone. Specifically because of these kids around me at all times. Nothing says, “Hey, let’s lose our minds and make tons of noise and fight with each other” to little kids like mom getting on the phone.
But beyond the general inconvenience of the logistics of a quiet, uninterruptible moment, much of my phone aversion came after losing Mason. Conversations just make me weary.
Initially, I was simply overwhelmed. The energy it took just to breathe in and out was about all I had. Then I had to help my kids navigate grief and be present in their life. I was maxed out.
In the months that followed, the energy never really increased. But the needs did. Homeschool. Soccer practice. Classes. Appointments. Playdates. Dinner. Laundry.
At at the end of the day (well, even at the beginning for that matter), there just wasn’t a whole lot left of me. So I became a terrible friend, and a terrible family member to my extended family. It wasn’t intentional, it was survival.
I never answered my phone. Often, I’d leave it in another room all day because just the sound of all the texts and calls I didn’t have the energy for overwhelmed me. Socializing was utterly exhausting to me. My children still need me all day, even while I’m fighting the searing pain of one of them missing. The turmoil of grief drowned out everything else. Except the motherly instinct that would rise to the surface. And by the grace of God, we made it through those awful years.
But it wasn’t without it’s casualties. As if the sudden loss of a child isn’t hard enough, grief comes with a lot of unfair expectations. Lots of moments of feeling horribly misunderstood and deeply hurt. Feeling sometimes like I have to explain myself, but then realizing I never really have to explain myself to those who know me best.
Fortunately for me, the people closest to me have a lot of grace. And a lot of deep understanding. My people are there for me when I need them without keeping a record of how many texts I never responded to or how many events I missed.
While I spent much of those years drowning, these people just loved me, even if grief meant I might be drowning in some way or another forever. They weren’t waiting for things to get back to normal for me. They were just accepting me and the reality that nothing will ever be normal again.
God has truly blessed me with great people. My sister is among them.
The phone call from her the other night was a sweet gift. A reminder of her love for me. Honestly, I may not have had a phone conversation with Angie since before Mason died. We communicate often, but we haven’t just sat on the phone and talked and laughed in a really long time. My sister is easy. No expectations, no pressure, no guilt trips, no passive aggressive comments. She’s just there.
I realize I’m pretty lucky to have some great people around me. And that not everyone is so lucky.
Having an Angie in my life makes me want to be an Angie to others. More grace. More acceptance. More patience and understanding. I want to be available without expectations. Present without an agenda.
I just want to love people better. People who are weary. And lonely. And struggling in silent battles.
Maybe you don’t have an Angie in your life but I encourage you, be that person for someone else.
People like Angie make the grief less lonely, the expectations less weighty, and the future more hopeful.
We all could use a little more of that, right?
Amen!