Today my daughter runs.
She runs to honor her husband, Keith, who passed away nine months ago. She runs because he loved running. She runs to represent the struggle of her grief journey. She runs because her two young vibrant children do not afford her much time to grieve. She is running with the community that was Keith’s professional community; which was also their family’s community. And she is running with friends. They come from all over the map. They trained for this day for months and now they are running together. With her, for her, for Keith, for the children. Today. 300+ miles away in Washington DC. she runs. It is the Navy Air Force Half Marathon.
And I am not there.
And I am struggling with that.
I woke up early. I am signed up for athlete tracker. I stare at my email account. No updates. My imagination runs wild. Where is she? How is her body feeling? Is she buoyed by race time excitement? Is she shedding tears? Most likely yes and yes. Although I was able to support her by watching the kids while she trained, it just doesn’t feel like enough.
After my husband passed away, another daughter wanted to hike Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park. One of the ways of grieving her loss was to bury some of her Dad’s ashes at the top. This was a hike they wanted to do together, but he was physically unable to. Determined to support her, and battling total fear I completed the task with her.
This mama bear wants to do anything and everything to protect her cubs. How desperately I want to take away their pain from the deep losses they’ve experienced in their young lives. After my husband’s death, I made a choice to grieve well; whatever that means. I was determined not to run from the grief and all things associated with my husband, but to allow the waves of sadness to come. To trust in the process of grief, having experienced it before. But it is so different when you see your adult children suffer. Often times as Mom’s, we feel like we are doing a good job when we “make things better” for our children regardless of age. It cuts deep to know that I cannot do anything to fix this for my daughters. I cannot mend their broken hearts. I do not know how to ease their pain. But I do know Who can. He can provide constant help, love, and healing to my girls just as continues to do for me.
As a parent of grieving adult children, there is no right way to do this. It is important for me to continue the work of adjusting to life as a single woman. And there is a balance to caring for myself and being available to care for my daughters and grandchildren. I have not figured it out. Not even close. But that’s OK.
And so I encourage Rebecca to run like Keith. And Molly to hike like Mike. I can love them through their struggles. I can stand back and allow God and others to comfort them. And I can know that being present is enough.
It is enough.