I don't like to be told what to do. ;)
So I resisted.
Yesterday afternoon, knowing that I couldn't do much of anything since my back is still being super awesome, I went to the library and picked up Daring Greatly. I thought for sure it would be good and would give me something to do while I sit around recuperating, but questioned whether it would be that good. Like, do I really need to fork out ten bucks for a book on being brave?!
Came home, had dinner, and posted on Instagram and Facebook about my library choices. Immediately, friends started posting how much they adore Brene' Brown - how she just "gets it" - how "life changing" her books are.
I was still skeptical.
Bedtime - Luke heated up the big heat pack for my back and I crawled into bed with this book (and a super awesome headlamp, but hey, ya gotta do what ya gotta do!) thinking I'd read a few pages before falling asleep...
56 pages in and I could have kept reading. The problem was - this was not my book. I couldn't write in it. I couldn't highlight things. I couldn't tag pages.
I ordered my own copy this morning. :)
What's so great about this book? It's hard to pinpoint for me right now. There are phrases that jumped out so strongly. Paragraphs that spoke to my heart.
Phrases like this one...
Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage.
Heather warned me to be prepared to feel all the feelings. She wasn't wrong.
I had tears. I smiled. I cringed. I was encouraged. I was scared.
For a long time, I have felt that I needed to return to this blog - Kerry encouraged my return several months ago, but at that point, I was not ready.
Now, I am. I'm ready to share more of our story. More of our healing process.
To say that this isn't scary to me would be less than true. But I'm ready.
We get from a lot of people that we should be past this. That we should be happy all the time (which, really?! - is anyone ever happy all the time?!). That our grief timeline has closed.
Truth? You never get past something like this.
Anyone who says they have is lying.
But how can you know that about us if we don't let you see it? How can you relate to us or to anyone who has had to bury a child if we don't share those parts of us that make us who we are now. We're different than we were before Kenton died. And yet, in some ways, we're the same.
Kenton is such a part of who we are as a family. He is our boy. Forever our boy. And missing him is something we will always feel.
Some days that grief is like a sliver that only hurts when you pick at it. Some days, that grief is like a stubbed toe that is a dull ache. And some days, that grief is still blinding - hurting so badly that you can't catch your breath.
We're not crazy.
We're not focused on our grief.
We are still living. We work, we play, we serve, we love. But that sadness is part of who we are.
And so, I'm back. You're welcome to stay. Pull up a chair and stay. Or, you're welcome to go. I won't be offended. Sometimes, the story being shared isn't a good fit for where we are in our lives. I get that.
If you stay, please talk to me. Or don't. Maybe you're not in a place where you're ready to engage in conversation about any of this. Maybe you just need to see my openness for a while. And that's okay.
If you're ready to engage, please leave a comment, a question - let me know that you're here. What of our story touches you? What scares you? What makes you want to be better or stronger or more gentle?
This is our story. This is our life.