Drey with Rudy & Pierre.
Ready for Christmas.
Pierre. My sweet 14 year old min pin. At least I was told he was a min pin when I adopted him in January 2001. We were never quite sure because he’s bigger than the normal min pin. It was just me and Drey back then. He was our dog. When Robbie married me in 2004 he agreed to take on a sassy, headstrong wife, an ornery 10 year old Drey, 2 cats – M.D. & Lucky, Rudy my chocolate lab and the youngest one – Pierre. I’m the only one left.
I’ll never forget when Drey met Pierre. He had been at his Dad’s when I adopted him and I asked Fred to come over so they could meet him. I remember them walking in the front door… Drey was just 7. Fred looked at Pierre and said, “what is it” with a look of “wtf?” on his face. Pierre had huge ears – he was quite unique looking! Drey of course got on the floor with him right away to say hello. Sweet memories.
When Pierre got sick in May 2013 – I was dealing with my first Mother’s Day without Drey. And Drey’s first birthday in heaven and the first anniversary of his death were just weeks away. I prayed through sobs after leaving Pierre at the vet that God would give me just 6 more months with him. I just wanted to get through a little longer before I’d have to say goodbye to him. The next day I visited him at the vet. He still wasn’t himself but he was a little better. Day 2 they called and said I could take him home at the end of the day! I was sooo relieved! So I had my Pierre for over a year after that. God answered my prayer and I am very grateful I had my nighttime spoonapolooza buddy during the 2nd year of this heavy grief.
I love you Pierre. And I hope you, Rudy and Drey are together again.
As I reflect on past journals and blogs I see a woman who is shattered but is clinging on to hope – the hope she has in Christ. I wonder where she went? I don’t feel hopeful. I haven’t in weeks. Maybe months? I’ve lost track.
I miss my son. I don’t understand why he killed himself. I want God to sit right here next to me and audibly tell me Drey is with Him. I hate my unbelief. I hate it I hate it I hate it. Yes, my son told me he accepted Christ as his savior. But that’s not enough for my broken heart. I’m so sick of reading books about the basics in search of a glimmer of rock solid, beyond a shadow of a doubt proof that my baby is in heaven. The knowledge I’ve acquired is nothing compared to the faith I wish I had. The faith I wish I FELT.
My heart is broken. I don’t know who I am. I’m supposed to be making plans for my boy’s 21st birthday. Instead I’m sleeping for 10 hours straight then waking up exhausted. This is new ground for me. And I hate it. How can I still be confronting new emotions, new levels of apathy and despair after almost 2 years? Isn’t 2 years enough time to wring out every last drop of emotion possible?
I visited a youth grief counseling camp last month and saw the art therapy they were doing. Masks. Painted on the outside and the inside. The outside displaying what they wanted others to see. The inside telling the rest of the story.
That’s how I feel. The one who is confident beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jesus Christ was fully God and fully man. He never sinned. He died for us. He rose! He overcame death! I can reference clear, factual proof for these things. Rejoice! Be glad! But the interior of the mask tells more of the story. It shows how little I care about the resurrection. The loss of my son is too heavy. It doesn’t feel like a “light and momentary affliction.” And I am so ashamed of my ungratefulness. God forgive me.
I’m still in the fight but I’m so weary.