It has been over a year now. A year since the knock on the door by the police in the depth of the night. A year since we travelled to Twizel to claim the body of our son Sean, killed by an avalanche on a beautiful April day. A year might seem a long time for some but for us it has been but a moment. His photos still adorn our walls, his climbing gear hangs listlessly on the wall and his smell still permeates his room. Death came like a thief in the night and robbed us of one of our greatest treasures. No permission asked - just a violent intrusion into our precious family.
People ask me how I’m doing, and I hesitate before I answer. How can I bore them with the truth that actually I’m not great and still think about and long for my son every day? How can I expect them to understand for after all “life must go on”. I remember the day we travelled down to the South Island to await the outcome of the search. The airports were full, the roads busy and indeed life was “going on”. I couldn’t understand why everything hadn’t stopped because my boy was lost, feared dead. Why wasn’t everyone else consumed by this horrendous occurrence?
I still find that difficult to come to terms with but common sense tells me no one can miss him like I do, or his mother and sister do. However we have been touched by the tremendous sense of compassion that many people seem to carry. Many times these are people who themselves have been touched by tragedy. These ones are aware that clichés do not suffice and that tomorrow may not necessarily be better.
After all, I wept when I said goodbye to my son, off to boarding school for his seventh form year. How much longer will I weep for the separation that will last a lifetime?
My faith tells me I shall see him again, that helps. But in the meantime there is a lot of life to be lived without him. People die everyday. Most of the time we are unaffected because they are unknown to us. But what happens when it strikes in the midst of our family or community, which eventually it does or will? I am neither expert nor feel like I possess many answers but some things seem clear to me
One of the greatest gifts my friends have given me is the space to grieve. The permission to allow this process to take its own course. For after all who am I to say how long this journey must last? In the midst of this “dark night of the soul”, however there are sometimes treasures to be found in the darkness. These are fleeting glimpses of truths that you know can never be discovered in any other way, such as the immeasurable gift of human presence. I have long admired some who have emerged from tragedy transformed - they seem to possess a quality of humanity that is rare in this world.
Perhaps this could be my prayer?
People ask me how I’m doing, and I hesitate before I answer. How can I bore them with the truth that actually I’m not great and still think about and long for my son every day? How can I expect them to understand for after all “life must go on”. I remember the day we travelled down to the South Island to await the outcome of the search. The airports were full, the roads busy and indeed life was “going on”. I couldn’t understand why everything hadn’t stopped because my boy was lost, feared dead. Why wasn’t everyone else consumed by this horrendous occurrence?
I still find that difficult to come to terms with but common sense tells me no one can miss him like I do, or his mother and sister do. However we have been touched by the tremendous sense of compassion that many people seem to carry. Many times these are people who themselves have been touched by tragedy. These ones are aware that clichés do not suffice and that tomorrow may not necessarily be better.
After all, I wept when I said goodbye to my son, off to boarding school for his seventh form year. How much longer will I weep for the separation that will last a lifetime?
My faith tells me I shall see him again, that helps. But in the meantime there is a lot of life to be lived without him. People die everyday. Most of the time we are unaffected because they are unknown to us. But what happens when it strikes in the midst of our family or community, which eventually it does or will? I am neither expert nor feel like I possess many answers but some things seem clear to me
One of the greatest gifts my friends have given me is the space to grieve. The permission to allow this process to take its own course. For after all who am I to say how long this journey must last? In the midst of this “dark night of the soul”, however there are sometimes treasures to be found in the darkness. These are fleeting glimpses of truths that you know can never be discovered in any other way, such as the immeasurable gift of human presence. I have long admired some who have emerged from tragedy transformed - they seem to possess a quality of humanity that is rare in this world.
Perhaps this could be my prayer?