Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday.

I gave away your shoes this week, Neil.  I could look past your closet and your tools, the clothes that were in the dirty laundry that are now clean and folded, your work papers everywhere. I can listen to your voice on the house voicemail, see your handwriting everywhere.  I just couldn't look past your shoes on the floor for some reason.  I'd go into the front hall closet to get shoes for the kids, and there were your new black Nike's that you loved so much. 

They left your flip-flops in the workroom in the basement when they took you away.  I threw those away.  Maybe that's why I had to get rid of your shoes.  Or maybe it's because the funeral home wanted an outfit for you, except for shoes.  They didn't want shoes.  So I didn't either.

You know what I've been thinking about a lot lately?  When I was in high school I became slightly obsessed with the death of Marilyn Monroe.  I fixated on the fact that when you die, or so I'd heard in church, suddenly all of life's mysteries became clear.  So I've thought about that a lot this past week.  Do you know what happened to Marilyn Monroe, Neil?  For some reason I don't wonder what happened to you.  I think I  know what happened to you those last few weeks, few hours. 

Even the minutes.  I'm glad you said goodbye to the kids, you kissed them and told them you loved them.  They'll never remember that, but I will. 

I had to pick music for your funeral.  I chose "How Great Thou Art" and "Amazing Grace" because there was really only time for two songs. 

I've played the YouTube video of Carrie Underwood singing "How Great Thou Art" with Vince Gill a hundred times in the last two weeks. 

When Christ shall come
With shouts of acclamation
And take me home,
What joy shall fill my heart!
Then I shall bow
In humble adoration
And there proclaim,
"My God, how great Thou art!"

Did Jesus come for you, Neil?  Was your Grammy J there for you?

Are you ok?

You would be so pissed if you knew I was blogging about you.  God, you always hated that. You were always all about keeping the windows to our world closed, and I was always trying to throw them open. 

The night you died, I stayed up late talking to you (yelling at you); I desperately tried to find something to read from someone who has been through this, something that spoke to what I was going through.  I couldn't find anything.  No one wants to talk about suicide.  I can understand that, but man I wish there had been someone out there who could have guided me through that night, and the nights after that.  And the ones to come. 

G is acting up, Neil.  His behavior this weekend has been so bad.  He's only three, Neil.  He needs you.  I need you! Those last few months you kept saying I didn't need you, but I do.  I did then, and I do now.  I wish you could have heard me.