The Mark of Something New

Ten years ago today- it was the day my life changed in an instant, like a bolt of lightening preceding a growling tremor of thunder, causing my soul to vibrate through every cell in my being.  As if my body was still resonating from that vibration, today I awoke around 3:30am-the same time the tsunami rose instantly from the unsympathetic depths and obliterated everything it touched. On this day, ten years ago, only minutes after hearing him say, Good night, I love you, on the phone, my Michael was swept up to heaven within the powerful vortex of that bolt of lightening.  

 

In my book GOOD NIGHT, I LOVE YOU, I write, 

 

Grief hits like a tsunami…a tidal wave of emotions, pain and crashing waves that are utterly overwhelming.  Following the initial devastation of a tsunami comes a series of crushing waves that are called the Wave Train. The emotional overload after Michael’s death continued to wash over me and wreak havoc. One after the other, these waves continue to hit, and only after a period of time, begin to lessen in strength and destruction. A steady, continual crashing of emotional waves of grief crushed me daily…sometimes to the point of suffocation.  I barely pulled my head above each wave in time to sustain the next onslaught… 

 

Over the days and months that followed, the waves of grief continued to wash over me—crashing in, receding out, crashing in, and receding out. Each time the pain washed over me, I felt as if a part of my heart and strength were stolen from me and forced into the current to be swept out into the violent riptide. Unlike the sea, the waves were unpredictable and came on me from different directions. 

Facing each wave individually was the only way I could brace myself and endure the continual onslaught. During the short periods of recessions, I compartmentalized the waves by writing about the severity of each one, how it affected me, what I learned about life from the blow, and where I experienced the pain.  I recorded the days in an effort to remember where I had been when the wave hit and how I got back on my feet after each one. No matter how hard they hit me, I slowly and deliberately rose to my feet, reestablished my footing, and prepared for what kind of waves might hit next, anticipating from what direction they might come.  Often, they returned only to hit me with the exact same force and wound me in the exact same place.  At other times they were less severe or wounded me in places I did not know existed. 

 

As I cautiously walked through the debris from the storm, I began to pick up pieces of my heart as I recognized them.  I picked up shards of my life.  I picked up memories I wanted to keep.  I even picked up my children, as they were washed up on the beach as well.  We were alive, but barely. I tightly held onto all of these things, pulling them into my chest as I retreated into the only place I felt safe, my own private world of grief.

Grief is deep. It’s shocking. It’s complex. It’s dark, lonely, and unpredictable. 

 

After many years, the Wave Train all but stopped, with the exception of the unexpected gentle waves occasionally slapping up my side, as they do when you are knee deep in the water relaxing in the peace of the sea. You may stumble a bit, but if you have the practice, you spot it coming and allow your body to lift with the wave. 

 

I’ve not had this early wake up call every year on this morning, but this year I had a knowing it would happen again.  For many years now, I’ve known something would be different about the ten-year mark. It would be a true mark:a boundary land, something such as a fixed object designed to record position, the starting line, a sign, a point reached.  I felt a shift in the spiritual realm at the beginning of this year-a level had been reached; there was a new starting line. I had reached the boundary land at the end of long dark valley.  The air changes when you come out of a valley, it’s lighter and the road ahead now captures the sunlight. The possibilities spring up before you as suddenly as a tulip opens after the bareness of winter. 

 

Despite the circumstances of what this morning commemorated, I awoke with a spirit of gratitude.  For quite some time after Michael died, I lost my ability to pray. I was completely mute.  God and I sat side by side in silent conversation. I'll never forget the night I spoke to Him for the first time.  I was lying on my side in bed with the presence of the moonlight shining on my face, when my lips spontaneously uttered my first words of prayer in a whisper…Thank you   It bubbled right out of my soul without a thought. A sacrifice of thankfulness broke through. I was thankful for God’s faithfulness to me.  I was thankful for 25 magical years with Michael Barranco. I was thankful for my three children, for life itself, and for redeeming love.

 

Since that morning ten years ago, each morning, before I even get out of bed, the words Thank you are whispered aloud to my God.  When I turn out my light at night, again- Thank you. Thankfulness truly can rise out of any circumstances.

 

The new open land, a promised land, now beckons me. In the book of Genesis, Jacob travels with his family to new lands and a new life.  On the journey, his first love and wife, Rachel, dies in childbirth. The scriptures say, “He set a memorial, then journeyed on.” He honored her…then moved on. I have set a memorial for Michael Anthony Barranco, Sr. I have honored him with word and deed.  The midnight hour is over and, though I may not be able to see it yet,  God has prepared a journey with adventures before me. The words Thank you are not heavy enough to express my gratefulness of making it to the other side, having crossed over into new land. 

 

When Michael died, we were attending a multi-ethic church in Jackson, Mississippi.  He frequently sang solos alongside the choir, belting out his signature R & B style of singing.  I invited this choir, robes and swaying included, to sing on stage at Michael’s funeral.  The song I chose was “I Wanna Say Thank You.”   When they broke into the chorus for the first time, I could not contain myself-I simply had to stand up.  With a hanky in my hand held high, I stood with an overwhelmed grateful heart for God’s faithfulness.  The entire crowd, of close to one thousand people, all rose with me, and we said Thank you. 

 

If I never live another day
If I never see another smiling face
If I never breathe another breath or take
Another step I want to say Thank You

If I never hear what's to be heard
If I never speak another word
If I never see another sight or taste another bite
I want to say Thank you

Thank you for all that you've done thus far
Thank you for being the God that you are
Thank you for food on my table I know 

You are able, I wanna say thank you

 

Thank you for food on my table
Thank you for making a way
Thank you for watching over me

I wanna say thank you