I was once pulled away from my children as they played at their grandfather’s last birthday party with extended family.
I was summoned to an Old Testament authority with a voice almost everyone, including my children, heard proclaim about who my husband allegedly was. This individual, self-designated upon a throne of justice, tried to change my mind about my husband before throwing any acknowledgement of our children into the abyss.
If you’ve ever had the pleasure to meet John, Corrie’s father, he is a man whose actions have spoken louder than any words he’d say.
One of the building blocks of our relationship from the beginning was that he would always support my writing, and never try to come between my keyboard or pen and me. He understood my talent.
This is not an easy acceptance for any partner, but artists, including me, come with selfish pieces in their personal chess set.
the best reason why
As we approach our ninth wedding anniversary on December 17, I can tell you I’m fortunate to share a lifetime with Corrie’s father.
On Corrie’s sixth and first heavenly birthday, we could’ve sat in the shadows. I’ll admit that I binged on The Queen’s Gambit for the first part of the day. We know Corrie would want us to celebrate her birthday in whatever way we found appropriate for us.
I can write one million reasons why John and I had made the difficult decision to choose each other and a life with our son, Hayes, but he shows it everyday.
On Corrie’s birthday, Thursday, December 10; John took supplies to the family plot below beautiful white bells in a city owned cemetery. Corrie had adored the fact it was on a hill when I took her to visit her grandfather’s grave in January 2020. She said, “We should decorate it.”
Two weeks ago, a storm came through. It sounded like small, dollar store hammers fell on the roof. At the plot, rain washed some of the gravel packed around Corrie’s new marker and dirt onto her grandfather’s grave. I worried about John’s father’s name being covered.
John’s father played a significant role in the children forming a relationship with some members of their father’s extended family, with him, and their aunt. Corrie and Hayes adored their “Granddaddy.” One video at Corrie’s funeral showed Granddaddy chasing after a quick two-year-old Corrie getting in the driver seat of his golf cart. He was scared she’d start it.
The dirt covering his precious name plagued my mind during one of the most challenging weeks for me, since I started therapy and medication.
On Thursday, John dug mini-trenches around each marker, including the spot for a vase for Corrie’s grandparents. He made a wet compact mulch to hold the cedar shavings in place around Corrie’s grave, so nothing would wash over the others.
John did not have to go out and clean the graves.
Often, it is difficult for him.
He knew how much it worried me, and he honored Corrie’s birthday in his special way.
When I arrived at the cemetery, I observed the work I needed to do. I knew I would not complete the work on the other children’s graves for whom I care on my Kinder Memorial Walk. (This is where I clean and decorate about thirty-two graves of babies, children, and one teen in Corrie’s cemetery.)
John put his tools down. He extended his hand. We held hands as we stood at the foot of our daughter’s grave.
We stood in silence as all of our twelve years together and almost nine years married on December 17 seemed more like the endurance of a lifetime with the loss of our youngest child. Everything else we’d faced as a couple was merely a shadow of indifference in comparison.
corrie’s mom
I redecorated each grave with the holiday artificial flowers, added a mommy and baby deer to pair with Corrie’s reindeer, and a Christmas tree decorated by the wonderful florist who had arranged the flowers for Corrie’s visitation and celebration of life.
Some Loves
Some loves walk in shoes where the toes
fail to reach the inseam, and a “clunk”
rather than a “tap” echoes on the stairwell.
Some loves trip over wires, and fail to
plug in the blue cord where it should go.
Some dance in the way kids say, “Stop
that. That’s no way to dance.” Some loves
experience more pies in the face than
ballets and dreams sold to strangers
on a holiday channel. Some loves are
the made for TV, sugar sweets, the kind
some girls like to eat.
We are more the take off our shoes,
and dip our toes in the lake kind of love.
Hold my hand, so we don’t desert one
another for a wasteland
where our minds may dissolve. We
tie our shoes even when some complain
of the clunk. We trip over wires, and
recover our breath. We hold hands on
the precipice as a
dream of wings
passes us by.
Words, Poem, and Photos by Rebecca T. Dickinson. All works copyrighted by R.T. Dickinson, 2020.
Corrie's Season 