Holidays are never straight forward.
They mean something different to everyone. In my gut, I know it’s the fourth Easter without Corrie. This is a marker, which never goes away.
Holidays, for some, are wearing bright colored, checkered shirts for families on their way to church. For others, it’s a beautiful day to walk with their dog, or what I’ve seen more recently, their cats in a stroller.
For other people, it’s the celebration of warmer weather on the way, the promise of bathing suits and water sports just over the horizon, and warm sand between toes.
More often, almost four years since Corrie’s loss and three years since John’s cancer diagnosis, I fill my life with purpose. I think that’s what Easter, for me, is a reminder of; live a life with purpose. It makes sense.
We’re close to the last frost date. Soon, it’s time to plant more tender flowers, and I have to remind myself of the reason we go on.
I miss Corrie every day. Even when I’m in conversation, appear with a smile on my face, work with one goal or other in mind; she enters every other thought.
Hayes, our son’s name in my writing, often complains about the work behind gardening, just as the eighth grade boys I teach grumble about any assignments given. He then admits, “The gardens do look beautiful, and I am proud of myself.”
He gains a sense of pride from the work he accomplishes. A lot of his tasks include laying cardboard and wood mulch over it for pathways in the Arendelle Garden. He did his first session of weed eating yesterday. Sometimes Hayes feels out of place, although we’re at the same school, because he’s neurodivergent, but he gains a sense of pride from those garden … even if “it’s too much work.”
I love the groan we receive when John takes to me to any of my favorite garden nurseries. It’s immediately received with:
“Do I have to?”
Hayes also tells me, “No offense, Mom, but when I grow up, I’m not going to garden. It’s too much work.”
But what’s funny is yesterday, he turns to me and says, “I had to spend time cleaning around the tree near my play set.”
I said, “What is so important about that tree?”
The same adolescent who said three weeks ago he was forgetting his sister remembers her very well. He has a long and sharp memory, but only shares it if he wants, and if he deems the person to whom he speaks trustworthy.
“I’m going to put a small garden there … for my sister,” he says. “The tree reminds me of her.”
He didn’t go any further because the tree contains a memory he’s chosen to keep to himself. As we are all different in how we grieve, I’ve had to learn to respect my son’s and husband’s boundaries and the way in which they take this journey, as they do mine.
“I’ll plant a small garden for her beneath that tree … Nothing like what you have … Your gardens are too big … Why do you garden?”
“I garden because it gives me a purpose, helps me survive, and your sister loved the flowers,” I replied. “Every garden reminds me of her.”
Old family advice based on Christian beliefs says to never to plant anything on the Saturday before Easter. This was hammered into everyone who grew up in this environment from the time they were little because it recognizes the day before the resurrection.
Faith has always been extremely private to me, and I admire my son’s and husband’s abiding hope in Christianity where mine has slipped. It’s not that it’s gone, but in limbo with unanswered questions. I still possess anger, even as I’ve progressed, with the idea of a Christian God causing a mother, Mary, to suffer seeing the death of her child; to give birth to a child only to see him die.
So, I chose to plant, and recognize life because my child was taken from me. I have no control over the tumor or the fact she’s gone. But I can go out and care for my gardens no matter the day.
The thought for this Easter, while it might sound dark, is that there is hope. I don’t stand where I did without hope two to three years ago. I recognize light. I smile at the gardens as the colors come alive.
I can’t make false promises to families who are spending their first Easter or any other without their child, step-child, grandchild, or sibling. I don’t have the greatest advice if you grieve a spouse or parent. I won’t say the faith in which I grew up is gone, but I’m struggling.
This is a part of life. If we don’t struggle, where is the joy and victory when we conquer our demons?
Because I don’t have the answers, I dig, mix dirt, divide plants, attempt to grow seedlings, and propagate. There is a driving force in me to never surrender, and hopefully what I leave behind will be well-worth the view.
Writing and photos by R.A. Bridges
Corrie's Season 