Windows To Heaven: A Birthday Prayer
Today I said "Happy Birthday" to the ceiling.
I pulled my head out from under my covers, realizing I couldn't hide under them all day, and with all I had in me, I looked up to the ceiling and said, "Happy Birthday Dad." I'm no stranger to navigating a birthday without the birthday boy. Thus far, I have endured eight.
But today feels so different than what I am used to.
Over the years, we have created a routine for Logan’s birthday and established our form of normal whenever August 9th arrives. I have no reservoir of memories to draw from to tell me there is nothing normal about the day. I know his birthday is not as it should be. Not even close. I can close my eyes and imagine what it could have looked like, but the truth is - I don't have a clue. I have a son I do not know and that is a hard pill to swallow.
We eat Italian because four years ago we decided it was his "favorite" food - For all I know, he could have hated Italian.
We get yellow balloons because we decided it was his "favorite" color two years ago - For all I know, he would have liked blue more.
We get an ice cream cake because last year we decided he "wasn't much of a regular cake kid" - truth is, I am the one who prefers ice cream cake. Maybe this was in hopes that he would have had pieces of me in him … I mean, how many kids don't like cake?
We go to Logan's grave, try to make it to Evergreen Lake, eat a meal together, and send him balloons.
Some people jump on board to celebrate him; some don't. The day still holds its own unique difficulties, but at least, it has become routine. It's awful, and it sucks, and it's a piece of my life that will always hurt - but it has become our normal.
Nothing is normal about today. Nothing.
That reservoir of memories I so desperately want to access for Logan - but can't because it's empty - is right at my finger-tips when it comes to my dad. It's effortless. I don't have to make up stories and guess who he would be because - I already know who he was. I know what he loved. I know what he hated. I know what this day looks like - normally.
Normally - I would say "Happy Birthday" to his face as I wrapped my arms around his neck.
Normally - We would make a peanut butter chocolate cake because that was his favorite. Peanut-buster parfaits from Dairy Queen would also do the trick.
Normally - We would make a big dinner featuring the cheesiest lasagna you could ever imagine. No veggies and nothing fancy. Just pasta, mozzarella, and sauce. But that's the way he loved it.
Normally - We would put those candles on his cake that relight because it was hysterical watching him try to blow them out. Last year was the funniest of all. Low oxygen is no match for such relentless candles ... luckily, a mob of children was there to swoop in and save the day.
Normally - The house would be full of energy and laughter. At some point, I would find my dad on the couch, covered in grandchildren and watching a movie. For him, that was the purest form of bliss.
That was normal.
Today - I talked to my ceiling. I fought with my husband and said things I didn't mean. I ignored my kids after they were noticeably upset. I had a complete break down in the shower. I went for a bike ride - in a snow storm. And now, I'm hiding in my office trying to write through immensely blurry eyes because these tears SIMPLY.WONT.STOP.
And it's not even noon.
Later this week, we will gather as a family to celebrate him. We will eat the things he loved and maybe even watch a movie that was one of his favorites. I'm still debating the cake - a piece of me wants to make it, but an even bigger piece doesn't. The day will feel foreign and void and in no way will reflect what it used to be.
Down the road, this too will grow into some form of a normal and we will come to expect these things. But right now, just like in the process of learning to walk, we will stumble on wobbly and unsteady legs through this first birthday without him.
I just wish I had a window.
I wish I could get a glimpse of what my dad is doing today. I wish I could see him in a healthy body, laughing and tearing up the golden streets of Heaven with his grandson. With all my heart, I believe it’s the truth - I believe he is there and finally free. But today … if I could steal the birthday wish my dad no longer needs … it would be the ability to place my hands on that very window, lean in as close as possible and see it with my own eyes.
Given a chance, I'm sure I would innately begin to pound on the glass in a desperate attempt to catch their attention. What I would give to have their hands aligned with mine - and just a piece of glass, rather a whole lifetime, separating where I am and where they wait.
My dream comes to a screeching halt when instead - I see my mom.
Instantly something within me changes and, with it, my wish. I wish I could fix her heart and take away her sorrow. I wish my parent's story had been different. Before cancer touched my dad's body, I wish God had cast it to the deepest, darkest depths of this planet, never to return. But I know that wish will never come true.
As this day comes to a close, as I physically and mentally look and feel as though I have been hit by a bus, I will beg God to let my mom look through that window to Heaven instead. I will ask Him to give her something - anything - to soothe her heart tonight.
I’m not going to waste my time wishing ... I am going to spend that time praying.
A birthday candle has no power - but my God certainly does.
Much Love,
Jamie
