I went to church last night. I had not been in some time...more than five years to be exact. It was when I went to Easter services with my son, David. But I really needed the comfort of God's Word. You see, only a short two weeks ago, my son had passed away during emergency surgery to repair a torn aorta.
The sermon was on making goals from a Biblical perspective. My first thought was, "my goal is just to be able to breathe again without my chest and throat hurting." And then I wondered if that was ever going to be possible. Could this heaviness, this emptiness, this void ever be filled with enough sunshine and joy to be able to smile again?
Don't get me wrong. I am not angry with God. Not at all. There are two huge reasons for that. One, every heartbreak, every disappointment, and every struggle my son endured during his fifty-two years on this sphere, I had shared with him. It's called life. Now, thankfully he would not have any of that to suffer through again.
And the other reason is that God had given me the huge honor and privilege to be his mother, to experience the love, the laughter, the smiles, the milestones, the surprises, the lessons, the utter joy that was my small bundle of blonde blessing ever since He had placed him in my arms. I will always be grateful for each wonderful moment and memory I have, each huge hug I received from him, each twinkle from his dancing blue eyes, every scent I took in of what made him my son.
David, your story was a huge part of my story. But, as believers we both know that this time on earth isn't the end of our story. For now, my days will be spent with your brother, sisters, your wife and children, and all your family and friends who loved you dearly. While you are basking in the radiance from the glory of God, we will keep that picture in mind. The lessons you left behind will inspire us to be better human beings somehow. Because now we each have another reason to get to Heaven.
My goals will be to enjoy each sunrise, each sunset, each bloom on a flower, each puppy dog kiss, each conversation with loved ones, every part of life with more passion and conviction, to be fully present in those moments. This was my son's essence. He lived large like that. And that will cause me to smile.
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(I went through my collection of stories I had written which included snippets of the person David was. Reliving some of those "moments" helps me to heal.)
When I saw Summerland's trailer, the same one as above, I was immediately stopped in my tracks. I loved the English countryside setting, the 1940 tweed clothes, and the historical backdrop of the story-line. But when I heard the actor, Tom Courtney telling Gemma Arterton's character, "Nobody knows how to be a parent...but you two...gosh, you make quiet a pair," an automatic lump came to my throat and a tear to my eyes. I knew my son and I had to see this movie together.
I was barely nineteen when David, my firstborn, was born. He had definitely been my trial and error child. I made many parental mistakes. But we had such fun, such heartbreak, such battles, such life along the way. Our bond has been unbreakable throughout it all. And now, he had found himself with grown children and reflections of his own about his offspring. Ahh, the boundless circle of life.
When the movie ended, my son and I could only look at each other and grin because we both had been crying. Sad tears. Happy tears. Life tears. Good tears.
David
Steady and true with eyes so blue
what did I ever do to deserve the love of you?
Heart for humanity and love for all
makes me be better at hearing that call
My oldest son was born in 1973 and I remember him entering the bus to go off to kindergarten on that first day of school. I had made him cinnamon rolls and milk for breakfast and given him extra hugs and kisses and encouragement as his tiny legs navigated the steps on the bus. He was fearless and I was a wreck. He looked out the window from his seat and waved at me. Now, all I could do was to trust he would be in good hands.
Then I had my first born son, my own small Simba with his lessons to learn from me and his lessons to teach to me. He came three weeks early. In the womb, he rolled around and kicked continuously, even waking me out of deep sleeps. His toddler years were a testimony as to why people have children at a very young age...I was barely nineteen when he was born, but worn out everyday for the first three years of his life. Running, jumping, getting into things, exploring the world, he lived his little life passionately with wild lionlike abandon. It's a good thing that a young Gemini mother was two people in one....it took us both.
The first one (ornament) was of Santa kicked bag in a big chair, drinking a Coca-Cola and having a million dollar smile. "Yes. This one is perfect!," she thought, and she began to put her words down to paper.
Dear David, your mother, chose me just for you. She and I talked about what a good and thoughtful man you are and how much laughter you have brought to the family over the years. You and I are a lot alike because we love giving gifts and eating. Ho Ho Ho. Anyway, you have been such a gift to your family, especially to your mother, so keep on loving and laughing. Love from Santa & Your Mom
The cold January air reminded me that I wanted to be home again where it was warm and there would be, well... less people. (I am an introvert.) The problem was that my oldest son was with me. The problem was that he is a dawdler. And he always stops to talk to all those people. (He is an extrovert.)
August also brought me my firstborn child, a beautiful blonde-headed boy, full of giggles and getting into stuff. He still makes us all laugh with his quick wit and jokes.
(Just like when David got on the bus, I have trust he is in VERY good Hands now!)
About the Creator
Shirley Belk
Mother, Nana, Sister, Cousin, & Aunt who recently retired. RN (Nursing Instructor) who loves to write stories to heal herself and reflect on all the silver linings she has been blessed with :)
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More stories from Shirley Belk and writers in Psyche and other communities.
A Walk in the Woods
Recently, my daughter coaxed me into taking a personality test. She and I love to delve into the depths of our own and other family members "psyche." We learn, we laugh, we ponder. (Psychology and trying to understand why people do crazy or even heinous acts fascinate us...that's why we watch all those kinds of shows and documentaries.) But with our kindred circle, it's always in a non-judgmental tone and we often account for the characters in our family being slightly "off " as simply due to their astrological inclinations. We keep it all lighthearted and without malice or intent, though. Just some silly projects the two of us like sharing.
By Shirley Belk5 months ago in Psyche
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If you find the holiday season challenging, you’re not alone. I have never been a big fan of Christmas. I have always found it a bit pretentious. It is a time for kids, really. I have not had kids in my life, so the "children's influence" around this time of year doesn’t occur.
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The Emotional Exhaustion of Always Being Alert
I woke up at 3 a.m., heart racing, body drenched in sweat. There was no nightmare. No sound had startled me awake. My brain had simply decided, as it did most nights, that sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford. I lay there in the dark, listening to my partner breathe peacefully beside me, and felt a familiar wave of exhaustion wash over me. Not the kind that sleep could fix. The kind that lived in my bones, that made every day feel like I was walking through water, that came from spending every waking moment on high alert for dangers that rarely came. I was twenty-nine years old, and I was so tired of being tired. The Weight of Invisible Armor Most people don't understand what it's like to live in a body that never feels safe. They don't know what it's like to walk into a coffee shop and immediately catalog all the exits. To sit in meetings only half-listening because you're too busy reading everyone's micro-expressions for signs of anger or disappointment. To come home after a normal day and feel like you've run a marathon because your nervous system has been in fight-or-flight mode for eight straight hours. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt truly relaxed. Even on vacation—especially on vacation—I was scanning for problems, planning for disasters, preparing for things to go wrong. My friends would laugh at the beach while I mentally reviewed our emergency contacts and the location of the nearest hospital. "You worry too much," they'd say, not unkindly. But it wasn't worry. Worry is a choice. This was a compulsion, a biological imperative, a survival mechanism that had forgotten to turn off long after the danger had passed. Learning to Live in Threat Mode I didn't always live like this. Or maybe I did, and I just didn't notice until it started breaking me. Growing up, my home was unpredictable. Not violent in the traditional sense, but volatile. My father's moods were weather systems I learned to forecast—a certain tone of voice meant a storm was coming, a particular kind of silence meant I should disappear into my room. My mother's anxiety was contagious, her catastrophic thinking a constant background hum that taught me the world was dangerous and disaster lurked around every corner. I became hypervigilant out of necessity. The girl who could sense tension before it erupted. The child who perfected the art of reading rooms and adjusting herself accordingly. The teenager who never fully relaxed because relaxing meant being caught off guard. It kept me safe then. But now? Now it was killing me slowly, one anxious moment at a time. The Thousand Tiny Calculations People don't see the work that hypervigilance requires. They don't see the constant calculations running in the background of my mind: Is my boss's email shorter than usual? Did I do something wrong? Why did my friend take three hours to respond? Are they mad at me? My partner seems quiet. Is this the beginning of the end? Every interaction becomes a puzzle to solve, every silence a threat to decode. I'm exhausted before lunch because I've already survived a dozen imagined catastrophes that never happened. At the grocery store, I'm planning escape routes. At dinner parties, I'm monitoring everyone's alcohol intake in case someone gets aggressive. During normal conversations, I'm three steps ahead, anticipating conflict and preparing my defense. My therapist calls it hyperarousal. My body calls it normal. The rest of the world calls it anxiety. They're all right. The Body That Remembers The cruelest part of hypervigilance is that it lives in your body, not just your mind. I could intellectually understand that I was safe, that my current life bore no resemblance to my childhood, that most people weren't threats. But my nervous system didn't get the memo. My heart still raced when someone raised their voice—even in excitement. My stomach still dropped when I heard footsteps approaching quickly. My shoulders still tensed when I heard keys in the door, even though it was just my partner coming home from work. Trauma had taught my body that survival meant constant vigilance. And bodies, it turns out, are slow learners when it comes to unlearning fear. I tried everything to calm down. Meditation made me more anxious—sitting still only gave my brain more time to catastrophize. Exercise helped, but only temporarily. Alcohol worked until it didn't, until one glass became three became a problem I didn't want to admit. What I needed wasn't relaxation techniques. What I needed was to convince my nervous system that it was finally, truly safe. The Breaking Point My wake-up call came on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. I was driving home from work, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. My vision tunneled. My hands went numb. I pulled over, certain I was having a heart attack. At the emergency room, after hours of tests, the doctor gave me the diagnosis I'd been avoiding: panic attack. Severe anxiety. Chronic stress. "Your body is in a constant state of crisis," she explained gently. "You're running on adrenaline and cortisol all the time. Eventually, something has to give." I nodded, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. Because she was right. Something had given. My body, after years of being ignored, had finally screamed loud enough to get my attention.
By Ameer Moavia7 days ago in Psyche
Comments (9)
Your positivity in a time of great grief is commendable and inspiring. What a beautiful tribute to your son.
this is beautiful. I'm so encouraged that this has even been approved by Vocal. In the past my writing has been censored as having too much God!
This was a really beautiful display of faith, Shirley :) It shines even through the grief just as your love does.
Bless you, my friend…
What a privilege it is to be a mom. Thank you for trusting us with your story. Set your goals and know that you are not alone. Hugs and prayers for you ❤️🥰
So many tears. So much beautiful words. It's sad. But, it's also poignant and loving and full of just snippets of what he brought to your life.What Mike said is quite right, reachable goals are the way to go and while going through grief, you know what I'm gonna say, Shirley, but I'll say it anyway and sound like a patronising ass lol, give yourself some grace and space to just feel. You don't have to feel good all the time. It'll take steps, tiny steps sometimes, bigger some other days. I am, again, sorry for your loss, my friend, but what I took from this was that, despite the shorter than expected life, David had a great mum and great life, even filled with the ups and downs. Also, one of my uncle's died of aorta issues. Can't remember the exact details, but he was only in his fifties too and it was a major shock so can only imagine. Anyway, I'll stop blabbering and need to go wipe my eyes. Big hugs, love and prayers to you, Shirley. Also, what Dharrsh said is true - cinnamon rolls and milk. That's Top Tier Breakfasting right there.
This is such a heartfelt tribute, your love for David shines through every memory and word. I'm so sorry for your loss.
Thank you for sharing those short snippets of David from your pieces. Cinnamon Rolls and milk seem like the best breakfast ever. Sending you lots of love and hugs ❤️
Always try and set reachable goals, and they will make you feel good knowing you can make it. I think it is wonderful that you strive for joy and good in life