Paradox

I miss Griffin.  I grieve the loss of him.  My tears come in large part from that place.  But if I am honest I would tell  you that my tears also come from a nagging guilt that I have: I am also relieved.

Raising Griffin as a child was a joyful burden. His disability altered where we lived, what kind of home we could purchase and for a time how much advancement I could make in my career as I felt (we felt) that being close to family in Seattle was important and promotions were in places like, well, Atlanta.  But he was a cute kid in a wheelchair, firecracker sense of humor, as personable as anybody you’ve ever met and a friend to all.  He. Was. Simply. Joy.

Launching Griffin as a young adult was something entirely different.  The arguments, followed by reconciliation and then another argument.  They were always about things that we knew were necessary to be done but that Griffin had control of.  And these things were about the only things he was in control of.  Deep down he knew we were right and wanted to please us but he needed his independence and thus the defiance, the arguments and the reconciliation pattern.

There was the depression, the loneliness, the isolation: all things we also felt with him. Our hearts broke daily for him.  Worst of all, seeing these things somehow made us feel like we had failed as parents.  It sometimes still does.

More than anything we worried for him and ourselves.  “If he can’t acquire the skills, the discipline and the desire to live independently,” the thought went, “what is this going to look like for us over the long term?”

We had spent years altering our vacation plans to accommodate.  Vacations to beaches were a no go when he got big enough that we couldn’t carry him (sand is not good to wheelchairs and 130 pounds of Griffin is not good on the back…ask my neurosurgeon).  Plane trips were a pain as he couldn’t get to the bathroom.  And each time over the past few years that Gretchen and I took a vacation with just the two of us, Griffin would invariably have some incident with his sisters that would result in a fun killing series of phone calls.

So, yes, I feel relief just as I grieve him and the loss of him.  A paradox only God can make sense of, and that I am called to hold in a balance.   My hope is that my vulnerability opens space for God to fill with his power and grace.  This is what I am understanding to be whole, to be holy.