The music of ACCEPTANCE

Ever find yourself just singing because it feels GOOD? You just feel comfortable and at ease in a moment and can sing out loud happily?

I used to be that person who sings all the time. While I'm in the shower, or tasking about the house... in my car, and in my head. In high school I was in chorus and show choir, performing on stage in front of people. I loved to be in the spotlight. My family used to sing on road trips. I've pretty much been surrounded by music my entire life and it always has come very easy to me.

I recently realized that after Lucy's death last summer I stopped listening to music as much, and I stopped singing. I especially stopped the mindless, happy singing. Even the humming had ceased. You know what made me realize that? Listening to my daughter sing her heart out. She does the "happy sing" thing that I LOVE. She just hums and bobs her head all the time, no matter what she is doing. If you say the word "nobody" in conversation, she will instantaneously bust out the Avett Brothers "Nobody knows what lies behind... the days before the day we die..." lyrics. Appropriate lyrics for an almost-three-year-old? Probably not. But I find it intriguing that she knows these lyrics and seems to sing them when I need them.

Over lunch with friends one day, Avery started singing "Lucy in the Sky" and one of the girls sitting near by (who didn't know about Lucy) said - "How cute, she's singing 'Lucy in the Sky!'" I just had to tell her about our Lucy - that song means so much to us, and it's more than just lyrics. I wanted Avery to know it's ok to talk about Lucy - even with people we don't know so well. The psychedelic daze of "Lucy in the Sky" kind of describes what portions of the last year have felt like in a way, too. Thinking back to even a couple months ago can be so trippy. Of course, Avery has the habit of inserting other words into songs when she wants, and I have overheard her singing "Lucy in the Sky... with angels." She just sings, she has no idea how these things affect me. I worry about what others will think sometimes, but from here on out, we will just be... different. And different can be special. I'm finally at a place where I find being different a more welcome commodity.

One of the things I loved to do with Avery when she was teeny was to dance around our family holding her and singing. I'm sad I was never able to do that with Lucy. One night a couple weeks ago, I was driving at night and I just felt Lucy's presence. And I just started SINGING. I sang out loud to Lucy hoping she could hear me. I wanted to just hold her, but I couldn't. I wanted to rock her to sleep, but I couldn't... so I just sang. And then an (albeit sad) sense of acceptance washed over me. I know she is safe. I know she is fine. It's just tough... me here on earth missing her.

I talk to Lucy all day long, in my mind and in my heart. It's actually kind of comforting knowing that I not only have my Jesus to talk to at every moment of every day, but I have my Lucy too. I sometimes even feel that I have an unspoken confidence I wear because of her constant presence in my life. I want to make both of my little girls proud.

I never knew I could do what I've done in the last year... If someone told me a year ago that I would lose my baby, I would have looked at them and said "I WILL NOT MAKE IT THROUGH." Now I've not only lost a baby, but I've reached a point where I can be "ok" with the sadness that lingers. I never want anyone else ever to go through what we have gone through. The grief, the pain - no, no one should ever have to go through it. But they will. I'm sure I've mentioned it before... the emotional impact of going back to Lucy's grave and seeing a new gravesite near her headstone is wrenching. To know that those parents are where we were months ago is just so sad. All they want to do is close the curtain and hide away for a bit, but there is a spotlight shining on them.

Remember that spotlight that I loved so much in high school? Well, when Lucy died I was thrust into a different kind of spotlight, and it was against my will. At the time, a client of mine who had been through something similar told me that people would be looking to me to see how I handled things - that people would just naturally look to me to see what I was made of.  I started realizing that people were talking about our family (even in nice ways), and I was SCARED. I didn't want to be in the spotlight and I guess I had a serious case of stage fright. I opened my mouth to "sing" and nothing came out. I had to dig very, very deep. I still have to.

I don't know what others see in me. Some say they want my kind of faith, and to those people I say, "you can have it - it's always available." It doesn't have to take a sad and traumatic event to get you there. This experience has allowed me to sit back and let God take the reigns a lot more than I ever have before, but that doesn't mean it's easy. I don't think it's supposed to be easy. Without the challenges life brings us we may not feel as much need for God, and we wouldn't have to rely on our faith.

As I get to a point of acceptance in my life, I've been trying to add that music back in. Music allows tears, and it allows unabashed happiness, too. It allows you to express yourself. I think I've been frightened of the emotions that come with putting all that back in my life. I've been suppressing the pain, or been feeling guilty of the smiles. In the car, 9 times out of 10 I was listening to pure silence. If I flipped on the radio, there was a chance I'd lose it. A word or tune could release the emotional floodgates. Or, even the "normalcy" I could hear would enrage me. Yet I'm finding that when I let my emotions go a little bit, even when it surprises or embarrasses me, there is healing.

Singing takes some effort now. It's not something that comes so naturally for me anymore, and I can be self-conscious. But, I've found myself humming tunes aloud, and it feels warm and familiar. I will allow myself to sing. I will allow myself to heal. And maybe, in a way, my writing has served as a way for me to pull back that dusty curtain back and give the performance of a lifetime... by simply sharing a piece of my soul with you. It just wasn't the final performance I set out for in the beginning.