Out beyond the silence of eternal night,
within the void of voiceless echoes,
between the folds of dark and light.
In somber streams of starlight.
In the waves of ebb and flow.
Heaven exceeds eternal planes.
Though, it remains closer then we know.
There was a time when the stars were a great source of inspiration and contentment for me. Their slow, predictable progression seemed to calm some of the anxiety brought on by a chaotic world. The incomprehensible distances and incalculable numbers were a humbling reminder of my insignificance. While at the same time, the vastness and complexity made me feel as if I was a part of something great.
It recently occurred to me that over the last six months, since my son’s death, I have not acknowledged a single star, and even the moon has escaped my view. Which, to be honest doesn’t surprise me, considering my mood has been steadily waning. The death of my son not only decimated my world, it enveloped every aspect of my life.
My universe imploded the moment his heart ceased to beat. So, now when the galaxy does cross my mind, it only perturbs me. Because, it no longer exacts a sense of awe, nor does it bring me any peace. It only serves to remind me that the singularity of an individual is expounded by the gravity of death. And, that the loss of a child is beyond the scope of any conceivable horizon.
I can only describe it as black hole of sorrow in which every emotion is compressed and compounded in the vacuum of grief. It is an inescapable vortex that drags me down and wears me thin.
I don’t think anyone would dispute that our children are the center of our emotional cosmos. My world certainly revolved around my son. When that hope is extinguished, you live in perpetual oblivion where nothing sparks your interest or distracts you from your pain.
In some strange way, it’s disheartening to see that the world is persevering, and that the heavens are unchanged. It’s so contrary to what we are going through. Even if the stellar array were suddenly extinguished, it would not compare to what we have already experienced. In fact, it might give us some comfort. Because, only something of that magnitude could begin to convey to others the horror and isolation that we are enduring on a daily basis.
But, despite the fact that I am overwhelmed by the bleakness of my own encroaching future, I am compelled to make an attempt to turn the darkness into something we can all reflect on.
The lack of physical interaction does not detract from the effect that our children have on our lives. In fact, it enhances them greatly. Clearly, love is still the most powerful force in the universe. It transcends death and grows exponentially with each passing moment. The tears of loss refract the full spectrum of bliss, through which we can envision all that should have been. One day, we will look beyond the darkness and see that only such an intense source of joy could have brought such pain to light.
My love eclipses the sun in both mass and intensity.
It is not diminished in the evening,
nor does it rise at dawn.
It is infinitely brilliant and all encompassing.
It is so boundless that it defies the limits of comprehension and exceeds all expectations.
It so great that it envelops my every thought,
and surpasses means of measure.
Somehow, it overwhelms the void that your absence produces, and diminishes the relevance of time.
It propels me through my bleakest moments,
and sets my mind adrift.
Even now, when my hope is exhausted
and my longing is unfathomable,
your effect on my life is undeniable and astounding,
awe inspiring and incredibly influential.
You are the light of my life, I will forever delight in calling you my son.
(A tribute to Brandon French 5/24/92-8/16/09)
Tags: grief, hope
Dear John French,
Your beautiful composition of love about your son, your loss, your life has taken my breath away tonight. It has also broken my heart with memory and with now for we parents who have lost our children are not the same people anymore. For a long long time we are as Tristan out in his boat aimless, lost, hopeless and we beg God for mercy.
I thank you for putting your pen to paper, John French, your precious son Brandon has a father who has moved heaven and earth today, thank you.
With compassion,
MJ
john
your words are the closest i have read that come close to the true expression of losing a child. the only thing that is closer is the unutterable cry (for lack of a better word) that i hear from a parent at the moment that they know their child is no longer physically with them, wordless anguish in an audible form. i wonder how they will go on and what will see them through to the next moment, day, week, year…
i have not personally lost a child. i work in the area of organ donation with mothers and fathers and families of those who are losing a child or another that they love and cherish. there is no sound or sight, smell or taste or grasp that i witness or feel that does not remain and become a part of me. it is as if each child, that was perfect as they were, has changed me forever. i recently spoke about what i witness in those who are losing a child and i searched for someone or something that comes close to giving words to this. it is as if your experience overflowed from your heart and soul and spirit onto paper. it makes me wish that i had known your Brandon.
i hope there is some comfort in knowing you are doing just that-giving words to feelings that will never be adequate but come close, so that others who have been or are where you are, know — they are not alone – that Brandon lives on in your words, though we were not privileged to know him. you alone are his father and with that, shared the unutterable joy of his life.
this life is short. too short for all who are losing one they love. but dare me not compare the loss of an elderly parent (which I am facing), or even one in middle age (which I am) to that of a child in their innocence and joy and perfection, regardless of their behavior. what a gift they are! since I have not been where you are, i am able to marvel at God and his creation and how love happens when we see our children. every day I look forward to the time when we shall all be together and that there will be understanding of all of this mystery called life. until then, this i know: this love that we have does not wane or die.
in all humility, it is my hope that none of my words have offended you or added to your pain. some day, it would be a great honor to be able to communicate with you more
lissa
Dear John
What a beautiful tribute to the love of your son, Brandon and description of the terrible anguish that is grief. I too, lost my son and the pain was indescribable. I was so angry that the world still turned on its axis and people were oblivious to the monumental tragedy that had occured in my life.
It has now been 3 long years since then and the pain has softened. The unbearable longing has gone, but still the missing never fades or the sadness. Grief is a solitary and utterly painful journey which we must traverse even though all we want to do is escape from the pain. So many good things have come out of my son’s death – though at the time I would never have believed it. The attachment and love we have for our children always connects us and the memories we have of our children stay in our heart forever.
Stuart told me one night (after he died) “I am brighter than the brightest star” for me, the stars are a sign of wonder and in a universe we know little of, where he now is.
You will find your wonder again, and have a special place, where you both visit.
Thinking of you and your family.
Maureen
Dear John,
I lost my oldest son Ken in an automobile accident on Aug, 15th 2008. I have not found the words to express the emotions I have had since that day until tonight when I read what you had written. Jennifer
Thank you for your words, so elequently written. My heart grieves with yours, only because I recognize the pain. I, too, lost my son last year. And no one in my family hears my silent screams of grief because he was an abusive alcoholic: they forget, or can’t understand, above all else he was my child. My universe has radically changed, and nothing will ever be the same. And that, in fact, hust my husband and two other children. So, I am alone in this struggle to find sense in my life. I live in a world of complete disruption, minute to minute, day to day. And I, too, wonder about this journey and how I can make his death matter and teach me death’s mercilous lessons about hope and moving on.
I stumbled across this beautifully written article this morning when I am grieving so terribly. My son died Oct. 3/2010 and I am drowning in the sea of sorrow. I related to the writer and wished I had the eloquence to express my own feelings so perfectly.
Thanks for writing this. I will read it often.