An Invitation To Speak

I love hearing parents talk about their kids. Seeing the spark of light in their eyes that almost instantly appears the second they realize they have an attentive audience. It’s a stage moment of sorts. An opportunity to share stories, speaking to others excited to hear about their child’s latest accomplishments. The shared laughter over a prank gone wrong or telling of a growing pain story, and the pictures, now just a smart phone away, that almost always accompany the conversation to proudly display how much they’ve grown.

       Our moments were no different. Given the chance many of our friends can attest to the fact that we could spend more than our fair share of time gushing about our kids. Londyn is in accelerated classes. Will be graduating college sooner than expected. Brendan’s ongoing guitar and academic accomplishments of his own. She’s aiming to be fluent in Spanish. He wants to be a composer. And on and on.

     But these moments, ones that I used to look forward to, have now been added to a long list riddled with anxiety.  Whether we like it or not, we are now the family marked with tragedy. With this new label we now find ourselves trying to creatively navigate a space that used to be comfortably familiar, going to extreme lengths so as to not make others around us uncomfortable. And so it’s in these moments I find we have created a delicate dance of sorts. One designed with the intent of protecting the feelings of others; to keep the heaviness of our reality from invading these spaces we find ourselves invited to. It’s an unspoken choreography that often starts and ends without acknowledging the elephant in the room which is always there crowding and taking up precious space and air as only an animal of that size can do. And yet, despite it all, I still crave the opportunity to present itself, one that will let me gush about my kids, both of them, like I used to.

  Having recently accepted a new position at work, this was the state of mind I found myself in as I prepared to travel. Invited to participate in my first speaking engagement I find myself missing Londyn more than usual. The obvious aside in the midst of all that entails, the switching of roles, the new responsibilities to learn and trying to define myself once again within the hierarchy of things, I sit wondering what she’d think or, if she’d even give it much thought, a young adult very super focused on her own world (as she should be) but still shooting me a quick text to say she’s proud of me just the same. It’s in these moments, these times of significant change, that the desire to talk about her can become almost overwhelming, as if saying her name will help fill a void that often feels larger than usual.  That it will somehow magically ensure I bring her along on this road of life I’m still traveling, almost as if that, by changing and growing, I may end up leaving a piece of her behind in the process.

      I’ve often talked about how there are no rules to grief. No playbook. No right or wrong way. And yet despite all of this, or maybe because of it, there seems to be an unspoken agreement that most society follows. A “don’t rock the boat” mentality. Because we are not taught how to approach a grieving family, somewhere along the way it’s become an unspoken rule to not say anything at all. And I get it. It’s a safe play and one we would have no doubt followed had the roles been switched. But as these things tend to go, the burden is once again left to us.

        And so, like many other puzzles thrown our way along this journey, I’ve accepted the challenge, determined to test out various approaches. It’s during this experimental process that I seem to have stumbled upon another method, one that seems for now to work. In those spaces, when the elephant is taking up more than its fair share I say her name. Not in a shockingly direct manner but more in passing as if talking about my daughter is as normal as commenting on the weather. And then I leave it there. An invitation to speak, or not, but plainly delivered so as to leave no doubt that the subject is by no means off limits and, in fact, is desired.  By opening the door I aim to make it clear that all are invited in. To share stories about Londyn or to participate simply as a member of the audience, attentively taking her in, is to keep her memory, and by extension, a piece of her alive.

     Like any invitation not all will be accepted, and that’s ok too. We invite people into our lives knowing that for various reasons, none of them wrong, not all will be able to attend. But in the end it is my mission that all will know they have a seat at the table. I am determined my daughter’s death will not be in vain. At the very least, that it will help provide a bridge of communication and understanding that is desperately needed in our part of the world. And, at the end of the day, I hope my message is received clearly. To dispel any anxiety or self doubt on the receiving end, my message delivered loud and clear….my friends you all have been given an invitation to speak.