Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

June 22, 2013

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Today was the tenth anniversary of my father’s death and in some ways I can’t believe it’s been that long. In others, I can’t believe I ever had him.

We measure his death by Eden’s life. She was five months old when my dad died. She rolled over for the very first time the day of his funeral. I remember so many frantic drives across the state when he was near death, with only Eden in her little car seat behind me.

I wish I still had my dad, but even more I wish my children had a grandfather here on earth.

How To Teach Children To Mourn – Part Three

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Jack eager to get to the Christmas tree farm, 2012

Part One is HERE.
Part Two is HERE.

If you asked, “Alison, what did you learn from the fire?” I would definitely tell you, “Hire a Public Adjuster.”  This is a person or company distinct from an insurance or claims adjuster—the party who will negotiate on behalf of your insurance company. The Public Adjuster negotiates on yours.

This post isn’t about insurance, so I’m going to leave it at that. But repeat this three times, to seal it in your memory.

Public Adjuster
Public Adjuster
Public Adjuster

Should your house ever burn down (God forbid!) and you forget, contact me.

“Alison, I don’t need insurance tips—(you so do!)—I’m wondering what you learned, you know, spiritually.”

Fortunately so few people go around asking others what they have learned, because I would be hard pressed to tell you what the fire taught me. Looking back, it just seemed like a long march. I did learn a ton about how to support and care for people in crisis. And yes, I learned spiritual things  too—mostly about hope—but I still find it hard to neatly explain it.

But if you asked me, “What about that time your living room remodel went off the rails and you had to wait until right before Christmas to get your tree and everything fell apart; what did you learn? I would be able to tell you immediately:

“Parents need to teach their children to mourn.”

That’s it in a nutshell, but of course I want to tell you the whole story.

By the time the living room was finished and we were finally ready to get a tree it was five days before Christmas. The thing is we were going away that year. My mom’s side of the family was spending Christmas at a resort in Indiana and we were leaving Wednesday, the 23rd. It seemed ridiculous to get a tree only to have it less than three days.

Paul and I conferred. He was all for renegotiating with the kids. At first I was all for it too. I just wanted to get everything cleaned up and put away. The thought of pulling out all the Christmas things to turn right around and take them all down again was exhausting but something gave me pause.

Christopher, Lydia and Eden were 14, 12 and not quite 7 years old and all of them were eagerly awaiting this. How long would that last?  Sure we could make them come on this family outing as long as they were under our roof, but that’s no fun. It felt important to do this, knowing it could be our last. I was thinking of the kids growing up and individuating.

I have no idea this will be our last Christmas decorating the tree with ornaments the children had been given since their births, with ornaments I had collected since I was a child. This is our last Christmas in this house and before the fire. But I don’t know that, I just have this compulsion we should pony up and get the tree regardless of how impractical it seems. Paul sees my point and agrees.

Would the farm even be open still? I called and listened to the recording of their hours. I looked on their website too. Both said they were open on Sundays and there was no mention of when they closed for the season.  We decided to go right after church and invited my mom to come along.

The day was cold, but beautiful. We’d had a lot of snow. Everyone was happy and eager. This would be Jack’s third visit to the farm and he couldn’t wait. I don’t know how he knew where we were going but he seemed to and parked himself between the front seats just like in the picture above.

We turned off the exit and hit the first fork in the road. There were signs for several farms and stands, but the sign for our farm was missing. This  brought my first sense of foreboding but I kept quiet. Turning onto the road I also noticed the lack the traffic, but it was the chain across the first entrance which confirmed my fears.

The kids all reacted immediately, gasping and crying out. Paul pulled into the second entrance and stopped. We looked at each other.

“What do you want to do?” He asked.

“There’s another farm, Jane and Doug go to just up the road,” I said, “Kids, let’s try another place,” I called to the back of the van, “Okay?”

“Those mean, mean people!” Eden shouted. I pictured the kindly older couple who ran the farm with the help of their children and grandchildren.

“Eden!” I said, “You know they’re nice people. It wasn’t clear they were closed, but it is less than a week before Christmas. It’s understandable.”

She crossed her little arms and stared at me, sullen and intractable.

“Does this mean we aren’t going to get a tree?” Christopher asked from the very back.

“We’re going to get one,” I said, “We just need to figure out another place. Miss Jane goes to a farm right near here. Let’s try that.”

Paul turned around and pulled out onto the road, back the way we came.

Jack threw back his head and howled.

To Be Continued….

Mourning before Easter

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Eden’s sick.

It started this afternoon with some bumps on her forehead that began to itch. Soon her whole face was red, inflamed and her head was hot.

I don’t know if she is having an allergic reaction to something she touched outside or if she has a virus.

Paul carried her up to bed and I tucked her in.

We talked about the video we watched earlier and how much we love it. We talked about Jesus and what he did for us. 
“It’s just so amazing and beautiful.” she said, yawning and turning to her side, snuggling in.
I stroked her hair, “It is, your’e right.”
“But it’s sad too.”

And then she began to cry about the new house, about how building it we lost so many of the trees that made it through the fire. In particular we lost the climbing tree, a large maple, that stood in the middle of our front yard.

“I was just getting tall enough to climb it, but I never got to.” She cried and I cried with her.

We talked about all the trees that were lost, some to the fire and others when we broke ground for the new house, despite our every effort to save them all. It is especially painful to have lost so much, to take stock of what remains, and then to lose that too. For Eden, losing her garden and the trees was  deep sorrow.

We talked about mourning, how the Bible says that blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted.

“I didn’t know that,” she said.

We talked about what mourning looks like: letting God know that you’ve been let down and telling him how that makes you feel. It’s also choosing to hope. I encouraged Eden to pray for a climbing tree.

“Mom, I know all the trees. I walk through our woods almost every single day.”

But we prayed and asked.

Please pray for my girl.

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This was Eden a year ago. The chair she’s sitting on is in the garage of our rental covered with smoke. I didn’t think to pull out the table which was still intact and in our front hall. It came from Paul’s grandmother and I always liked its silhouette.

We went back to the house twice the day of the fire. The first to meet with the fire investigator and the Sheriff and the second because my brother-in-law, David wanted to pull out any paintings that could be saved. Paul and I were both reluctant to return again. Both of just wanted to walk away. Christopher was upset about not being able to gather any of his belongings so the four of us drove over and walked through the wreckage. I gathered some of my antique bowls and looked for items that would be meaningful to the children, but it was hard to focus. There wasn’t anything I wanted. All of it was dead to me.
We would return several more times for various meetings and we would gather things. Each time we would reach a point where we had to go, when it became to painful to stay. It wasn’t always a conscious sorrow. Sometimes it was a heaviness, an overwhelming exhaustion.
It is a strange experience to lose so many of your belongings. Like any loss there are the stages of grief and the tricks your mind plays, the surprises that are, often, more confusing than painful.
In the early days, while still living at my sister-in-law’s I moaned, “And I just bought that cinnamon at Costco!” My brother-in-law, Thom, laughed because he had never heard me complain about losing any thing else. That is was a spice that I bemoaned amused him. But anyone who knows how big that container is, never mind that I had filled two separate shakers, one for my spice drawer and one that lived next to the cereals and I sprinkled on my morning oatmeal.
That’s the way it is. As we remember we mourn. I didn’t care to salvage that little pink table when I could have, but now I wish I had and regret that I didn’t.

http://alisonhodgson.com/2010/08/236/

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Even the sparrow has found a
home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may have her young–
a place near your altar,
O Lord Almighty, my King and
my God.
Psalm 84:3
Last week we moved into our rental, where we will stay “up to 12 months” (according to insurance; that’s as long as they’ll cough up the dough) while we rebuild.
The day of the fire I began to refer to Paul’s sister’s house, where we were staying, as “home”. I didn’t miss a beat. For the older kids it was “Aunt Dawn’s and Uncle Thom’s” which had always been a second home to them so it took me a little while to understand that they felt homeless which, of course, we were.
The moldering ruins we call, “The House.” Lydia carefully refers to “the rental.” I don’t know how it will be when the house is torn down, if it will be easier or more painful still.
What I do know is that I can’t fix this for any of my children. They live in a world where someone can start your house on fire. They did before June 27, but now they know it and I can’t remove that sorrow.
But I can mourn with them.
I am, and I will.

http://alisonhodgson.com/2010/08/238/