Links to Part 1 & 2 of this story:
When I wrote my song “Every Season” in 2011, it helped me to release my sadness over the death of my son, Jason. With every passing season, I remembered his life and mourned that he would “never grow old.”
I originally wrote these lyrics: “and my sadness will always be, every season you come back to me.”
When I created a new arrangement for this song this past April, I decided to change that line slightly. I revised it to: “my love will always be, every season you return to me.”
I have many songs about holding onto love. I felt that line was a triumph over the grief that ruled my life for decades. How could I be healed and still sing that my sadness would always be?
But when I went to sing this change, it ended up not working out as well as I had hoped. I wasn’t satisfied with how it sounded vocally and decided to keep my older line.
I concluded that my sadness isn’t something I have to dismiss. Remembering sadness doesn’t negate the fact that I am peaceful now and able to find joy in life. I embrace honesty. I will always carry sadness over his death and the fact that he never had a chance to grow up.
I just returned from a cruise to Alaska with my three adult children. It all came about because my brother, Norman and his wife, Jo were celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary and invited me to join them and their children.
It was hard for me to believe it had been 25 years since their wedding. And of course, Jason participated in it – he was so excited to be their ring bearer. He died five months after their wedding.
On the last day of our trip, I was fairly exhausted and ready to go home. I wished I had actually spent more time with Norm and Jo, but the trip flew by and we were all busy with our children and the many activities we had planned.
It was on our last day when I ran into them, as we were getting ready to leave the ship to go to the airport. I put down my suitcase and hugged my brother. I reached over to hug my sister-in-law, Jo and she handed me an envelope.
She said, “I wasn’t sure whether you’d get this in time if I mailed it, so I carried it along so I could give it to you at the end of our trip.”
I glanced at the envelope. It meant so much to me that she had remembered my little boy. I was overcome with emotion and began sobbing aloud.
My three adult children looked uncomfortable to see me crying. I wiped my tears away and they all said, “Sorry, mom. We hope you feel better.”
I couldn’t explain to them what my emotions were. I just had to cry.
After I released it, I felt better.