One year and 9 months ago, the dirt beneath me gave way. I can only speak for myself because everyone affected by my son’s departure from earth into eternity has their own feelings and their own experience.
For me, it was as if I’d suddenly plunged unexpectedly into deep water and into darkness for a time, a darkness that only now begins to crack. For the first time in a long time, I am breathing again, exhaling bit-by-bit, floating slowly up, up, up, to the surface. Shimmers of light flicker in the distance toward a warmth that can only be described as the “new way.” I would never say, normal. Things will never be normal---but I am finally adjusting to the "new" way. The way of making it. The only way really. So, hand-in-hand with my wife Joy and reluctantly with our fellow traveler Grief we are wading through this mysterious process. Running ahead of Grief was never realistic. He’d catch up with us and smack us down again. Staying behind Grief pretending he didn’t exist only caused more damage and so now we walk together and it will always be so--journeying into “the new”.
But how did I ever get to a place that I could stomach anything new? To be honest, I am not entirely sure. I don’t think my “grief brain” (yes, that’s a real thing related to PTSD), --I don’t think my foggy, grief brain could articulate it in a way that makes sense. As long as I live in this world, nothing will make sense really—not fully. Remember “for now we see in a glass darkly—but someday face to face”.
Where was I? Oh, yes. What just happened?
In December 2023, one year and two months after Corban left us, I found myself bemoaning most everything. Deep waters and darkness had washed over me once again.
I’ve learned, that this “ocean of grief” comes in high tide and low tide. At that moment, I’d just come off a low-tide that allowed me to wade back into comedy, to explore some new adventures and writing etc., but it wasn’t long until a new high tide rolled in. Unlike the regular tide, there’s no specific time, or rhyme or reason to grief-related “high tide and low tide” and grief can wash over you in a moment’s notice. All it takes is a memory, or word, a photo, a smell, the turn of a phrase, a milestone, --or really anything that points out the ever-growing chasm of time and distance.
Additionally, a high tide is typically accompanied by Grief’s best friend, Guilt. Guilt pops in uninvited and makes himself at home for a short time-- wallows around awhile and then leaves in a whirlwind. Grief and Guilt make a quick mess of things to be sure.
I remember mentioning to Joy that I felt like something needed to change. I loved the work of my job, and the people I worked with, but I was growing tired. “So, find something else” she’d said. “Maybe it’s time.” Earlier in our marriage we’d promised to let the other know if it was time to move on from a position or career. After all, we had chosen the education path, and we both believed strongly that it’s never fair to fellow employees, and especially students to hang on to something “just because”.
A month went by and again, I’m sharing my melancholy about work, that my energy level was low, that I no longer enjoyed my commute. For years, I absolutely loved my 45-minute commute each way. I’d process, I’d sit in silence, I’d talk to friends, I’d worship, I’d listen to a book or practice jokes, and all of those are great but now the commute had grown stale and stifling.
Calling my bluff once again Joy says “Maybe it’s time. Write a letter of resignation.”
I listened. I wrote a letter. It was like the email that you type but never send. You pull it out now and then to vent or in some sort of therapeutic exercise to clear your mind. I wrote the letter and it sat.
A couple months pass. All the while I’m praying. “Is it time? What’s next?”
At this point I knew in my gut what was right. God had revealed to me in stirrings of my spirit and also in discomfort with the status quo. But when you have a job that you love and you’re good at it---it’s almost impossible to accept an intentional self-inflicted goodbye. There was also this question. “Where do I go from here?” I had messaged and talked with friends about possible opportunities just throwing it out there that I was “feeling unsettled”—but no real fruits had come from that. Making the choice to leave something is sometimes just as hard as being forced into it.
It was late one Wednesday night, and oddly I’d been able to sleep and had welcomed it. I drifted off. In the middle of the night, I sat up in bed wide-awake. Joy was sleeping. I turned to my Bible Gateway app and navigated to Judges. I read about Gideon and his fleece---and then backed up and read it all again in context. Honestly, I was annoyed. Why did he keep asking when he knew what he was supposed to do? Why didn’t he just trust? Oh. Wait. And at that moment, I knew I needed to leave my job. It was time to trust that in the midst of all it with or without a job. It was time to go.
I realized I’d been hanging on to my position at the university probably longer than I should have because it felt like I was closing a door on something Corban and I had shared. I’ve often explained that I see him everywhere on campus, and often he’d visit my office. Since he was 8 years old, he’d attended university sports camps, often with his friends. When he was a student, I often saw him eating breakfast in “The Caf” and often it seemed like I still could. It was familiar.
That night I typed the letter. The real one. I talked to Joy. “I feel like I am supposed to resign my job.” She was lying on the couch half asleep. “Ok just don’t do it right away.” “Wait what?” “I’m kidding, if you feel like that’s what you need to do. Then do it.”
I turned the letter in, talked with my supervisors and shared with a surprised group of work friends. All I knew was it felt right.
Many, many people began asking where I was going. And I was honest. I had no idea. It took actually letting go of my positions in higher education, both in my job and in my professional organizations to finally see some movement. I began getting calls about new positions in higher education and I was offered several, a couple of really amazing opportunities, and to each one I said no or stopped pursuing altogether. The timing just wasn’t right. Loss drastically changes your perspectives and priorities, but it also makes you keenly aware of “timing” and the gift of time.
I’d also applied for a couple jobs that didn’t work out, and I actually felt great that that those went nowhere. I’m at a point in my life, I don’t want to be anywhere I am not supposed to be. A few weeks after turning in my notice someone floated the idea of teaching middle school. I took two weeks to think and pray. And one morning, it just clicked. I could do something I love, that will allow me the opportunity to put extra time and summers and holidays as well as almost 10 hours of drive time I’m gaining back, to good use for Corban’s “Serve Strong” foundation. I consider that a gift.
I will miss most everything about my previous position--especially all my friends, many I have known for decades. But I am looking forward to something different as I step fully into “the new”. I miss my son more than anything. Everything in me wishes he was here. I still cry, pretty much every day. I still clean the bird poop off his headstone regularly. I often sit in discomfort about our uncertain future. But I think Corban would love that I’ll be teaching middle school—after all, he and his friends helped prepare me well for middle school antics.
Over the last few weeks, several well-intentioned, kind and thoughtful people have said, “Those kids will be lucky to have you.” But honestly, and I truly mean this---I think I’ll be lucky to have them. I look forward to their energy and excitement, and to putting my sarcasm to good use.
These too, are uncharted waters. I can feel myself coming to the surface. I sense a light and a warmth breaking through. I know things can change any minute but for now, I feel like I’m wading into a low tide. I feel certain as we walk with Grief along the shore, if we look closely we’ll find some treasures for our buckets along the way.
“When you go through deep waters, I will be with you.” –Isaiah 43:2
Thanks for hanging with me,
CorbansDad
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