Random Thoughts

God is Creator of all that is. Good and evil.

Corn on the cob, and barbed wire--rusted.

CD's of music, and that cellophane wrapping.

Country music from the 60's and 70's, and that new stuff.

Abraham Lincoln, and George W. Bush.

Summer, and January.

Kris Kristopherson, and Eminem.

Paint, and wallpaper.

Bicycles, and bicyclists.

Soldiers, and Generals.

Green leaves on trees, and brown leaves on my grass.

Actors, and Disney kids.

Singers, and Disney kids.

Waterfalls, and water parks.

Fields, and golf courses.

Cottages, and lake homes.

Public access, and No Tresspassing.

Duck hunting, and bird watching (just seeing who's paying attention)

Fishing, and fishing tournaments.

Johnny Cash, Janice Joplin, and American Idols.

Memories, and memories.

Surprises, and heart aches.

Birthdays, and funerals.

Heaven, and earth.

Medicine, and drugs.

Hope, and hate.

Peace, and war.

Mercy, and agony.

Guitars, Music, and Partly Living

Standing next to me is Aaron's guitar. From the day we bought it in September, 04 until the day he died, that guitar became a part of Aaron; as much as a football, Dragonball-Z action figures, and movies. I loved hearing the music he could make and I admired the way his long fingers played the strings. Aaron let his friend Liz add some art-work to the face, but she only got as far as the pencil outline before he had to go. "OK Dad, put it down you're gonna smudge it."

With a back-pack, sandals, and his guitar case over his shoulder, Aaron had just enough, and those items meant the most to him.

Musical sounds speak every language. A relaxing tune is a relaxing tune in English, Spanish, French... Aaron played his guitar day and night. I remember him saying he plays before bed to help unwind. In Aaron's hands this guitar played pleasant music. I remember the feeling of content I had walking in and out of the house hearing Aaron play. Having gone through the violent times of the drug use days just a year and a half earlier, angels couldn't have played more pleasing notes to my ears.

From time to time I pick up the guitar. If it was easy to play, everyone would play a guitar. What balance is to riding a bike, rhythm must be to playing an instrument. I have coordination but not dexterity or rhythm.

The guitar is a beautiful instrument. Music is trapped inside, waiting for the magic hands to release the notes. In the hands of Aaron this guitar made music. On the stand it looks so lonely. Partly living we could say. If Aaron were to walk through the door-way, the Jerry Garcia shoulder strap would reach out to him. Instrument and owner would be one again. Alive with music.

No One Knows From Where the Wind Comes or Where the Wind Blows

Dreams must be made up of tiny pieces of our day time experience. Thoughts, images, and memories are the snapping, sizzling, and flashes of a Fourth of July Sparkler recaptured in random order and shown on the movie screen of our eyelids.

Aaron keeps having a pain in his chest in my dream. He complains of this pain and then loses consciousness. As Aaron is slipping away, I'm trying to revive him and shouting to not fall asleep. Aaron lays back on the couch and closes his eyes. Aaron dies every time.

Last night was a different dream. Aaron was coming home. Yes, Thursday, 7:30 PM he would arrive home. "Oh, thank God, it's over", dream me said. "Gotta tell Cathy and Patrick." And then I woke up. Thursday nights were our weekly "call from MBA" night.

For a week now I have been looking away from pictures and memories. I wonder if my grip on Aaron's hand is slipping. Two years and a couple of months ago I held Aaron in a big hug. He filled my arms. Two years ago I dreamt I held Aaron in my arms until he turned brilliant white and became no more solid than wind. Is the wind changing?

"How many children do you have?"

"I have two sons."

"How old are they?"

"Patrick is 16, and Aaron is 18 forever...he'd be 20 this year."

Mother's Day

Sunday night, Mother's Day 2005 ended as perfectly as the day. Everyone was home, all was right, and we went to bed content. Cathy, Aaron, and Patrick were wrapping up the day watching a new TV show-- Grey's Anatomy. Aaron was in love with Meredith.

Tonight we are closing a blessed day. Cathy, Patrick, and I spent the day in the embrace of Pat Whyte at her art gallery in Plain, WI Whytespace Art Gallery. So much compassion, fun, and laughs filled the day leaving no room for tears. Crying is good and running from the grief is dangerous. Honoring emotions enhances sanity. Today when emotions of sadness could be overpowering, goodness of so many people embraced Cathy.

I understand so well now what the priest, ten years ago, meant when he recognized Mother's Day with this simple statement "For those of you for whom Mother's Day is a happy occassion, have a beautiful day. For those who find this a difficult day, God bless you."

Cathy asked me tonight, "How can we be cursed and so blessed at the same time?" We agreed that we are not cursed, but only blessed. God didn't promise ever lasting life on earth. To have lost a child, we have at once had the child, and for that we are blessed. Aaron knows heaven. We have another son and Patrick is a pure blessing.

Mother's Day 2007 will end with Cathy honoring her emotions. Everyone is not home and there can be no perfect peace. Mother's across the country will feel the same emotions as they go to sleep tonight. Wherever your children are this evening, heaven or earth, we share the abundant gift of compassion and blessings we've been given with you.

Peace and sleep well,

Tom

Humility...

...-A word often misunderstood...it amounts to a clear recognition of what and who we really are, followed by a sincere attempt to become what we could be.
from twelve steps and twelve traditions p. 58

On May 10th, 2005, with the help of Cathy, and our sons Aaron and Patrick, I had 4 months into a lifetime process of developing the all important humility. At 8:30 that morning, a person named Linda handed me a folded note. On the outside my name was written "TOM". Inside was this:

Let me hear what you need me to hear.

Let me speak what you need me to speak.

Let my mind and heart be open.

At 4:00 that afternoon, I was on my knees in the front room of our house, my head buried into the carpet, crying and choking. The words on that note did not come to me in their neat order; they came in confused pieces. I could not remember the exact verse but I knew they were something of a prayer to God, asking for wisdom and mercy. I could not comprehend what was happening.

People rushed in with compassion for our family. Anger, which I surely felt and ocassionally do to this day, did not consume me. God answered that prayer and continues to answer that prayer every day that I leave room for God.

At some moment after 12:10 PM on 5/10/05 Aaron walked out of our house to give a hand to a friend who was trying to rebuild his own life. Aaron intended to return home within minutes; the same way we all intend to return from running a simple errand. His trip turned into eternity and his errand, far from complete, is a challenge bigger than Aaron knew.

Every day we hear from people who are helping Aaron complete his chore. Two years to the day after our lives ended, we are grateful for everyone who supports "Aaron's House" in any way--prayers, well wishes, work, cash, gifts, ...everything makes a difference.

We are humbled and blessed.

Tom, Cathy, Patrick.

Aaron Meyer Foundation, INC

The Last Time Ever I Saw Your Face

Seven hundred thirty days and one hour ago is the last time I saw my son Aaron alive. When I went to bed that night, I knew exactly how Aaron looked. Tonight I will fall asleep with a clouded memory of his face. The pictures we have are mostly of months and years earlier. For whatever reason, we took almost no pictures of the boys in April and those few days in May. Aaron's face was more full than in the photos six months earlier; he had begun to gain weight and his face was scruffy with whiskers most days.

"Would you like his face shaved?" What???!! "Aaron's face. He has a few days growth of whiskers. Would you like us to shave his face?" That was a question at the funeral home. Several weeks later I looked at Aaron's shaver and wondered if he had shaved that morning. Later the question from the funeral home surfaced from the depths of my clouded memory and I lost my composure. He had not shaved that morning.

As the sun was going down tonight I found myself driving past St. Albert The Great Church in Sun Prairie. The last time I ever saw Aaron was at the church. I don't care to remember that night. We should never see our children in a casket. Passing the back side of the church I saw the door from where Aaron's friends carried him to the hearse. The same door we entered and exited so many times for mass. Aaron walked nervously throught that door to serve mass as a new alter boy, and lazily through going to attend mass as an older boy.

I recall the great rush of the funeral home person to get the casket loaded and drive off. The event was probably more compassionate than I recall, but it seemed there was an urgency to loading up and leaving. Maybe the hearse, like the casket, was a rental.

It's hard to cry every day, and every day it's hard not to cry.

Grateful to have emotions,

Tom

Birthday Boy

Happy Birthday Air-Bear.

Patrick, Mom, and I took the swingset and sandbox down today. We carried the swingset up to the side of the street with a sign FREE Swing Set. We'd like to give it as your birthday present to some little kids who will have as much fun with it as you and Patrick. So far no takers. Patrick said all I did was move the playground from the back yard to the front yard.

Today was a tough day without you. Lots of tears. Twenty years ago this was a very happy day. I told you many times how much I wanted a son. Your birth was blessing beyond belief. I remember many of your birthdays well. On your first, you had a party at Grandma Barb's complete with cake from ear to ear. On the eighteenth you came home before midnight. I thanked you for coming home and you said "Of course Dad. Where else would I go?" As I fell back to sleep I could hear you and Patrick talking in his room. Two brothers laughing and talking. I fell asleep with a content feeling I think I will never experience again.

The last two May 6ths have been brutal. You loved your birthday, almost as much as halloween. Forever this day will be the most hollow. I miss you, buddy.

Your friend Justin Minick came over today. He didn't recall that this was your birthday and he just thought to stop. That was really nice. Justin's a big guy now. I gave him a hug and could just imagine how big you would be today. Justin's a good friend. He misses you too and said we should tell you happy birthday from him. I suspect you sent him over today.

Mom will make your coconut cream pie tomorrow. I'll make the whip cream topping. We'll all eat your piece and of course we will cut a piece for Molly.

Wishing you the Happiest Birthday in Heaven.
Love
Dad

What do you think of this shirt?

August 2004. Almost three years ago. These pictures show me how full our life was. Even though we would fly home and leave Aaron behind a few days after these pictures were taken. our family was full. Patrick is much taller now. Cathy smiles above the pain. Her stride is less confident. I'm less sure. We are no less blessed.

Last night Patrick and I shopped for clothes fitting of a 16 year old bank employee; dress pants, shirts, a couple of ties. He's got good taste in clothes, always has. When Patrick was in grade school and middle school, he would lay his clothes out on the floor of his room making sure the shirt, pants, and hat matched---"Fred" he called the finished product. Aaron didn't lay his clothes out, but he did leave everything on the floor. Patrick selected his clothes from the drawer and closet hangers. Aaron picked his up off the floor or from a pile on his bed.

Aaron's life at MBA in OR exposed him to West Coast style. Many of his fellow students were from CO, CA, TX, OR, and WA. Styles move from the coasts to the midwest I'm told. The shirt Aaron is wearing in these pictures hangs in his closet tonight. Yesterday Patrick and I saw the same style shirt on the racks in Aeropostle (or something like that--a teenager store). Many of Aaron's shirts were for sale. We laughed at what Aaron would say "Ahhh, that's my look! That's stupid.... I'm not wearing that anymore".

Pullling the shirt off of the hanger in the store, I could almost see Aaron's shoulders rounding out the sleeves. August '04, Aaron was three months past 17. He was a little thin-notice he's holding his pants with one hand, but healthy, on this day. Nine months later, Aaron was heavier. I suspect he had outgrown this shirt by the end.

When a person dies, the clothes they wear in photos of their last days eventually go out of style and years later the last images are relatively odd compared to current standards. The person is clearly lost in the past. In Aaron's case, his style appears to be coming into its own without him.

Aaron's clothes are all washed, folded, hung up, and put away. They're not where they should be. Aaron's clothes belong on the floor.

Sunday is Aaron's birthday. The 20th birthday is coming without Aaron. I wonder if clothes wonder where their owner went?

Love you Air Bear. You'd be impressed with your brother. He wore your tie last week.

Dad