I need a safe outlet to say this: I'm terrified of the anniversary of Griffin's accident.
St. Patrick's Day will be exactly one year since the worst day of my life.
A few months after the accident, as I started to heal, I imagined the one year anniversary. I envisioned a celebration of Griffin's life and a tribute to what God did for us. Maybe we would have a party to commemorate being survivors. No longer would I feel nauseated at the sight of the color green. Green would be our banner of proclamation that God gave us a miracle.
As we turned over a new year, January brought me the realization that I'm not where I thought I'd be.
Pinterest and Instagram are flooded with Valentine's Day images, but St. Patrick's Day ideas are sprinkled into my feeds. Every time I see any reference to the green holiday, it's like a silent punch to my gut.
Rather than hosting a big celebration, I literally don't want to leave my house on March 17. I don't want to see green or shamrocks or people living ordinary lives as if the day is like any other.
This isn't how I want to feel; it's just where I am.
This new year has brought me a fresh batch of flashbacks and fears that the worst things imaginable can actually happen. I pray through each situation and fight my urge to keep my children in my view at all times.
I look forward to a time when I don't notice casual references to death. I want to forgive the color green. And jumpropes. And swingsets. And St. Patrick.
I'm relearning spiritual lessons I thought I already learned. I need to tend to wounds I thought were healed. I need to write a blog post that isn't well thought out or witty or wisdom-packed.
I need to say some of the things that have been weighing me down. So much for where I thought I'd be. I need to start where I really am.