It Pays to Know Your Limitations

A few weeks ago I got a speeding ticket.

It was one of those those "Do you know why I pulled you over, ma'am?" moments when the genuine answer would have been yes. Or, maybe I had a fair guess because the traffic in front of me had suddenly slowed and, accustomed to whipping through Winston-Salem with traffic at a higher speed, instead of slowing I changed lanes.

Apparently they knew something I didn't, because suddenly there were blue lights in front of me and a car pulling over and I breathed a sigh of relief because thank heaven they'd caught someone else, and I changed lanes to the left to move over, and suddenly there were blue lights behind me and I knew I wasn't as lucky as I thought.

E1 looked up from her Kindle game -- we were enroute to her occupational therapy -- and asked why we were stopping there when I pulled in behind the other stopped cars. I told her the policeman wanted to talk to me.

When he explained how fast I'd been going I had to say I honestly did not know the speed limit was as low as it was. By the time he returned with my ticket and license, E1 had asked once why it was taking so long, and I had given up on escaping with a warning. I apologized for ignoring the speed limit and he told me how far the limit extended -- past where I would turn -- and that it would decrease even further at that point.

I cussed myself for using cruise control on the highway and watching my speed through construction zones, only to get zapped on a city street, but there was little to be done at that point. I was grateful that he gave me a break with a reduced infraction, but already worrying about what its impact would be on my insurance.

I can remember every speeding ticket I've ever received and count them all on one hand. In fact, if I wind up convicted of this one, it may well be the first, although there is one from a decade or so ago in another state that I'm uncertain about. I'm not sure if I made a call and had it dismissed (at that time I could count the county prosecutor as someone I had once dated) or simply paid it because I know I didn't go to court.

I remember the first time I was stopped for speeding quite clearly -- although it was more than 30 years ago. I cried. Not because I hoped to get out of the ticket, but because I was out of work, 21 years old and had never been around police a lot. He let me go.

That changed when my career turned out to be one in journalism and I was on a first name basis with virtually all of the law enforcement types on my beat, often knew their wives' and children, and a host of stories they'd just as soon not have told shared by their fellow officers. The lone exception was always the State Highway Patrol, where their spit and polish demeanor kept most of them at a distance although there were a few I could count on for more casual conversation.

With that in mind, it had been an SHP officer who last cited me for speeding. He was correct, I was far above the 55 mph limit, but in my defense it was about 6 a.m. on a Christmas Eve morning and there were four empty lanes. Talk about putting a damper on my holiday spirit. A few short weeks later we were working an accident scene at the same time and one of the less reserved officers offered to shoot him for me. The charge was later dismissed because it was my first violation.

I haven't had much of an issue with speeding more recently. My last ticket was for expired registration in our "farm" truck. Way expired, as in about a month out of date, but then we don't drive the truck on even a weekly basis, so it had somehow been forgotten. I rectified the situation and the charges were dismissed.

This time, however, my resources aren't what they were five years ago. I have never worked in Forsyth County and don't know anyone with the Winston-Salem Police Department.

I have, however, received multiple offers of legal assistance in my dilemma -- something that didn't happen the last time I received a speeding ticket. The week after my ticket I received no less than eight offers to handle the matter for me. I took them on like a bidding war and held on to the low bid -- $50 and I don't even have to go to court, just pay whatever fines they assess.

If Forsyth County is anything like the other courts I've covered, and I'm sure it is, then it's probably easy money for the attorneys who wind up making many of the same calls I've had other people make in the past. Speeding is an easy drop to improper equipment, the court and county get their money (probably still in the neighborhood of the $200 I'm looking at if I just pay the ticket), and the attorney gets paid for his time. If I wanted to go to court, I could probably get the same deal myself.

At the same time, I don't think I'll be making an extra trip. It's probably worth $50 to avoid a court appearance and the hours that takes off your life.

I do know I'll be doing one thing different in the future, and that's setting the cruise control, not just for the open road where it's too easy for 65 to become 75, but for those long stretches of seemingly innocent city streets where 45 mph is the limit.

Finding Joy in a New Life Rhythm

For nearly five years, my weekdays have revolved around the schedule of a growing number of little people, and I was afraid last week would find me at loose ends by myself. The fact that it didn't, well, that was something to celebrate in and of itself.

My daughter's new work schedule means that one week I keep the girls on Tuesday and Saturday, while one week the only days I don't keep them are Tuesday and Saturday. Sundays the babies' daddy is off work and they stay with him and come to church, regardless of Mom's work schedule. Since she's working nights, I actually keep them the days after she works and on their daddy's schedule because of the overlap in work hours, and that gives her time to sleep, fix them dinner and spend time with them in the afternoon.

We've survived a week of each rotation now and instead of finding myself lonesome, I found myself catching up on some projects and beginning to realize what else I needed to do during the "off" weeks to come. I went to PiYo and Zumba two nights, instead of my normal hurried one. I didn't have to be inside or quiet during afternoons for naps. Although I don't want them not coming at all, and 5 a.m. is still an ungodly hour to be up for them to come, I think we are, for the most part, all happy with the change.

The fact that last week was also spring break for local schools and finally warm weather just added to what I had to do within the time constraints of the week so that when Saturday arrived I wasn't desperate to see the girls again, but I was glad to welcome them back and had plenty of moments of random joy to reflect on.

1. E1 launching herself from her daddy's arms to me, much like a monkey jumping through the trees, when I went out to help bring them in on Saturday morning. She yelled, "Ma!" and was obviously delighted to see me, wrapping herself around me for a big hug as I carried her in. Although she's enjoying time with Mommy, I'm glad to know that she wants to be with me as well. We spent Saturday morning at the local walk for autism doing Zumba and playing in the park, so it was a good time all around.

2. Letting the hens back into the fenced in back yard. The back yard was originally fenced for the safety of my smaller dogs (from traffic and the bigger dogs in the neighborhood) but more recently had been chicken territory to the point that the largely nonexistent grass was totally gone. Our deck rebuild, which has been on hiatus since last fall, meant I could not let them out of their lot to enjoy what weeds were springing up until new fence was built, but on one of those off days, I put up a temporary fence so they can enjoy eating greens again.

3. Finding a super buy on a bigger temporary pool on a yard sale page and meeting the couple who had it for sale. This summer we'll be going from the little inflatable ring, popup pool to a 16-foot circle, four feet deep. There will be room for more than one adult and three little people, without our bumping into one another in awkward underwater moments. Of course, now I have to get a larger section of the yard level and get it up (something to celebrate later). The saltwater treatment unit and new pump I upgraded the old pool to last year will fit it, and I cannot wait to get it up, filled and warm enough for swimming.

4. Finally getting a dusk to dawn, CFL floodlight on the back porch, which I've been meaning to do (is that a strictly Southern expression?) for ages. The light means we don't have to worry about remembering to turn the porch light on if we're out late and can still see to get up the stairs and open the door. It also shines down toward the chicken coop to deter critters and will mean a small monthly savings as we'll get the power company to come take down the big pole unit next.

5. Discovering a nest of chickadees. OMG! Those are some tiny chicks! My bluebird house is mounted on the pole for the above light, and we want it removed when they take down the light. Before putting in a call to the power company, I decided to check the bluebird house, even though I had not seen any bluebirds using it. Nothing flew out when I opened the front, so I indelicately reached in and probably gave mother chickadee a heart attack. Of course, then I had to get a ladder to see how far along in the process she was and discovered a small pile of naked pinkness that looked more like big grubs than baby birds. Needless to say, that means the light won't be coming down for a few weeks, but that's OK. I've fed the chickadees all winter and it's neat to have them nesting by the driveway, even if they aren't the bug eating pair that bluebirds would be.

6. E1 off to school and her two little sisters playing with what passes for peace on Monday after the long week of no babies. When nap time rolled around, since it was a gray day, I tended dogs, then joined them in a rare treat that did not keep me up all night as I feared. Of course, I dozed about 45 minutes, not enough to put a tired Ma off her sleep routine too badly.

7. A kennel full of dogs for the last weekend of spring break! Where have they been all month? My work is either feast or famine and the weekend was feast time. Not only had I had grooming to do all week, but suddenly I had a bunch of dogs and many needed nails or baths or haircuts, so I was busy and it was good. Most of the month has been slow and it's still my income, plus it was great to see people who had stayed home all winter and visit again with those who had not.

No, the week wasn't all ups and I was only spared losing it in church by the fact that I was in the nursery Sunday. When I watched some clips from service on line last night, well, I was glad for the distraction of children instead and the privacy of a computer screen while I wept.

So what brought you joy last week? Exercise your memory and choose to live happy.

Making Sunscreen -- Now We've Got To Try It

Our first beach trip in what seems like forever is a little less than a month away, and while I hope by then not to need any sunscreen (hush your mouth doctor), I've got a feeling three blue-eyed little girls, not to mention the work-indoors adults in the group are not going to be that tanned.

As part of my crunchy journey, I've not only become obsessed by how much other people have done, but super concerned about what goes in and on the bodies of the little people.

Once again, the world is our library and I could find plenty of things to concern me about what is in the sunscreen setting around the house. Not the least of which are the multiple parabens found in so many body care products, including sunscreen, as a preservative, which not only have been linked to hormone imbalances but actually found in breast cancers.

Conversely, I can find a number of articles saying that a do it yourself recipe for sunscreen won't get the job done, not because an individual cannot buy the zinc or titanium dioxide to make it, but because you may not mix it properly and cannot really determine its SPF.

Well, I may miss a spot applying sunscreen too, but those same professionals never told me not to use it because of an uneven application. And really, how much SPF do I need at any given time? Does that number mean a lot to me?

The tide of skin cancer is a rising one, despite the fact that most people have had it drummed into their heads to use sunscreen and we no longer see children with the peeling nose I had throughout my childhood -- you know, back in the dark ages before folks worried about sunscreen. It's also rising despite the fact that most people do not get a lot of sun and the fact that a fair number of people are suffering from a Vitamin D deficiency as a result. At the same time, my farm family neighbors, who spend much of the summer outdoors getting browner and browner as they work the land, are not necessarily suffering from skin cancer. They raise and hunt their food and eat a healthy diet, not the fast food and junk most of the rest of the first world thrives on.

Could it be that the sun isn't really to blame as the studies have indicated? Perhaps our crappy diets cause our skin not to process sun in the way it should? Perhaps the sunscreens aren't as great as we'd like to think? Perhaps there's another answer rather than blaming the sun? If only there were a pill for that, but I guess sunscreen is the next best thing -- anything other than taking a closer look at our overall lifestyles.

My favorite crunchy blogger Katie at Wellness Mama subscribes to that idea, citing her own personal experience with avoiding sunburn not by avoiding the sun, but by eating a healthier diet and gradually increasing exposure to the point she could be outside all day in Florida and not burn. Since she claims a fair-skinned heritage (as do I), I'm going to follow some of her advice this year. Besides, I've already had skin cancer and although my doctor preaches against the sun, I not only feel my early burns are more likely to cause it than any I may get now, but also feel better when my skin gets sun, plain and simple. He cannot promise I won't have a recurrence if I avoid the sun, so I do my best not to get burned or fall asleep in a tanning bed and consider that my part. (OK, I've actually not been in a tanning bed since discovering black soap for my bathing and addressing my winter dermititis with a healthier alternative than the UV rays that once stopped my itching.)

Instead of sunscreen she recommends avoiding processed foods, vegetable oils, grains and sugars, and eating lots of healthy saturated fats, foods rich in Omega-3s, leafy greens and tomato paste. She also recommends supplements, including Vitamin D3 (5,000 IU/day - some evidence shows that Vitamin D can have a protective effect against sunburn and skin cancer); 2000 mg Vitamn C, astaxanthin (a potent antioxidant which acts as an internal sunscreen, but not for children), 1/4 cup coconut oil melted in a cup of herbal tea per day - citing that the Medium Chain Fatty Acids and saturated fat are easily utilized by the body for new skin formation and are protective against burning, and Fermented Cod Liver Oil/High Vitamin Butter Oil Blend.

I'll try to make the diet adjustments and after some research added the astaxanthin, which is very reasonably priced and a potent antioxidant, as a supplement (already had vitamin D3 and C), but the Fermented Cod Liver Oil/High Vitamin Butter Oil Blend is really pricey and the one time I tried the coconut oil in tea I thought I would be sick to my stomach. Ugh. While I'm sure the actual oil is best, I may be forced to consider a supplement instead.

Still, even if I can manage my own sun exposure, early season and children will require some sunscreen in the immediate future and on vacation.

So, with the beach trip still weeks away I decided to make sunscreen and use it in a less crucial environment to evaluate it before the beach trip to make my own decision about what to use. Of course, the children's parents will also get to weigh in but perhaps we'll be able to come to a consensus.

After browsing through an assortment of recipes with hard to determine percentages for ingredients, or ingredients I did not have on hand, even after buying zinc oxide, I settled on the recipe for sunscreen bars from Wellness Mama. Having already made lotion and body butter (I'll write about them later), I had ingredients on hand and was ready for my newest crunchy enterprise.

Sunscreen Bar Ingredients:

1 cup coconut oil
1 cup Shea butter (you can also use cocoa butter or mango butter or a mix of all three equal to 1 cup)
1 cup beeswax (if you'd rather have lotion or body butter, leave this out and whip it as it cools)
2 tablespoons (or more) of Zinc Oxide
1 tsp Vitamin E oil to preserve
Optional: a few drops of essential oil for scent (do not use citrus oils as they can increase reaction to sun!)

You'll need to melt the beeswax, oil and butter in a double burner. I use a mason jar in a pot of boiling water and just use the same jar each time I'm concocting something because anything with wax is a little (ok, darn near impossible) to clean.

Having had problems with beeswax not melting as well as I thought before, I started with the beeswax alone. I got the pelleted version (everything came from Amazon) and it takes forever to become a liquid. When I made a lotion in one of my first endeavors, I didn't melt it first and I still encounter little wax pellets when using the stuff.

Once the beeswax was melted, I added the Shea butter and coconut oil. Coconut oil is not what we think of as oil. It melts at 80 degrees or so, but otherwise is more like shortening. When everything was melted and stirred together, I put it into a plastic bowl (my glass bowl was being used for sourdough pizza dough), then added the vitamin E oil and essential oils. I went with some citronella and lemongrass, both of which are bug repellent in the hopes that I can fight sunburn and mosquitoes at the same time.

The final ingredient was the zinc oxide -- not nano sized, which can be absorbed by the skin, but still a risk for breathing. I did not wear a recommended mask, but handled it carefully and didn't raise a dust either. Once it was stirred in the color of the concoction changed to a lighter color, and I put it into used baby food containers to cool. The bars are supposed to be solid below 80 degrees and rub on like a deodorant stick. We'll see.

So now that sunscreen is made, I'm ready for the sun to shine today and give it a test run. Little people will be hanging with me through the morning and the forecast is for sunny skies.

I Choose Happiness and Joy

Life to Ethan was like grief to me. Rare bits of joy in a seemingly endless pool of uncertainty and darkness.

That thought popped into my head while walking the dogs one morning not long ago.

Even when I don't break down and grieve for what it cost me, I frequently find myself wrestling with the question of addiction. I've struggled to understand how life was so hard for him that he had to escape it with drugs.

Leaving aside the idea of addiction, I enjoy the world God created too much to want to lose myself in one created by my mind to start with, so the whole idea of getting high on a regular basis escapes me. Yes, when I was younger I overindulged on occasion and could easily do so again during times of stress or as a poorly thought out coping mechanism, but just to set out to escape I simply cannot understand.

That questioning means there are songs, including one we frequently do our Zumba cooldown to (Beauty in the World), that make me want to cry. They are songs that celebrate life and the joy to be found in the world around us and within ourselves and I find myself wondering why Ethan could not have felt that way. I wonder why when he was just a kid struggling with the things all kids struggle with to one degree or another, he thought that some altered version of reality, one in which the blue of the swimming pool wasn't blue enough unless you could also feel it like jello on your skin, was better. Even knowing that he was at times unhappy with himself, or that his friends were traveling down the same path, I cannot understand why he felt that escaping life -- and ultimately losing it -- was the best choice he could see.

He formed a few close friendships in elementary school, a balance of good kids and bad. He liked writing stories, being the smartest kid in class, ironically winning the D.A.R.E. essay contest. In middle school he scored a 1080 on the SATs in the seventh grade and was disappointed if he wasn't the number one student. He was destined for college, scholarships and achieving his dreams. But he wore braces and he was heavy, the girls didn't flock around him like they did his friends, band wasn't a cool place to hang out even after he worried me to death for a saxophone that he never brought home to practice.

Somewhere along the way he decided he wanted to be someone different. In high school, not only did he lose the braces and transform his weight to height, but he made a choice not to be the smart kid any more. He dropped out of AP classes, just managed to pass the others, wanted to dress like a thug, and never talked about college. Perhaps escaping the reality of who he was with pills made sense within that context, but I still struggle with it.

Beyond that, I try to understand why, once he had experienced all the disaster that came along with drug use, he still couldn't admit it was a problem and get whatever help he needed to quit. I know that is where the question of addiction comes in.

I know that the first time he used dextromethorphan it took him to a place that he wanted to go again. Somehow his brain knew that this was special, something to keep a secret and protect from all of the sharing that he might do with people who wouldn't understand. He could talk about anything else -- smoking pot, getting drunk, losing his virginity -- but not this. His friends who managed to quit told me that it was incredibly hard to quit, partially because it made them feel smarter and like they knew so much that they forgot when they were straight. It was like the fruit of the tree of knowledge, the Devil whispered it would make him more than he was, but it actually delivered death.

A former cocaine addict told me when he was using all he thought about was the drug, when he could get it, what he had to do to get it. It didn't matter what he lost or who he hurt to get there. He was always searching for some way to get back to that high he remembered, even if it meant more drugs each time, even if his memory wasn't necessarily accurate and perhaps the high had never been as great as he thought to begin with.

I've read writings by a former addict who went on to study the brain that said the drug of choice, the one that triggers the chemistry for an addiction, takes over the brain's pleasure centers. Nothing that we think of as bringing pleasure, love, companionship, a good movie or video game, a delicious meal -- nothing brings them the pleasure that the drug brings them.

That brought me to the point of realizing how life for Ethan in his addiction must have been so much like it has been for me in my grief.

For months I've often gone through the motions, eating, smiling, laughing when it was expected, but the joy that was supposed to come from those moments, the pleasure my brain was supposed to be recognizing, wasn't really there. I imagined Ethan living for years that way, knowing that the pleasure he craved was just a few pills away. Seriously, there have been times that if I could have somehow brought the pleasure back to my life, I might well have been like the characters in "Pet Sematary" and risked the bad just for a chance to have what I missed so much. When I look at it that way, I almost understand that no matter how good it seemed his life was going, he may have been faking it as well. I almost understand how after months of being straight, working and rebuilding his health, he would convince himself that it would be safe to get high, just once, and begin the slide into wrecking his life all over again. Almost.

I know that because I cannot hug and talk to him, because I can't get that pleasure again, my "addiction" is fading over time just as my grief eases. I don't have to wake up to Dec. 16 again with a chunk of my life missing and beginning all over again, perhaps feeling to a degree like he did when he tried to be straight after indulging, knowing that something was missing that brought him pleasure and joy. I don't have to keep starting my journey back to "normal" again as he did every time he gave in and took the pills.

I don't have to choose between what I've lost and what I have now. He had to choose every day.

So my journey through grief has been a struggle much like his journey through addiction. Sometimes, there has been real joy and pleasure that pushed everything else aside for a while. I have been consciously taking the time to recognize it (thanks once again Annah Elizabeth, you've been an inspiration) and I think that doing so has helped me heal. I think realizing that there was real joy, whether it was from someone else's smile or managing a tough PiYo pose, has helped the joy to spread. I wish Ethan could have undertaken the same exercise because then, perhaps, he might have found life wasn't so bad after all.

Looking at my journey over the last four months, I think that was a turning point. I think for anyone coping with loss, addiction, grief, or even some depression, looking for the happy, the joy, the delight in each day can help make life seem more worth living, the things we've lost or given up more bearable to live without.

I've decided to live, seek out the happy moments, to hold on to the joy even when it seems the sadness will surely drown me.

I wish Ethan could have done the same.

Wordless Wednesday: Easter Memories

As Life Gets Easier, Joy Seems Less Random

For almost three months, since I discovered another blogger's search for what brought her joy, I've made it a point every Tuesday to think back on the past week and find things that brought me joy.

I'm still grateful to Annah Elizabeth at The Five Facets for inspiring that exercise with her blog all those weeks ago. I still remember one of the things that had brought her joy that week was a new microwave. I'm reading her book, Digging for the Light, after being awarded an autographed copy shortly after publication. There's a connection, that thread of loss that binds us, but at the same time means I can only cope with small doses of her grief at her first child's death shortly after delivery and the pain and heartache that follows.

It's amazing how often, especially when things are bleak, when we're coping with illness, or grief, or any form of depression, we overlook the bright spots in our lives. Instead of finding something bright to cling to, it seems easier to shroud ourselves in a gray fog that keeps the world at bay and allows us to focus on our pain.

Annah Elizabeth is a regular reminder not to do that, starting her blog this week with a saying she noted while traveling: “Happiness is not a destination; it’s a way of life.”

So even when my schedule is disrupted by the 5 a.m. arrival of three pajama-clad little people, who drift back to dreamland while I begin my day slumped over a cup of coffee and isolated from my favorite keyboard, I'm going to keep looking for joy.

Having finally made it to the computer, with little people on their way home for two days (this is our "short" week), my brain a little fuzzy still from lack of sleep, I'm looking for the joy that I found in the week gone by.

1. I'd have to start with the brief spring thunderstorm that just blew through, although it made outdoor work impossible, soaked the kennel laundry on the line, and probably caused a drop in temperature. The great thing was I had been walking dogs and made it back to the kennel just before the first scattered drops fell. Although this was not one of the window rattling storms we'll see later in the season, I still prefer to be indoors or in a vehicle when a storm rolls through.

2. Watching the big girls hunt Easter eggs at their other grandparents' home Sunday. The whole day was off kilter because my hubs was still home with the stomach bug that raged through the ranks last week, but it was nice to be included in a gathering of "the other half." The sweetest thing was watching E2 put eggs in her cousin's bucket. I swear, that kid is just a dose of joy most of the time. (Except today, when she was in whiny, drama queen mode.)

3. Getting complimented on my Jamberry nails when I stopped to get gas on the way home Sunday. I never do anything with my nails, but one of my doggy moms talked me into trying them. I don't know that I'm hooked, but it was nice to have someone notice my normally ratty nails in a positive way. Longevity will help determine whether I want to apply them frequently or not.

4. Surviving last week. It was brutal, let me tell you. Between the schedule change for my daughter's work, some extra tweaks for dental and school visits for the girls, the car-seat shuffle, a trip to Winston, a stomach bug and the holiday dogs in the kennel, it was a rough stretch of days.

5. Not getting the stomach bug. I'm beginning to wonder if it might be the same strain that E1 gave me for Christmas a few years back. I was so sick on New Year's Eve and the days following that I can still remember the misery three years later. The fact that neither I, nor E1, or her mom, all of whom had it then, have been sick this time (knock on wood), makes me wonder if it's the same bug and we still have some residual resistance because trust me, I've been exposed. Repeatedly.

6. A spring peeper in my garden pond. Ethan dug my first garden pond years ago after we tore down an old shed in the yard. Bullfrogs found the pond fairly quickly and the random tree frog has shrieked from the dogwood near the water virtually every summer. But I've never had a spring peeper singing from the vicinity of the ponds (there are two now) until this year. I know, they're tiny and it apparently takes them a long time to find a new body of water, but 15 plus years? On the other hand, the girls and I toted home tadpoles from the tobacco greenhouse where they've been known to sing, so it may be that I've raised my own resident peepers. Either way, hearing them sing the other night brought a smile.

7. A sweet dream about my son. The few dreams I've had about Ethan since he died have not been reassuring. This one was in that, somehow, I knew even before I woke up that he wasn't here any more and I still woke with a smile on my face. It was as though he'd come to me while I slept and told me a joke that I cannot remember the punch line to any more. It still brings me joy to remember rousing from a dream with a smile and a memory of him just a breath away.

Funny, this week, it's harder to find those standout moments of joy than it has been at other times. I think it's because life itself is feeling more joyful, day in and day out. The weather is warmer and I'm thinking of pools and convertibles, mowing the yard and using less lotion, a trip some four weeks away to the beach.

But I still think the effort and exercise is worthwhile, because once you've spent time in a really dark place, it's important to remember how you found your way out and it's important to not take joy for granted.

Ethan's First Real Easter

Easter meant more to me this year.

Sometime back I realized that although we say we are not supposed to bury our children, God has quite often set our lives on just such a course -- not merely now, when we lose our children to accidents and illnesses, addictions and suicides, wars and crime. No, even in Biblical times we mothers have buried our children.

Mary buried her son, Jesus.

Yes, He came to her on miracle and she knew from before His birth that He was God's son. When He began His ministry, He was followed by thousands and performed miracles of His own. She must have been amazed that the babe she had held in her arms, a child who may have seemed fairly regular much of the time, had grown into the man He became. We have no inkling that God or His angels ever revealed to her the ultimate plan.

Mary didn't know when she watched Her son be reviled by her neighbors, crucified between two thieves, and then taken from the cross, battered and bleeding, still warm but without life in His body, that there was some greater purpose to her loss. During that most human of times between the time He was crucified and Easter morning, she was just as I have been for four months -- a grieving mother.

Surely during that time she questioned God, "Why?" Surely she asked, "Why work such a miracle to give me your son? Why spare Him from the soldiers' spears as a baby? Why grant Him the power to work miracles and minister to thousands? Why would you do all of that, take Him safely through so much, and then let Him be taken and killed? Why is my baby dead? Why is my son laying cold and lifeless in a grave during this holy time when he should be here with me and the people who cared about Him?"

Any mother who has lost a child, a son, has the same questions in essence. We don't wonder about the miracles, but we do wonder why they may have been spared one ailment, walked away from a car crash, made the right choices for so long to suddenly be just as lost to us as Jesus when they rolled the stone across His tomb.

Like I have been, she was surrounded by people who cared about her, people who loved her son, people who were as bewildered by how things seemed to have turned out as she was. None of them knew what was coming. Like me and my comforters, we had all thought things would work out for the best.

But I also realized this Easter how it was so much worse for them. I had thought, how wonderful that her grief only lasted those three days before the miracle at the tomb; how unimaginable it must have been to suddenly have Him back and be lifted from the pit of despair by His return. Then I realized how much darker those days were, not just because of the persecution and uncertainty, because they did not know the world had changed and that the impossible had become possible.

As several grieving mothers posted messages about their children spending Easter in heaven on Facebook, I came to a realization that had previously eluded me. Before Jesus, death and hell had not been conquered. When you died, had you not managed to live a spotless life, unless you were one of the old-time prophets who walked with God, the grave was an uncertain place. Had there been adequate sacrifices on your behalf? Had you broken one of the laws that your religion decreed were necessary to be just? Had you been good enough for a reward?

Even knowing how perfect Jesus was and that He was the son of God, once He was taken and crucified, Mary and those closest to Him must have doubted. Beyond all the questions about why His life had ended as it had, beyond the horror of those final hours, there had to be an uncertainty that went to the core of their beings. What now? I don't think they understood the gift they had been given and they had no way of understanding what was to come, even though they had been told repeatedly.

We don't have to have that now. I don't have to worry that my son had messed up and squandered the gift of his life, that he had sinned and that his eternity is in question because Jesus took care of that. He wiped the slate clean and kept wiping it clean every time he messed up. He does the same for me and for those who will call upon his name. When Ethan died and his body was subjected to an autopsy and then buried in the ground, I didn't have to worry about what came next. When I got the call that he was dead, I knew he was already in heaven. Although he was struggling on earth, his ultimate fate had not been up for grabs for a long time.

At the same time, I don't know how anyone gets through this without God and the belief that what He promised is real and that our time in these earthly bodies is just a brief part of our existence. I know there are people who find ways to cope and survive, people who are like the professor in "God's Not Dead," denying God's existence because they are angry at how life turned out, when they are actually angry with God. I've been angry with God as well, not just at Ethan's death, but at the turns his life took and sometimes at what has happened in my own life. Not understanding, being angry and hurt doesn't undo my faith.

So this Easter it was even less about baskets and presents and eggs and new church clothes. It was about peace and resurrection and new life and belief in the promise of the empty tomb.

It was about knowing Ethan was celebrating Easter with the one who conquered death and the tomb and made it all possible. That was, almost, enough to get me through the day dry-eyed.