As We Forgive

    When I sent my letter about Tracy to the prosecutor this week, I also asked if I could give Neil my Lament of the Lamb book and a letter I wrote to him long ago as a Griefshare exercise. At that time, I put it in the following blog:

 

What I Hope to Say

 

 Drug Dealer: 

    I believe two things that seem contradictory by human standards. The first is that my son Tracy died because it was his God appointed time. The Bible teaches that. Ps. 139:16 says, “Your eyes saw my unformed body, all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” The second is that Tracy died because you sold him, and he took, fentanyl poisoned drugs. The fact that God appointed March 22^, 2022 as the day my son would die, does not absolve you of your guilt for selling him the drugs that killed him. There had  been enough fentanyl overdose deaths already that Tracy should have known not to take them. Until then, he had been off drugs for six years. And you, who make a living selling drugs, should have known about the fentanyl problem. 

    As someone whom Christ has forgiven, I feel compelled to forgive you. I want you to pay the legal penalty for causing my son’s death, but I also want you to know Christ’s forgiveness. Otherwise, you will bear the guilt of killing Tracy for all eternity. I don’t think he would want that for you. Trace was very understanding of human frailty. The other contradictory thing is that God’s forgiveness does not remove the legal consequences of our actions. I want you to pay for what you have done and I want you locked away where you can’t bring this agony to another family like ours. 

    Tracy was six weeks from graduating from aircraft mechanic school. He had already earned one of his certifications. For 18 months he had been a top student in his class while working more than full-time as an auto mechanic to support himself. He was already a gifted mechanic and was planning to become a pilot as well. He had many friends, a family who loved him, and a good future ahead of him. God’s plans for him were different from ours, and better, but I want you to know something about the man whose life you took. 

   Until recently, I didn't even know how to spell your name. I don’t know you at all. I’m sure you have friends and family who love you too, and I’m sure they are suffering also because of this. That’s what sin does. It hurts people who don’t deserve it. But God forgives people who don’t deserve it, and I want that for you, in spite of what you did to my son, because of what God's Son did for me. 

 

 

    I wasn't sure I'd have a chance to say it to Neil, apparently we do not share at sentencing. And I wasn't sure, when the time came, that I would forgive him. Prosecutor Barry sent both my letters to the probation officer compiling the sentencing information, and gave me the email address for Neil's attorney. I emailed him a copy of my letter. He said he would make sure Neil got it. That Neil was sorry for what happened to Tracy.

    Later I wondered if I lied. If I did forgive him. I told the Lord I didn't feel forgiveness for him. The Lord said, Do you need to? I don't really know what forgiveness feels like. The scripture meditation app I use, always ends with the Lord's Prayer. Today as I said, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, it really made me think--as we forgive. Those things were on my mind when we went to our church Good Friday service. As we sang song after song about the price Jesus paid to forgive us, I realized I felt something, I felt love for Neil. I didn't pray for it, I don't even think I wanted it. But there it was in my heart--love for Neil. 

   The pastor's brief message that followed emphasized that love means being willing to lay down my life. Forgiving the man whose drugs killed Tracy, felt not only like laying down my life, but laying down my son's life as well. Could I do that? My letter said I felt compelled as a Christian to forgive him. That I felt Trace would not want him to suffer for eternity for his part in Tracy's death. But I did not know until now what forgiveness feels like--it feels like love for the person who wronged you.

    It seemed so basic I wondered why I haven't learned this before. The Lord said, No one has wronged you so greatly before. So now I know the offer of forgiveness in my letter is true. Not because God can forgive what I could not, or because as a Christian my forgiveness is linked to forgiving others, or even because Tracy would want me to. I can forgive Neil because I love him. It is as simple and profound as that. Forgiveness feels like love.

   

Dear Judge

    A few days ago Reed and I were able to watch the change of plea hearing for the dealer whose drugs killed Tracy. Most of the time since his death we have been at the mercy of the Lewis & Clark County justice system, not knowing if they were pursuing his case or not. Neil was charged with selling drugs and the additional charge of causing a death, in March of 2023. That would have been nice to know, but we did not know until Britten and Reed began receiving updates from the prosecutor's office in February giving encouraging, but incorrect news, that Neil pled guilty to all charges and was ready for sentencing. He had not. After a late February Zoom call with the Deputy Prosecutor handling the case, Neil was offered a 40 year sentence for the enhanced charge, in exchange for dropping the other charges. Considering another Helena dealer, whose drugs killed nine people in 36 hours in 2022, was sentenced to 40 years, we considered the offer reasonable. Neil was on probation for drug dealing at the time he sold to Tracy, so he accepted the deal. 

    The prosecutor said we needed to send letters about Tracy to the judge, essentially to be character witnesses for the victim. These will also be read by the parole board when Neil is eligible in 10 years. I have had a hard time figuring out how to start, and especially to end, mine. But I think the one below conveys all the things I want them to know about Tracy.  

Dear Judge,

    What can I say about my youngest son? That he had a sunny personality and sensitive heart even as a young boy. That he brought me his softest teddy bear to use as a pillow, thinking it would ease my migraines. That even during his teenage rebellion years when he thought his home life was hard and strict, he noticed some of his friends had no parents looking after them and no place to live. So he stopped talking about his difficult home, and started inviting some of them to live in ours. We wound up housing seven young men over two years, though no more than three at a time. He thanked us many times verbally, by text, and in writing for our support and not giving up on him.

    Tracy, once he got past the early stages, had an intuitive understanding of mechanics and how things worked. One of the ways he used his skills as an auto mechanic was to buy cars brought in for repair that the owners thought were not worth fixing, repairing them and giving them to family and friends. His service to others was not through an organization, it was the natural byproduct of his generous heart. Like his dad, he could fix or build almost anything. So it was not surprising that in his 30’s, he decided to become an aircraft mechanic, training at the same school in Helena his dad had.

   He was a student at the Helena College of Technology at the time of his death, six weeks from completing his training to be an aircraft mechanic, and had already received his Airframe Certification. For 18 months he had been a top student in his class while working more than full-time as an auto mechanic to support himself. He earned many scholarships while a student there. The last time we saw Tracy was at the Montana Aviation Conference, receiving an academic scholarship from the Montana Antique Aircraft Association, a public highlight for him and us. And thanks to the many people who wanted to do something in Tracy’s memory, we established an aviation scholarship at the college in Tracy’s name. All life is valuable, but Trace was not an addict whose life was spiraling out of control, or passed out on the street, like so much of the news coverage about fentanyl. He was already a gifted mechanic and was training to become a pilot as well. He had many friends, a family who loved him, and a good future ahead of him. God’s plans for him were different from ours, and better, but I want you to know something about the man whose life was taken. And there are many others like him dying in this epidemic.

    We planned for 100 at Tracy’s memorial and more than twice that many came. I wondered why some who didn’t know him that well were there, and then remembered he had worked on their car, or house, or helped them move. It happened so often, I hadn’t kept track. Helping others was just a part of who he was. Although our other two children are willing to help and more than capable, Tracy is the one I thought would be there for me late in life if I became a widow. Tracy is the one I thought would help out my handicapped younger brother after my time, because Tracy is the one who helped him when we traveled together, keeping track of his 5 foot, 98 pound, uncle in the crowds, and making a path for him through packed theme parks.

    I felt safe with Tracy, not because he was physically strong, though he was, but because he saw me in all my frailty and loved me anyway. Tracy was very accepting of human frailty, because he knew his own. Tracy knew Christ as his Savior, and it is knowing I will see him again in heaven, that makes this loss bearable. His sister stayed up late at night unlocking his laptop and phone. Her efforts allowed law enforcement to find the texts that made prosecuting Neil possible. She didn’t want other families to suffer the grief we are. I don’t know what closure is supposed to be like, but I want Neil to pay the full, legal penalty for the life he took. Until he started buying from Neil, a few days before he died, Tracy hadn’t used drugs for six years. Even a 40 year sentence doesn’t feel like justice, it feels like attempting to fill a deep chasm with a grain of sand.                                                                             

     Connie Lamb

                                                                              Tracy’s Mom, forever

 

   

Still the Robins

      After enjoying unseasonably warm (60's) weather in March, our recent late season snowstorm has been particularly painful. I usually welcome the early spring snow because, when it melts away, the grass beneath has gone from dormant gray to green. Six inches, however, seems a little excessive. I know the Lord has greater purposes in the weather than the convenience of Connie Lamb and her winter weary friends, but I'm hoping He's in a hurry to accomplish it. If I controlled the weather, my purpose for the deep dumps of snow across our country would be to tweak the noses of the global warming fearmongers. Climate change, I'll show you climate change!

 

  Still the Robins 

When winter waned with warmth and sun,

I hoped an early spring would come,

to join the robins who've come home.

 

Instead, our spring arrived with snow 

which buried plants and hope below.

But still, the robins come and go.

 

Since their Creator is the one 

who melts the snow and warms the sun,

the robins trust that spring will come.

Could I, His daughter, trust my King,

and find the faith the robins bring

to seed the snow with hope of spring? 

 

3/24/24

 

Emergency Back up Dog

    My post about losing Baldr, might give the impression that he was Tracy's only dog. Trace actually had two dogs at the time of his death, and one of them is still with us, Mykah. The problem is, Mykah is just the emergency-back-up dog. Tracy's first dog was one of two pups left in a shopping cart at a grocery store. His fiance liked to rescue animals and gave the Husky mix puppy to Tracy. He named him Odin. When the relationship broke up, Odin was also parted from his playmate, her Blue Heeler. Odin needed a friend, so Tracy traded a gun for a Malamute hybrid, who looked for all the world like a bear cub with a lolling tongue. He named him for Norse mythology's lesser know son of Odin, Baldr. When Tracy came to live with us, the move included Odin and Baldr. 

    Every time those two went outside they played, biting each other's necks, running circles around the shop, stalking each other--face to face. (No one claimed they were good at stalking.) When Odin died of cancer at age six, Baldr stopped eating, stopped everything. We knew Trace needed to get him a playmate, so he bought a three year old Husky named Mykah. But she was not a playmate. As one of three Huskies at her last home, one who fought over (what we now refer to as) food insecurity issues, she regarded Baldr's attempts at the neck biting game as threatening. So they did not play, but they became companions. Baldr figured out that he had inherited Odin's role as alpha of the pack, even if it was only a two pack. Odin had been the one racing to the back fence to strike fear into those who dared intrude on the path behind us, while Baldr looked at him to see why they were running. Now Baldr raced to the back fence and Mykah took her cues from him.

   Mykah is a sweet natured, blissfully quiet dog, whose worst trait is trying to lick people's tonsils. But, by her own choice, she prefers to fade into the background. Thus, the emergency back up dog. We know this because we used to have an emergency back up cat. Even though Sola came to us three months before Maynard, Mayn was our main cat. The zen master within the house. The menace to mice outside the house. Sola, on the other hand, spent most of her life at the foot of our bed. She only received visitors within that chosen realm. 

    Mykah will never be as strong a link to Tracy as Baldr was, though Tracy liked her and she looked on him as her rescuer. With Tracy, she even dared to play, spinning adorable triple circles. But Mykah sleeps in a corner or under the table, instead of under our bed, like Baldr did. Odin taught Baldr as a puppy that the proper place to sleep is under the bed and Baldr continued the practice after he became a full grown 80 pound dog, though by then, it required a lot of squirming. Mykah may not even want Baldr's role as main dog. Some people, by nature, prefer to be unnoticed, and some of nature's creatures do too. Baldr's death was a heartbreak, if not an emergency, and we are grateful our inheritance from Tracy included an emergency back up dog.

Two Years in Heaven Today

   We knew today would have plenty of distractions from contemplating our loss, because Reed had both a CT and bone scan scheduled for this afternoon. Now his urologist should have all the information he needs before Reed's Monday appointment to discuss treatment for his prostate cancer. Still, we wanted to honor Tracy's memory in and around all that. Britten and Emily offered to take us out for lunch the next day, but wound up with sick daughters--again. We knew we couldn't go anywhere. Should we donate to the scholarship fund or some other cause Tracy cared about? Then I realized that the best way to honor him is probably what we have been doing all this time, finding meaning and happiness in the daily life God has appointed us, daring to find joy beyond the tears.

 

    Two Years in Heaven Today

How do we honor your memory, Trace,

two years in heaven today?

The things we have--

An aviation scholarship fund in your name.

A beautiful bench to mark your grave,

and ours someday.

A tribute wall in our entryway.

A memory box that I can't put away.

The notes you wrote us through the years.

And pictures, lots of pictures.

But maybe the better honor is in

The things we do--

Getting up in the morning, regardless of sleep.

Breathing out and breathing in.

Putting one foot in front of the other.

Going about the duties of life,

despite the hole in our hearts.

Going on because we must,

because you would want us to.

Trusting God to give daily hope and humor. 

That's how we choose to honor you,

two years in heaven today.

 

                    3/22/24

A Watch to Keep

    One week shy of the two year anniversary of Tracy’s death, we had to put down his much loved Malamute, a gentle giant named Baldr. We had been taking him to the vet for two weeks for what looked like a sore on his tail, then a bladder infection, but we could tell by the look in Baldr’s eyes there was something more. The something more turned out to be cancer in his lymph nodes, a perforated intestine and infection throughout his abdomen. The doctor gave him a pain shot so we could bring him home that night for goodbyes, ours and others.

    The next day he was clearly suffering and the 1 p.m. vet appointment could not come fast enough. But while we were waiting, I coped as I always do, by writing a poem. When the feelings are deep, I have to write rhymed verse. It is the only way the words will come out of my brain. The only form that does justice to the pain. After our son’s death, his big dog became a huge source of comfort for us, a living link to Tracy that we could still see and touch. He rests now in our daughter’s pasture, right next to Odin, Tracy’s other much loved dog, a Husky mix, who died two years before Tracy did.

 

A Watch to Keep

We have a watch to keep today

with you, our dying friend,

 who shared our lives for these 8 years.

 We'll stay close by until the end.

 Until you fall asleep,

 we have a watch to keep.

Your memories live within my phone

from puppyhood to fully grown.

 The days when Odin led the pack,

 and Tracy held you in his lap.

 Both of them are resting deep

 and now, we have your watch to keep.

We will not let you suffer, friend,

your life is clearly at its end.

 The comfort in the company of

 the gentle giant Tracy loved,

 is very hard to put to sleep.

 Still, we have a watch to keep.

For Tracy, most of all, would want

 you safe, and loved, and free of pain.

 Perhaps, somehow, with you again,

 if only that you're both at peace.

 Till then, we have a watch to keep.

 We have a watch to keep.

 

For Baldr 2015-2024

                                               

                                               

3/15/2024

An Aiiii! for an Eye

      As incongruous as it sounds, I have not been able to write lately because I've been putting together a book. For most people making a book would involve writing, but I am doing with previously written materials what I also do with leftovers--combining them in new, preferably palatable, ways to use them up. Having launched another of the Lamb book into the Amazon, Life Lines of the Lamb, and putting another, Legacy of the Lamb, into a Word document, I finally have time to write about my cataract surgery. 

    I already knew I did not like anything touching my eye. I could never have managed contacts. After getting drops for eye exams, I noticed I could feel my body oozing out of the exam chair where it had partially embedded itself to get as far away from the drops as possible. When I was 19, I got a paint chip in my eye when scraping a wall for painting and was willing to leave it there the rest of my life rather than have it removed. My fiance had to back me into a corner and hold my arms down while a coworker scraped the chip off my eye with the corner of a soft dollar bill. What I didn't know before today is that there is actually a name for that fear--ommetaphobia. The information said it could spring from a bad experience. The only eye-dea that comes to mind, is when my older brother accidentally shot a rubber tipped arrow into my eye while attempting to hit the balloon I was stupid enough to hold for him at what I considered a safe distance from my body. 

    I wish I had known I had ommetaphobia when I went to my cataract appointment. It sounds more clinical than wussy. But I was willing to subject myself to eye surgery in order to be able to drive after dark. Northwest Montana in summer has long hours of daylight, but the bill for that comes due in the winter through long hours of darkness. My driving day ended at dinnertime. Oncoming headlights looked like sparklers, but not in a good way. More like aiii! than aah. My doctor assured me that meds would have me nice and relaxed for the procedure. That proved to be a lie almost on the level of a state of the union speech. Driving to the surgery center in a white out blizzard turned out to be the relaxing part of the experience. For one thing I spent two hours in the back anticipating the surgery because a general anesthesia patient required extra time. I knew I was nervous because I could not recall any scripture or even songs to comfort or distract myself. The measly med, l.5 mg Versed, didn't relax one eyelash. I flinched when they put in the frame to hold my eye open. The procedure itself was painless, my eyeball was totally numb, the panicky part was seeing lights coming at my eye and not being able to look away. The doctor had the nurses on each side of me hold my hands. I do not know if that was to comfort me or if he thought I might try to scratch his eyeballs out. There was no music playing, so I supplied sound effects, an embarrassing whimper. The drive back to our house in the blizzard distracted me temporarily, but I had flashbacks of those frightening lights for two hours after getting home.

    At my appointment during the inter eye interval I call blurvana, Dr. Barth assured me the next surgery would be better. It was not off to a good start when they told me to report for surgery at 7 a.m. I am not a morning person and knew I would not sleep if cataract surgery was my wake up call. But then they changed the time to much more manageable 12:30. As the last patient of the day, the only person who could delay me, was me. Dr. Barth also arranged for a nurse anesthetist to administer a higher dosage of meds. I could still see the lights coming at my eye, but they were blurry. No flashbacks this time. Eye survived. My newly implanted lenses allow me to see, with perfect clarity, the age spots, crepe and other imperfections of my skin. My new prescription glasses provide better distinction for distance than I had when my last pair was brand new. And I'm starting to glimpse the possibility of driving after dark. Oncoming headlights are more globby than glaring. So, after all that, am I glad I had cataract surgery? Aye, eye.