In Mental Overdrive in Muddling Through As Best I Can

So, this might be a little long, but much on my mind. They day after tomorrow marks the 16th anniversary of my eldest son’s accident. I don’t talk much about the details, because it is still painful. His accident happened on the 5th of February, 2000, he died in Hermann hospital on the 24th, and we buried him on the 29th. And now another leap year is here. I had learned to live with the loss, moved on with my life as best I could, overcoming more emotional hurdles than I ever thought possible.
Then, in 2012 my beautiful wife passed away unexpectedly. She had suffered from health problems for several years, but seemed to be getting better. She had contracted MRSA staph and they had been unable to eradicate it. It resulted in frequent bouts of pneumonia and just as frequent hospitalization. Between that, my elderly father with Alzheimer’s, and three sons, my life was pretty hectic. Brian, my youngest called me on March 21, 2012 and said he had found his mother in bed, already gone. She was only 42.
So, I found myself a single father and a widower once again struggling to find a new normal and keep my family going. The boys grew up, Bradley met his wife Shea and they married and had a beautiful daughter in April 2015. On May 17, 2015 a drunk driver hit Bradley and Shea, along with his five week old daughter and 2 year old step-daughter and killed both parents. Now, the girls are separated, we are in a custody battle with an emotionally, financially, and physically unstable family member who wants custody of my granddaughter, whom she never laid eyes on until after the accident.
The trial for the DD is set for March 21, the anniversary of my wife’s death. I’m not sure if that’s a harbinger of hope or just more grief.
I find myself thinking of my paternal grandmother. She lived with us most of my life, since about age 5, and was a great influence on how I view the world. Grandma was born in 1896, and outlived all of her children except my father, her youngest, to accidents, illness, and war. Yet somehow, she never lost her faith. The loss of half of my children, my wife and my daughter in law some days seems like more than I can bear, but then I look at my two remaining sons, my grandchildren and my remaining daughter in law and realize that there is still much to live for even if at times I want to throw in the towel and give up. I have much left to do.
I want to be the doddering old man who drives his children to distraction with his ridiculous behavior and sage advice that they won’t heed anyway.
I want to be the grandparent to my grandchildren that my grandmother was to me.
I want to reconcile the hope for a just sentencing for the man who killed my children with the knowledge that my faith demands that I find forgiveness for him. That is one of the most difficult parts of all for me, second only to the grief and devastation his thoughtless actions have brought to my much reduced family.
Somehow, I have to find a positive way to do my part to effect change and spare at least one person this pain and loss.
Grandma’s eldest son, Weldon, went missing in action in 1943 and she didn’t know what happened to him. She believed for many years, even after I was born and old enough to remember, that he was a Japanese POW somewhere and just had not been found yet. She eventually resigned herself to the truth that he must be dead, but still remained steadfast in her belief that God would someday let her know exactly what happened. In 1983, his remains were found, still inside his transport plane on a mountaintop in New Guinea. He was sent home and she was finally able to lay her son to rest in their hometown, and where she now rests beside him and her other children.
That’s the kind of steadfast faith I need.