Here Is This Stone
Spencer,
It's almost Memorial Day again, and Grief has kept me awake tonight reminding me of how it changed my breath almost 4 years ago—how breathing feels more like work and less like living sometimes. I miss you. I've sat here staring at a picture of your gravestone that's saved on my computer, because it's the only thing I can do when I can't actually visit Leavenworth. I've looked at tons of pictures of you, but I keep coming back to the one of your grave. I've been staring at that white stone, tracing my fingers over the words engraved there.
Spencer C. Duncan
I'm staring at a picture of your gravestone, and I've thought about so many things.
I've thought about all the other white stones surrounding you in Leavenworth. I wonder how many of them thought they had more time like we did. Time is a funny thing, isn't it? The calendar and the clock tricking you into thinking you'll always have more time because there will always be more Septembers, more Tuesdays, more 4pms. I remember thinking about Time the day we buried you. August 18th. I was staring at myself in the mirror before I left for your funeral. I spent all morning trying my best to make myself look pretty. I wanted to look pretty for you. I studied myself—black mascara, black eyeliner, black dress, black heels—thinking it was ironic because I always thought I would wear white when it came to you. I would alternate from staring at myself in the mirror to glancing over at the clock that kept changing, thinking how appalling it was that Time was still moving because you weren't breathing and I didn't understand how that worked.
I've thought about all the things we left unsaid and undone. Regret has eaten away at me more nights than I'd like to admit and kept me awake wondering if you knew how much I cared. I'm thankful for the things we did say, but we could have said more. Pride and Fear made us stifle so many words that we told our parents and our friends but never each other, scared to say too much or be the one who feels the most. But Pride and Fear are two of many things that seem so silly when I'm staring at a picture of your grave. I have loved people since you, and I have been heartbroken since you. But I'm staring at a picture of your grave and I have tears streaming down my cheeks because I'm proud, Spence, and I hope you're proud of me, too. Because I can tell you that this time around, I've never spent one night regretting the words I never said. I never wondered if they knew how I felt, because I told them. I'm braver now than I was then. I fight like hell when Fear tries to make me swallow my words, and I say the words this time. I say "I love you" and "I'm sorry" and "I miss you" and I tell people when I'm thinking about them. I have the hard conversations. I'm not afraid to be the one who feels too much. Any time I've hesitated and almost left things unsaid, I remind myself that I can handle feeling silly or embarrassed or annoying even, but I refuse to let Regret have any more of me. Don't worry, I haven't let it make me impulsive or careless. It's made me present and aware and so thankful. I live from the deepest parts of my heart and I'm thankful for Time while I have it. I hate that it took losing you for me to learn and grow in the ways that I did, but the worst thing I could do would be to live the same way I did before you died.
Spencer C. Duncan
SPC
US ARMY
Afghanistan
Feb 19, 1990
Aug 6, 2011
KIA BSM PH MSM
You Made It Count
I'm staring at a picture of your gravestone, and I've thought about so many things.
I've thought about all the other white stones surrounding you in Leavenworth. I wonder how many of them thought they had more time like we did. Time is a funny thing, isn't it? The calendar and the clock tricking you into thinking you'll always have more time because there will always be more Septembers, more Tuesdays, more 4pms. I remember thinking about Time the day we buried you. August 18th. I was staring at myself in the mirror before I left for your funeral. I spent all morning trying my best to make myself look pretty. I wanted to look pretty for you. I studied myself—black mascara, black eyeliner, black dress, black heels—thinking it was ironic because I always thought I would wear white when it came to you. I would alternate from staring at myself in the mirror to glancing over at the clock that kept changing, thinking how appalling it was that Time was still moving because you weren't breathing and I didn't understand how that worked.
I've thought about all the things we left unsaid and undone. Regret has eaten away at me more nights than I'd like to admit and kept me awake wondering if you knew how much I cared. I'm thankful for the things we did say, but we could have said more. Pride and Fear made us stifle so many words that we told our parents and our friends but never each other, scared to say too much or be the one who feels the most. But Pride and Fear are two of many things that seem so silly when I'm staring at a picture of your grave. I have loved people since you, and I have been heartbroken since you. But I'm staring at a picture of your grave and I have tears streaming down my cheeks because I'm proud, Spence, and I hope you're proud of me, too. Because I can tell you that this time around, I've never spent one night regretting the words I never said. I never wondered if they knew how I felt, because I told them. I'm braver now than I was then. I fight like hell when Fear tries to make me swallow my words, and I say the words this time. I say "I love you" and "I'm sorry" and "I miss you" and I tell people when I'm thinking about them. I have the hard conversations. I'm not afraid to be the one who feels too much. Any time I've hesitated and almost left things unsaid, I remind myself that I can handle feeling silly or embarrassed or annoying even, but I refuse to let Regret have any more of me. Don't worry, I haven't let it make me impulsive or careless. It's made me present and aware and so thankful. I live from the deepest parts of my heart and I'm thankful for Time while I have it. I hate that it took losing you for me to learn and grow in the ways that I did, but the worst thing I could do would be to live the same way I did before you died.
And tonight, sitting here staring at the picture of your gravestone, I've thought about the story of 12 other stones in the Bible. The story of Joshua leading the Israelites to the Promised Land. They had to cross the Jordan River to get there, which could have been a problem, but God dried up the Jordan just like He parted the Red Sea. He's faithful that way. The Israelites crossed the Jordan, and then God told Joshua to take 12 men and have each of them take a stone from the dry ground of the Jordan, "that this will be a sign among you. When your children ask in time to come, 'What do these stones mean to you?' then you shall tell them..." Those stones would be a reminder of the way God delivered them and provided for them. He was telling the Israelites: Here are these stones. Remember. Don't ever forget.
I don't have 12 stones, I have one. In Leavenworth, Kansas. The one on the hill at end of row P. And it has your name on it. And while this isn't my idea of the Promised Land, I still have a stone and a choice to either be bitter or to let it remind me of the way the Lord brought parts of me to life after you died. And, oh, Spence. I never thought our story would have a gravestone and a pair of your dog tags hanging from my dresser instead of from your neck. Losing you has been one of the hardest things I've ever had to walk through. This isn't what I wanted, but it's what I have. Even though I would never have chosen a stone with your name on it to be the reminder of the hard lessons I've learned...it is. I can't change it, I can't go back and tell you all the words I didn't say, but I promise you I will steward this story I was given. That is the best way I can honor you, to learn and live differently.
Every time someone asks me about you, I'll remember the white stone in Leavenworth and the red-cheeked Kansas boy who changed the way I live. I'll tell them all the ways Jesus has directed my steps since August 6, 2011, the way He went for my broken heart and how He has redeemed even the darkest parts of the last 4 years. How I still believe He is faithful and good.
"...that this will be a sign among you. When your children ask in time to come, 'What do these stones mean to you?' then you shall tell them..."
Here is this stone. Remember. Don't ever forget.
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