It’s hard to believe that the September days will soon be fading.

September is a month bursting at the seams… permeated with endings and new beginnings.  The lazy days of summer begin to wane as fall schedules commence, yet, the season continues to  linger along with the verdant foliage, lengthy days, and  warm temperatures that beckon us to savor the last morsels of  golden sunshine.  The growing season nears its end and gardens and fields are full and ripe for harvest.  Nature’s bounty is preserved as empty freezers and pantries begin to fill again with food that will sustain us through the cold dark days of winter.  Along with physical nourishment, we store up the hope of a new school year full of promise.  Looking back at the previous academic year, we lament how quickly our children have changed, all the while eagerly anticipating another period of transformation.

As a homeschooling mother, September had always been one of my favorite months.  At the end of a summer spent pouring over books and curriculum choices for my own children and organizing a large homeschooling co-op of more than 30 families, it is exhilarating to begin executing the plan.  Experience has taught me that plans don’t always translate into reality and adjustments must be made.  I’ve had to learn, in planning, to focus on what is truly important and let the rest go…to be more realistic about what we will actually accomplish and leave room for rest.  Last September, it seemed we finally hit our groove.  My oldest son was headed to high school and the girls and I were looking forward to the new year.  Sure, there were still math meltdowns and bad attitudes, but we were really focusing in on truth, goodness, and beauty.  I insisted on beginning each morning with the most important things:  prayer, Scripture, and reading aloud from great literature.  Our days seemed to contain just the right balance of faith, academics, and wonder with space for creativity and spontaneity.  With a new baby on the way, I knew there were adjustments that would inevitably need to be made but I was confident that we had built a solid foundation.  We spent time after lunch swimming in the pool and basking in the sun.  Mondays were spent at co-op and  I committed to spending our Fridays attending Mass and doing something fun.  We were learning together, praying together and enjoying one another.  It was the beginning of what promised to be a be a beautiful school year.

The above picture was taken last year on a glorious Friday in September.  My mom, the girls, and I ventured to the apple orchard.  Instead of packing a lunch, we decided to try our luck putting something together at the orchard’s small market.  We  purchased some cheese, bologna, and a knife with which to cut it and huddled together at a small picnic table, eating and laughing at our makeshift lunch as the bees relentlessly swarmed, hoping for a tiny morsel.  Afterward, the girls wove through the rows of crisp, colorful apples chasing one another with excited giggles and filling their bags to the brim with juicy treasures.  They delighted in discovering all of the different varieties and dreamed about the applesauce, and desserts to be made.  The day culminated with an afternoon Mass, three happy girls, and an exhausted pregnant mom.

That beautiful day, in all it’s simplicity, will forever be etched in my mind.  As I recall those sweet memories, and see myself in my mind’s eye I want to shout, “Don’t you see?  This is it!  She’ll be gone soon!  Hug her tighter!  Don’t let her go!”  I desperately desire to recapture that day in the orchard and breathe it all in again…every sight, sound, and smell.  I want to bottle it up like a healing oil to be extracted on the darkest days.  I would give anything to feel that warm sunshine on my back again and spend one more summer day with Evie and her sisters…all together.

But I can’t go back, and I can’t bottle it up.  Time keeps moving forward.  In  just a little over a month from now, we will reach the anniversary of that fateful day and will no longer be able to say, “This time last year, we had Evie.”  With each day that passes, we get further and further away from the memories of our sweet girl.  I fear the day when it becomes obvious that all of my children have grown and Evie is still eleven in the pictures.    It’s as if we are on a train speeding away from the station where our little girl stands on the platform waving goodbye.  We can’t return, and the destination going forward seems painfully distant.

As these September days quickly slip by, I feel the sense of foreboding on a cellular level.  The sights and smells bring me back to those days of blissful ignorance…when the year was full of promise and all was right with the world.  So many things seem eerily similar to last year.  We have started school again and as last year we begin our days with prayer, Scripture and literature.  We spend time with friends on Fridays having fun.  Our days continue to leave room for rest and free play.  On the surface, it would seem that very little has changed.

But this school year, our world is horribly amiss.

Just like last year,  I pick my son up from school daily.  However, this year, I notice the twelve year-old girls walking home.  They are young and energetic, carrying their heavy backpacks, talking and laughing.  Ironically, as I pull to the stoplight I am looking straight into the entrance of the cemetery where my daughter’s body, once energetic and full of life, is buried.

The atmosphere is much more subdued as the girls and I sit together in the morning singing, reading, and praying,   Evie is no longer physically present to eagerly answer every question.  We move at a much slower pace.  Our literature choices are geared toward a younger crowd and nobody is begging for “just one more chapter” anymore.

We no longer attend the large homeschooling co-op that I began and into which I poured much of my heart and energy.   We tried going back as participants, but the long Monday morning drive past the hospital where Evie died, and the crowd proved a bit too overwhelming for a mom and two little girls grieving and coping with post-traumatic stress.  We stick close to home now, for the most part, and have traded our large co-op for a very small one that meets at our place.

Perhaps the biggest change, since last September, is the one I see in the mirror.  Some days, I barely recognize the person staring back at me.  My mind is foggy and I feel like I’m moving in slow motion.  I can’t handle a lot of social events or activities and am often left speechless in a group of people.    Although I continue to go through the motions of my day and carry out the duties required of me, the internal flame that once burned with passion for organizing and planning, teaching my children, bringing other families together, and finding the perfect book seems to have been extinguished.  Occasionally, a small spark of inspiration will light, but it’s quickly choked out by sorrow and exhaustion.  In the aftermath of Evie’s death, much of who I once was has been buried in the rubble.

It seems that September, with all its beginnings and ends, will forever mark the end of our metaphorical summer and the beginning of a downward spiral into winter.

Yet, even in the darkness and desolation of winter, I am reminded that under the cold, hard ground exist roots that run deep and wide… providing nutrients and serving as an anchor to the life waiting to emerge.

In much the same way, my life, although unrecognizable at times, is rooted in the One who claimed me long before I ever became Evie’s mom.  I am, and will remain, His child.  He nourishes me with His very life.  When I feel confused and directionless He keeps me grounded in truth.   My family belongs to Him and no matter how dead and broken we might feel, He is with us, He loves us, and our purpose on this earth has not changed.

And although I often grow impatient with myself and my inability to live life as I used to, I am slowly learning that is ok to lie dormant in this season of winter:  to let myself be held and loved, to lower my expectations, and allow God to do His healing work.  I’m learning to recognize that grief has no timeline.  It’s a painful process that we must simply walk through day by day.  There’s nothing to do but live each moment and allow grief to do it’s work…to be quiet and wait.

Yet, we do not grieve without hope.  Because we know that just as September marks the beginning of summer’s end, the end of our winter will mark the beginning of an eternal spring where our tears will turn to dancing and what once was dead will arise to new life.

“For see, the winter is past, the rains are over and gone.  The flowers appear on the earth, the time of pruning the vines has come, and the song of the dove is heard in our land.  The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines, in bloom, give forth fragrance. Arise, my beloved, my beautiful one, and come!”

 Song of Songs 2:11-13











7 thoughts on “September

  1. This is such a painful cross to watch you bare but you are allowing yourself be loved. It is a loss like no other! On those so many days and moments when the cross seems too heavy and you can’t walk any further, please don’t forget the Simons in your life that want to help and listen to all your memories of beloved Evie. Hugs my dear friend!


  2. My Dear Sweet Beautiful Cousin,
    For the past 11 months I have silently grieved with you and your family. I can’t even begin to understand what you feel and had no right to give you advice. So I stood back not wanting to intrude, not knowing what to say to bring comfort to you .What could I possibly say to make you feel better? I am your cousin, yet a complete stranger. How dare I all the sudden step in and act like the caring family member who has never been in your life. But I have always cared and regret that we didn’t get to know one another. I am so proud of you! You have blossomed into a woman that hardly exist anymore in this day and age. A strong woman with good morals and values. I see in your blogs how strong you are and you amaze me! I remember you as a little girl, so precocious and kind and loving. Evie reminds me of you. She must have been amazing! How blessed she was to have you as her mother. And you to have her. I know God had a special purpose for your daughter. But of course you would rather have her here holding her and loving her. There is no question how special she was. I pray you will keep writing the blogs to help you heal and bring you comfort. Your beautiful words have also brought all of us more comfort than you know. You have been a teacher and a mentor to all of us. Here you are being tested beyond all tests, and in such despair yet your words comfort and teach us. I love you for this and being the wonderful person you are. Thank you for sharing your beautiful words and Evie with us. God bless you and your Family.

    Love Always,


  3. Eloquently stated, spiritually intense, and emotionally painful…. Our family has NEVER stopped praying for you EVERY day as I am sure there are others who have done the same. How else can we help? Like Kathleen said… remember your Simons (I would do anything for you!). And similar to Christy’s words, respecting your need for space and privacy and not wanting to assume a closeness… it is difficult to know just how to intercede for you. I love you and your family so much as I feel we are kindred spirits in many ways. Thank you for bringing us closer to Him. Laura


  4. I only know of your family through friends of friends, but just wanted to tell you I have prayed for your family, and will continue to do so. My heart aches for your grief that I can’t even begin to imagine.


  5. Dear Jen, You are never far from my heart. My prayers for you are frequent and intense. I thank you for sharing this amazing gift our Lord gave you…the ability to put your experiences into words that deeply touch every heart who reads them. I know we don’t know each other very well, but I just wanted you to know that I keep you close in prayer, especially when I’m praying for Evie’s intercession for you and Chad and your kids. Your friend in Christ, Debby Bentivegna

    Sent from my iPhone



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