by Matt MooneyMay 16, 2013

Well, here goes nothing.

We are kicking off a couple of blog series here at the atypical life in order to gather folks around two themes that are near and dear to our hearts.  We’ve timed the series to coordinate with the launch of An Unfinished Story– which should be rolling out around June 1st.  The folks that have jumped in to write on these topics are my kind of people and I am excited to share their words with you in days to come.

I don’t know how to sell a book.  And honestly, I don’t care.  But I have been a part of a story so beyond me that I think I would implode if I shut it up within my bones.  And so, in some small way, this series launch feels like the first step in sharing a more full, unabridged story- one that is at a new place.  That, to me, is exciting.  If you’re so inclined, help us spread the word.  The gift that is Eliot will never be fully encompassed through a video or a blog post or a book.  But I’ll keep right on trying to live out the lessons his life has seared into me and I’ll talk to anyone who listens of a God that never left.

______________________________

I hope to soon write about the process that birthing this book was for me (Yes, I did just use birthing in reference to my man-self).  It seems to jump the gun a bit to do so- before the book is released and all.  So I will hold off.  Kind of.

When you write you have a love/hate relationship with every word that forms on the page.  As it is being typed, it is the greatest fine art piece the world has ever known.  Upon finish and review, those very same words are the absolute worst drivel and dung to have ever set foot on a page.  Editing is and was, for me, excruciating.  Below is an essay that I wrote for the book, that did not make the book.  And so, I guess the best I can do to kick off a blog series is to say that the book is kind of like this- but better.  That’s just salesmanship though, in reality I just couldn’t figure out where it fit in.

______________________________

Blog B@st#rd

I opened my computer and mindlessly began my routine of sorting through the inbox as I do numerous times a day- the first step is placing a check beside all the same ones that you got.  The ones that share a name with mystery meat.  Spam sent out by the thousands.   Upon wholesale removal of the obvious commercials, I then begin to rank the ones I plan on reading.

Among those that make the cut for read-worthy are the ones from folks who have been encouraged by Eliot’s story.  These are always confusing.  It seems that I have mistakenly opened someone else’s mail.  I read of how much his story meant to them, and I can’t help think of how I wish it read that way to me.  I am always honored but jealous by those who have gained insight from me losing my son.  Because these folks have somehow managed to make sense of something that makes no sense to me.

And, oh, have we heard.  Apparently, Oprah is inbox Viagra.

It is with curious eyes that I read how others have managed to fit Eliot’s story into their life.  Where I feel engulfed, others seem encouraged.

The feedback runs the gamut:

  • Thanks so much, I will spend more time with my kid and try to better cherish what I often miss.
  • I was going to terminate, but I heard your story and I am putting my daughter up for adoption.
  • Thanks, I lost my dad and your story gives me hope.

And on it goes.

And so I was always eager to open up the inbox and hear how others have handled that which I cannot.

Until Monday.

It was Monday that I opened up an emailed comment from the blog.  I could quote it word for word.  I wish I couldn’t.  I wish I could forget it.  And because I want Josh to stay out of prison, I won’t quote it.

It referred to making money off the circus of my son’s death.  In times such as these the “me” that I hide emerges.  I appear calm.  Because Ginny is the next room, and she’ll ask what is going on if I yell, “you stupid #$%#&^%@” as I want.

So I think of scripture.
The ones about dashing skulls against the rocks and cold-blood killing everything in site.

It takes 5 minutes to catch my breath.

And slowly I began to wonder about this person.  And as my mind continues to filter through my different weapon options, I feel a twinge of sadness-for this idiot.  And I fight it.  I want to hate him.

Please let me hate him.

But I began to wonder how someone could be so hateful.  His dad must have hated him, and I bet his family has left him, and if some are left, they hate him too.  And I began to wish I could meet him.  Is he in a mobile home trailer or an institution?  For some reason, these seem to me the only two plausible options.

Within fifteen minutes I am having a conversation with him in my mind.  And I am telling him that he hurt me, and does he have any idea what those words would do to my wife.

And I am holding nothing back.  Although, somewhat surprisingly, I have not yet hit him.

Then I do it.  I ask him if he has ever known love.  And I tell him that I forgive him.  That although it makes no sense to me why I have tracked all the way to his trailer to do so, I forgive him.

And in this moment where I surprise myself, it all fits.  I see what losing Eliot has taught me.  Sometimes those things that make no sense are the most beautiful.

[ts_fab]

36 Comments

  1. Mary Stringham on May 17, 2013 at 11:02 am

    Eliot’s story changed me, as I’m sure it has many people. I love Eliot, even though I didn’t know him, and I love you and Ginny and your family, even though I don’t know you. Thank you for sharing his story when I’m sure every time you do adds to your wounds. Reading your words is therapeutic for me – I have been hurt, I have experienced loss and it’s hard sometimes to not be bitter, even though I fully understand everything happens for a reason. Your words remind me to not be angry or bitter, to look for the beauty. To love and forgive. I don’t care if you make money off of it or not. You’re no different than anyone else (like Matt Logelin) who has experienced loss and shared the story of it. So many people are thankful that you share and that you are open.



    • matt mooney on May 17, 2013 at 11:16 am

      Mary,
      Thanks so much for your kindness and encouragement…it means so much to us. Though I don’t understand the cold, meanness of this poor soul. I do understand being leery of folks who share their story…there are too many stories otherwise to not be. In full disclosure, we are very careful to be faithful with his (and our) story and weigh heavily the paths we go down. We also attempt to steer the few funds that have come to the work of 99 Balloons as we’re able.



  2. Barb Ward Dittrich on May 17, 2013 at 3:40 pm

    Oh, there are so many parts of raising our kids that stretch our understanding of what it means to be a Christian, aren’t there? Thank you for modeling what grace should look like when we really want to take out a baseball bat.



  3. Rie on May 29, 2013 at 10:43 am

    I have fibromyalgia. Getting out of bed on some days hurts like a piece of cardboard unfolding. I’ve never lost a child, but I can imagine each day your brain must unfold from a ridiculous kind of pain and move on. And as pain eases due to God’s unbelievable mercy I’m sure there are still days the smallest can set you off. And you are completely justified in your anger toward this young man, Josh (I’m calling him young because I can only hope a mature man would know better).

    But, I want you to know that I grew up in a trailer and my parents still live in one now. I pray for you, I pray for Ginny, I pray for your children, and I pray through your words Eliot’s short life will spur miracles in the lives of others. Many people praying for you live in trailers. And we are not Josh’s.

    May each day bring you no more emails of pain.



    • matt mooney on May 29, 2013 at 9:40 pm

      Rie,
      Thanks for taking the time to write down your thoughts; I appreciate it. I do think you misunderstood a couple of things & I would like to clarify:
      1.). Josh was not the guy who wrote this . He’s a friend who I’m expressing fears that if my friend knew about this, then he would seek to kill the author…. No way you could’ve known that as this was written within the context of a book in which you’d know Josh.
      2.). I apparently offended you with the trailor comment. That is just me being honest with my thoughts. I live in Arkansas & there is nothing wrong in any way with trailers here (and it was not my intent to hint otherwise). I have family members who call trailers home. I also brought my daughter home from an institution ….so, I assure you there was no intent to demean either. Rather, I relayed my thoughts as they came in my anger… I feel anything less would not have been honest & I value honesty highly when I write. With that said, I honestly do not want to offend you & ask for your forgiveness if I have done so.



Well, here goes nothing.

We are kicking off a couple of blog series here at the atypical life in order to gather folks around two themes that are near and dear to our hearts.  We’ve timed the series to coordinate with the launch of An Unfinished Story– which should be rolling out around June 1st.  The folks that have jumped in to write on these topics are my kind of people and I am excited to share their words with you in days to come.

I don’t know how to sell a book.  And honestly, I don’t care.  But I have been a part of a story so beyond me that I think I would implode if I shut it up within my bones.  And so, in some small way, this series launch feels like the first step in sharing a more full, unabridged story- one that is at a new place.  That, to me, is exciting.  If you’re so inclined, help us spread the word.  The gift that is Eliot will never be fully encompassed through a video or a blog post or a book.  But I’ll keep right on trying to live out the lessons his life has seared into me and I’ll talk to anyone who listens of a God that never left.

______________________________

I hope to soon write about the process that birthing this book was for me (Yes, I did just use birthing in reference to my man-self).  It seems to jump the gun a bit to do so- before the book is released and all.  So I will hold off.  Kind of.

When you write you have a love/hate relationship with every word that forms on the page.  As it is being typed, it is the greatest fine art piece the world has ever known.  Upon finish and review, those very same words are the absolute worst drivel and dung to have ever set foot on a page.  Editing is and was, for me, excruciating.  Below is an essay that I wrote for the book, that did not make the book.  And so, I guess the best I can do to kick off a blog series is to say that the book is kind of like this- but better.  That’s just salesmanship though, in reality I just couldn’t figure out where it fit in.

______________________________

Blog B@st#rd

I opened my computer and mindlessly began my routine of sorting through the inbox as I do numerous times a day- the first step is placing a check beside all the same ones that you got.  The ones that share a name with mystery meat.  Spam sent out by the thousands.   Upon wholesale removal of the obvious commercials, I then begin to rank the ones I plan on reading.

Among those that make the cut for read-worthy are the ones from folks who have been encouraged by Eliot’s story.  These are always confusing.  It seems that I have mistakenly opened someone else’s mail.  I read of how much his story meant to them, and I can’t help think of how I wish it read that way to me.  I am always honored but jealous by those who have gained insight from me losing my son.  Because these folks have somehow managed to make sense of something that makes no sense to me.

And, oh, have we heard.  Apparently, Oprah is inbox Viagra.

It is with curious eyes that I read how others have managed to fit Eliot’s story into their life.  Where I feel engulfed, others seem encouraged.

The feedback runs the gamut:

  • Thanks so much, I will spend more time with my kid and try to better cherish what I often miss.
  • I was going to terminate, but I heard your story and I am putting my daughter up for adoption.
  • Thanks, I lost my dad and your story gives me hope.

And on it goes.

And so I was always eager to open up the inbox and hear how others have handled that which I cannot.

Until Monday.

It was Monday that I opened up an emailed comment from the blog.  I could quote it word for word.  I wish I couldn’t.  I wish I could forget it.  And because I want Josh to stay out of prison, I won’t quote it.

It referred to making money off the circus of my son’s death.  In times such as these the “me” that I hide emerges.  I appear calm.  Because Ginny is the next room, and she’ll ask what is going on if I yell, “you stupid #$%#&^%@” as I want.

So I think of scripture.
The ones about dashing skulls against the rocks and cold-blood killing everything in site.

It takes 5 minutes to catch my breath.

And slowly I began to wonder about this person.  And as my mind continues to filter through my different weapon options, I feel a twinge of sadness-for this idiot.  And I fight it.  I want to hate him.

Please let me hate him.

But I began to wonder how someone could be so hateful.  His dad must have hated him, and I bet his family has left him, and if some are left, they hate him too.  And I began to wish I could meet him.  Is he in a mobile home trailer or an institution?  For some reason, these seem to me the only two plausible options.

Within fifteen minutes I am having a conversation with him in my mind.  And I am telling him that he hurt me, and does he have any idea what those words would do to my wife.

And I am holding nothing back.  Although, somewhat surprisingly, I have not yet hit him.

Then I do it.  I ask him if he has ever known love.  And I tell him that I forgive him.  That although it makes no sense to me why I have tracked all the way to his trailer to do so, I forgive him.

And in this moment where I surprise myself, it all fits.  I see what losing Eliot has taught me.  Sometimes those things that make no sense are the most beautiful.

[ts_fab]

36 Comments

  1. Mary Stringham on May 17, 2013 at 11:02 am

    Eliot’s story changed me, as I’m sure it has many people. I love Eliot, even though I didn’t know him, and I love you and Ginny and your family, even though I don’t know you. Thank you for sharing his story when I’m sure every time you do adds to your wounds. Reading your words is therapeutic for me – I have been hurt, I have experienced loss and it’s hard sometimes to not be bitter, even though I fully understand everything happens for a reason. Your words remind me to not be angry or bitter, to look for the beauty. To love and forgive. I don’t care if you make money off of it or not. You’re no different than anyone else (like Matt Logelin) who has experienced loss and shared the story of it. So many people are thankful that you share and that you are open.



    • matt mooney on May 17, 2013 at 11:16 am

      Mary,
      Thanks so much for your kindness and encouragement…it means so much to us. Though I don’t understand the cold, meanness of this poor soul. I do understand being leery of folks who share their story…there are too many stories otherwise to not be. In full disclosure, we are very careful to be faithful with his (and our) story and weigh heavily the paths we go down. We also attempt to steer the few funds that have come to the work of 99 Balloons as we’re able.



  2. Barb Ward Dittrich on May 17, 2013 at 3:40 pm

    Oh, there are so many parts of raising our kids that stretch our understanding of what it means to be a Christian, aren’t there? Thank you for modeling what grace should look like when we really want to take out a baseball bat.



  3. Rie on May 29, 2013 at 10:43 am

    I have fibromyalgia. Getting out of bed on some days hurts like a piece of cardboard unfolding. I’ve never lost a child, but I can imagine each day your brain must unfold from a ridiculous kind of pain and move on. And as pain eases due to God’s unbelievable mercy I’m sure there are still days the smallest can set you off. And you are completely justified in your anger toward this young man, Josh (I’m calling him young because I can only hope a mature man would know better).

    But, I want you to know that I grew up in a trailer and my parents still live in one now. I pray for you, I pray for Ginny, I pray for your children, and I pray through your words Eliot’s short life will spur miracles in the lives of others. Many people praying for you live in trailers. And we are not Josh’s.

    May each day bring you no more emails of pain.



    • matt mooney on May 29, 2013 at 9:40 pm

      Rie,
      Thanks for taking the time to write down your thoughts; I appreciate it. I do think you misunderstood a couple of things & I would like to clarify:
      1.). Josh was not the guy who wrote this . He’s a friend who I’m expressing fears that if my friend knew about this, then he would seek to kill the author…. No way you could’ve known that as this was written within the context of a book in which you’d know Josh.
      2.). I apparently offended you with the trailor comment. That is just me being honest with my thoughts. I live in Arkansas & there is nothing wrong in any way with trailers here (and it was not my intent to hint otherwise). I have family members who call trailers home. I also brought my daughter home from an institution ….so, I assure you there was no intent to demean either. Rather, I relayed my thoughts as they came in my anger… I feel anything less would not have been honest & I value honesty highly when I write. With that said, I honestly do not want to offend you & ask for your forgiveness if I have done so.