Soul Guidance

An ongoing conversation with my son who died 18 years ago

I want to write about faith, about how a woman like me, a mother, goes about healing after her son dies by suicide.

Gone fishin’ playtime together, Kenai River, Alaska, 2004

I want to write about faith, about how those nearly 6,570 days have gone, when I’ve gone on breathing, and how you visit me, still.

I want to write about faith, how I experience, joy, delight, love, the frequency of life, sanctity, despite everything.

I want to write about faith, how I’ve seen the scene of you in a dream, embracing me in my elder platinum years, on a beach, a foggy gray day, me in your lap this time, you accompanying me home.

Oh sweet child of mine, dead now longer than you breathed on this planet, I love you still.

As we approach the anniversary of your dying, I give thanks that you knew love, that I read you our story, “One Mother’s Dream” from the new Chicken Soup book, an advance copy that arrived in the mail that very Monday, the night before you died. How I stood at the kitchen island in our Colorado home, you curled up in the nook, home from school sick, while chicken soup heated on the stove, and I read to you. I breathe now into the moments that evening, when the air hushed, the story finished, you looking at me and saying, “I love you, Mom.”

Tonight, in Alaska, zero temps outdoors, I gaze at this angel you gifted me on a Mother’s Day and take solace in my idea that you were comforted by it somehow, holding it when you died, and then unclasped, tumbling from your hand onto the thick white carpet, later found by your Dad.

January writing table

I want to share about faith, how our conversations began a few months after that January 2006 time, with a lucid almost all-night dream, when you appeared, a bit gaunt and bruised, accompanied by angels, to tell me I could ask you one question, to last for the rest of my life. And after hours of tossing and turning, needing to get it right, I finally said, “What do you want me to know?”

I give thanks for the conversation that continues, 18 years later, though less frequently now. Sometimes when I am very still and centered, I hear your whisper, laughter, and guidance.

Tonight, I reflect upon a journal entry from November 26, 2022, during one of those exchanges. (How did you get so wise?!)

“Put your longing in your own pocket. Touch it. Carry it with you. Sleep with it. The pocket of your heart contains unmet mysteries and joys. Tribulations pass when you touch and taste the dessert called living with—in—presence.

Beloved one, I leave you now. I want you to trust yourself. You are one of the most beautiful humans on the planet and bring others into this frequency. Time is come ashore. I await your muse and delight. Love, your son.”

Thank you, my son, for the gift of you being you, and for me becoming a Mother, your Mom. I love you still.

RIP Justin Bernecker, September 27, 1989 - January 24, 2006

One Mother’s Dream

Originally printed in Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul 2, published in 2006
©Pegge Bernecker (now Pegge Erkeneff)

For as long as I can remember, I dreamed of holding a baby. When I was a child, she was an infant sized doll. If I could sit still, I was allowed to hold my baby sister, then three years later, my brother. In summer, I rocked a large zucchini with button eyes from Grandma’s garden. When the neighborhood gang played house in our backyard, I was always Mom—and a bit bossy! Acting as Mother Mary in the annual La Posada at church, I felt honored to be carrying baby Jesus.

As I grew older, with each romance I dreamed of the day when I would hold a baby, and birth a family. I wept barren tears in my mid-twenties during years of discerning a celibate religious vocation, and later while in a relationship with a man who didn’t want to marry. I held babies I loved deeply … first a goddaughter, then a nephew, all the while smiling with joy, wondering when my time would come. I continued to dream and started to pray.

At thirty-one the dream began in earnest. Together with Jim, my new husband—literally the man next door—I imagined the day we would hold our child, fantasizing perfect names and even beginning to purchase necessary baby gear. Month after month after month, tears and blood flowed like clockwork. I held another nephew, then niece, then a second goddaughter. Well-intentioned friends said things such as: “Just relax.” “Get away for a romantic weekend.” “If you adopt you’ll get pregnant for sure.” “Fall on your knees and pray more.” As if I hadn’t already prayed, and tried everything I could think of! I was angry and sad. In prayer, I let God know it. I was working in church ministry serving the Lord. I desired my dream. I began to wonder if I was paying a price for past sins.

But the God I encountered in prayer was suffering with me, not condemning me. Barrenness has a powerful precedent in scripture. Stories of Sarah, Rachel and Elizabeth brought me renewed hope. I just knew a baby and family was God’s good and creative dream in me. How could it be denied? I heard God’s word in Psalm 46: “Be still and know that I am God.” Yet, year after year my healthy, strong, vibrant body betrayed me.

Jim and I spent considerable time contemplating fertility treatments, sperm donors, domestic and international infant adoption, and our limited finances. When a notice in our church bulletin listed a phone number with a request for foster adoptive parents, we just wanted to eliminate a choice we didn’t think was a fit for us. Thus, one hot July evening, we sat on our porch with a caseworker from the local foster adoption agency. The three of us sat on our deck, overlooking a Colorado lake with a little rowboat moored on the shore where Jim spent most leisure time fishing.

As our conversation progressed, the caseworker asked, “Are you certain you want to adopt an infant?”

I replied “yes.”

A little later in the conversation, the same question. My answer remained “yes.”

Finally, again: “Are you certain you want an infant?”

I looked into her eyes “What are you thinking? That’s the third time you’ve asked me the same question.”

“Well,” she answered, “if you were to adopt an older child you could continue working.” I just stared at her. “And,” she continued, “I know a seven year old boy in town that loves to fish, and desperately needs a strong father and forever family.”

I didn’t move. The next thing I knew my six-foot-five husband was towering over us, practically shouting, “That’s the right age for me!”

I sat stunned. Birds chirped in the trees. I listened to my heart beat wildly.

So be it.

One month later, just in time for third grade, our son-to-be spent his first night in our home.

Nothing prepared me for parenting a little boy who had lived in nine foster homes. The warm fuzzies I had anticipated were nonexistent. Somewhere along the way I neglected to comprehend that foster children like Justin already had birth parents, a family and past experiences that shaped their lives. Bonding and attachment might not happen, maybe couldn’t. I discovered my own worst behaviors were not unlike Justin’s: anger at not being listened to, not having my needs met. Odd that as an adult I had the same feelings as the child in my home.

I slowly learned to understand the gift of being a lifesaver for a young boy—and he becoming a lifesaver of sorts for me too, as I grew into fuller maturity, discovering within myself reservoirs of patience and wisdom. My prayer was simple: love him as Jesus.

Together we learned the safety of boundaries. We talked about feelings, listened to one other. Justin began to grow with our focused, consistent attention, meals, and bedtimes. Learning about Jesus, he discovered he could be loved no matter what. I felt happiness that he felt safe enough to throw a temper tantrum. He explored personal interests, caught fish, and gained confidence. I learned to love him as if I had birthed him myself. God softened my heart and taught me generosity.

One afternoon after an emotional meltdown, Justin asked if he could sit on my lap. Though his legs and arms were a bit long, I snuggled him closely against me. Looking beyond my shoulder, he cautiously asked: “If you had been my birth Mom, what would you have done?”

Realizing he wanted to hear a different version of his own tumultuous childhood, I said softly: “I would have held you every day, rocking you just like this, and told you stories: real and imaginary. You would have known you were safe and loved, no matter what.” I stopped talking, feeling the weight of his body against mine, then continued, “And you know what; we can still do that, even though your elbow is poking my side!”

We chuckled together, and after a minute of rocking, the air hushed. He turned, looking me straight in the eyes and asked, “Could you tell me a story now?”

My blinking eyelids pushed back tears. Smiling at him, I began: “A long, long time ago, a little girl dreamed of being a mom and holding a little boy on her lap….” His hand gripped mine tightly. Breathing slow and steady, he listened intently, never taking his eyes from mine.

In the coming months Justin often asked to sit on my lap, and we discovered how much we both needed each other. Later that year after his legal adoption, I received an unexpected valentine: “Dear Mom, Thank you so much for taking care of me over all these years and making sure that I have food to eat and that I have a roof over my head. I also love having a very loving and caring person such as you.”

Not words I ever expected I’d receive from a child. But, still more powerful to me than an actual: “I love you Mommy,” which I suspect I’ll never hear.

Justin is now in his teens and an only child. I have learned the fierce love that I am certain Mary shared with her son two thousand years ago. Jesus has taught me to welcome and love the orphan. Just last week, at five-foot-nine, Justin gave me a hug, and looking down at me, asked, “Do you remember when I was small enough to fit in your lap?”

I smiled a “yes” into his eyes, and offered a silent prayer of gratitude to be living a mother’s dream.

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Originally printed in Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul 2, pages 72-76, in 2006.
©Pegge Bernecker (now Pegge Erkeneff)

Links

• Alliance of Hope for suicide loss survivors

• Feeling suicidal? You are not alone.
  US National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: Call for help: 988
  US Crisis Text Line: Text “Hello” to 741-741
  International Association for Suicide Prevention
  Suicide Hotlines & Crisis Helplines | Free, 24/7 Chat, Text & Phone (findahelpline.com)