One Year

Author’s note: This reflection was written at the one-year mark of our Son’s death. It seems impossible that it has now been two years, but the emotions still resonate the same. I was not ready to share this last year. It was just too raw and personal. But today, it is ready to be released. You will find us again this year, saluting the rising sun at his gravesite with a cup of good coffee, followed by a day of remembrance at the beach. Rest in peace, Son.

George Lindley Taber V.  “Quint”

May 15, 1992 – Aug 9, 2022

__________________________

What am I supposed to do with this day? My heart struggles with a place to put it, to categorize it. This new life marker reminds me of unfathomable loss. I grapple with knowing how to feel, what to do, and where to direct my emotions, attention, and energy.  This day has been on the fringes of my mind for weeks, a foreboding presence like a distant storm cloud billowing up on the horizon. Maybe the storm will divert and head in another direction, but no, it steadily bears down on me, neither changing course nor intensity. I suppose putting my head down, planting my feet, and facing the gale is the only option so the storm approaches steadily.

I can’t even find a word that articulates this day, maybe because there is not one. “Anniversary” speaks of expectant anticipation and even excitement, so that can’t be it. “Death Day” is too dark and heavy for me to say. How about I combine it into Deathversary? No, I can’t handle wordplay on a day such as this. This day will continue unnamed, which is probably for the best. 

August 9th, 2022.

Just as our nation has December 7th and September 11th, our family has August 9th. No name. It is a date that will always be remembered for a son who was and still is bigger than life itself.

What do I do on this day? Do I go to work and treat it as just another day? Do I hide in busyness, obligations, and schedules and try to forget through work and routine? Do I take the day off and treat it as some new holiday on the yearly calendar, for fun and levity, and try to forget through recreation, drink, and mindless, so-called “fun”?  My heart cringes at both those extremes. I want to remember; I want to forget. I want to be alone, and I want to be with others.

My soul is ill at ease, squirming under the unfamiliar tensions of loss and grief and hope and love. It appears that these strange bedfellows are here to stay and as much as I want to treat them as opposites, they seem to intermingle and coexist quite comfortably. It appears that under the shadow of the cross of Jesus when you experience loss, you also find a sliver of hope, even if you are not looking for it. When you are flailing in grief, the love of Christ finds you in unexpected ways. If you travel long enough along the equator in opposite directions, eventually, East meets West, passing through light and darkness.

The two extremes collide and coexist in a surprisingly beautiful symbiosis. As much as I want to separate east and west, light and darkness, grief and love, I am finding they are forever blended, innately bonded. I am finding that you can shed tears and experience joy simultaneously. You can grieve your loss and hope for the resurrection in the same breath. The light becomes brighter after the darkness of night. In Christ, you carry His light with you even through the darkness. It may flicker, waver, and sometimes feel invisible, but the light is there.

So, how do I spend this day? My wife and I will visit his Grave site at Jacksonville National Cemetery as the sun dawns on August 9th. We will grind, blend, and percolate a pot of premium Kona coffee from Hawaii, which our daughter gave us as an early birthday present. We will brew it on our tailgate at first light. We will share a steaming cup with our son as the sun rises. We will drink the rich black coffee in his “See You at the Top” coffee mug designed and presented by a cousin during our family reunion in June. He would appreciate that. He always enjoyed slowly preparing and savoring a good cup of coffee.

From there, we will proceed to South Ponte Vedra Beach, take our shade canopy, a couple of beach chairs, lunch, books, and journals, and camp out on the beach for the day, take long walks, look for shark teeth, swim in the surf, breathe the salt ionized air deeply, feel the coquina under our toes, and join Quint as he surfs with the dolphins and seagulls. We will share some stories, laugh, shed some tears, and raise some hallelujahs, celebrating a life well lived and a son well loved. Isak Dinesen once wrote: “The cure for anything is salt water- sweat, tears, or the sea.” I think we will fling ourselves headlong into all three.

Who knows? We may witness the billowing darkness and flashing lightning of an afternoon summer storm forming over the Atlantic. Maybe it will veer off into the ocean, or perhaps it will head straight for us. Either way is OK because our God inhabits our storms as well…

Grace and Peace.

_____________________________

This first appeared in The Havok Journal on August 9, 2024.

Tab Taber is a Gold-Star Dad–father of SSG George L. Taber V, a Green Beret Medical Sergeant from 7th SFG who died during a violent storm on Mt. Yonah while in the Mountain phase of Ranger School in August 2022. Tab journals to process his grief and to recollect memories of his son. Occasionally he shares his written thoughts with The Havok Journal and on Instagram @gltiv. He retired from the Military (8 years Marines;15 years Army) in 2014 and now resides in NE Florida where he runs a 4th generation wholesale plant nursery. He can be reached at tabtaber7@gmail.com.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.