Expanding the Ball in the Box Theory to Make Room for Real Life

Tuesday, my daughter was followed by a suspicious car while taking our pup for an evening walk. My phone lit up with her text message, “Help! Weird car.” I sprinted out of the front door running toward where I thought she was, while my husband and son took off in the car. We were going to find her. Reunited in the kitchen we huddled and hugged. We stood in silence. We stood in the stillness praising God that she was in our arms. I hugged her so long and hard that she had to ask me to stop. Eventually, we were able to recount every minute detail. I turned into (an all too familiar) furiously focused momma bear detective determined to make sure this situation never happened again. Police were called, neighbors reviewed footage from outside cameras, posts were made on the neighborhood page, and pepper spray was purchased. …then I found myself huddled in my office (also known as the laundry room) weeping, drowning in fear, brimming with anger, and overwhelmed with anxiety. I was reliving the trauma that derailed my world 19 years ago. The anxiety, fear, rage, anger, disbelief, and questions relentlessly crashed into me. Listening as authorities told me there was nothing that could be done, yet reassuring my family that everything would be ok. I have disciplined myself to walk straight into each emotion in order to face each one. This will be a lifelong process: no cutting corners, no denial, no withdrawing . It must be done so that my heart continues to heal and my mind can rest. -Survivor, Claire Cunningham

“Happy Mother’s Day” is an expression that evokes tremendous emotions for those of us on this side of Heaven. I am spending Friday with my daughter foraging and hiking. Saturday, my son and I will support Charlotte FC as they play Nashville FC. Sunday we will share dinner with Mom. The sadness and immense sadness that I carry becomes crippling on holidays, so I prepare for these emotions by walking straight into the pain and anguish. I allow them to wash over me as I invite them to enter my heart. It’s a controlled burn. Every season without Toby is painful, but spring and early summer offer a tremendous sting anniversaries, birthdays, Mother’s Day. Mom is so very brave in the face of it all. I am so angry that she has to be, but I am proud of her for continuing to put one foot in front of the other at her own pace, in her own time. Mother’s Day isn’t exactly happy; it’s a swirling mix of happiness and sadness as we relive memories and imagine what life would be like if Toby was here. Either way, we are thankful for the brief time we had. Learning to live without Toby is an education none of us signed up for, but here we are figuring it out one step, one holiday, one tear at a time. -Claire Cunningham

This coming Mother's day was made for mothers' hearts, But yours is torn in shattered parts. Not by time, or fate, or chance— But by a cruel, unchosen hand. They speak of joy and breakfast trays, While you remember darker days. The sirens, silence, final breath— The sudden, senseless grip of death. Yet here you stand, still mother-strong, Still holding love where they belong. Their name lives on in how you speak, In every tear that stains your cheek. You are a mother—through the rage, The courtroom, grave, or empty page. Your child was stolen, not your bond— Their light in you still blazes on. So on this day, we honor you, The mothers bearing grief so true. Your strength, your love, your aching flame— We speak, we whisper, say their name. (unknown) To all the mothers who carry grief in their hearts, we see you. You are not alone. Your love is eternal, and so is the bond you hold with your child. Your loss is not forgotten. -Healing Roots Team

April 16, 2005. New Orleans in the springtime. Perfection: Crisp air, vibrant blue skies, and brilliant, intoxicating sunshine. It was your wedding day. Yesterday I opened up social media and let out a sudden breath of air as tears rolled down my face. There you were in your tuxedo smiling that smile that caused your cheek muscles to micro-tremor because you were ‘cheesin’ too hard’. Unexpectedly, I was whisked back in time filled with a flurry of memories that my heart and mind were not prepared to view. There you were, so very handsome toasting your gorgeous bride. There you were pounding and banging on the bingo drums right along with the band. There you were… The two of you would’ve celebrated your 20th wedding anniversary this year. You would’ve celebrated in stunning, elegant style. Initially, seeing your wedding photos left me stunned, but the initial shock quickly melted into storytelling and sharing memories of that glorious, perfect day 20 years ago. 20 years……ago. Happy Anniversary -Claire Cunningham

Birds. I always enjoy birds. I see them and sometimes I just watch them. They don't ask anything of me, they just exist, moving through the sky like they know where they're going; they are free.  Sometime in 2013, I was sitting in my backyard, and I heard a bird chirping. I remember hearing it as if it were the first time. It wasn’t just background noise, it was music. It felt refreshing, new, and peaceful. I hadn't experienced that kind of stillness, that moment of presence, since my dad died in 2008. Grief is strange like that. It doesn’t just hit you once. It lingers, reshapes you, hides in your bones. I numbed so much of myself with anger. Anger became my armor. It felt easier than pain. Justice became my hope. I thought if I could just know; know who, know why, know how, then maybe I could heal. I gave so much power to the idea of justice, to the person who took my father’s life. But in doing so, I delayed my own ability to find internal peace. Who has the power to heal us? Is it the courts? The truth? Time? Or do we quietly reclaim it ourselves , moment by moment—maybe in a backyard, with a bird singing a song that reminds us we're still alive?

Tomorrow your niece presents her scientific research as a collaboration with her professors. Next week she will perform on the Lyra and trapeze. Tomorrow your nephew competes in Powerlifting America’s High School National championship. You would’ve been their biggest fan. You would’ve wanted to be included in every aspect of training and research, travel and strategy, ‘pre-game’ focus and ‘post-game’ celebrations. Competing was your thing. You were a stealthy, witty, stoic, skilled, and strategic competitor. You were fearless and so very friendly. You encouraged everyone and anyone to join in the ‘game’. My kids have your focus, wit, athleticism, and competitiveness. They are smart, rational and strategic just like you. I can hear your voice encouraging and chanting them forward. I close my eyes and imagine your contorted body language as you anxiously and nervously watch the kids compete. You would’ve had children of your own. The joy I would’ve had cheering for my niece(s) and nephew(s). I would’ve been ‘that’ Taunte Claire who made glittery posters and whose voice trilled with whooping howls of encouragement. My niece(s) and nephew(s) would’ve known their Taunte Claire was in the venue. Toby, I see you in my children. My heart is swollen with pride and gratitude. Your niece and nephew are your legacy. Oh, how I wish we could’ve shared these precious moments together, but we can’t. So, I’ll continue to bring your memory with me. I love you. -Claire Cunningham

My dad was shot and killed in a quaint neighborhood. It is the type of place that kids run around and the neighbors know each other. That is how I imagined it 16 years ago anyways. There is something I do sometimes. I take a drive. Sometimes I go to that area and drive the route I think my dad drove the night he was killed. I drive slow and just wonder to myself what went wrong? Who did he see? Who saw him? What happened? Was he scared? What were his last thoughts? All of these questions flood me in these moments. Then I get to the road he lived on. The road he never made it to again. I consider where he would be now. Would he still be renting this little place? Or would he be in a independent living home? Probably not. That thought makes me laugh. My dad was way too independent to live in a place like that. All of these thoughts remind me of who my dad was but also who I never got to see him become. An old man. He was taken at age 56; Which seems very young now more than ever. I am often told about people's loved one's deaths when they lived lives before their tragic deaths. Some final thoughts are the beauty of making meaning. We must find meaning in their life to live with their death. Making meaning from traumatic loss involves the process of reconstructing one’s understanding of the world, self, and relationships in the aftermath of profound grief. Their death, our pain, and the way we choose to move forward can be a beautiful integration. By holding both love and loss, we find strength and carry them with us.

I think about you often, more often than I’d like to. Time wasted wondering where on this planet you are. Mind numbing scenarios of you fleeing to another country or residing near the scene of the murder. I wonder if you had friends in the truck. Did they implore you to stop, or did they urge you to run? I think that you had to be local because those one way streets are tricky for tourists to navigate, or were you a college student with a family name to protect? Did you circle the block of the hospital? Were you in the crowd at the press conference? Has your mind been plagued by the image of Toby burned into your brain? Do you have night terrors? How do you explain your anxiety and anger to loved ones? Who have you told? Has the guilt ripped holes in your gut? I pray for you. I pray that your heart is softened so that you will do the right thing. I pray that if you have a family, that you are kind and loving. I pray that you forever see Toby’s face. I pray that anyone who knows what you did February 25, 2006 finds courage and bravery to tell the police. I pray that I get to meet you, say nothing, but just look into your eyes. I will always wonder where you are. I will always think that you are hiding amongst crowds somewhere in the city thinking that your secret is safe. It doesn’t have to be that way. I pray that you have a relationship with Jesus. I hope that you have confessed murder to Him. I hope that He stirs your heart and soul to confess. I do not wish you well, instead I wish you Jesus. I will continue to pray for you. What did you do with the truck? Did you sink it? Burn it? Hide it under a tarp for nearly 2 decades? -Claire Cunningham