June 1st, 2023

I constantly wonder how I’m managing this. Don’t get me wrong; I cry, get overwhelmed, lose it sometimes, and feel lonely in a crowded place. I miss him terribly. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I will see him again. This is just one way-too-long travel assignment with no cell phone reception. But I’m going to miss him as long as I’m here. And loving him was 100% worth the pain of today and the rest of them.

But I do have peace. Not peace as the world gives, but Shalom, the peace of God, which transcends all human understanding, guards my heart and my mind in Jesus. Somehow, in a way that I can’t really even comprehend, I have peace even in my sadness. Did you know you can be very, very sad and still have peace?

I get very angry sometimes about some circumstances, but I still feel at peace over the anticipated outcome of that. I am grief-ridden, but I still have peace over the fact that God is carrying me in this storm and won’t ever leave me or forsake me. I worry through finances and what is going to happen in that regard, but I still actually have peace over it because, as I wait for answers and processes and paperwork, I know that God is in the waiting and that He has promised He will work all things together for my good because I love Him. That doesn’t mean it will be the “perfect” scenario (it can’t be because Scott can’t come back) but it will be one in which He’ll keep walking with me, keep giving me peace, keep making it work out in a way I can handle (with Him) until the day He calls me home to be with them, too.

Someone curious and well-meaning asked me, “do you think it’s just that your brain thinks he’s on a contract somewhere and that you’ll suddenly realize it’s real and really grieve then?” I thought about that for awhile because I sure hoped it wouldn’t get worse than this.

I’m really grieving now. I truly am. And it doesn’t matter to me what that looks like to other people. Grieving looks different from minute to minute. I may fall apart in front of you and start sobbing, having to walk away. I may have a full conversation with you and then have someone remind me later that you came to see me. (Yes, that has happened on more than one occasion.) I may look like poop in Walmart or I may have tried to put on makeup and brush my hair. Grief never looks the same even in one person, much less in different people. We all do it differently.

And I know that my brain doesn’t think he’s just off on contract again because literally almost 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 reminds me of him. His toothbrush is still by the sink. His slippers are still in my living room, where he left them. His cologne is on a pillow in the bedroom. Evidence of his various hobbies are all throughout the house. His truck is parked in my driveway. It’s on and on and on. And when I’m not home, every place I go has a memory of him there. My sister mentioned queso to my nephew yesterday; the last time I had queso was when Scott and I went to have Mexican food in Tallahassee about a week before he died. I went for a walk with my daughter-in-love and granddaughter today. I realized a few minutes in that I was constantly responding in conversation with “Scott would have said this…Scott used to…Scott would love that!” 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦. And every reminder is one that he is not just away from home, he is gone from this Earth.

So why do I have peace that lies under this cloud of grief. Peace is synonymous with tranquility or stillness in the dictionary. It doesn’t mean I’m “happy”. It doesn’t mean I’m without concerns, emotions, or grief. But it means there is a kind of tranquility, a calmness in my spirit that is only there because of the presence of Jehovah Shalom. “I am with you always; even to the end of the age.” Matt 28:20 Shalom.