Month: August 2023

Just Another Hurricane…

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Everything brings a memory. Ev.Re.Thing.

Idalia is the first hurricane to come since he’s been gone.

He used to help me figure out what needed to be moved around or put away from the back yard. My boys have all offered to help, thankfully.

We used to worry whether the power would go out at night because he wore a CPAP every single night (because he planned to be around for a long time and untreated sleep apnea is not a good way to plan for that.)

I never really worried about the storms because we’d snuggle on the couch, watch movies or good TV, and make popcorn (as long as we had power.) When we didn’t have power, we’ve cooked on the grill outside til it came back on once it was safe to be out there.

Our pool house flooded one year. So much wet stuff. Scott got floor blowers out there, we moved everything we could together, and got it all dried out. It was a mess and an inconvenience but I’m not sure what I’ll do if I have to handle such an “inconvenience” alone. Again, I have my boys and they’ll help with anything I need (and I am so very grateful for every single day I have them and am so thankful they’re all near now) but I still just miss him always knowing what to do and always having a way to figure things out.

Yes, I’m an adult and I was a single mom for years. I’m capable of figuring things out for myself but I just don’t want to anymore. It was so good having him to lean on when life just felt overwhelming. And I guess I never truly knew what overwhelming felt like until now.

Funny how lightning and Thunder crashing outside my windows can bring back so many memories of trying times but now they seem like beautiful memories.

If you still have your person please know now that the things that feel like bad times are still really the good times because you’re doing life together. You aren’t facing the world alone.

For you, this is just another hurricane.

Nefarious Attacks

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This is something I wrote two years ago, in 2021. But today it reminded me of some spiritual truths that I needed to be reminded of TODAY. God is always on time. And yet two years ago, He already knew I would need this TODAY!!!

When you’re under deafening spiritual attack:

🔹Seek pastoral guidance. Your pastors know what spiritual attack looks like because, guaranteed, they have pushed through a lot of it. They also have the tools to teach you how to fight 🥊 it.
🔹Get up. I know you don’t want to, but get up. Take a shower. 🚿 Get dressed. Do your makeup (ladies).
🔹Listen to praise & worship music.
🔹Read the Word. Try Psalms.
🔹Pray. Out loud. The power of life and death is in the tongue. Even when you don’t believe them, make declarations over yourself: I am redeemed and worthy. I am a child of the one true king. I am healed and whole. I have peace in the name of Jesus. I walk in victory.
🔹When you feel so broken that you don’t know how to pray, say something like this, out loud: Jesus, I trust you. Or just Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. There is power in the name and this also seeds your faith. Repeating it over and over and over (even when you 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 like you’re not sure you believe it, because emotions can be liars, too) gives God an open invitation to put your mustard seed of faith to work.
🔹Find a devotional that centers around what you’re feeling or going through. Read it. Read some every single day when you first wake up to seed your day.
🔹Don’t give in. I’m a fighter but sometimes I get so tired. Satan doesn’t always try to take you down by force; he’ll do everything he can to wear you down so that you give up on yourself and turn away from the One who heals you. Then the takedown becomes easier. Don’t turn back around. Stay the course…that’s exactly what the enemy 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯´𝘵 want you to do.
🔹Listen. When God is trying to speak a new plan over your life, the enemy grabs a megaphone 📢. Just because he’s louder doesn’t mean he’s right. Ever known someone who was downright wrong but alarmingly loud about it? That’s what he does. If you 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯, you’ll still hear the voice of the One who has conquered it all.
🔹Wait. God is in the waiting. You can’t always see what He is doing by looking through the keyhole but he can see the full spectrum of what is on the other side of the door. He sees what comes after the rain. Wait; it WILL open.

I have lived and walked through many bouts with depression. I have survived them all and thrived afterwards. Sometimes it’s like a door closing in your face, quite suddenly, with a noisy, resounding boom, and then a window of light opening shortly afterwards. Other times, it’s like slowly stepping past the last lightbulb in a long hallway and feeling your way through the darkness until you see the next area of illumination. 💡

The Light always shows Himself. Even if I have to wait awhile. It’s taken me a lifetime to recognize and trust that He will always come for me, no matter how deep I’ve walked in.

Grief Brain

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I remember being pregnant and complaining of having “pregnancy brain.”  It’s a real thing and it seemed to “wear off” a month or two postpartum, if I remember correctly.  I remember feeling like a complete featherhead, forgetting things I was supposed to do or where I put things.

It feels like there is a thing that should be called “grief brain.”  

I understood it with all of the chaos after Scott was gone.  There was SO much to think about and decide and do and things to find.  Thank God I had people to help walk me through all of that part.

But the people are mostly gone now.  I’m okay with that.  Most of the time now I would just as soon be by myself and at home unless I pop over to the boys’ house for awhile.  No insult intended to anyone at all but I just have a lot of reasons to prefer being alone at the moment.  

I have only made it through one entire live church service since it happened.  I still find it very hard to say or type the words “since Scott _____ (left)”  And I keep trying to get back to being at church every Sunday but depression has always made it hard for me whenever it has doubled back on me for various reasons.  When I’m in a dark place I know God is there with me and that I’ll be able to look back later and see that.  It’s happened soooo many times before so I’m fully sure that’s what will happen.    But I can’t feel it right then.

I think it’s like when Jesus went into the desert to be tempted by Satan for forty days and forty nights.  He had to rely on His knowledge of God’s presence and His Word rather than the feel of Him.  I’m not comparing myself to Jesus (that’s just analogy) but I’m definitely in the desert.

I make it through part of the worship service and then I feel like I’m going to implode.  The music is always what gets me at church, or in any other situation, really.  It always has been.  I’m not one of the people who see colors when I hear music, a different hue for each note (did you know that was a thing?  It’s called chromesthesia or sound-to-color synesthesia.) But music does evoke very deep emotion for me.  It peels back layers that I’m trying to barricade myself within and touches the sensitive and raw core of what I’m feeling.  

Sometimes it is a whirlwind of happiness and joy.  Sometimes it is anger.  And sometimes it is the deepest sadness, swirling down into a deep drain-spin in the moments between verse and chorus or bridge.  It hits so suddenly that sometimes I cannot catch my breath.  Or maybe I can’t let it out.  But it feels like I’m being crushed into implosion sometimes.  

With worship music, it usually has to do with the fact that I know the promises that the music speaks of.  I believe wholeheartedly that they are true.  But I’m in a vacuum.  Somehow the music reaches me but it feels as if the hand of God does not.  

And the thing is, I know that He’s there and is wrapped like a protective cocoon around me.  I know because I’ve seen this part many times before.  But I’m in such a deep place of hurt that I just want the after part, the part where the pain dies down enough that I’m able to look backwards.  I can’t look backwards…

When my mind tries to go back to that night, all of its own accord, I feel like I want to rip my hair out at the roots to stop it.  I do work to take my thoughts captive and refocus but pieces get through the wall before it’s fully built.  It’s always the absolute worst parts that break through.  Like fractured pieces of a broken mirror where the only pieces big enough to see a reflection are focused right on the biggest insult to your sanity.  Then you slam the heavy door in the wall you just hastily built, lock it as quickly as you can, and stand with your back pressed hard against it while you try to catch your breath.  And you literally cannot catch your breath.  That detail isn’t just a part of the metaphor.

So, rather than implode, the only solution is to break down into a sobbing mess.  And I don’t cry.  Well, I never did cry before.  I may have cried three or four times since I’ve been with Scott, ten years.  Now I’ve cried what feels like it could supply Niagara Falls for a week.  

I tell you about my grief here in blog posts.  I share what’s going on.  But unless you were at his funeral or you are one of very few people really close to me, you will not actually see it.  Public displays of affection?  Yep, any day of the week (nothing gross, y’all.) I’m a hugger.  I’m going to let all of you know I love you.  But public displays of any other emotion?  That’s not me.  

See, when I write on social media so that someone else who is grieving can see it, my hope is just to MAKE something good come from this.  What happened has already happened and cannot be reversed so it 𝘩𝘢𝘴 to have some kind of meaning now.  It has to. 

And when I write here, you can “see” what’s going on but you can’t see it.  Understand?  I can stop seventeen times, or seventy-hundred, and fall apart if that’s what I need to do to get the feelings from the inside to the outside so I can breathe.  I can type while the words are blurry more easily than I can stand and try to see people through it.  I told Scott that I think it was a safety mechanism that formed when I was a single mom and had to keep it together so that no one else got scared.  Now it is concrete.  

So the option, in church or any public place, is to get up and walk out then let it all come to the outside (once I’ve reached my car, or home if I can make it.)  Ugly crying, tears, snot, saliva, whatever is pushed out by the grief behind it that is trying to escape this high pressure situation.  I suppose it exits as more of an explosion than an implosion at that point.  But it’s better than trying to sit through the rest of a service holding it all in and trying to flatten it, keep it quiet, hold it still.  Besides, when I get home and go online for the message, I can certainly concentrate on it better than I could have while trying to force down and compartmentalize everything that was brewing inside.

It’s the strangest phenomenon, how you can look backwards and see God in the rear view after you feel Him beside you again.  In the darkness, you can’t see, hear, or feel Him.  It feels like the same kind of absence as not having Scott here with me every (or any) day.  Vacant.  Devoid of oxygen and movement.  A vacuum.

Afterwards it is so obvious that you were being carried from place to place, day to day, and you can look back and KNOW that He had you.

My brain feels like that.  Like there are cavities, absent of matter or information, that are just scattered throughout.  No synapses are firing in those areas.  It feels as if the electricity has failed and no one has turned it back on yet.

My brain “has a mind of it’s own” now.  Sometimes it’s like trying to drink from a full pressure fire hose processing everything moving around in there.  Sometimes it all just feels blank and words won’t come to me, reminders won’t come to me, prayer won’t come to me.  And sometimes it lets me put a voice to what’s going on, but mostly only in type.

I feel like a bumbling fool a lot of the time now.  I’ll be in conversation and will have to stop to reach for words that are just barely out of my grasp (and usually just have to say “whatever – you know what I mean!) I forget things I said to people, or will remember I said it but just not who I said it to.  I forget to set the oven timer then get distracted and forget about what’s in there until I smell it burning.  I forget something I’m supposed to do and feel like I need to apologize a million times because “this isn’t me.”  

This isn’t me, is it?  This kind of thing only happens to someone else.  It happens in Nicholas Sparks movies.  It happens to people in the newspapers. Not us. Yes, there are days when I know exactly how real it is and others when I just still cannot believe it.  This could not have really happened.  Pinch me, please.

So, if you are grieving or you know someone who is grieving, give grace.  To yourself.  To whoever is grieving.  I don’t know if I’ll ever “be myself” again.  Or if I’ll ever feel like I am.  But I can’t keep beating myself up for failing at this.  I’m giving myself the grace I would give to others if they were living in shoes that look an awful lot like mine.  

Because these shoes I’m in?  I don’t like them and they’re terribly uncomfortable.  I’ve got blisters and sores from them.  But they look an awful lot like mine.

This Little Light of Mine, I’m Gonna Let it Shine…

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August 9th, 2023

Tomorrow is the 10th. Three months.

Today, I was riding home from my mother-in-law’s house and a song came on the radio (well, my iPhone was on shuffle, so it wasn’t the “radio” but it was the car radio…whatever…you know what I mean.)

It was “God of This City” by Chris Tomlin.

Almost as soon as the song came on, God impressed on me: “You’re the city.”

I went “What?” (This was inside my head.) “I don’t understand.”

But that directed my attention to the song which had kind of just been playing in the background of what was going on in my mind. The three months thing.

The lyrics go like this, and I started listening with a new focus on how to hear it now.

“You’re the God of this city
You’re the King of these people
You’re the Lord of this nation
You are
You’re the light in this darkness
You’re the hope to the hopeless
You’re the peace to the restless
You are
There is no one like our God
There is no one like our God
For greater things have yet to come
And greater things are still to be done in this city
Greater things have yet to come
And greater things are still to be done in this city”

I’m the city. I’m the one in darkness. I’m the hopeless. I’m the restless.

But greater things have yet to come, greater things are still to be done in this city….

I really don’t know if this is something that is going to make sense to anyone else so, if it doesn’t, scroll on. Maybe sometimes God shows me something that no one else is going to understand but I am meant to anyway. And I did.

The funny thing is, me being the city, that took my mind to Matthew 5.

I was specifically looking for this part: You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden.

But I needed context (context is VERY important if you are interpreting scripture) so I began at Matthew 5:1.

Who knew there was more to come besides the city part?

Matthew 5:1-16. (The Beatitudes)

“1 And seeing the multitudes, He went up on a mountain, and when He was seated His disciples came to Him. 2 Then He opened His mouth and taught them, saying:

3 “Blessed are the poor in spirit,
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven. ❗️
4 Blessed are those who mourn,
For they shall be comforted. ❗️
5 Blessed are the meek,
For they shall inherit the [a]earth.
6 Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
For they shall be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful,
For they shall obtain mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart,
For they shall see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers,
For they shall be called sons of God.
10 Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake,
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
11 Blessed are you when they revile and persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely for My sake. 12 Rejoice and be exceedingly glad, for great is your reward in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Believers Are Salt and Light

13 “You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.

14 “You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden. 15 Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house. 16 Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.”

Okay…so what did I get from all of that (in case you’re not on my frequency right now…that would be perfectly understandable.)

I’m grieving. You all know that from reading the rest of my grief journey posts. And it hurts…a lot. And I showcase that hurt here sometimes just so that people can try to understand others who are in mine or similar shoes.

But if I’m going to share my grief, I have to also share my hope. I am a city on a hill when I am posting on the blog or on other social media. You are a city on a hill if you are posting, too.

What does your city look like to other people? I want my city to be salt and light.

What does it mean to be salt and light (Biblically speaking)?

Salt is used to enhance flavor, and as a preservative. To ‘be salt’ means to deliberately seek to “season” or influence the people in one’s life by showing them the unconditional love of Christ through your speech, actions, good deeds. To sprinkle out Jesus’ love over others so that they “taste the flavor”…they recognize something that is good and then they want to have more of it.

Light is a symbol used to mean awareness, knowledge, and understanding. To “be light” we should be trying use the elevated position of our “city on a hill” to make others aware of Jesus. To “shine our lights before all men, that they might see good works and then praise your Father up in Heaven.” (“City on a Hill” by Third Day)

If you’ve been following my grief journey, know this:

I have bad days. I have very bad days. And I have what I call “okay days.” On these days, I’m not what would have been “okay” six months ago, but I’m thinking okay is relative now. On these days, I’m as “okay” as it gets for right now.

Mind you, I can smile. I can even laugh sometimes.

I walked this morning with my dear friend and mentor whom I like to call “Mama Pam.” We talked about the grief of losing a husband and she always reminds me that I’m “normal.” (Rarely do people say this about me so I cherish it when it happens.) In all seriousness, though, when I feel like people must look at me and think “she’s still THAT sad? She’s going on and on too long with this…” she makes me feel like I’m not only normal but that it’s going to be a lot longer and that’s okay. It’s not that she’s warning me it’s going to be longer and I’m thinking “oh, great;” it’s that I already cannot imagine it getting better anytime soon so I realize I’m not defunct in not being able to “get past this part.”

Then I went to Scott’s grave today where I cried and cried. I just miss him so much and, although I do not believe he is at that grave, it reminds me so starkly that this is reality.

But then I went to my mother-in-law’s house and I found myself laughing several times about, guess what…Scott. I can talk about him and enjoy memories about who he was without crying sometimes. So that’s good. It will almost feel like he’s gonna do or say something else crazy, like whatever I’m laughing about, anytime now.

So, okay days, bad days, very bad days.

Even on my very bad days, I don’t doubt that God will take me up one day, whether by death or by rapture, to see him again.

But today, as I see the date on the calendar is the 9th and know that the 10th will never be “just a day” again, I hear the song that this post started with.

God is the God of this city (me.)
God is hope to the hopeless.
God is the light in this darkness.
God is peace to this restlessness.

And greater things are yet to come; greater things are still to be done in this city.

Scott is gone. I miss him terribly every single day. Every. Single. Day.

But God is still here and there are things still to be done in this “city” (me.)

I long for them to begin so that I can feel more purpose still here.

My children are grown. I have one left at home but it won’t be long before he spreads his wings. They love me and I know that, but they are self-sufficient. They are still my purpose but they don’t need me like they used to (and that is how it is supposed to be; I’ve done my job.) So it’s hard to know what to do with this life except…

Greater things are still to be done in this city. God has a work for me.

And one of those is to be a city on a hill. I know that.

“15 Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house. 16 Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.”

This is me shining my light and not hiding it under a bushel.

🎼“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.

Hide it under a bushel? No! I’m gonna let it shine.
Hide it under a bushel? No! I’m gonna let it shine.
Hide it under a bushel? No! I’m gonna let it shine.
Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.

Don’t let the devil blow it out; I’m gonna let it shine.
Don’t let the devil blow it out; I’m gonna let it shine.
Don’t let the devil blow it out; I’m gonna let it shine.
Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.” 🎶

Put your sunglasses on, people. Everyday won’t be cupcakes and beaches (because what’s better than cupcakes and beaches?) but I’m going to shine when I can. ☀️