Emergency Contact?

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July 12th, 2023

𝘎𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, again.

Emergency Contact…

I went into the settings on my iPhone and, as is typical for me, went down a rabbit trail that somehow ended up in the part where it lists your emergency contact…surprise…guess who? And here we go, down Alice’s rabbit hole…

I had to change my emergency contact to one of the boys. There is a fear that comes with losing my husband so suddenly and unexpectedly, especially after losing my nephew two weeks earlier in a different but also abrupt and unforeseen way. Many times I’ve thought, since then, about how disruptive and undecided life is. One minute everything is coming up roses; the next minute it smells like rotten garbage and someone tells you that this garbage dump is your new home. Welcome home and, by the way, this is the station where you get off. Have a nice, long stay.

I think a lot now about how I don’t want my boys to have to go through any of the tribulations I’m walking in now. Scott was only 49. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He didn’t have a will. He had a high-paying job and I was, theoretically, retired from nursing so that we could spend more time together. So there are bumps that feel more like jagged mountains in this rocky road I’m walking on…shoeless. I don’t want all of my kids walking this road, not this way. I at least want to get them thick-soled shoes first and try to smooth out some of those big hills and valleys.

So a will is on the agenda for sometime after probate gets handled, which could take forever but I know God will hold my hand while I’m walking. He’s already picked me up and carried me more than a few times until I got my will-to-keep-going and strength back.

Scott would never have intentionally left things undone. We just didn’t know. You never know, right? And people who go through tragedy tell you that, but I think we always tend to think that really bad things like that only happen to 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 people…not us. Or maybe it’s that some part of us thinks that if we don’t talk about it, it won’t happen, like an ostrich hiding it’s head in the sand. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me…

But this is where we are now and it did happen; it happened when we were unprepared. Out of all of the people who read this, most of you won’t go do anything differently after reading it. You’ll be like we were, if you’re young. I know I’m 50 now but we were still SO YOUNG.

If you don’t do it for any other reason, do it for your spouse and/or for your kids. Please.

Things like emergency contacts trip you up in grief. It sounds like a simple thing: hit the delete button for each letter of their name and then just type in a new one. No biggie, right? And yet every single time you have to hit that button, it is like a stabbing, gut-wrenching wound opening back up the place that you just got clotted off and were hoping against hope that it would stay that way. Now you’re bleeding all over the floor again. Another mess to clean up and you still have to figure out whose name to type in this stupid box to replace his.

R͛E͛P͛L͛A͛C͛E͛. It feels like you’re slowly chipping away at pieces of your person, the one you loved…the one you still love despite immeasurable distance. You’re purposely not packing away the clothes and all the things because you want them to know that you still want them HERE, not gone. But it isn’t the clothes that force your hand. It’s things like the words “emergency contact.” Just in case anything happens to me, I need an emergency contact who will answer the phone. Scott’s phone would just ring and ring on his nightstand. Yep, he still has a phone and his number. Well, I have it. Can’t cancel that either. Not yet.

Yes, logically I know that changing something like my emergency contact and other paperwork that has to be done isn’t erasing 𝘩𝘪𝘮. I know, I know. Say it loud for the people in the back but it still won’t change how it feels…to me. The figurative language that opens its mouth during the reaping of his name, one sharp slash of the scythe at a time, has a deafening, slicing sound. With each swish, the word echoes in your mind: gone. gone. gone.

I know you can see by now that today was a rough day. One bright spot was that I did get to have lunch with a wonderful woman who understands the pain I’m going through and who is so good at making very valid points about grief.

Let me tell you about some of her wise words today. I asked her a question. I told her that something has been plaguing me, worrying me about whether I’m “doing this right.” I know God didn’t promise us the rose garden and He even said there would be trouble. But while thinking of my instruction manual (Bible) I got this: If you want to follow Him, you will have to die to self daily, and by dying, you actually live. Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live.” (John 11:25) Die to self; live for Christ. Got it…I think…?

Yet I feel SLAP FULL of self these days. I’m not 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 to have a pity party. I’m 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 to find a way to bust out of this prison cell I’m in called grief. I promise. But all I can think about is how SAD I am, all the time. It’s immersive. It’s intrusive. The missing him is incessant.

People keep saying “You need to get out of the house; get your mind off of things.” They mean well. They’d do anything to help. They just want to relieve the burden, take some of the pain away. What they likely don’t realize is that nothing “gets my mind off of things.”

That’s why lunch today was good for me. She doesn’t expect me to put my mind in places that intend for me to concentrate on not only the thing that never leaves my thoughts but also some other conversation that is difficult to follow when I cannot concentrate, not properly. We talked about Scott. We talked about her husband. We talked about grief. And that’s okay. It didn’t hurt worse. It helps because the things my brain is tormenting me with are things she went through, too. She doesn’t make me feel like she is uncomfortable if I talk about him.

That is why, while it’s happening, while I’m feeling all of the pain that I feel right now, I’m writing it down and I tell you about it. One day someone will be feeling what I am now and they’ll see themselves deep in the mud that I describe in these pages. They’ll know there’s a hand to reach for. I’m right here…just reach…I can almost touch your fingers…!

Sorry, I digress, as usual. Back to the “dying to self” scripture. So I was feeling like, if I cannot stop thinking about how sad I am and how miserable this life is going to be without him, then I’m clearly not doing a good job of dying to self and living for Christ. I should be spending my time pointing people to Jesus, not wasting the beauty that God can make from these ashes of my life. I should be taking every thought captive and focusing on love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and self-control. ALL of the Fruits of the Spirit. Instead, the ashes from the incinerating burn of my life are just going to blow away on the next breeze that comes through.

You know what my beautiful, wise friend said? I’m paraphrasing because I can’t remember the exact words but here is the takeaway: you aren’t making a decision to grieve. Grieving just is. It just is what it is. God gave me my husband and he gave you yours. They were treasures to behold and now they’re just gone. Grieving the loss of that gift is just something that happens; you don’t “decide” to do it. IT JUST IS. God created us with emotions and He knows and understands what they do to us. He lived on this earth as one of us! How worthy was that love of a grief so deep?

Jesus wept when Lazarus died. He already knew that he was going to wake him. He knew he would bring him back to life to show the glory of God’s power. But he wept. He cried for the pain he was seeing on the faces of those he loved. He didn’t choose to weep or not to weep. It was a normal, human reaction to deep empathy for those he strongly cared about. Grief wasn’t a choice, it was a human reaction.

I’m grieving the loss of my primary emergency contact. It may sound silly but it just is what it is. It is an ugly, messy, disconcerting, discombobulating, disastrous, painful grief. And I can’t stop doing it because it just is. And, truthfully, I feel better about that.

No one is “doing it wrong.” No one “isn’t moving on like they should.” No one is going overboard and no one isn’t grieving enough. Some people have a pretty good talent for keeping their mask attached firmly at all times public. Others fall prey to tears with each trigger that jumps out dramatically from every possible hiding spot. We’re all doing it 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. We’re processing. Sometimes we’re stuffing it away to deal with later. We’re doing the very best we know how to do in order to survive each new onslaught, every single day.

Eventually, I’m going to boss this grief. Not every single day, and not right now, because I’m learning how to combat the evil tactics it throws at me. But one day, I’m going to be the overcomer, eventually, that I was created to be. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 it won’t be like this. I think.

The Pride of a Loved One Goeth Before Success

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July 12th, 2023

Scott, my husband who looooved fishing and was quite good at it, wasn’t even irritated about this. He was so proud that I got a good one. On this particular day, everything had been fairly small, as ocean fishing goes so I know it’s not huge by that standard, but Scott glowing with pride as I reeled it in (several of them, actually) was enormous because he was always like that, about everything. He was always proud of what I did and how I did it. He watched me do really hard things and was still proud of how I walked in it and encouraged me consistently.

I really miss that, but it’s a good memory to have inside my heart. ♥️

I really miss it because, although I know there are people who are proud of me for various reasons, my family, friends, other widows, etc., who will be HERE to be proud of me now. Who is my day-to-day? How will I know if I’m doing it right? Who will encourage me to keep going?

And so the questions about how to survive just keep rolling on in.

Dig Ditches Even if There is No Rain

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July 10th, 2023

It’s been a long and difficult day but I am moving through some changes in my spirit.

I can’t help saying again that two months feels like it’s been forever one minute then like I still can’t believe he’s gone the next. How has it even been two whole months since I saw his face or heard his voice? But how had it been only two months when it also seems like forever? I’ll never understand the way that time morphed into something different, something that doesn’t make sense, since he’s been gone.

I talked to him a lot throughout the day today, out loud because there’s no one here most of the time to hear me anyway. I’ve told him how much I love and miss him. I’ve told him I wished I was making two sandwiches instead of one. I’ve told him how much our dogs miss him because he spoiled them so much more than I do…I’m the disciplinarian (don’t feed them people food in the living room; that’s how they learn to beg. At least take it to their bowl so they know that’s where they eat.) I’ve told him my heart still hurts so much. I’ve asked him why he left me alone.

But overall there may be a season of change coming. Early this morning I listened to this Steven Furtick message and it truly, deeply spoke to me.

In the beginning he says “If it left your life, it’s not necessary for what’s next;” he said that twice. I got offended by that. like, really offended. You don’t know my story, Pastor Furtick. How do you know? Dude…he was NECESSARY for my life. I NEEDED him. I wanted to turn the video off but a whisper said not to.

The pastor kept talking. As he spoke, I heard a Word that was meant for me. He said that “whatever left your life, whether it was abandonment or whether it was just tragedy, I declare that the Holy Spirit is going to fill all of those gaps.” Okay, now, come on, Holy Spirit. Do. What. You. Do. Fill me! I’m ready! (But am I acting like I’m ready…?)

And so I continued to listen to this 15 minute message and it meant something to me. The whole thing quivered in my spirit, deep down inside of me.

God will tell you to dig ditches for water to fill when there is no rain. He will tell you to get ready for provision when there is no source in sight. He will tell you to prepare for overflow when you are fully empty and cannot remember, can’t even imagine what it would feel like for a single drop to fall on the parched earth that is now your heart.

I confess that I have heard Him say just that. And I’m not ready. My human mind, with all of it’s limitations, tells me I am not ready. How can I accept a life with overflow when my husband is not here to share it with me, to celebrate it with me? I’ve made no secret of the fact that Scott grounded me, encouraged me, was my champion, lifted me up, and supported me even when I did not feel worthy of what was before me. And now my husband is not here to bolster my defenses. Yet, God still has plans for my life, even still. He has plans for abundance. He has plans for growth. He has plans for fruitfulness. He has plans for a time of building. I literally and truly already know these things because they’ve been revealed to me and spoken over me again and again. It’s strange because even when I feel like I’m incapable of listening, He speaks. Even when I don’t want to hear because I want, somehow, to remain stuck in my brokenness, in my despair, He won’t leave me alone.

And I don’t really want to remain stuck. It hurts and it is a wretched place to live. I want to be free of this pain and anguish but what would that say about how much I loved and adored my husband? Oh, how I did, so much. And oh, how I do not want to live this life alone, without him. And yet I have been given no choice in the matter. How do I leave him here and “move on?” Well, by not leaving him here, of course. But it doesn’t feel that easy. When he is not here to go with me, it feels like if I take a step out of this spot, he won’t be beside me anymore…and yet he isn’t actually beside me now. It’s an absurd emotional paradox.

God will wait until I’m ready, however, or until I force myself to move. It’s such a conundrum because I physically have difficulty moving at times. No one tells you how much carrying the weight of this emotional pain weakens your physical body. It doesn’t even seem as if it conforms to natural logic. But if I can make myself (sometimes) go for a walk, or take a shower and wash my hair, or load the dishwasher, or walk to the mailbox, then I can make myself move on God’s intended path.

In the mornings, I already read devotionals because they are short and are enough that I can manage to get through reading them but can also still retain what I read. I read short passages of scripture. I pray even though it 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 small and ineffectual. I listen to praise music. Then I sit in the quiet, but it’s not in obedience to listening, if I’m being honest; it is in response to apathy and lethargy. These are decidedly two side effects of grief and depression. I have created these rituals because even when I cannot feel like worshiping, I know that the Word of God does not return void. I know that the decision to worship is every bit as important as, if not more than, the 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 of worship. We are not our feelings. Emotions are fickle and foolhardy. God is not.

God is preparing me to move. He is giving me space. He is letting me process things on the timeline that my mind is capable of maneuvering. I still do not feel like I can take on the world. I still don’t feel, many days, like I can walk, much less run. But He’s going to wait, and He will keep gently pushing me toward what He has planned for me because He already knows that His will, His plan, is what will eventually bring me joy. I just have to decide that I am worthy of that without my husband beside me. I’m still not sure what happened when “us” became “me” and of what I still have left coming out of that change.

Father God, Abba, lead me to the rock that is higher than I. You are my fortress and my deliverer. Only You hold the key to my salvation and to a future that will bring me joy. I don’t want to waste that, but I don’t know how to feel the strength to walk the path that ends in it. You are my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in You and you help me. My heart will leap for joy, and with my song I will praise You. In You, I am strong and courageous. I will not fear or be in dread, for it is the Lord my God who goes with me. You will not leave me nor forsake me. I can do all things through Christ, who gives me strength. For they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not get tired; they shall walk and not become weary or faint. You have not given me a spirit not of fear, but of power and of love and of self-control. I will seek You and Your strength; I will seek Your presence continually. You, Lord, are my strength and my song; You also have become my salvation; You are my God, and I will praise You. I will exalt You and seek Your face. I have peace in my heart because the Holy Spirit comforts me.
In Jesus’ name, I cry out to You. Amen

What Happens to My Story Now?

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July 10th, 2023

GRIEF TRIGGER WARNING: scroll on by now.

Today is the 10th again. The second 10th that has come along since he was last here on Earth. I don’t know if I’ll ever pass by a 10th again without remembering.

I don’t mean remembering him; I’ll obviously always remember him. I actually take comfort in the fact that, even if I end up with dementia someday, I’ll likely always remember him. If that happens, don’t remind me that he’s gone; just tell me he’s gone fishing in the Keys and he’ll be back soon…I’ll probably wonder why he didn’t take me.

No, I mean remembering 𝘪𝘵. Remembering the night he died. Remembering the events, the snapshots that make me think I should have photographic memory since they won’t go away. Remembering the absence of breath, the people with the code cart sliding into the room, the ineffectiveness, being escorted to an ICU waiting room when I would never see the ICU itself because he was never coming. I hoped, oh, I hoped against hope. But even as I prayed in cries and tears and anguish, even as I spoke life for him, I think I knew he wasn’t coming back. There were whispers in my spirit to prepare myself. Preparation didn’t come. I just already knew they were too late.

Being a nurse doesn’t make you good in a personal emergency or tragedy. It’s like someone turns off the switch during the trauma but then they save it so you can watch the replay later, like boys at football practice looking back at plays they missed in the last game. Enter the newly added grief stage of “guilt.”

I wasn’t “the nurse,” his nurse, I know. In my more concentrated moments I know that there was nothing else I could have done, personally, to save him. Still, places in my brain scream at me that should have, should have found a way, should have thought of something, should have helped him fight harder, should have stopped it from happening…somehow…

I spent ten of my nursing years in an ICU trying to pry people away from the grips of death. Trying to fight off the grim reaper like a vasopressor and vasoconstrictor-armed Navy SEAL trained with special tactics in Code Teams, calling doctors to the forefront of the mission for backup. None of that helped me in the moment because I was a wife, a “visitor,” on nursing turf that wasn’t my own and, at the moment, out of my element because he was mine.

When you’ve spent your life trying to stop people from dying, you have certain expectations of yourself. I imagine that if I were a police officer and had watched someone I love get shot in slow motion, I’d feel responsible even if there was truly nothing I could have done. If I was a paramedic arriving on scene only to find my loved one there an was obviously not going to make it, I would still feel like I should have done more to stop that from happening.

I think that is human nature. That is why guilt was added onto the grief package, like an extra amenity for your trip. We ask all the why’s and how’s and then, when all sensible answers evade us, we decide nonsensically that it must have been something we did or didn’t do.

Scott’s death 100% was not anything I could have stopped. (You are now speaking to the day shift manager of my brain who is inordinately more logical than the creepy night shift guy who is always such a Debbie Downer.) The end of Scott’s story was told by other narrators because otherwise, if I had told it, it would have been a fairytale like our life together always was.

God is still in the story, though. What happened to my husband in a hospital room is not the end of the book. It’s the end of a chapter. In this saga, the last chapter is already written and there, inevitably and irrevocably, the good guys will emerge victorious. The Bible already says so. The epitome of a good book has intrigue, a love story, dramatic climaxes, terrifying chapter-end cliffhangers, soaring victories, and a hero who changed it all. Jesus already did that and takes the cake for all heroes ever.

I’m still going to cry over this scene even though I’ve already read the book-become-script-for-a-blockbuster-movie (all the good ones do.) I’ve read the ending already. Good wins over evil. Period.

I know how it goes but I’m still going to cry over the tragic middle pages. I still cry every time I read OR watch The Notebook when they break up, even though I know it ends beautifully. (Yes, yes, they both die in the end but they get to be together; don’t rain on my allegory. The point is that even sad stories can have endings that aren’t exactly what you hoped for but are beautiful nonetheless.)

The story of Jesus is like that, too. Adventure, surprises, love, pain, and tragedy…but with victory three days later. The ending justifies the heartache. When I watch The Chosen (an interpretative telling of the story of Jesus), I cry then, too, while already knowing how the story is going to end.

Today, yet another milestone on this journey I’m forced to walk, I will cry a little. Then I’m picking myself up by the bootstraps and reminding myself that the ending has already been written and who knows what the chapters will look like between now and then? There may be mystery, intrigue, joy, laughter, and heart-warming anecdotes revolving around family and friends. Reading the first page of the next chapter doesn’t mean leaving the last one behind because, as you read an entire book, the whole story has to pull together as one big part to fulfill the overall plot.

Whatever chapter I read now, he’s already an integral part of everything I’ll read going forward.

A few quotes from The Notebook bring it all together:

“The best love is the kind that awakens the soul and makes us reach for more, that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds, and that’s what you’ve given me.”

“I am nothing special; just a common man with common thoughts, and I’ve led a common life…But in one respect I have succeeded as gloriously as anyone who’s ever lived: I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul; and to me, this has always been enough.”

“It wasn’t over. It still isn’t over.”

A Whirlwind of Chaos

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July 9th, 2023

Grief is messy.

It makes your future messy. It makes your heart messy. It makes emotions (super) messy. It makes your makeup messy (if you bother to put any on at some point.) It makes families messy. It makes finances messy. It makes plans, dreams, hopes, desires, all of it…just messy.

It is like a whirlwind of chaos, a tornado, sweeping through anything and everything in its path. It doesn’t discriminate. It does not care if you have to go out in public or are staying home. It doesn’t care whether you have the strength to deal with it today or not. It does not care at all, about anything. It just likes to blow everything over in its way.

One person will tell you that there are five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. Another fella came along and added Guilt (an apt addition) and Reconstruction. Then someone else decided that hope goes with acceptance and shock and isolation go along with denial. I have discovered that shock and isolation last through all of the other stages for a long time and that hope may or may not be present with Bargaining, as well. Finally, they’ve added in “Complicated Grief” (but isn’t all grief complicated?) also known as “Prolonged Grief Disorder.” Think of this whole grief thing as a multi-course meal and, if you eat all of your vegetables then you get dessert…Complicated.

What they don’t like to tell you up front, kind of like a car salesman with the add on fees that magically appear at the end of your contract and don’t make any sense whatsoever, is that these “stages” not only do not arrive in any particular order or with any sensible notice, but also that you will revisit each one over…and over…and over…ad nauseam.

Do not leave home; grief is behind the wheel. Do not make plans; grief is in charge of the calendar. Do not expect to sleep; grief dictates the schedule of the sandman. If you do sleep, do not expect to experience rest; grief decides what movie will be showing that night. Do not go grocery shopping; grief throws a party on whatever aisle he wants to. Basically, if you’re grieving, the safest thing to do is nothing…nothing at all.

But who is grief? A thief in the night? (The thief comes only to steal, kill, and destroy; John 10:10) A roaring lion? (Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. 1 Peter 5:8) A snake in the grass? (…that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray…was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him. Revelation 12:9) A liar? A murderer? (…He was a murderer from the beginning and does not stand in the truth because there is no truth in him…for he is a liar and the father of lies. John 8:44)

But God is only good. (Give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good. Psalm 136:1)

Trust me when I tell you that grief is a daily, nightly, constant attack. It is like being in a battle for your life every moment, all the time. It is a fight to save your own life as you are blanketed in despair over the loss of someone else’s. It is flaming arrows, armor piercing bullets, canons, and air to ground missiles. It is constantly running away from the next potential ambush which could end up being in exactly the direction you are speeding toward. It’s exhausting. It’s incessant. It’s unfair…because who ever said war was fair?

And grief is confusing. You’ve been trained to be in battle. You’re a soldier. You know all about the armor of God, what each piece is for, how to get dressed. You’ve been briefed on what tactics the enemy will use to get to you. Nevertheless, you find yourself confounded, as if you have been slipped a mickey and suddenly your thoughts are warped. Time, itself, is bending and twisting out of shape. You feel yourself moving in slow motion and yet you see the world flying by at warp speed just by looking out the window. Without warning, nothing makes sense anymore.

But every once in a while, you are able to pull yourself together enough to remember appropriate tactics for victory. Sometimes your thoughts come together, as if the enemy forgot to dose you in time. On occasion, you recognize the sound of help charging across the horizon and you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that rescue is imminent. If only you could leave enemy territory before grief catches up to you again.

God has a way of reaching out for you, always. He remains steadfast in times of uncertainty, loss, fear, devastation, mutiny, disregard, and disobedience. When He reaches, you have to reach back.

Prayer, scripture, quiet moments of listening for the whispers, the messages of wise counsel, music, worship, gratitude, and praise are all at your disposal at all times. If you are unable to access one, reach for another.

As always, I am creating reminders for myself, but maybe you hear my battle cry from the prison where you are locked up. From one prisoner of grief to another, I’m shouting to you to let you know how you can reach the key to your cell in order to free yourself.

While you start reaching for yours, I’ll be over here working on getting out myself. I know of someone who definitely wants me to find my way out.

See that victory sign?

Make it Make Sense

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July 8th, 2023

Did you know that when you lose someone very close to you, you will still text them photos, memes, and messages when you already know they cannot receive them? Yes. I do that. (And then I see the notifications light up on his phone but pretend he’s just in the shower and will see them when he gets out.)

That’s a thing. A thing that happens in grief and loss. It is…seriously…

Logic is not Lord…Jesus Cried When Lazarus Died

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July 8th, 2023

It may take me awhile to write this one because I can feel some truths rumbling around up inside my head but they’re swirling and dodging. I can’t get a hold on how I’m supposed to put them together. There have been whisperings all morning trying to get a point across to me and I can’t latch on to it. Maybe writing will pull it all together for me…and maybe make sense to some of you.

I don’t have much focus these days. I’ve said that before. Well, let me rephrase that. My focus is on loss. And I’m going to preface this whole thing with saying that it is normal to focus on loss after experiencing it. When a person filled huge spaces of time in your life and then they’re gone, you have all of those moments to figure out how to reframe life to work in a way you can manage.

It’s like being an artist and painting a lot with your favorite color, but then they discontinue that color. It would take awhile to figure out what your art was going to look like, how to put the other colors on the canvas to fill in the areas where that color was no longer an option.

But, yes, my focus is on loss but also on that reframing. And I admit, I still have no idea how to do it. Most of my life will never look the same but I have to find a way to live in the parts that are still here. It’s scary to not know what not only tomorrow will look like but all of the tomorrows. And I think that it is ALL of the tomorrows that are tripping me up. It’s overwhelming.

Satan has a way of dragging your focus into lack. He wants you to stay honed in on everything that you don’t have. If you do that, then he might be able to convince you that God is not good. He is The Father of Lies, after all.

I cannot live like logic is Lord.

Logically, there are a lot of empty spaces in my life. Logically, there is no one to be my confidant, my best friend, my late night conversationalist, my bed partner, my confidence booster, my reminder of all things good, my comforter, my….my so-many-things. Logically, I can never financially afford to live the life we created together without him here in the long term. Or if I do manage to, I still don’t know what that will look like or how it is possible yet.

God never looked at my situation and said, “Well, once Scott gets up here with me, there’s not much I can do with you. It won’t work because you don’t have enough.” Enough love, enough peace, enough money, enough confidence, enough good, enough “Scott.” He never, ever looks at our situation and says “I’d like you to do this but you don’t have enough.”

God is the giver of enough. “God doesn’t call the qualified; He qualifies the called.” is a common phrase to hear in Christian circles. I may not be able to predict how I’m going to have enough. I may not have enough right now. But He is already holding enough in His hands, waiting for the right time to place it in front of me.

Why did Jesus only do ministry for three years before he died. Didn’t he say “God, you’re only giving me three years? How do you expect me to save the world in three years? It’s not enough.” Nope. Wouldn’t he have said “I’m going to need more followers than this. We need more witnesses to tell everyone this salvation was a real thing. That I am who I say I am. Twelve disciples will never be enough.” Nope.

And why DIDN’T God give him more time here? Because He didn’t need it. He can do what He needs to do in any time frame He wants to do it. (All of this without mentioning that Jesus is God but is also the Son, so of course he already knew all of this, but the way the Holy Trinity works is another talk for another day.)

Why did Jesus choose Judas to be a disciple, when he only had 12 disciples? Why not choose someone worthy? Because he already had a plan. Why did God choose David, who was a murderer (by proxy) and an adulterer, to name as the man after His own heart? Why did He choose Moses, a man with a speech impediment, to speak to the king asking for the release of the Israelites? Why pick Paul, who persecuted Christians mercilessly to help lead people to Christianity? Why choose a child to fight a lion and a giant? 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘏𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴.

If you were holding interviews, reading these résumés for a particular job, these would NOT have been the people you would have chosen.

But God does the undoable. He makes the impossible possible. He chooses the unchoosable (yes, I just made that word up.) He chooses situations that seem humanly impossible to show His glory and His omnipotence, to show that, with God, all things are possible.

I want to be able to live wrapped inside a bubble of faith. I want to be able to know that, come what may, it will be okay. I will be okay. Everything is possible. But there are warring forces that both desire my attention. Hard as I try, I still let the evil ones win sometimes. Especially in loss, fear, depression and despair because those things make us weaker. Those things make it a lot more difficult to “take every thought captive to make it obedient to Christ.” (2 Corinthians 10:5)

When there are days that I feel as if I don’t have the physical energy to take off pajamas and put daytime clothes on, when doing so seems like it has no purpose, when taking a shower feels like a feat of great willpower, taking thoughts captive when they are invading every moment does feel very overwhelming.

So I pray for my faith bubble. I pray for protection from the lies of the enemy. I pray to be able to recognize the glimmers of hope that may punctuate my day.

My days often feel impossible right now. And you can rest assured that the devil is in my ear constantly telling me that it is exactly that…just impossible, all of it.

I know Scott was not God. Maybe it sounds to you like I worship him when I say how wonderful he was and tell you all of the things that he was to me. But I have always just adored the fact that He was God’s gift given to me. I have praised God so many times for sending him. He was the embodiment of so many of God’s principles. He wasn’t sinless or faultless at all, but he was a wonderful reminder of God’s goodness to me.

Just because he is no longer here doesn’t mean that God’s goodness is gone. I just have to look a little harder to see it for right now, while I’m living in the loss of him.

I think the key may be in remembering to look at every today. Everyone says to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, which sounds easy if you’re not the one who feels as if you don’t have the strength to walk another step. Grief doesn’t just affect your mind. It affects your whole body.

Looking at one day, however, makes it difficult to imagine getting through some of those days but not impossible. Right now, as I sit here and write, I know that I can make it to bedtime tonight and that, eventually, I will be able to fall asleep.

What feels impossible is not knowing how long this pain will be chewing up my heart from the inside out. Not knowing how many years I have to last living without my soulmate by my side. Not knowing how I will manage to work and keep the bills all paid. Not knowing what the future looks like and FEELS like. That part is shattering and staggering and devastating and overcoming and paralyzing. That part is impossible.

While I feel like I need a plan, a map, a checklist for this journey, there is not one…that I am able see. But God is holding onto it. I want to know what my future looks like. I even want to know if there is more unexpected loss ahead (that part can bring me to my knees in an instant, just pondering it or assuming it because of what my family has been through lately.)

Look, one point of what I’m trying to say is that being in the place where I am, desperately grieving and cannot seem to find which way is up on some days, that’s okay. Crying and bemoaning this loss that changes my whole life in the most difficult of ways, that’s a HUMAN thing to do, even though I believe that God will turn it for good somehow. Jesus wept when Lazarus died. He cried. He knew it wasn’t forever but He was human as well as God. Sadness was an emotion he felt. And He knew God is good, because He is God. But He also knew the pain caused by death and so he responded to those feelings with what humans do…we cry, we mourn, we have to LEARN to put the pieces back together.

God only knows how I’m going to do that eventually. Today is the day (and every day afterwards) that I’m going to remind myself to put my trust pants on. Not my smarty pants, fancy pants, sassy pants, or bossy pants…my trust pants. You’re welcome for that visual of what each of those pants may look like.

I can only get up every SINGLE day, one at a time, and make a decision to trust Him. And then get through that day. I cannot get bogged down by the unknowns of ALL of the days ahead, just one at a time. And even on the days when I can’t imagine how I am going to continue to do this life alone, I still trust Him…because I still do know that He knows already. And He’s not going to leave me alone in the thick of it, no matter how alone I may feel.

For today, I know God’s got me, come what may. Just for today, I have to step out of the boat and start walking on the water toward Him.

And then tomorrow will be another today and I start all over not knowing whether I’ll sink or swim before the day is through.

I Lied and Said I was Busy

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July 7th, 2023

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦.

In The Before, it’s not that my Friday nights were a raging, exciting party. Quite the opposite, in fact. Friday nights were quiet. We would say “Have fun. Be safe. Wear your seat belt. Make good choices.” to the kids as we either spoke to them on the phone or they were leaving the house. Then we picked one of our favorite shows or an old or new movie on Netflix, Hulu, Prime Video, and snuggled into the living room with a bowl of popcorn and some Reese’s Pieces. Friday nights were perfect.

Sure, occasionally we would go out to dinner, or do something fun like take a mosaic class or pottery painting. We both enjoyed doing things like that. But most Friday nights were just a time to be homebodies. They were just time spent together. We’d have a running commentary on whatever was on TV, talk about silly memes on Facebook or TikTok videos, laugh until we were nearly crying over some of the most ridiculous things. I remember a couple of them vividly and some I can’t even remember what we laughed at now. But Friday nights were perfect.

Now, it’s The After. I don’t know what to do with myself on these nights now. I cannot watch our favorite shows. The new season of Lincoln Lawyer just came out and I started to put it on and then realized I couldn’t push “play.” I actually have to be very careful about what I watch because those grief ambushes are around every corner but especially when you don’t know what scenes will play on TV. Just about anything with a husband and wife hits hard.

Surfing Facebook is a gamble because the algorithm has “Suggested For You” grief pages every third post now. Thanks, social media, for figuring out exactly what will reduce me to tears. Well done.

And if it isn’t grief stuff then I’m bound to come across something I wish I could forward to him. I’d sit here next to him, copy the post to a text message, hit send, then wait for his screen to light up. He’d pick it up, read the text, roll his eyes and say “really?” and we’d laugh about it. I can still see the face he’d make when he knew I was being silly.

Browsing Amazon Prime means seeing all of the things he put in the grandbaby wish list. Sitting in our bedroom instead of the living room means his empty spot is right beside me. His phone, still on his charger on the nightstand, still lights up with every notification. Walking in or out of the bathroom means passing by his still-full dresser every time.

And yet I cannot bear to change any of these things. I cannot do anything that would “erase” him. I’m terrified of forgetting what all of the faces he made would look like. Of forgetting his laugh. Of forgetting what it sounded like when he told me that he didn’t know how he had managed to live life before me but now that he had me, he’d never ever live it without me. Turns out he was right.

This new way of life without him here isn’t even like the way of life before I met him. I had no idea what I was missing then. I’d given up on the fantasy, fairytale idea that men like him existed. There was no longing in that life. This life is nothing but. Every minute of every day, just a desperate longing for every minute of every day I had when he was here with me.

There’s a saying (and a song by the old band Cinderella) that goes “You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.” Oh, but I knew. I read the Facebook Memories posts that I’ve written over the last ten years and, over and over again, I’m reminded that I knew 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 what I had from the moment we met. And so now I know exactly what I’m missing.

Did we fuss and argue sometimes? Get on each other’s nerves sometimes? If you’ve been following my grief chronicles then you’ve already read that, yes, we did. But that was part of the beauty of it! Even when we were aggravated, there was never any fear in that.

Neither of us ever wondered if the other would get tired of it and just give up. 𝘞𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥. There was something about the connection we had as soon as we met that said “This is it; this is 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙊𝙉𝙀.”

We talked a lot about that in our first days. Neither of us ever wanted to suffer through the heartache of divorce ever again. And we didn’t. And we DID wonder how much worse this would be, one day when one of us went first. We DIDN’T have a clue it would be this soon. It was never supposed to be this soon.

We had talked about screening in the patio just so that we could put a porch swing and rocking chairs out there. So that when we were old and gray (well, older and grayER) we could sit out there and watch the grandkids play. We said we’d say things like “Well, back in my day…” and “You don’t know how easy you have it…” You know, about walking to school barefoot in the snow, uphill both ways. We were going to be the quintessential old folks together, holding hands and still kissin’ to gross the kids out. That’s what we thought. That’s what we dreamed about.

So now, I don’t know what to do with all of that. And I don’t know what to do without it. Scott made me believe that knights in shining armor really did exist, and he was mine on more than one occasion…so many occasions. I’m thankful for every day that I had him and yet there is a tiny part that knows that if he’d never shown me to believe in that life, today would be easier…if I had only not known.

Wouldn’t trade a single day for the world, though. Not one day. Because once I met him, I definitely didn’t want a world without him.

And now…what do I do with that?

Let me end on a note like this: yes, I am a Christian. Yes, I believe that God has the power to turn my world right again. It will never be the same but I know one day He will allow me to feel happy again, to experience fullness of joy. That does 𝘯𝘰𝘵 mean that I cannot be sad today. God gave me a HUGE gift in my husband; He gave me something truly 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 missing. My sadness is a tribute to how wonderful of a gift Scott was to my life because grief IS the cost of really loving someone.

And just like God can handle my anger, my failures, my flaws, my repentance, He can also walk in my sadness with me and know that each tear I cry draws me near to Him as I press in for His strength. Sadness is not sin. I am sad; I am not faithless. I know God will lift me out but today I’m in a pit of loss. I am still thankful for the immense gift of each day with my husband, but I can also be sad for each day that I will live on missing him, and for all that he will miss here, too.

For this Friday night, I am busy…

I Know You Don’t Understand…it’s okay

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July 6th, 2023

𝘐𝘵´𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧.

I hurt for my sister. I hurt deeply for her. The night my nephew died, I would have done anything to relieve even a portion of the pain she was in…the same pain she is still in except without the numbness of shock to slightly soften the blow.

I could see the pain she and my brother-in-law were experiencing. It was written all over their posture, their faces, their words. I also felt pain. This was the kind of pain you feel when someone you love deeply is in terrible pain themselves, especially a visceral, messy, stabbing and tearing pain. But I couldn’t 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 HER pain.

I couldn’t fathom it. I still cannot. I cannot even imagine the density and magnitude of the pain of losing one of my children.

Only fifteen days after my nephew died, my husband took his last breath on earth. This was an entirely new level of pain for me. It is decidedly different than my sister’s pain but there is no war over grief. We don’t hold contests for whose grief is bigger or worse. They’re different. We also carry them differently.

Trying to imagine someone else’s pain is like trying to remember childbirth ten years later. You think about it and remember thinking it was the worst pain you’d ever experienced at the time but, looking back, it doesn’t feel now like it was physically ripping you apart. That’s why our population is what it is…we can forget the immensity of the pain and agree to go through it again.

Looking at someone’s pain through the looking glass of observation makes it difficult to understand them not “getting over it.” You may wonder when they will find “closure” and move on with their lives.

Closure is for bank accounts, not for love accounts. I don’t want to close him up, seal him away in some box that I put in the spare bedroom. His clothes are still in his dresser drawers. His stuff is still on his nightstand. He still has slippers in my living room. I’m sure eventually I will have to make adjustments to those things, to some degree, but not him, not his memory. No matter where I go from here, how I travel this grief journey, he will still be here, as much of him as I can hold onto.

Next Monday will be two months since Scott ascended into the waiting arms of Jesus. Each month feels like what a year used to feel like to me, time wise. Yet as far as grief is concerned, it feels like it all happened yesterday. It still feels raw and open and festering like a wound that hasn’t even had time to clot and stop bleeding.

You may look at me and think “It would be terrible to lose my spouse, my soulmate, the love of my life. Just awful.” But I guarantee you that, for you, it is like looking back at childbirth or a severe bone break or large kidney stone; you just can’t feel how bad it was once you’re past it.

Bones heal. Kidney stones may require surgery but eventually they either pass or are removed. Childbirth ends in a completion that usually brings joy that lasts for years to come; it comes with a future to look forward to.

I’m pretty sure that this kind of grief won’t be like that. I don’t think there will ever really be a commencement ceremony for finally being free of it. Not this side of Heaven.

I’ve experienced grief before. I loved my Granny dearly. That was a tough one. My step-dad who had been in my life since I was 18. My Uncle John. Our sweet Judah, my nephew. Each of these deaths caused heart-wrenching pain and I miss these people being in my life. And yet these all felt different than what I am experiencing now.

I guess what I’m trying to say today is that you probably cannot really comprehend or unravel how this pain would feel unless you, too, have lost someone who was, in one way or another, part of your every waking moment.

The one whose expression you see in your head when you go through or do something silly, dumb, outrageous, or frightening. The one you pick up the phone to call or text with big news or small. The one whose phrases you could predict in almost any situation. The one you reach for when you’re in need of comfort, strength, love, confidence, empowerment, or just a reminder that you matter. The one who was always there and you could trust in that…always.

And if you cannot imagine it, I’m grateful. I do not wish this tyrannical enemy armed with pain and fear and loss on anyone. It is a battle that feels as if it is to the death.

If you cannot imagine it, however, do not ask someone grieving to “pull it together.” Do not say “life has to go on.” Don’t suggest “moving on.”

For us, we KNOW that forward movement is a requirement of staying here. We KNOW we have to pick up the pieces. We KNOW we have to keep putting one foot in front of the other. We are all-too-aware that the world expects us to soldier on. But the thick sludge of torment that we are living in, like quicksand, with depths that occasionally come barely below our nostrils and other times feel as if it covers every hair on our head, it is exhausting to attempt extraction from it. It feels impossible. It feels impermeable for joy, relief, hope, enjoyment. It feels like every reminder that this person we loved will never, ever be here with us again to share any of life’s moments, is another heavy boot pushing down on the top of our head. It just hurts.

So, if you find yourself not being able to truly understand, it’s okay. But that doesn’t mean you cannot help.

Pray. And pray again. And pray once more. They can be short little prayers: God, give her hope. God, give him strength. God, pour comfort over her like a balm. God, show him your presence in tangible ways. Write down and send them a prayer in a text message or card or a Post-it. Give them words to pray when their own words won’t come.

Just don’t use any words that equate to “get over it,” even if they’re more gentle words that don’t sound as crass.

That person might still feel this way in a year…or longer. They’re playing the long game. It’s like being forced to begin and finish a game of Monopoly or Risk when you didn’t even have the energy for CandyLand or Chutes & Ladders. Except there are no games here. Pony up and decide to jump into battle with them while you have stronger defenses and even effective offensive moves that they don’t have right now. Plead the blood of Jesus over them.

Prayer is an offensive move. Use it.

Grief Just Doesn’t Make Sense

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July 5th, 2023

𝘎𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯´𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦.

I can be “okay” watching TV, nothing on that pulls heart strings or anything (which is on purpose), no scene comes up that reminds me of anything, NO “trigger” at all….

I say “okay” because I don’t know what else to call it. It means I am currently floating on the top of the salty water but still out to sea.

And it hits. A giant wave 🌊 that I didn’t see or hear coming up behind me crashes over my head and slams me to the coarse sand and sharp crushed seashells at the bottom. I’m tumbling over and over trying to catch my breath as tears materialize from nowhere.

As I’m crying, I’m saying “Where did this come from??? I was fine.” And there is no answer. No reply. No sudden realization of what caused this new onslaught of despair all over again.

The thing is, it doesn’t have to make sense. It just is. Just like when he died. Why he died. How he died. None of it makes sense because it shouldn’t have happened.

Scott dying doesn’t have to make sense. It just is. There is no way to make it make sense but also no way to reverse time and change it.

I savagely interrogate myself. What could I have done differently? What could have changed the outcome? What could have kept him here? Despite the ferociousness with which I scourge myself, the answer is still the same…nothing. Dismally I realize, again, that the only things that could have been done to allow him to still be here were completely out of my hands, out of my control.

I had no control at that time and I have none now over these incessant waves of grief and torment. I’m floating in a sea of uncertainty, unable to predict the next storm of epic proportions or the next monster that will drag me under, with no land, life raft, or rescue vessel in sight.

Except…in desperation I reach for the One who made the wind and waves. And who calmed them.

As Jesus walked across the water toward the boat, Peter said to him, “Lord, if it is you then tell me to come to you on the water.” Jesus beckoned him to come. Peter stepped out on the water and began to walk on top of its surface. He had just asked Jesus to call to him to come, knowing in that moment that if Jesus called him to do it, he would be capable of doing it. Moments later, however, as he did indeed walk on the water, he quickly forgot that the power of Jesus was providing him with the ability to do it. He somehow forgot this even as he was actually doing it! He lost faith even while Jesus was being faithful. (Matthew 14:22-33)

I’m doing that very thing often. God has been faithful. He has shown His faithfulness in many other times in my life. I have testimonies of specific things that could not have occurred in the natural, only the supernatural. BUT GOD, in so many things.

Even now, I know He is here…but I forget. When the waves shove me under, I let my emotions overwhelm me and then I cannot find my way back to the top to breathe freely. I forget for awhile to look for the source of all hope. I forget that the only way I am making it through this is because of Him. I forget, when I am near drowning in my own sorrow, to look for the hand that will always be reaching out for me to save me from even myself.

As I’m typing this, words begin to fill my head.

They’re from a song that Chris Tomlin sings called “He is With Us.” I know exactly how the words were placed there for me. Part of it goes like this:

“Remember when your hope is lost and faith is shaken.
Remember when you wonder if you’re gonna make it.
There’s a hand stretched out through your deepest doubt.
We can’t pretend to see the ending or what’s coming up ahead,
To know the story of tomorrow,
But we can stay close to the One who knows.

We can trust our God;
He knows what He’s doing.
Though it might hurt now,
We won’t be ruined.
It might seem there’s an ocean in between
But He’s holding on to you and me
And He’s never gonna leave, no.
He is with us. He is with us.
Always, always.
He is with us. He is with us.
Always.”

I trust you, Jesus. The current storm and waves have calmed, just as Jesus told them to so many years ago when he was on the water with his disciples. Faith activates relief. It silences the screaming words of the enemy with just a whisper.

For now, I am “okay” again.