Tag: gratitude

Unexpected Bomb Strikes: a.k.a. Holidays

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It’s an odd feeling, a strange phenomenon, to feel happy and then be attacked by grief. It sometimes seems that happiness is an elaborate subterfuge specifically designed to precipitate sneak attacks with greater precision and devastation. The higher the platform, the deeper the dive, right? It’s like being enamored of, purely captivated by the fireworks just before you realize, only seconds before the strike, that a bomb was deployed to your exact location when the beauty of the explosion was initiated.

Avoiding grief on the holidays is a delicate dance, an intricate tango with swift turns in opposite directions in order to keep tempo and still appear graceful. I’m learning how to keep step better this year. Left, right, quickstep, back left…no! right again! Maybe by next year I’ll have the muscle memory to complete the song without even having to count off the beats in my head.

I’m headed to my sister’s home for dinner today. That’s an even trickier scenario. Two people doing the same dance but to different music and yet on the same hardwood dance floor. You try not to skid and slip, to stay on your feet and not lose count, as you attempt to avoid colliding into the other dancers. This dance you tend to do while wearing vision-impeding masquerade masks 🎭 to hide the intensity and concentration clearly written all over your face in permanent marker.

Driving in my car, I felt God wrap His arms around me this morning. A physical sensation relaying a spiritual truth. I never dance alone. God only leads the dance when I stop trying to force my own direction. When I stop struggling with the counting of steps in my head, He effortlessly takes over with such a strong lead that I realize I didn’t even need to learn the dance myself because His hand at the curve of my back and the other in my own hand, they direct each step of mine without the need for forethought. I’ll never forget, not ever, that there are empty chairs at the table; those chairs won’t ever be filled even when new chairs are placed around the same table. I am overwhelmingly grateful that those empty chairs were, at one time, filled in my home.

I’m a terrible dancer…but He makes me graceful anyway. His grace has already been poured all over me and I’m saturated in it. Today will be okay. I have many reasons to dwell in the happiness. The bomb strike will not disintegrate me today because there is no shield like the One that stands before me.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all. 🍁

Through It All, My Eyes Are On You – FOREWORD

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FOREWORD

After this post, he lived until October. The past four years has held so much loss and heartache for my family, so much so that it’s been hard to take in every single next breath sometimes.

I sat with Don (my stepdad) and gave him morphine every hour overnight until he reached for the hand of Jesus and gave up his long fight.

In early 2022, Scott’s brother died suddenly and unexpectedly at home. It tore at my heart seeing the pain that Scott and his parents, wife, and kids faced. About six months later Scott and I had to sit down with my precious daughter-in-love 𝙩𝙬𝙞𝙘𝙚 and be the ones to deliver the news that two of the most important people in her life were gone, her mother and then only six months later her grandmother. My heart shattered both times watching her world fall apart before our eyes. Only three months later my 14-year-old nephew died. I didn’t think I could manage the pain of seeing my baby sister’s world being ripped to shreds without warning. Two weeks after that, Scott was no longer here to help me shoulder grief but was now the unintended and unexpected cause of my own devastation and spiral into the depths of despair and loss. And even after this, we have lost others who have chosen to separate themselves from our lives. Grief hurts and it is true that hurt people hurt people.

If you ever wonder why I talk so much about my grief, know that it is because he (Grief) and I have gotten to know each other on a very personal level; we’re on so much more than a first name basis. Sometimes he quietly sits in a corner and sometimes he screams in rage and agony from the rooftop of my soul but he is always there; even when he hides, he is a constant companion and I doubt we’ll ever really lose touch again, like old high school friends or childhood pals. I’ve tried sometimes to lock him away in chains or behind doors, but he always finds a way to escape his shackles, seething and foaming at the mouth. Now I’ve learned that he remains less volatile, usually anyway, if I just let him quietly walk beside me and try to ignore him mostly, try not to bother him, tiptoe to keep from making sounds that might remind him that he has a job to do, that his journey to destroy is not yet complete. Maybe what I am doing is more like playing dead; if he thinks I no longer exist then why would he continue to exert any effort? But maybe it’s really more like playing peek-a-boo with a baby; he’s still there but I’m just hiding behind a blanket with my eyes closed.

What I do know? What I know that I know that I know – is that I have never been alone with him. Sometimes my kids walk with me. Sometimes my friends. Sometimes my sister, wrapped in her own cloak of pseudo-hiding. Sometimes my mother-in-law or my parents. Sometimes others who have walked the same path. Sometimes my old friend chaos comes to shadow over me, stirring me up in something that keeps my mind diverted to another temporary subject. I don’t even mind her company as much as I used to because her best friend, distraction, always accompanies her.

No matter who else is with me, God has never left my side. Yes, He becomes quiet at times. And sometimes He tries to speak to me but I sit in a corner with my fingers in my ears saying “I’m not listening, I’m not listening, I’m not listening!” just to avoid having to talk about it while I’m playing my peek-a-boo “game.” But other times…other times I run toward Him and hide behind His back instead. Grief looks and looks; I can hear him creaking over the floorboards as he gets near but somehow doesn’t see me right around the next corner. I get a blissfully transitory break from the sharpness of his claws, only a dull ache in its wake. There are times I’ve felt God lift me in His arms, a rush of wind spilling around me as I displace the air on my hurried way up. He swipes me out of Grief’s near grasp just before Grief accomplishes his ultimate goal – to destroy me, demolish my spirit, devastate my soul. That was January of 2024…felt like he got so close that time.

Whether God walks beside me, carries me, or walks quietly behind me waiting for me to turn around, He has never bored of my inattention, my lawlessness, my weeping and wailing, or even my complete attempted evasion as I’d pout like an unruly child in a temper tantrum. He has never walked away. No, He waits patiently for me to return to my roots, the ones I’ve grown in Him over years of being reminded, over and over, who He is and how His arms are really the only place that feels safe.

Later on in my grief, as I shuffled back and forth between bewailing the sorrows of my life and grasping for the sparks of light, the joy that laid within the sadness, I began to truly be thankful that deep roots grounded me here. I remembered that I am not one who grieves with no hope. I was never really lost in the storm (even though it may have felt that way, at times,) because He always knows where I am and has always had the power to calm the wind and the waves if I am only so bold as to remember and believe that He can.

Today I know – I know that I know that I know – He will.

𝙁𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙇𝙞𝙛𝙚

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September 9th, 2024

It’s possible this has turned into the longest post I’ve ever made (I know, shocking, right?) Just know you’ll need to set a few minutes aside if you choose to read on but this has some important themes regarding understanding anyone you know who is experiencing grief and depression.

I have taken some time away from writing recently, but not because it doesn’t live in me almost all of the time. I have written for myself, for my own thought processing and healing, but not for public consumption because I have been concerned over the reactions, just as I feared what this phase in my life would mean for me, personally. Notice I said I was 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 over what my readers would think (which is often different from what they will actually 𝙨𝙖𝙮) but was fearful only of what it means for me personally. The former, you have to consider in your own spirit and, as a recovering people pleaser, I hope you’ll find compassion and understanding in your heart as opposed to judgement. The latter, I took up with God and, as always, He has been walking me through how to manage the feelings that go with this. I’ve heard Him speak to my heart over it on a regular basis the last couple of months as I’ve been thoughtfully scrutinizing all of the cogs and wheels that are constantly rotating in my brain to produce thoughts, both negative and positive…and what choices will rid me of the negativity.

So here goes nothin’…

I’ve spent the better part of sixteen months sitting inside my house…”the better part” meaning 95% of the time. I had someone else grocery shopping, began working from home, had almost any food I ate (that I didn’t cook myself) delivered, and spent many, many days just sitting in my own bed…all day, in my pajamas. Somewhere around January the grief poured over me in a fresh, hot wave (Scott’s birthday is in January and he will never, ever spend any of them here, with us, again) and I found myself in a very scary place; it’s a place I’ve been only once before in my life and, both times, I had to constantly (𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮) remind myself, over and over throughout the day, of every single reason I had to be here. And yet God continually reminded me that He didn’t leave me here, living, just for me to make alternate plans.

It’s important for anyone who has never experienced major depressive disorder to know that I love my family, quite literally, more than whether or not I take my my next breath. When you’re in this phase of a depressive cycle, you battle irrational thoughts every minute of every day and many nights (all night.) It is 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 that the value of your family, your blessings, your faith, is LESS THAN the value of peace. It is that the pain of those days makes you wish for anything that will stop it and you’ve tried everything on Earth that you can think of to do so. And you also know, in the pit of your stomach, that despite how happy you try to appear, or at least how “okay” you attempt to seem, it hurts your family to see you the way you are. This makes it a struggle, an overwhelmingly vicious spiritual warfare, not to believe they’d be able to move on and would ultimately be better off if they didn’t have to watch you do this anymore. This time, though, I knew exactly how much grief costs and had learned some valuable coping mechanisms from the last time. Also, I’d like to say that experiencing depression doesn’t automatically mean that you have less faith; on the contrary, it means you have to lean on that faith all the more just to survive and, ultimately, relearn how to thrive.

I realize that not everyone who has lost someone they dearly love goes through this specific battle. Grieving is different for everyone and not everyone faces a chemical disorder that causes this particular brand of despair. I’m not telling you this so that anyone “feels sorry for” me. 𝘿𝙤𝙣’𝙩 feel sorry for me; I am winning. I’m telling you this because 𝙎𝙊𝙈𝙀 people do live in this place and, if no one tells you, it will likely never cross your mind to truly think about what it is like for someone walking that path.

I spent a lot of time crying to my best friend, actually telling her that I was having to fight to stay here. I talked to my sister (who lives this battle daily since last year) and to others to whom I’m very close. I 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 share this specific part of the battle with some people I love exactly because I didn’t want them afraid, because I have beat this before and I had every intention of doing it again. You see, this time I 𝘿𝙄𝘿 talk about it and that kept me from making other choices that poor coping mechanisms allowed me to choose in it before. 𝙄𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙖, 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙩…𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚.

Our society teaches us to be ashamed of weakness and to look at depression as just that. It teaches us to suck it up and just keep swimming. But would you tell a man with no legs to just get up and walk? No, someone would try to help make him new legs then take him to physical and occupational therapy to learn how again. In clinical major depressive disorder, you have no tools, no prostheses, except the ones others help you use until you’re back on your feet again. If no one tries to understand that we are literally missing parts then they simply cannot fathom the degree of difficulty in the circumstances; dopamine, monoamine oxidase A, seratonin, and norepinephrine levels are askew and it makes you feel “crazy” because that’s a word that society has come up with for anyone who isn’t “in their right mind.” And, just for the record and from my extensive research of a topic that affects me directly, research indicates that people with ADHD are significantly more likely to experience major depressive disorder compared to those without ADHD; studies show individuals with ADHD can be up to six times more likely to develop depression, suggesting a strong connection between the two conditions. In fact, all neurodivergents are at higher risk.

All of that wasn’t even supposed to be part of this writing when I started, but I’m often led in a direction that needs to be heard anyway. I guess today was one of those times. Excuse my temporary digression but please consider it carefully in how you react and respond to someone in the trenches of this war.

Moving on, around March I began to resurface from what often felt like drowning; many of you have read my descriptions over the past year and you may remember that being underwater or buried in a pit of mud and mire was a common theme. I was still lost in grief (some days I feel I still am but my “muscle memory” to lift out is getting better at responding sooner) but was facing the rest of the first year. It doesn’t get “easier” after the first year, by the way; it just gets different. There is a realization that, although you’ve checked off holidays and memorable events that you’ll never experience with someone ever again, now the realization hits that they’re not really checked off at all. Every year forever will be filled with the same days and every year forever they won’t be here. It felt like acknowledging surviving those days the first year was a way to feel like you accomplished something as you managed to get through them, and you did! But there will be plenty more of those unwelcome challenges to overcome. It’s like saying, Oh, HOORAY! I made it through mile 1 of a triathalon!!!” when everyone knows that’s only a drop in the bucket. You now settle in to trying to figure out what life looks like in the long haul.

One of the things I began to struggle with was how it felt as though my future, the one Scott and I dreamed of together, was just gone. Gone altogether. Poof!

While pondering this (again and again and again) and trying to see if there was any path that didn’t include daily devastation, I began to consider what ways it might look different. The vacations and trips we had planned, for example, I still wanted to do those bucket list things. I had to cancel our belated honeymoon (as we called it because we were in the throes of raising five teenagers when we married) which should have been this past summer. We were actually supposed to leave June 1st of 2023 but had postponed it to the following summer when Scott was injured in March. I didn’t want to cancel all of the rest of the dreams and plans because I’m still here and he’s already enjoying the ultimate paradise where he is now. The first task to face was thinking about how I didn’t want to do them without him and coming to terms, once again, with the fact that it is simply impossible to change that part of it.

Over a period of weeks and even months of contemplation, I got to a point where I said “I can still do those things; I can still try to enjoy doing fun things and see how that goes.” And yet I still don’t want to do them alone. So, my best friend, Kelly, and I planned a trip to Houston to see my daddy and to just have a little getaway. I knew I’d enjoy getting to see my dad and stepmom but had no idea how much I would actually be able to enjoy just living again. You may have seen our pictures. We did Escape Rooms and indoor rock climbing and theater (live & movies) and dinners. We acted ridiculous at times (iykyk) and laughed until our bellies and cheeks hurt. I honestly think it was the first time I fully realized that I’m not just alive…I’m still 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜. What a purely shocking revelation.

Coming home from that trip or maybe shortly thereafter, I told Kelly that I need to LIVE more. I think I was really surprised to know that I could leave my house and actually experience joy and laughter and fun. Be assured that there was a guilt aspect of this that I had to wrestle with, but I saw my husband looking at me with a facial expression like “what are you 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩?” and saying “Jennifer, baby, really??? Stop it.” He would have hated seeing me walk through the last almost year and a half because he loved seeing me happy. And so then I began to think (and to talk to both him and God) about my next question.

Before we left for Texas, Kelly already had a travel nursing contract planned in Kentucky. There was a part of me that felt like she was my life jacket, I think. I’m capable of being alone (clearly, ugh) but even though I can enjoy a day by my pool alone or reading a book or whatever, I can do little more than an “LOL” alone (which we all know doesn’t actually mean the person is laughing “out loud” but maybe more of a quick release of breath through their nose and a smile. Let’s be real here.) I have a handful of other close friends but, at this stage of life, most of them have husbands, families, are on their own adventures. I had to start thinking about what would happen to my plan to keep on “actually living” without my friends being the primary supporting actors in this dramatic movie that is my life.

You’ve probably guessed where this is going by now. And both God and my husband know, not only where it’s going, but exactly what it will look like. We’ve talked. A LOT.

I’ve made the decision to begin dating. Well, to begin seeking to meet people with whom I have commonalities in faith (first), importance of family, hobbies and/or enjoyable activities, and who are capable of understanding that I still love, will always love, Scott. Someone who wants to develop a friendship and then let God show us if it is intended to be any more than just that. And someone to just enjoy life with. It feels like a tall order but won’t God do it? I believe that He has held my hand and led me through deep waters and dark places to get here. I also believe that when He puts a desire in my heart (and if He puts it there then it’s one that is not out of line with His Word) it is because He has a plan. He has a purpose in it. And I’ve known through this whole last 16 months (tomorrow) that He has always still had a plan for me.

I’m almost 52. Dating is not something I thought I’d ever be doing at my age. Wouldn’t have wanted to. But my God brings beauty from ashes, and I have full faith in that. I might live until tomorrow or I might be 104 when I die. Maybe I’m actually middle-aged right now. And I do not want to spend this life alone.

I’ve learned to look at it like this:
When I was pregnant with my second child, I remember thinking “I already love Austin (my oldest) more than it should be humanly possible to love another person. HOW am I going to love another baby on that scale when Austin holds 𝙨𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝 of my heart. Of course, when Luke Reilly was born, and then Christian Owen, I learned that love never, ever gets divided; it grows exponentially to accommodate all of those whom you grow to love. I did not have to love my boys less to fall hopelessly in love with Scott and I do not ever have to love Scott less in order to, potentially, love someone else. I’ll just always love him. It seems like as simple a fact as 2+2=4.

I said this recently to another sweet girl who lost her person:
“I’m just getting to a place where I can try to look forward without looking back…and what I mean by that is that I’ve realized I don’t have to look back because he’s always just here. No matter whether I stay “in the pit” or try to move out of it, he’s going with me wherever that is. The memory of him is everywhere, in practically everything I do and everywhere I go so I’m not leaving him behind, because he became so much a part of who I am. I am who I am today because of who he was and how he loved me. That’s not just going to disappear because it’s fully engrained in the person I am today.
I guess what I’m saying is that it’s going to get easier to navigate eventually. For awhile there, I wasn’t sure that it ever would. It felt impossible. I’m not saying that grief is “gone;” I think I’m just saying that I’m learning to accept that it’s a part of who I am and may rear its head occasionally but it is not going to define me. I believe that part will come for you, too.”

I’m choosing to live by my own words. And to live my life on my own terms (as opposed to people pleasing) as long as I’m in line with God in it. I know, as surely as I know the sun will continue to rise each day, that some people will hold harsh criticism for this choice; they may not choose to say it to me, but it’ll be there in some people’s hearts. Some will think it is “too soon” or that it somehow means that I didn’t love Scott as much as I’ve said. And I’m okay with that because I look for my wisdom elsewhere.

The fact of the matter is that I have held open discussions about this with those who matter the most in this decision (in addition to God & Scott): all of my children, and my mother-in-law. My kids want me to find my inner happy again, although Luke said that anyone I decide to date better know two things: 1.) that I have three grown sons who will 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚 he respects me and treats me well and will be there to answer accordingly if he doesn’t (boy moms, you already know) 2.) he has very big shoes to fill. My response to this part was that no one will be filling Scott’s shoes; anyone new will have his own shoes and will be responsible for filling those. My mother-in-law reminded me, ever so sweetly, that Scott would not want me to spend my life lonely and that she supports me, trusts my decisions, and that they are still my family, always. 💕 I could not have asked God for more beautiful family than those with whom He has blessed me and who are all so dear to my heart.

So…now you know. I love you all and wanted you to know my heart, as always. 🫶🏼❤️‍🩹

Anniversaries are Supposed to be Happy Occasions…right?

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I didn’t make a post yesterday because I needed, for my own sanity and ability to put one foot in front of the other, to essentially pretend that it was another, everyday kind of day. None of my days will ever be the kind of normal I want them to be again; yesterday was certainly anything but “normal.”

May 10th. One year. A whole year. The longest year of my life and yet…wasn’t he just here yesterday? I will continue to say that I really don’t understand how time works after all of this. Or how it can be that my brain knows he is gone but my heart…my heart still thinks he’ll walk in the door any minute. My heart still jumps when I see his location on my phone and it says he’s home. For a split second, every time, I want to get up and go find him. And then after the split second comes the sinking feeling that he cannot be at our home because he has a new one with Jesus.

Tornados hitting the county, a tree falling and crushing my new baby almond tree, my patio furniture being slung all over the place, and no power most of the day while Lillian was with me kept my thoughts busy in the early morning. We hid in the hallway and played with flashlights with all of the curtains, shutters, and doors in the house closed until the danger had passed, then walked window to window to survey what damage we could see from inside. Soon after, a sweet friend took time out of her own busy, kid-filled schedule to just come sit in our powerless house and talk with me for a couple of hours. We talked about a myriad of things but really didn’t focus on Scott. Oh, I thought about him all day long..he’s in most of my thoughts every day…but I couldn’t really talk about him yesterday. I had wanted to spend the day celebrating who he was but then realized I could not talk about him much at all on this “anniversary day” or I would lose what composure I was managing to maintain, a slim cord wrapped around the bulging chaos of grief that wanted to spill out. So I just kept pretending.

A little later my kids started showing up to hang out while we all waited for power to return at our respective homes. We all laughed at Lillian’s antics, which tend to amp up when there are so many of her favorite people there to watch, and everyone tiptoed around what day it was…or more accurately, around what this day looked like, felt like last year. With no power, no TV or music or phones for distraction, it was a blessing to be occupied by casual conversation with others the whole day.

Luke and Patrice asked me to eat supper with them but Austin and Taylor had already invited me to go out to dinner with them at the beautiful 406 restaurant. They took me with them to their anniversary dinner and then insisted on paying for my dinner and theirs. I didn’t realize last year that it happened on their anniversary. I’ve found, along the way, that there is a LOT I don’t remember at all about those days.

Our power was restored and, thankfully, I was able to get some sleep with the A/C on. Much needed sleep because, although I’ve been dreading the arrival of this date for awhile, what I didn’t anticipate was the 9th being much worse than the 10th this time around.

The 9th, throughout the day, was a replay of what we were doing this time last year. Waiting for him to be called to pre-op. Kissing him goodbye in the pre-op area before they took him back. Telling him I loved him and he was going to be fine; I’d see him when he woke up. Sitting with his parents in the waiting room while he was in surgery. Saying goodbye to them while I was waiting for him to be taken up to a room. Seeing him at 7:00 p.m. And then it got really hard. You see, I never saw him on the 10th. Well, I did. I laid in the bed with him but he was already gone. Re-living, again, the hours from 7 p.m. to 11:43 p.m. was brutal. And then remembering the time from then until 12:45 a.m., frantically pacing a waiting room I had been shuffled to and left alone in, trying to get a hold of people I needed, until doctors came to tell me it was over…life, as I knew it and loved it, was over. And the feeling of the cold wall against my back and my shoulder as I slid to the floor, unable to hold my own weight. No. No. No.

That film has played in my head many times during sleep over the last year but usually, while awake, I’ve been able to redirect myself. There are too many whys, what ifs, why didn’t I’s, why didn’t theys, and the ever present “what else could I have done; what should I have done differently to make them save him.” I don’t have a choice when I’m asleep, until I wake in sweat, but in the daytime I can usually waylay the thoughts, except for this time. It’s like when you think about the Challenger explosion, or 9/11, or the Oklahoma City bombing, and you not only remember exactly where you were and what you were doing at that moment but you can feel the shock and devastation you experienced then. This time I was unable to let go of it until I had walked through much of those hours again. The last hours. I’m sure “anniversaries” are different for everyone but I now know that the anniversary of the day before will always be harder than the day they officially called off the code and delivered news to me. By then, he was at peace…and I was desperately clinging to strands of faith that one day I’d find peace here before I go to be with him again.

Looking back, this year has been a picture of God’s hand at work after tragedy. Friends I’m blessed with rallied around and poured love over our family. Some of those same friends have been very steadfast throughout this whole year, understanding that this wasn’t a pain that would disappear after the visitors and meals stopped coming, after the funeral was done. Financially I shouldn’t have been able to maintain what I have been able to thus far. Many times I thought I may be forced to break mine and Scott’s promise to the kids that I would stay home to keep Lillian at least until her mama finished nursing school…but God. Every time I prayed I could keep the promises that Scott and I had made, every single time, God made a way. While I will have to return to work soon, it won’t be before what we committed to. I’m not sure what that work will be but God has given me a year to heal and learn how to manage my grief before needing to concentrate on whatever my new job will entail. I do not even have words to express how thankful I am for this time.

And Lillian, my beautiful, sweet granddaughter. God knew, long before we did, how much she was going to be needed in our family, the light she would bring in darkest sorrows, the joy she would spread even when sadness seemed to reign over everything, the hope she would sprinkle over grown ups, not even knowing that she was doing it.

I haven’t posted much online lately but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing about him. This last month, especially, has given me much to write. Now, though, for the most part, I am saving my words for print. I still have a lot to learn about publishing and a lot of choices to make about how to do this, but if everything goes well, and I believe God is in it so it will happen, I will have a book out sometime this year. I always thought my novel would be the first (and really only) book I would write but this book has written itself in my words but by God’s voice of hope intermingled with my trauma. I’ve decided to finally tell about what happened to my husband and how he died…why he died. I have also decided to add in some other very sensitive subjects about loss, widowhood, and being left behind, that I have written over the last year but decided were not social media material. They’ll be in my book. I’m saying this now because Scott really wanted me to publish my novel. He was proud of my writing, even when I felt like I couldn’t get it right, sounding like I wanted. He believed in me so much more than I ever have. He encouraged me endlessly to do this thing I never felt worthy or capable of doing with any success. I do not care, though, about success in an author’s terms. The success is in completing another thing we had planned to do together. This first book won’t be my Christian fiction novel, although I hope to one day finish the other half of it, too, but this book was born of pain and healing, of loss and still living, of devastation clinging to hope. And it is filled with him.

Today is the 11th. This year has been like a marathon (and I 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 running) with those little tents throughout the race where you stop to drink or fuel up before continuing on. My stops weren’t fuel ups, though. They were days I had to get through. Instead of marking my progress by how many fueling stations I had passed (I don’t even really know what marathoners call them) my progress was marked from one day I made it through to another. Holidays, birthdays, probate dates, and tasks completed. The thing about this marathon, though, is that when I finally felt my chest hit the ribbon at the elusive finish line…it wasn’t the finish line at all. It was yet another starting line and I cannot leave until I finish. But when I finish this one, there’s still only another start again. Every marathon, every year that passes, flows into the next and the next with no end, like some ride that you cannot step off of because it never stops moving so, so fast. I’ve gotten through all of the “firsts.” Now I have to learn how live without just surviving each day. So starts a new year…and God will still be in the outcome.

Another Monthversary

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Today is the 10th. It’s been eleven months. For some reason this landmark in my journey is trying to turn my balance beam into a tightrope. Eleven months means that, right around the corner, I’ll soon be looking at having spent an entire year without him in my life. I don’t know how this can be. And how can it still feel so surreal when I have battled, struggled, and wrestled with grief like a black belt Brazilian Jiu Jitsu champ.

Still, my perspective is changing. I’m still sad and still miss him terribly; I think I’ll always, always be sad on some level and I’ll definitely always miss him, every day forever on Earth. Along with those emotions, though, I’m starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, the horizon is changing a little bit. It will never change back to how it was, but there may be some light up ahead. I find myself wanting to celebrate his life and what we had together more often than devastatedly grieving his death. Yes, there are moments the grief overtakes me and the nightmares encroach on my wellbeing, but it’s less often than before.

It’s springtime outside, mine and Scott’s favorite season. The smell of fresh-cut grass, flowers beginning to bloom, sunshine earlier and later in the day, and time for planting new things. I think that being outside planting, watering, pruning, deadheading, and fertilizing has not only kept me busy but feeling closer to the one who would have been here doing it with me. When I think of things he used to say or do now, I find myself smiling a little more often rather than desperately feeling the loss of never having those moments again. Not always, but at least sometimes now. He brought true joy and love to my life and I’m thankful that I’ll never be the same because he changed me in all the best ways.

Springtime after winter is like a rainbow after the rain. It is ripe with promise of change for the better. It brings a feeling of starting again…or at least of continuing on. Springtime, for me, is hope. God created many reminders that we can keep starting over. A sunrise always eventually comes after a sunset. Rainbows after rain. Jesus on the cross. My husband’s death was a semicolon for me. I wanted to end the sentence but it wasn’t finished yet; there is more to be said and done. I take one day at a time while I wait, sometimes impatiently, for God to unfold my assignment, a way to be used by him for good.

For now, baby, I’ll hold you in my heart until I hold you in Heaven. I miss you so much. (And you would have loved watching this little rugrat we have running around now. I often think of how much you’d laugh at her and get on to me for getting onto her about something.)

The Span of Ups and Downs

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Grief makes you feel bipolar. It feels like I think having a legitimate care of bipolar or multiple personality disorder would feel.

Yesterday, despite the fact that it was the eleventh monthversary of his death, I felt somewhat hopeful and just thankful for what we did have when he was here: a kind of love that many people never experience in a lifetime and that it was so very easy to keep the covenant of “til death do us part.” The sun was shining outside. The weather was gorgeous and the temps in the 70’s. Nostalgia wasn’t making me sad yesterday.

This morning I was on my way to pick up my granddaughter and had my music on shuffle. An old song by Styx came on the radio: “Don’t Let It End.”

“What can I do
Pictures of you still make me cry;
Trying to live without your love,
It’s so hard to do.
Some nights I’ll wake up,
I’ll look at your pillow
Hoping that I’ll see you there.
But I get up each day, not much to say
I’ve nowhere to go.
Loneliness fills me up inside
‘Cause I’m missing you…. Don’t let it end;
I’m begging you, don’t let it end this way.”

Yes, I know this song is an obscure piece of music history. The lyrics are, in actuality, about two people who broke up and he’s begging her to try again, to get back together. This morning, though, this part tried to pull me back toward the abyss that is grief. It doesn’t help that today is rainy with thunder and lightning. A day with very little light.

This is a perfect example of what grief does to people. One minute you’re fine. You think you’re figuring it out. Thinking you are figuring out how to keep living makes you feel a little bit manic, like you finally cracked the code to a lock you’ve been trying to remember the combination for forever. You get a dopamine hit from what feels like an almost impossible success.

Drastically and suddenly, with no warning, reasonable cause, or explanation, something causes your foot to slip from the tightrope and before you know it you’re hanging from a thin line by your fingertips while the wind is blowing, rain makes the rope slick, and you look down to see a bottomless pit. Except there is probably a bottom down there somewhere and it wouldn’t be pretty to hit it…again. The “bipolar” feeling hits again. “I was just okay; what happened???”

The thing is, I have choices when this occurs. Choice #1: continue listening, dig deep to really feel the words, and end up so deep in the hole that it’s hard to find a foothold to climb back out. Choice #2: change the station.

Here are a few verses to consider:

“The eye is the light of the body; so then if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. . . .” (Matt.6:22-23)

This passage reminds me to pay attention to what I put into my mind through my vision. Be careful what I watch on TV or read in books, for example. If my vision starts to stray to something unsavory (from a spiritual perspective,) I should change my view by altering my perspective or averting my eyes elsewhere.

“You will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You, because he trusts in You.” (Isaiah 26:3)

This verse reminds me that I will find peace if I change my thought process and aim toward spiritual things (whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Phil. 4:8)

More than anything you guard, protect your mind, for life flows from it. (Prov.4:23)

I have to guard what is allowed to infiltrate my thoughts; my life is influenced by what I allow.

“My son, pay attention to what I say; listen carefully to my words. Don’t lose sight of them; let them penetrate deep into your heart. For they bring life to those who find them and healing to their whole body.” (Prov 4:20-21)

Finally, my ears are a direct line to my heart. Music has always told me this because it has the power to elicit deep emotional responses. The Bible says that the Word of God in one’s ears brings life to those who find them and will heal their whole body.

This morning, I changed the station – literally and figuratively. I chose to pick a different playlist, and the song that played first on that station was “Healed” by Nichole Nordeman. This song sounds pretty somber, too, but the words are life-giving because they remind us of who we are, even in adversity; we exist but are incomplete until He reaches our hearts.

“We stutter and we stammer til You say us,
A symphony of chaos til You play us.
Phrases on the pages of unknown
Til You read us into poetry and prose.

We are kept and we are captive til You free us,
Vaguely unimagined til You dream us,
Aimlessly unguided til You lead us home.

By Your voice, we speak.
By Your strength, no longer weak.
We are no longer weak.

By Your wounds we are healed…

Passed over and passed by until You claim us.
Orphaned and abandoned til You name us.
Hidden undisclosed til You expose our hearts.

By Your death we live.
It is by Your gift that we might give.”

Today, my path was redirected because I changed my destination. Understand, though, that this isn’t something that is easy to do at all in early grief. There was definitely a time when I felt altogether incapable of redirecting my thoughts to anything but loss. And that is okay because it was part of processing the reality of the loss I have experienced. Even now, there are days I will still dig deep into the sadness and sit in it for awhile because something inside me needs to acknowledge my husband’s absence and the effect it has had, is having, and will always have on my life. Then, once I have had an opportunity to acknowledge those feelings, I’ve learned that if I change tracks to being thankful for the time we did have to spend together and for the beauty of our relationship while he was here, I am slowly and gently filled with peace. It all comes down to me being the boss of my thoughts and remembering that this life on Earth is merely one star in a sky of endless ones; it is the puréed spinach at the beginning of a long life of steak and baked potatoes, fresh bakery pastries, and millions of other delectably delicious delicacies. It gets infinitely better after this part that we’re slogging our way through.

If you’re grieving, know that it is okay if you’re not at this place yet, where you can take control of where your thoughts take you. I really think we need to go through the place where grief completely takes over. It sucks, but I think it’s necessary as our brains try to wrap around what happened and learn to grow our lives around it. If we shove those thought and feelings away in the beginning, if we just decide not to deal with them, they do not go away. We’re only hiding them so that they can explode later. It is not possible to ever eliminate them but allowing yourself to feel them takes away some of their power later on. If you’re not there yet, accept this hope that it does become easier to manage eventually. For me, right now it’s intermittently; sometimes it still rears its ugly head and tries to take me out but I seem to be able to find my way out of the pit a little more quickly after all the practice I’ve had climbing up.

The way God works, once you have experience hiking your way through dense and unexplored terrain, you’ll make a great trail guide for others who are trying to follow the same path behind you. You’re struggling now but one day you may be someone’s lighthouse on stormy seas. It’s a job you never wanted but someone will be grateful for you. ♥️

A Break in the Storm Clouds

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Grief is something that attacks not only when you find yourself unaware, but also when you are fully cognizant of the fact that it is coming again. I’ve known for months that my wedding anniversary would be a day that brought deep feelings of loss. So much so that I found it difficult to remember and honor the blessing of that day.

I was blessed beyond measure to have met my husband, to have fallen in love with him and he with me. I was overwhelmingly blessed in the fact that he was such an amazing caregiver, not only to others by way of his profession but to me, as well. He took care of my heart so gently, with such kindness, compassion, and with an immeasurable love. I get so stuck sometimes in the feeling of being cheated by his death that it can be difficult to just be thankful for his presence in my life the years that we had each other, to be grateful that he was ever mine to begin with. Loss covers me so deeply that I tend to ignore the fact that if I never had him with me at all I wouldn’t be grieving now but would have missed out on so much that was worth the unbearable pain I now feel. I would not trade one for the other, not in a million years.

I’ve said it before but I truly believe that there are many who never experience the kind of relationship we had. There are women and men who search their whole lives and never find the beauty of what we were blessed to have. There are many who settle for so much less because they lose the ability to even believe something like it exists, have just given up on ever finding it, or are in so much of a rush to be with someone that they fall into the trap of believing that this is just as good as it gets. I was forty years old when I met him but we crammed a lifetime of amazing adventures, heartfelt moments, life lessons, and very special memories into that small span of time. I still want more, but I am thankful for every moment I had with him.

Because grief comes in crashing waves, though, it’s really hard sometimes not to feel lost and drowning in the undertow. Grief doesn’t come in the kind of waves that soothe you to sleep from the beach; it’s in the kind of waves that cover you in the shadow of a high arch that you already know is going to throw you into the ripping fire coral and broken seashells on the bottom. The kind of waves that hit one after another, sometimes in such quick succession that you aren’t sure if you’ll ever make it to the top to breathe again. In the tumult of those moments, it is almost impossible to reach for the peaceful moments of beautiful memories because the panic that rises within you is all-consuming.

I know the One who calms the wind and the waves. Yesterday morning I reached for him in the absence of my husband and He came quickly with the offer of a leisurely day of spending time with my children and my granddaughter at the zoo. Yesterday I experienced a day of peace. I thought of my husband often, of times we had been at that zoo together, of how his eyes would have lit up with joy over seeing our sweet grandbaby experience seeing all of these things for the first time and of toting her around on his shoulders, but I didn’t spend the day in mourning his absence. My boys are better men because of having known him. My granddaughter will never remember him but is already being taught who he was and how he lived. She will grow up knowing he loved her very much in the short time he knew her. My life is vividly vibrant in so many ways for having loved him, even in the times it seems darkness is all I can see right now some days.

Today, because of the grief-rest I enjoyed yesterday, the waves have slowed down to gently lapping the shore. I’ve been carried back to the beach by the One who walks on water. For today, the storm has calmed despite the fact that in just over a month it will have been a full year since he changed his address to a place prepared for him in Heaven. I know the weather is fickle, but I’ve weathered many storms simply because the God of all creation is intent on protecting me from the cacophony and chaos of loss, even when I am wind-tossed and overwhelmed. Abba God, remind me, in my darkest and stormiest moments, to reach for the rock that is higher than I. Lead me, Lord; I will follow.

Hear my cry, O God,
    listen to my prayer;
from the end of the earth I call to you
    when my heart is faint.
Lead me to the rock
    that is higher than I,
for you have been my refuge,
    a strong tower against the enemy.

Psalm 61:1-3

Whatever Is True…

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Yesterday is hard to explain. If you’ve been following my grief journey then you know two things: 1.) I am a Christian and know God is here for all of it. 2.) I’m very real in my writing about when it doesn’t feel like He is but knowing He hasn’t left me here alone.

Yesterday was our wedding anniversary. If I’m being honest, and I always am in my writing even when it sounds pitiful, I cried more and harder yesterday than I have since the first few weeks he was gone. More than at Thanksgiving or Christmas. More than birthdays. More than all of the everydays that have passed since he was here. Those days all belong to a lot of people. Even birthdays, many people celebrate birthdays with you. This day, it was all ours. It was the day that “til death do us part” was promised. In less than two months it will be one year since “til death do us part” became reality.

It is difficult having an anniversary without the one who created that special day with you through a shared covenant with God and each other. We should have been celebrating it together. My memories on Facebook showed posts both he and I had made over the years, declaring how thankful we were to have found each other, how in love we were, how we couldn’t wait to spend more years and years together. It was also filled with photos of prior anniversary activities. The memories yesterday, at least for this year, made me feel more bitter than sweet. I love that we made so many beautiful memories together but am angry and sad and feel cheated that there will be no more. I kept trying to remind myself to think of whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent and praiseworthy. I kept trying to praise and be grateful for the time we did have together. I kept trying, but it was hard to feel it. My mind fills with sorrow for what the rest of my life looks like without him. The loneliness. The lost laughter. The absence of arms wrapped around me when I’m sad, scared, frustrated, or happy, excited, and loved. I’ve made it through a lot of days without him so far, 316 as of yesterday to be exact.

316. My anniversary was 316 days after his forwarding address became Heaven. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life.” John 3:16

It was only this morning that I was pointed to this realization, the 316 days. God watched his son die, just as I had to watch my husband. After Jesus rose again, God took him to Heaven just as He did my husband. Because God willingly made that sacrifice, like I so unwillingly did with my husband, I will have the opportunity to see him again one day and also to spend the rest of my eternity in the presence of Jesus.

I’ll still always, always wish we had longer here together, in this life. I’ll spend the rest of my life not knowing why it ended so soon and in this way. But I’m trying again, today, to be grateful that it is not over. “Til death do us part” only means in this world, not the next. And, for me, my marriage didn’t end at death. People call me a widow but I am married. My husband is just on an extended remote assignment and currently has no way of communicating with family, just like when he was in the deserts of Iraq during Operation Desert Storm. This time, though, he won’t be the one coming home…we will.

The Desert

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When I picture a desert landscape, I see sand – lots and lots of yellow sand – cactus upon cactus, maybe some of them with a few pink flowers on them, and perhaps a mirage. That’s about it. Probably blue, sunny, cloudless skies because deserts are very hot.

The desert has dormant seeds, though, that turn into wildflowers! And not just a few here and there; at certain times of year, parts of the desert are carpeted in wildflowers. Those seeds that lay beneath the sand, unbeknownst to anyone traveling a dusty road through the vast desert land, are waiting for the right opportunity to burst forth and bring beauty to an arid landscape.

My soul has felt like a desert for a while now. Dry. Cracked earth. Spiritual food and water are available but sometimes I don’t know what’s “safe” to eat. Some things people offer as comfort are not comforting at all. I have to turn to The Good Book to know I’m getting real nutrition.

The thing about those wildflowers, from what I read, is that they need very specific conditions to bloom and that is why it doesn’t happen often. They need at least one inch of rain to blossom.

I cannot make it rain more often in the physical desert. In my personal desert, a place most often devoid of happiness and enjoyment, I do know where my help comes from. The problem is holding onto that help long enough to get a whole inch at one time.

In the literal desert, humidity is so low that not enough vapor exists to form rain clouds. In the rain shadow desert of southern California, coastal storms from the Pacific Ocean try to blow in to reach the desert but are blocked by Mount San Jacinto and Mount San Gorgonio. It stays dry on the Eastern side of the mountains.

I find my desert often blocked by mountains built by the enemy. Rain is produced but is sometimes stopped from reaching me due to shouting from the enemy inside my weary head. Weary of fighting for strength and joy and “normalcy.” There is no more normal. People say there will be a “new normal” but I’m learning it will never feel “normal”again. It will just always be different in a way it was never supposed to feel. (You can argue “supposed to” and “it was part of God’s plan” with me but I have an entire discourse to kindly but fervently release upon you should you care to discuss it. God knew my husband would die, yes. He, however, did not cause or plan it. He is only capable of GOOD.)

The goal is to keep trying to create the right conditions for enough rain to meet my desert without being blocked by the mountains. There is an entire ocean of water to evaporate from and bring to my desert but I have to keep chipping away at these mountains. They are called despair, hopelessness, depression, fear, to name a few. Oh, I have a hope. I have complete faith about where my husband is now and that I will join him one day. But the hope has not managed to soak my earthly soul yet, for what the rest of my life will look like here.

If my imagery hasn’t hit you fully yet, God is the ocean, Satan and his gnarly minions are the mountains, I am the desert. And I still have these dormant seeds lying within a parched ground. The Bible tells me that I can say to this mountain to be lifted up and cast into the sea…and it will. I believe it…for me, though, it seems to be moving one pebble at a time.

The fact that the mountain is veeeerrry slow moving causes some degree of a crisis of faith for me sometimes. The enemy tries to tell me “if you’re such a strong Christian, a true believer, and God is who you think He is, why is your mountain so hard to lift, huh? Why am I still here, able to hold onto your rain?” And then I remember, over and over again, that God did not ever say I wouldn’t have trouble in this life; much the opposite, in fact. John 16:33 says “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (emphasis mine)

Jesus had trouble. He had so much that he cried and asked God to change what was happening…but the plan for his future was necessary. It was immovable, unchangable, if God intended to create a path to salvation for all of His children. Jesus wept. Jesus prayed. Jesus still died. Jesus rose again.

“I have told you these things so that, in me, you may have peace…” Yes, in Him I have peace at the very core of my spirit even as battle rages within me. I have the peace that I will see my husband again one day. I have peace that I will not always live in a place where there is worry, loss, despair. That does not change what I feel now, just like it didn’t make even Jesus feel carefree that it would soon be over; he still had to live through what physically hurt more than I can imagine.

I’m not a failed Christian because my flowers aren’t blooming yet in this desert where I now reside. (Neither are you if this post aligns with what you are feeling in your own grief.) It’s my desert; I know where the seeds lay planted. I also know they will only be dormant for a time. I know God is brewing up a rain cloud of epic proportions to pour over me because when the enemy fights the hardest it is because God is about to do something big in the Kingdom. I may be down, but I am not out.

Today I will keep seeking sources of living water. Tired as I am, I will continue to search for that which can make my dormant seeds bloom. I have been planted in this season to one day give testimony to what He does in tremendous loss. He stays. He protects my heart. He fights for me when I have no fight left. He is here. Faith means I don’t have to feel it to know that it is still true.

”Even the wilderness and desert will be glad in those days. The wasteland will rejoice and blossom with spring crocuses. Yes, there will be an abundance of flowers and singing and joy! The deserts will become as green as the mountains of Lebanon, as lovely as Mount Carmel or the plain of Sharon. There the Lord will display his glory, the splendor of our God.“
‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭35‬:‭1‬-‭2‬ ‭NLT‬‬

Rescue Me

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I’ve been pretty sick this week – cough that sounds like a garbage disposal with a fork stuck in it, voice that sounds like a 90-year-old who smoked filterless Marlboros for 80 of them, and a trash can full of used tissues – and yet still, somehow, I’ve been on a temporary upswing. Last week I had diverticulitis and every day of that I felt as if my head was being held underwater (emotionally) because it is hard being sick alone when your spouse was a dedicated caregiver. Mine was a nurse so, even when I said I was okay, he tended to anything I needed and was extremely compassionate. Now, although I’ve lived through being sick alone before I met him, I really, really miss him being with me when I feel bad.

After getting over the diverticulitis and almost immediately being struck down with some viral nonsense, this week of sickness I’ve somehow managed to be on an emotional upswing. I got it in my head that I needed to do some simplifying of my life, purging things from my house that we never used, tidying up, organizing. It was like “spring cleaning” came early and I was on a rampage to rid this house of extraneous things (none of them things that were specifically his.) And it felt good to be “putting my life back in order.”

If you read my previous chapter then you know that I already anticipated a downswing. I’m here to tell you that when the crash comes, it hits like a head-on Mack truck. This afternoon my brain is telling me that none of this cleaning up even matters. It would matter if he were here, but he is not. He would have appreciated all of this reorganizing and spiffing up of things. He would have enjoyed it just like I have been liking the new feel of it. But he can’t. And the fact that I am “enjoying” it on my own is the opposite of numbing. At times today it has felt like walking through my home when, instead of hard wood flooring and carpet, there is grass filled with sand spurs throughout the whole house. It makes you gasp and then fear taking another step.

There is more I want to do, in various rooms of the house and even outside, to feel like I have accomplished what I have set out to do. It takes little jobs here and there because I often tire or lose the will to finish. Before I sit down to work on my novel again, I feel like I need this in order to achieve clarity of thought, and yet I don’t know whether that is just a pipe dream…a way of working to force something that cannot be forced. I’m a problem solver, by nature, and I haven’t yet discovered an effective way to fix this. I’m doing all of the things I can think of and yet I still see no way “out.” I’m going to hate the way this ended for as long as I live. I’m going to know it never should have been this way. I think I’m always going to want to go back.

I’m thankful to know that both God and my husband are ahead of me and not just behind. God is still here, in the ethereal way that He exists in every breath that I breathe. My husband, well, in a way he is part of every breath, as well, because I can’t breathe without wishing he was standing beside me, laying next to me, holding my hand, touching my face. It’s strange how someone I knew as a physical presence in the world, someone I could touch and laugh with and fall in love with and go on adventures with, could be less present than the God who always stays. Scott’s memories are always with me, the memory of him…but I don’t feel him here. And yet God, whom I have never had the honor of laying eyes on or whose skin I have never touched, Him I can feel. There are still times I can almost feel God as a physical presence wrapped around me and His peace envelopes me like warm water.

Today, as I struggle with another deep dive off the face of the cliff that is grief, the one I climb over and over but inevitably fall from again and again, God is here. He never lets me hit the rocky crags of stone that are at the bottom of the cliff face. He never lets me drown in the tossing and churning waves at the bottom. I fall and I fear the crash. And the fear, the panic of the idea of falling so far, so deeply into the chasm that I cannot climb again, feels like a crash in itself. And it’s not only the fear of hitting the bottom, of drowning in the salty waves. It’s the fear of trying to find the energy to get back up. I dread the climb because it’s exhausting to get up every day, reaching for a higher point than I’ve ever reached in this journey, and knowing that, at any moment, I could slip again. Knowing that, at some point, I will fall again and have to start over yet again. I’m only eight months in and I’m weary of the workout…with forever to go.

I do find that, most days, I don’t seem to fall as far down as I used to fall. I also find that I don’t lay there at that landing for as long before I can stand up, determined to try again. I’m noticing that I’m developing some muscle memory for how to ascend and that some days I remember where the footholds are without having to look as hard for them. The times when it feels like I’m completely starting over are a bit farther between. Today, I’m choosing to be grateful for that.

When I go to bed tonight, I’m going to tell God, again, that I trust Him. I’m going to tell Him that I know that He sees the path I need to take and ask Him to keep directing my steps. I’ve often prayed that He not let me fall back down again but I’m learning that every time He catches me sooner, I trust Him more to do it the next time. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make the fall less scary while I’m in the freefall…but it does make the idea of falling less frightening. I guess it’s like parachuting. There is trepidation but as you check your harness over and over, seeing that everything is safely as it should be, you learn each time you ready yourself to jump that you will be safe when you reach the ground, more and more so each jump that you do, indeed, land safely. And yet as you take that first step off the floor of the plane into open air and gravity, there must still be at least a few moments of terror and adrenaline before the chute actually opens. I’ve landed safely enough times to know I will survive this somehow, but that doesn’t stop the sudden panic when gravity pulls me down at breakneck speed.

Writing typically calms me and so, now, I am on level, if lower, ground. I don’t think I’ll try climbing tonight. I think I’ll go to bed resting, trusting Jesus to keep me safely in the hammock of His arms, and wake tomorrow to try again. I’ll wake, have coffee, and begin one of the projects I have planned for organizing my home and see if I can get a foothold again. Thank you, Father, for rescuing me…again.