Tag: Grieving

Forgiveness & Trust

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Overcome evil and anger by praying for those who hurt and abuse you.

I’ve been like a bear with my paw caught in a trap, wanting to wound the one who could release me in my pain and anger. In this case, my release was only possible by offering grace to the captors who placed me here.

Tonight, I’ve been given the instruction from God to forgive the people who were party to my husband’s death and to offer them grace, yet with the full knowledge and trust that God has the power and omniscience to handle the outcomes. If they realize their errors, their negligence, and learn from that experience, He has the power to make them better from it, because that won’t bring Scott back but that is still a positive outcome. Or He could guide them on a path where they never make the same poor judgements again because they are unable to forget the tragedy that their actions caused. He also has the ability to enter circumstances into their lives to prevent them from ever hurting anyone else if His foresight shows that they refuse to heed the education that this situation is able to provide for their futures. God has called me, in the wee hours of the morning, to trust Him to do that. He calls me to pour out grace upon grace just as He has flooded it over me. And trust me…I’ve needed grace upon grace, too. We all do. Just different kinds.

This is not an easy task to undertake (and make no mistake, it is a chore, a job, an unearthly, overwhelmingly difficult undertaking.) Only He, however, has made it possible because the choice to follow His instruction was more of an obligatory mandate than a decision. I can see the peace on the other side of it even as I feel called, yet because of my own stubborn and hurting heart, still hesitant, to enter into it. Trusting Him is easy; trusting and forgiving them is not.

I’ve chosen whom I will serve. The Bible says that you cannot serve two masters. It’s talking about serving God or a love of money in this particular scripture but it applies, also, to the fact that you cannot serve both God and the enemy. If you choose one, you are no longer serving the other. Jesus won me over a long time ago because He loved me enough to die for me. So, when God says to forgive, I choose to obey. Forgiveness is a choice. You don’t always feel like you have forgiven when you choose to do so. You may still have anger (I do.) You may still have difficulty feeling as if you have truly forgiven them (I do.) But the obedience to God and His Word are important. The choice you make to say “I forgive them, Lord. I’m trusting You to help me do it within my heart and I believe justice comes from You” is what makes all the difference, even if you have to say it day after day after day.

So, I am saying it here, as a reminder that I did, in fact, say it and in hopes I’ll truly feel like I’ve forgiven despite the fact that I will never be able to forget. I can’t forget what they didn’t do, but should have. I can’t forget because I still have nightmares, awake and asleep, about it. But I’m choosing to forgive them.

There is a peace that eventually comes with forgiveness. I mean, I know because I’ve done it in other circumstances. That hard won peace is worth the work it takes to get to a place where you let go of what can never change and let God work in your heart over it. And listen, I’m not bragging about doing this at all. This is me writing it out in the hopes that, as I do, it becomes cemented in some way, becomes real, becomes some kind of lasting thing that takes root because it’s hard sometimes. This time.

If you’re in a place of grief that is accompanied by anger, choose this day whom you will serve. Choose with me, the only path that leads to healing. Choose to forgive and speak it out loud. God will honor your decision to make the difficult choice to follow Him in this endeavor. Judgement is mine, says the Lord. I forgive them; (I forgive them. I forgive them. I forgive them, Lord.) I also hope that one day, here or in Heaven, I get to see how that plays out in the people who were a party to the biggest loss in my life thus far.

For Auld Lang Syne

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I’m sitting here, expecting to hear fireworks any time now, and doing what people do on New Year’s Eve – thinking back over what the year has brought…and, more acutely, what it has taken away.

When the clock strikes midnight tonight, people will raise a glass, kiss, and then burst into the lyrics of the song “Auld Lang Syne” as they watch the ball drop in Times Square. Oh, what I’d give to have even one more chance, but better yet a lifetime, of this with my husband.

Roughly translated, the phrase means “old long since,” or, more understandably in English, “for old time’s sake.”

The U.S. Embassy in Italy maybe explained it best in a blog post: “The lyrics of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ pose the question: How do we best remember the memories, friends and experiences of this year and the years before? The answer, the songwriter tells us, is to ‘share a cup of kindness yet’ as we journey into the new year.”

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And the days of auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet
For the sake of auld lang syne

And surely you will buy your cup
And surely I’ll buy mine!
We’ll take a cup of kindness yet
For the sake of auld lang syne

We two have paddled in the stream
From morning sun till night
The seas between us Lord and swell
Since the days of auld lang syne”

From the original Scottish, it does not mean to question whether old acquaintances should be forgotten and never again brought to mind. My interpretation (or translation) of the intention of the song is to say “let’s drink a cup of kindness for the sake of those people we cherish, for old time’s sake.”

Because, for me, they are not and will never be forgotten, although I often fear the loss of the minutiae. I fight a daily battle to continue on, and yet to also hold onto every tiny detail I can possibly remember.

If you are making new memories with someone you love tonight, recognize in that moment that that’s exactly what you’re doing; you’re creating a memory to look back upon. Relish it. Cherish it. Protect it. More than anything, take a moment to be grateful for it.

I will not be making new memories tonight, but I will be cherishing and offering up gratitude for the ones I was able to make with Scott and with sweet Judah. Time is a thief and the devil is a liar. I will not let that steal my joy or my gratitude for the time I was able to love them. ♥️

Your Process is YOUR process

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If you’ve seen my Christmas tree in the background of photos this Christmas of Lillian, my granddaughter, you may have noticed that it is bare except for lights and the angel. I decorated as much as I could for Christmas this year; I wanted to be dedicated to celebrating the birth of Jesus despite my sadness and longing for it to be different this year. The ornaments, though…

One peek inside the ornament box, beautiful hanging memories tucked away every year, safely prepared for the next, exposed ornaments that my husband had bought for me over the years we were together. I put up the tree, turned on the lights, and pulled the angel from the top of the box, which we usually put on last. All of that was challenging but I did it. And then I began to unwrap ornaments to place on the tree…and promptly fell apart, another moment of the carefully glued together pieces falling apart again, memories scattered on the floor all around me at my feet. Once again, the angel was the last thing I placed on the tree; this time she is alone.

This is a process of rebuilding and falling apart, constantly. Last night I went to see Suwannee Lights with Luke, Patrice, and Lillian. I was overjoyed to see how excited she was and how rapt her attention was on each new display. She barely stopped bouncing, babbling, and shrieking with joy all night. My kids didn’t stop smiling, ear-to-ear, at the thrill of watching her experience this newest “first.” It was beautiful. And then we reached the display for the armed forces. I was fine until we got to the Air Force tribute and the man, in full dress uniform, accepting donations for the Wounded Warrior Project. We stopped and Lillian put money in his basket while I fought back tears, yet again. Oh, how Scott would have LOVED seeing her love this and seeing our other beautiful granddaughter. (You don’t see much about Emery on my posts because I have only seen pictures of her on Facebook. I also don’t share her photos with you because I don’t feel like I should share them, out of respect for her parents, until hopefully one day I have permission to do so. Death brings hurt, loss, and separation in ways we don’t expect before it happens.)

I recovered fairly quickly to keep from putting a damper on their enjoyment but a void keeps the broken parts from jumping back together on their own. They have to be actively put back together again, each time, like a puzzle that has been scattered. To replace them as part of a whole picture, you have to take them, piece by piece, and find the spot where they belong. That is time-consuming but necessary and, eventually, worthwhile.

I’ve learned to accept the things that I just cannot do as necessary baby steps that support my own healing in slow motion instead of failures to “fix” this, like not having ornaments on my tree. I know that one day I will be able to do it but I acknowledge that, for today, it is okay not to. This is part of my process and may not be part of everyone’s. That’s okay, too. Some people cannot live in the same home they did with the person they loved because it brings pain, for me it brings comfort to be surrounded by our day-to-day life. It’s a juxtaposition to the situation with the tree and that doesn’t make sense, maybe, but that’s okay, too.

𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛 ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴏᴋᴀʏ. ♥️

God Waits Until We’re Softened

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Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus”
1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

Taking note from Paul’s example in the Bible, it may be easier to praise God in the middle of our promotions but it doesn’t change the fact that we are still called to praise Him from within our prisons.

The world changed for us when my 14 year old nephew died and then changed again when my husband did. God did not change. He is worthy of glory, honor, praise and thanksgiving regardless of these changes to our world because He is 𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 and He is with us no matter what. He didn’t cause these circumstances. Yes, He is omnipotent, all-powerful, and He may have allowed them but He didn’t 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 them. God is only capable of good and He is a good, good Father. Why did He allow them? Because long, long ago, God gave humans freedom to make choices concerning ourselves. He still lets people make decisions but those very choices have far-reaching consequences. Oftentimes it is other peoples’ choices that cause consequences in our own lives that we are unable to deflect. Because we’re all human, we don’t always make the best decisions. And we’re even called to pray for the people who make the choices that caused the circumstances.

Awhile back, God reminded me to be thankful for my blessings because I still have many. I’ve been trying to do that every day and, to the best of my recall, I’ve been able to do that every day (although I’ve had to set an alarm in my phone to remind me.)

This morning, although He waited until my heart was soft enough to hear it – even though it wasn’t what I wanted to hear, He called on me to pray for people who made choices that caused consequences. I haven’t yet because I don’t even know where to start. I don’t know what to say other than to pray for wisdom in their choices today and in future ones. But I will do it because that is what He calls me to. I will do it as tears pour down my face because every time I do I will be reminded that we can never go back and undo what is done. There is still a part of me that begrudges the fact that this would even be expected of me but I also know that there are people who have prayed for me when I didn’t expect it, when I desperately needed it but couldn’t have understood anyone actually giving me the time of day to do it. I don’t deserve grace but it has been poured over me time and time again.

I think the point is that God waited. He didn’t come to me when I was desperately shattered and disillusioned and angry and lost and…so many other things. He didn’t demand action when He knew my heart couldn’t take it. He waited patiently until, even though I didn’t want to hear what He was asking me to, I was capable of hearing it with open ears.

Praying for someone doesn’t mean forgetting what happened. And I’m still broken. Christmas is in one week and it feels like the shattering is crushing me back to dust but it’s different this time. There is an acceptance in the crushing this time. I still have frequent moments where I cannot believe this is how my life is going to be lived but I am beginning to accept that this is where I must build.

I’m not any more worthy than anyone else. I’m not writing this to “try to sound holy” or to convince anyone that I’m a “good person.” It doesn’t even matter what context you read into what I say here, not to me, because I am also called to write. What does matter is that someone needs to know that, if you pray for someone who has done wrong, it doesn’t mean what happened is okay. It doesn’t absolve them of what they did. Their absolution can only come from their own relationship with Jesus and God is in charge of their reckoning. All we can do is listen to and heed what we are called to do and He won’t ask us to do it until we are capable – even then, He will wait again if we’re stubborn.

You Can Do Hard Things

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Last week I received the proofs for my husband’s headstone. I had to check that the dates and spellings were correct and then sign and send them back so they can start making it. (There was a spelling error in his name so I sent it back with corrections and now wait to have it sent back to me again.)

I went there, to the place where you order them, about two months after he transitioned to his new home, his new body, his new life. It’s taken me until now, almost seven months since he was here, to make a decision and move forward into this next season of finality.

It seems there continue to be moments that scream to me “he is really gone” but I still cannot fully accept it; I feel like that will sound strange to anyone who hasn’t been faced with this kind of grief since it seems obvious, but I can tell you that my brain doesn’t comprehend the reality of it all completely. Each event tends to catch me by surprise. I went to finalize the design for the headstone three weeks ago but it still caught me off guard when the proof sheets arrived in the mail. And, again, I cried. I was broken over the loss and the conclusive, the unavoidability of it all. I wonder sometimes if these will always keep happening, as long as I’m earthside, or if it will always feel like my heart breaks all over again.

Also, I ordered a double headstone. There is something surreal about seeing your own name there, even though the birthdate is followed by a dash and a blank. I’m going to be cremated but my boys will take part of the ashes and put them with Scott. The only thing I hate when thinking about this is the pain my sweet family will have to endure whenever God calls me home. They know where I’ll be then, but I know where Scott and that helps but it’s still a painful thing, to no longer have someone you loved and counted on to be here.

I don’t know why I came here to write about this except to say “I did it.” Like going to have my husband’s phone turned off last week, it is something I have put off for many months because every time I tried, I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready to face yet another permanent reminder that he is gone. I’m still not ready but I did it scared. I did it hurting. I did it because he deserves something beautiful at his body’s final resting place so that people will see his name and know that he was here.

God and I have been having some talks about this whole situation lately. Talks about guilt. Talks about anger. Talks about forgiveness. Talks about trust. For those of you who don’t think it’s possible to have a two-way conversation with God, there’s not a more gentle way to put this but you’re wrong. These talks are not a monologue of me pouring out my heart. We actually had a full-on argument this week at 2:00 in the morning. He countered every objection I had and, eventually, I knew He was right. What that talk was about is a story for another day (soon) but the point, for now, is that we’ve been communicating, which didn’t happen for months. I was too lost and in too much pain to seek Him. He was always right there, in it with me, but there were just no words because I was wholly and completely incapable. But now, although I don’t always like what He’s trying to tell me, I’m hearing from Him nonetheless. Having that kind of conversation, where you understand what He’s trying to tell you and recognize where it’s coming from, it takes discipline, time, and an open heart but it is 100% real. You can take that with a grain of salt, you can take me at my word, or you can refute it as hard as you want. You won’t change my perspective because I’ve experienced it first-hand and have seen results in my life because of it. I think these conversations have had a lot to do with why I was able to start doing some of the necessary things. Yes, it would be possible for me to do these things as a human out of touch with God but I know it made it easier than it could have been.

God doesn’t just speak to ministers and pastors. He’s speaking to everyone in every walk of life. A lot of people don’t expect to hear from God at all but, in reality, He is speaking to all of us. He is speaking to you. You can’t hear Him and do what He says unless you’re listening for Him. If you would like to hear Him speak to you, the answer is to be reading your Bible, spend quiet time telling Him what’s on Your mind and that You want to hear Him, and preparing your heart to receive from Him, to hear His voice on a regular basis. If you cannot distinguish whether it is Him talking (it’s not audible for most people but you’ll “hear” it inside your head) just know that He always speaks truths from the Bible; if what You hear doesn’t agree with the Word of God then it’s not Him. Often, honestly, He says something that I feel like I don’t really want to hear because my mind wants to do the opposite and then I hear Him telling me that’s not the right thing to do. Like being angry and withholding forgiveness, for example. But he also often tells me things I want and need to hear – things that help me know how to pick up these pieces of my life after the shambles it’s been in for the last seven months. In fact, even when it’s not something I really think I want to hear, it is always helpful if I’ll be obedient and follow through on whatever He says.

God is not a tyrant. Turning your life over to Him doesn’t actually constitute the loss of your power and control of it. You’re still free to do what you want but you learn that His way always has a better outcome. I’ve come to learn that even when He tells me to do something I don’t want to do, I can still trust that it will all work for my good once I’ve done that. I’ve also learned to (most of the time) do what He suggests as soon as I hear from Him. He is a gentleman and He won’t force you; if you need to see more consequences of your own actions before you listen to Him, He’ll wait. I’m still stubborn sometimes and try on my own awhile longer but I always eventually remember that His ways are indeed higher (smarter, more powerful, causing better outcomes) than my own.

I’m doing the hard things now. For months my house looked like more and more of a shambles because I didn’t have the energy or motivation to tidy up. It seemed pointless to me. I also know that my life feels more “put together” and less stressful when I’m living in a reasonably organized and clean environment. So I’ve compromised on this (also due to prompting from Him) and am doing one or two small “projects” a day. This still felt pointless in the beginning because when you only do one small thing, the rest of what is not “fixed” yet just overpowers the efforts of that little area. Now, though, I’ve gotten through enough that, although there is still much to be done, I can see that it’s beginning to feel better, look better, little by little. And that’s how God is with helping us to become more like Him. He doesn’t say “you’re a Christian now; I’m gonna need you to stop everything you’ve ever done that doesn’t agree with my Word.” No, He picks up one thing at a time, holds it out to you, and says “I’d like you to try to start working on this; don’t worry about the rest – we’ll get to it later, after you’ve had a chance to adjust to this one small thing.” I love that about Him because He doesn’t instigate a feeling of overwhelm; He is the One who pulls me out of it.

Wherever you are in your grief journey (or whatever other difficult journey you are traveling) I hope you can reach out to Him today so that He can show you the baby steps that will help you to survive and, one day, thrive in it. That is my prayer today for both me and for you.

The Power of the Shadow of Death

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In Genesis 13:15 God says to Abram (later called Abraham) “Lift your eyes now and look from the place where you are.”

“After God told Abram to look from that place, the next thing He told him was, ‘Arise, walk in the land through its length and its width, for I give it to you’ (Genesis 13:17 NKJV).”

By Genesis 15, God formally established His covenant promise with Abram to give him and his descendants the land of Canaan.

God could be telling you right now to get up and get on with your dream or vision, your assignment, your life, because He is giving it to you. Your part is to walk it out.

But lately my rememory isn’t working as well as my forgetory. I keep getting up from this place of despair, deciding to move forward with God’s purpose written on my life, and then laying back down in defeat. I am not defeated. I just have not counted myself fully victorious yet.

Or maybe I have…I know who holds my future and that the final battle is already won before we even get there. Am I sitting here, waiting for that victory to come but unwilling to take part in the fight anymore?

“Death’s greatest power is not that it can make people die, but that it can make people want to stop living.”
― Fredrik Backman

This is the conundrum. God has not given me permission to stop living. I know, with all of my heart, that He shows compassion for my loss, my grief, my unending sadness. He bottles every tear and holds it with genuine empathy. I also know that He expects me to rise, using His strength when I have no more, His power, when there is not an ounce in me, to continue the race set before me. While I haven’t yet found or learned the ability yet to continue my own journey without my husband, I know that is what I must do.

There are things to which God has called me but I let the “what ifs” get in my way. One of them goes like this:

If I write these books, what if no one wants to read them? (You don’t write for the reader, you write for yourself and for Me…but still, I’m calling you to write for a reason.) What if no one even wants to publish them? (You can publish them yourself if that happens; that is made reasonably easy these days.) What if no one ever even buys one? (Prosperity may not be the reason for you writing them.) What if it is a waste of time? (How is it a waste of time if it is your calling?) How do I know whether it’s even really a calling or just something I think I’d like to do? (You don’t seem to want to do it, because you still haven’t finished, and yet it is continually on your mind that you must. People are often called to things they don’t feel like doing.)

I recently told a friend that, when I am confused about whether the Holy Spirit is prompting me to do something or if it is just something I’m telling myself, I usually know it’s the Holy Spirit when it’s really not something I want to do. He urges to do uncomfortable things because God knows those things will either help us or will further His plan (or both!)

And so thoughts like this ride on a merry-go-round within my head, on constant repeat. Because death’s greatest power is that it makes people not want to go on living. And yet the Bible says that death has been swallowed up in victory (Isaiah 25:8)

Three more truths in the Bible say this:

God is WITH us in our struggles. (Matthew 28:20)

God is FOR us when it seems all else is against us. (Romans 8:31)

God will carry us THROUGH our pain. (Isaiah 43:1-3)

I want to be here with my children and the rest of my family and friends. I just don’t have any desire to live while I’m doing it. I’m constantly here but I’m not here, a machine that keeps running because someone keeps pouring gasoline in the engine but which has no inclination on its own of what to do, no yearning of its own to complete its task.

I must begin with obedience. The puzzle is to determine how to begin when there is no energy and no ambition or predilection to complete tasks. My house is a mess (which seems to enhance the compulsion to do absolutely nothing.) My brain is a mess (which prompts the same lack of urgency.) My routine is the only thing tethering me to the here and now. Yet I must begin in obedience so that change can commence. The first step must be mine because He gives me the ability to choose. God is a gentleman. He will not force my hand but will continue to encourage me toward a path of eventual healing.

”Our God is merciful and tender. He will cause the bright dawn of salvation to rise on us and to shine from heaven on all those who live in the dark shadow of death, to guide our steps into the path of peace.”
‭‭Luke‬ ‭1‬:‭78‬-‭79‬ ‭GNT‬‬

I am definitely living in the dark shadow of death. I don’t know when I’ll step outside of the cold shadow and back into the sun. I do know that, in order to do that, I have to keep stepping toward the Son. So…here’s to trying to get up and walk.

The Power of Retreat

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You can’t always be “all in.” Sometimes you have to back off.

I wanted to be all in at Thanksgiving. I wanted to be able to do that for my family. I wanted to for my son’s high school graduation earlier this year. I wanted to for my son’s birthday. I wanted to for every day that I’ve kept my granddaughter while her parents were at work or in school.

But I couldn’t always. I can’t at all times. I try and I try but sometimes I have to retreat from the joy everyone else is feeling just to hang on to my sanity. And isn’t joy what we all want? I do. I do want to feel the ethereal lightness and boisterous festivity of joy, but I can’t seem to experience the wonder of it.

I am thankful for the bright, twinkling lights, dressed up as humans I know and love, that have poured over me in my darkness. Their job is not easy, their burden not light because of me, but they keep trying to show me the way out of this blindness as my white, red-tipped cane shows everyone around me how handicapped I am by grief – tapping, tapping, tapping against everything to see if it is safe to venture out. It doesn’t feel safe; it just feels as if thick strands of itchy wool are woven tightly around me, wrapped again and again, preventing my exit from this cocoon I live inside now. Pinpricks of light show through but they are like stars on a moonless night. They’re beautiful while not providing reliable vision.

These layers and layers of woven sadness make it difficult for others to understand me at times. My voice is muffled through the layers I struggle to fight my way out off. I can be difficult to reach some days when my head gets caught up in the headache-inducing strands when it feels as if my struggle to escape only tangles me up even more and buries me deeper. Some days it feels more like quicksand than fabric that I could cut my way out of, if only I had a proper tool.

Therefore, sometimes it feels safer to retreat. Safer for them and for me, as I succumb to the call of tears. Some days I have to take a step back. I have to take a step away from everyone else’s happiness and laughter just to breathe. As I curl in on myself, I wonder if retreat is the answer, why their joy cannot seep in through the dense fabric of my grief. Shouldn’t it loosen in the presence of liquid happiness that permeates every string with its exquisite, refreshing splash? But grief is like wool, uncomfortably scratchy while it swells at the touch of moisture then contracts as it dries, causing shrinking of the overall garment. It is swollen and tighter as their laughter seems so easy to come by, and then tighter still after everyone leaves and I was unable to fully experience the sunshine that is each of them.

Holidays bring gaiety and exultation. They also escort memories from the prison of dark recesses within the mind into the open ballrooms of regalement, dancing to entertain. Not everyone likes ballroom dancing. For me, it is an acquired taste. I find the dancers beautiful and am envious of their talent to captivate others, but know I am ill-fitted to participate, my steps too heavy and uncoordinated. Still, I do not hate watching them now; I am just overwhelmingly aware that they will continue to perform the same routines over and over again, times infinity, because no new acts will be introduced, at least not for the dance I am longing to join. They’ll do this same dance, replay these exact same memories again and again, because the choreographer of this one is no longer a part of this troupe. He has moved onto a dancer’s version of the philharmonic, a place from whence there is nowhere more prestigious to aspire to elevate. He is in Heaven and we are still here, trying to learn dances that will never be as enticing to perform.

I linger, like a wallflower, at the edges of the ballroom, smiling and nodding dutifully toward those who peek over to be sure I am pleased with the party-like atmosphere. I am pleased. I’m grateful that they do not feel the depth of pain that I seem to have succumbed to, at times. I enjoy their merriment even as I feel ill-equipped to join in.

We used to have a Christmas games celebration. Many photos and especially videos document the chaotic joy and laughter of these get togethers. We would attempt ridiculous tasks like blowing ping-pong balls from one water-filled cup to the next, the winner being able to make it to the last one without the ball plinking to the table and floor. We’d shake even more ping-pong balls from an empty Kleenex box strapped to the waist, with only the movement of one’s hips to rattle them free. Carryied oranges between our knees in a relay race to drop it into a small bathroom-sized trash can then return for the next person to do the same. And collected lifesavers from a paper plate with only a toothpick between our teeth. Those were days of joy and merriment. I don’t think I can host such a soiré this year because, while the memories are not painful, the fact that it will never be the same elicits indescribable despair. And yet I’m sure he would want us to continue our tradition.

Everyone keeps saying “He wouldn’t want you to be sad.” And I understand the sentiment behind it. They’re right; he wouldn’t want that for me. Yet I also know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if the situation were reversed, while I would never want him to be sad, he would anyway. It is the prescribed order of things. It is a destination preordained.

I’m trying to retreat less and less these days. I am attempting to learn to join in again. I know that this life is precious and I don’t want to miss any of the important parts. And it’s all important, isn’t it? Every day here is a day I should be bringing joy to someone else. Every day I should be creating opportunities for memories that they can hold dear one day, as I hold mine. It takes the strength of Samson some days. I feel as if I cannot break the pillars of the temple of my own doom, demolishing it entirely, as he did. Samson’s strength ultimately set him free to the hereafter. I just need mine to set me free here until it is my time to go there. I push mightily against the stone colonnade, some days feeling the complete sapping of my strength overtake my ability to bring the walls down.

Fortunately, my strength is not my own. It is replenished time and time again, each time I remember to ask. God’s favor still immerses my life in glory; I just need to have my blindness healed so I can keep seeing it. The ice cream has fallen from my cone, melting immediately in the gritty sand, and now I can’t stand the idea of its sweetness. But the beach is still sunny, the ocean still cool, the waves still a melody, the spring-fresh smell of fresh-cut grass still lingering.

Someday I will take a deep breath and enjoy the serenity of it all, even with no ice cream.

I Just Didn’t Know…but a few things I do know…

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As I closed my eyes to sleep the night before we woke up to leave for your common surgery, I didn’t know it was the last night I would sleep in bed beside you. I would lay in bed next to you…but only after you were gone.

As I opened my eyes that morning, I didn’t know it was the last time I would wake to roll over and touch your arm, see your face, hear you breathing beside me.

As we drove to the hospital that morning, I didn’t know it was the last time we would just chat and be relaxed in each other’s company. I didn’t know I was telling you not to worry, it was all going to be fine, we’d be driving home the next day together and you’d be feeling much better already…when we really wouldn’t. I didn’t even know I wasn’t telling the truth.

When we sat in the waiting room, awaiting someone to speak your name to call you to pre-op, I didn’t know it would be the last hours that would be somewhat “normal” together. I didn’t know we were living on desperately borrowed time. When your parents came to sit with us, to wait with me through your surgery, I didn’t know it would be the last time we were all together…until it was at the funeral home.

When they called from post-op to tell us that the surgery went splendidly well and you were doing well in recovery, I didn’t know…they didn’t know… that they were horribly wrong. As they kept me sitting in the waiting room because they were too busy for visitors in post-op and said I’d see you when you got to a room, I didn’t know that those hours that ticked by as I anxiously waited to see you were part of the last day of your life, save for but less than an hour of the next.

When I saw you smile at me as you came into your hospital room when they wheeled you in and said that you already had less pain, I had no idea how short-lived our relief would be…so very short. I didn’t know that the next hours would be filled with fear, then with the most devastating loss of my life.

When you stopped breathing, I didn’t know yet that they wouldn’t save you. I didn’t know that was the last time I would lay eyes on you…alive.

When they came to tell me you were gone. The absolute forever kind of gone, I knew instantly…every fiber of my being, every inch of my body contorted in pain, knew that life would never, ever be the same. I knew I hadn’t done enough. I knew I should have somehow done more. I knew I’d never forgive myself for failing you.

As I left the hospital, I knew where you were and yet I did not know how to leave your body there alone. I didn’t want to leave your body in that building because then it was real. It was real. It was real. And I could never turn back.

I can’t believe it’s real. I cannot believe it is real. How can it be real when I just didn’t know? I just want to go back to when I just didn’t know.

When I first met you, I didn’t know you would change how I felt about myself. I didn’t know you would make life so much better. I didn’t know you would make me a better person. I didn’t know that I would soon trust you with my whole heart. But I did already know, instantly somehow, that you owned my heart and that God alone had sent you to save me, even from myself. I already knew, in a crazy and unexpected way, that you were finally The One. You had finally come for me. I just didn’t know it would be for such an unbearably short time. I didn’t know.

As I sit here now, I don’t know how to navigate this life without you. It’s been six months and I still don’t know. I’m walking through minutes, hours, days, months, as if in a trance because even though I know you’re gone, I still don’t know. I really feel like I don’t know.

What I do know is that you are not in pain. I know that grief, the definition of grief for me, is the presence of all of the love I want to give to only you but cannot. It is love unrequited. It is love no longer reciprocated. It is painful, to my very core. But I know you are without pain. I know you are experiencing the greatest days imaginable. I know that you will greet me when I arrive and we will still share a love incomparable to all others.

What I do know is that our love has not dissolved. What I do know is that I am still holding onto it until I see you again. What I do know is that, although you are not here to share in it, I love you still. I always will. What I do know is that we were, and we are, soulmates. What I do know is that this is forever, not just for here. I know you are still mine and I will always be yours.

He’s Not a Vending Machine God

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Butterflies cannot see their own wings. They can perceive the motion of their wings but not detect individual colors and patterns. They turn from caterpillars to pupa and emerge as a clear-winged butterfly, a blank slate of sorts. After their first meal they develop colors and patterns on their wings.

I perceive what is going on in my life and know exactly how it “should” look…and yet I can’t SEE the whole thing. I’m only capable of seeing what I’ve experienced up to this point. The future is a mystery to me. But it’s not to God. And yet here I am trying to decipher what happened and plan out what will be.

For example, sometimes I feel like I’m not grieving enough, like if my husband were able to speak into my life he’d actually say “it’s barely been six months and you are laughing with people?” or “How are you just having a jolly old time with our grandbaby without me there?” But, let me tell you, I’m still so broken. I’m so broken that I’d feel like there is powder left rather than shards. Can’t make a mosaic out of that. But how could it ever be enough grieving over someone so amazing and wonderful isn’t here anymore? How much grief would do him justice? Sounds silly doesn’t it? And yet the pain of these thoughts seem to have tendrils that stretch out and wrap themselves around my every limb, over my eyes, into my mouth. There are times when I feel as if I cannot function…but what would ever do justice to who he was?

I also experience an inordinate amount of guilt over his last night here. As a nurse with many years of experience, why didn’t I do something else, make demands sooner? Because I know that I experienced a similar paralysis of thought processes when my son was very sick with meningitis, I know that it is very hard to be a nurse and a close family member at the same time. My fear over what was happening and my concentrated efforts to shove that fear down inside me so that I could comfort him, so I could try to allay his fears, that’s what kept my nursing brain from thinking straight. So much fear.

But God does not give us a spirit of fear. And that brings me to guilt over prayer during that night.

Bear with me because, as I am having somewhat of a revelation about these things, I realize that a lot of this doesn’t sound rational…but grief is not rational; it is a fire-breathing dragon with armored scales and gnashing teeth. It does not do things rationally. I am working to bring this all together so that it makes sense (not just in print but in my head, too, trust me.)

That night, I really didn’t pray during the time he was struggling. I’m just being honest. I was focused on my husband. I was concentrating on how to do anything I could to make him feel better. To ask the right questions, to find the right solution, to fix it. I do know that my “nursing brain” was malfunctioning during that time due to emotional disconnection from that part of my brain. I know this because, although I did have intermittent thoughts and ideas pop through from that part, mostly I was focused on things in a different capacity. And so I wasn’t actively praying much during the time he was struggling.

After he stopped breathing and I was escorted to the ICU waiting room by a kind security guard while they were attempting resuscitation, my prayer sounded stuttered. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. God, help. Please don’t take him from me. Save him, Jesus, please.

Now I sometimes think, “Why didn’t I pray ‘better’ then?” “What if the way I prayed, the words I said, weren’t the right ones to get our miracle?” “Why didn’t I do enough to help him? To save him?”

The Lord of Heaven and Earth is not a vending machine God. As far as prayer is concerned, if you put in a nickel instead of a quarter or a $1 bill instead of a $5, He doesn’t spit it out and say “that’s not going to work to get what you’re asking for, sorry.” That’s not how prayer works. That’s not how God works. He wants us to pray in order to commune with Him, spend time praising Him, and especially to learn how to rely on Him. To trust Him. But it’s not a process where it becomes useless if you don’t lay it out in precisely the right format.

My mind is like a pachinko machine. All the time, but definitely as I write this. Even as I type that He wants us to trust Him, somewhere in my mind says “I trusted Him with my husband and he’s gone now.” And then my mind says back “Yes, you trusted Him and he’s taking care of him better now than anyone else ever could; he’s healed, and whole, and happy. Now are you going to trust Him to take care of you, too? Those little metal pachinko balls bounce off of the metal pins, back and forth, zig-zagging constantly.

Trust him to take care of me now…

I’m unhappy. I’m so sad. I feel lost in so many areas of life and I feel alone. I hate all of it. And I also feel like a toddler having a temper tantrum at the same time. “This wasn’t the plan! This isn’t how it was supposed to be! I want my old life back!” Mentally screaming and kicking my little Mary-Jane-clad feet as I thrash at the floor with my tiny toddler fists. “God, make it stop! Turn it back! This isn’t fair!”

He’s not a vending machine God. You don’t punch in the numbers and get the snack you chose. Sometimes God is up there saying “I’m not going to let you settle for a measly, overpriced bag of chips and a candy bar when I have a banquet-style buffet, all-you-can-eat, with all of your favorites and some you’ve never even tried but will love…I have that coming up for you.

Isn’t that a typical parental thing to do? Keep you from eating junk food so that you can eat nutritious food instead, stuff that’s good for you? And sometimes there are brussel sprouts on the plate. You don’t want them when you’re living in that toddler phase. Yuck! But you grow up one day and realize that your tastes have changed and that, now, you love many of the things you used to hate to eat. Especially things that are healthy, good for you.

He’s not a vending machine God because he doesn’t reject your prayer if you don’t put “the right amount” or “the right kind” in. He’ll find ways to teach you and lead you into more prayer but He doesn’t just tell you to turn away from the machine if you don’t have the right amount of change.

He’s not a vending machine God because you don’t always get to pick what comes out. And you don’t need to because He’s going to make whatever you “get” perfect in His time.

I’ve also fretted and panicked and cried and stressed over my future. (How am I still not getting it? That He’s got this?) I’ve tried to plan it every which way by saying things like “okay, if this happens then this piece would work out” and “I’m going to need this to happen for that part to work out.” I mean, I’ve literally looked up average lifespans and tried to plan what I’m going to do, financially, for all of the years between now and then. Like I’m in control of the calendar…and the wind and the waves. (Insert eye roll here.)

He is not vending machine God because He makes the decisions based on his omniscient knowledge of what comes ahead. I don’t. As much as I think I’d like to control my life, I don’t get to and that’s a good thing. I’m pretty good at messing things up sometimes.

God doesn’t like all of the decisions that are made down here but, if we trust Him, if we follow Him, He is more than able to bring beauty and wholeness and joy out of each one. If we turn to Him, He will work it all for our good. I’ve read it. I believe it. I know it. And then I forget, time and time again, when I’m hurting.

In case you’re wondering how on earth it tied into the rest of this, I’m that caterpillar from the first paragraph. Here I am, plodding along my branch to find the right spot to knit my little pupa case. I’m trying.

God is doing a work in me and, tonight, at 3:00 in the morning, I hear Him telling me all of this. Tomorrow may feel silent again but these reminders are what gets me through. They’re what let me know to let go of the rigid plans I keep trying to make. I do not have control of them. I may live to be 90 or maybe only until next week. I cannot plan out my survival for each of the years. But He can. And He won’t let me go. He will bring me great joy. He will bring me hope. He will be my provision and my strength in any circumstance that I walk through.

I do worry about the joy part. How can I even look forward toward a place where I can find exuberant joy when my husband is not here. It feels like it would be an insult to him for me to find a way to move forward and really be integrated in life again, living to my fullest potential. It feels as if that demeans the life I had with him. If I can be happy without him here then it somehow takes away the importance of having him when I did. I feel overwhelming guilt immediately after any time I begin to laugh over something, to enjoy something.

And there’s that pachinko ball again, bouncing all over the place. “Listen here, are you remembering where he is right now? I know you can’t be fully cognizant of what it’s like up there but, rest assured, he’s good. He’s more happy and healthy and healed and whole and joyful than he’s ever been. Nothing you could be doing on earth is anywhere near what he is experiencing where he is so go on, take the joy. Accept it. Appreciate it.” (And there’s a little pout about how he’s happier now than he’s ever been…even when he was with me. Then it’s “of course he is; it’s Heaven…hello?” Then I go back to being 100% glad that he is because I want that for him. See? Pachinko.)

So no matter what wonderful experiences God pours into my life, my husband is still living even better off than I am, just at the new address while he waits for me there. And I trust and have faith that God will bring healing to my heart so that I can enjoy living again one day, I cannot push away every opportunity to appreciate life here because he is not here to do it with me. I know I’ll experience sadness at times over it, but it’s sadness for me, not for him “missing out.” I’m just missing him doing all of it with me.

One day I’ll test out my butterfly wings to see if they’re ready to fully unfurl. I’m sitting here in this dark pupa casing and letting God grow me. Sometimes growing is a one-step-forward-two-steps-back process for me but God won’t get annoyed that I haven’t learned all of the things yet. He just keeps reminding me that this is an open book test and to go back to the chapters I’ve already read to find the answers. He reminds me He’s the one who put them there since he wrote The Book.

For me, for now, I’m going to pray and sit with Him for awhile, and then I’m going to try to concentrate on that studying. And I’m thankful there’s no vending machine here. I’m content with what I have for right now and I trust that something good will be there when I need it.

The Clockmaker

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Famine shows itself in many figurative forms. You can be starved of many things besides food.

And “fair” is just the place where you buy cotton candy.

Life is not fair and, because of that, I’m starving. I’m not hungry, no. But I am starving for the life I had with my husband. Call it metaphor or an analogy but I’m going to staunchly maintain that it fits. This feeling goes beyond “missing him;” it’s just bigger, broader, more all-encompassing, more saturating than just “missing him.” This condition is deadly without intervention, exactly like starving.

Let me put it another way.

I keep reading that grief is the price you pay for love. I guess someone feels like that makes it all better. Grief is also proportionate to intensity of love. My sister and I LOVED our Granny and our stepdad VERY much and were oh-so-sad when they left. But my sister’s grief over her son and my grief over my husband is bigger. Your husband and your children are essential pieces to every part of your life. They are an integral and necessary cog in the clockwork of everything you do or plan to do in life. Take one of those cogs away and, well, let’s just say duct tape won’t fix it. You have to rebuild the entire inside of the clock to work in a different fashion if it is ever to keep time again. You have to painstakingly find a new place for every single cog and figure out how to make it a part of the working timepiece, how to make all of them turn and work together. It’s exhausting and it takes forever.

My cogs, springs, screws, other random pieces are scattered about all around me. Every time I try to fit two of them together, the teeth on the cogs don’t match up. It feels as if I will never find a way to make all of the wheels turn properly again. Typically, if this happens to your clock, you return it to where you bought it. I don’t want to do that. I LOVED this clock when it was working properly, when all the pieces were as they should be. I don’t want to go back and trade this clock for a different one. I just want this one to work again. The problem is, they no longer make the missing piece. So now I have to find a way to put it back together without it. To do that I’m going to need an expert clockmaker.

Since God is the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, He knows everything there is to know about time and about how to keep clocks running. The thing is, I’m scared to turn it over to Him. My clock is already broken and seems to be beyond repair. What if I send it off and it just gets lost? What if I give it to Him and find out that it truly is broken beyond repair and there is nothing anyone can do about making it tick again? What if, just like my engagement ring that was too big when I got it, I just don’t want to let go of it long enough for it to be fixed for me? I want to hold on to all of my own pieces that I do have left because I don’t want anything to happen to the ones that are left.

But then I’ll still just be sitting here with a broken clock. What good is a clock that doesn’t keep time? It becomes just a bauble, a knock knack. It just sits there and never does anything ever again. That’s not really what I want for my clock. I want it to work again because I’ll feel better if it does.

And yet I feel guilty for even trying to get the clock working without that essential piece. Maybe it shouldn’t ever work again. Maybe it was meant to only be functional when that specific piece was in place. Maybe that one cog was so important that it will always keep the time wrong, too slow or too fast or in the wrong time zone, if it is ever repaired to work again.

The Clockmaker. I have to give it to the Clockmaker. I’ve got to make a decision to send it off to Him, give it up in order to get it back in working order.

Uggghhhh, but I still just can’t.

I’ll keep trying. I’ll get a box to send it in, pay the postage, and just keep trying to send it out.

One of these days, I’ll be able to step close enough to the mailbox to put it in. One of these days, it will work again.