Tag: learning to live again

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.

Give Credit to the Meek

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I’m reflecting this morning on the word “meek.”

Matthew 5:5, in the Beatitudes, says “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

Previously, to me, meek would have been interpreted as weak, passive, or timid. None of these are words that strike a chord of longing, typically. We don’t strive to be “meek” if that is our interpretation of the word.

But some study through various sources today taught me something different.

First, I went to my Dictionary app which instructed that the definition of meek is the following:

  1. Humbly patient or quiet in nature, as under provocation from others.
  2. Submissive or compliant; tame
  3. Gentle; kind

Besides the fact that the world typically looks at the world “submissive” as a bad word, these are all things we might strive to be. And even more so after the other things I read.

For the record, the definition of submissive in the dictionary includes “unresistant or humbly obedient” and “yielding to the authority of another.” While I have authority in the name of Christ, that is all due to submitting to His own authority, (doing my best to be) being obedient to His authority.

I learned today that, in Matthew 5:5, the English word translated as meek comes from the Greek word “praeis.” It means gentle, humble, or submissive; modest, mild, or unpretentious.”

The very first thing that struck me about this explanation was: my husband, Scott, was meek.

He was truly gentle, humble, submissive (in the appropriate situations – to God, to work leadership, and to the needs of others.) He was modest, mild, and the most unpretentious person I know. Although it’s hard to be prententious when people are teasing you (in a good-natured fashion) about your Baker County accent! 🙂

When I was young, these are not things I looked for in a partner or in myself. I wanted to be powerful within myself, to be in control of my surroundings and my situations, to be who I was unashamedly. But I don’t like some parts of who I was then (although that was a process of learning and growing that we go through) and I learned – usually the hard way because that’s how I roll 🙄 – that we are rarely “in control” even when we think we are. Things that we are unable to control can take us to our knees in literally the span of a heartbeat and we are forced to recognize our vulnerability to outside influences. To a drunk driver, to cancer, to words or actions of heartless people and unkindness.

It took a lot of growing up, spiritually and emotionally, to learn that Scott was exactly what I wanted and needed. I thought God sent me Scott to make me happy. I’m sure that was part of it because I know He wants all of the best things for me. And oh, glory, did he make me happy. But I learned that God had another purpose in that beautiful gift I called a soulmate. I learned that I needed to be more like Scott in many ways. I still want to be and I’m working on it, albeit slowly and with backtracking on some days.

If you’re looking for a partner now, you want God to send you someone who is all of these things (and recognize that person for these reasons.) Maybe today that isn’t what you think you want right now but I assure you that your whole world will flourish under the influence.

Allow someone to walk into your life who has traits of beauty that you don’t see enough of in yourself. Someone whose very existence urges you to be more like them.

I always admired Scott for his patience with me. Don’t laugh; I know y’all probably already know it’s true. When I am hungry (especially) or overly exhausted or stressed, I’m far from meek. I’m testy, grouchy, and definitely not patient.

The night my nephew died, just sixteen days before Scott did, I was mean to him. I couldn’t get packed and in the car fast enough to get to my sister and brother-in-law, and I was throwing things willy-nilly into the suitcase. Scott was hurting for them, too, but he knew we’d be staying awhile. He was quietly methodical and thoughtful. He gently removed random things I threw in (a little bottle of air freshener? a beach hat? the ceiling fan? Seriously, though, I was just grabbing and tossing and I have no idea what all went in there but I know I saw him replacing them with things I would really need – I know I didn’t think of underwear or shirts but there were probably six pair of pants from when I ripped open that drawer and then was ready to LEAVE!) I yelled at him, “We have to GO! You’re moving too slow!” But he wasn’t being slow, he was being purposeful and I was rushing because my mind was madcap. I simply couldn’t think straight.

Another time, we were on a vacation trip, just the two of us, and we were riding bikes around Savannah looking for a place to eat. We started off wanting to find the most amazing local restaurant that you couldn’t find anywhere else. Then, as time passed, he still wanted to find that and I wanted to find FOOD of any kind. We were fairly young in our relationship, within the first year, and he didn’t recognize the signs yet, bless his heart. But I was getting sweaty, lightheaded, and nauseous (low blood sugar) and I suddenly stopped the bike, got off and said “We are eating here. I have to eat right now.” He did, then, realize that these must be signs of 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 and said, “Okay, baby, if that’s what you want.” We ate at Panera.

I feel guilty about those things now but I don’t have a single doubt that Scott knew how very much I loved him. And there were times he told me that he wanted to be more like me in some ways so I know we balanced each other out and we helped each other grow.

Don’t be afraid to be meek. Challenge yourself to memorize and understand the real meaning of the word. I know I am. ♥️

Even If…

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Written December 3, 2023

You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good. He brought me to this position so I could save the lives of many people. Genesis 50:20

I’m trying to ascertain where this is going to fit into my life, my situation, and my grief.

The enemy was alive and well in that hospital when my husband died. He thwarted possibilities for recovery over and over by using the actions (and inaction) of people. He stopped every action that would have turned it around. I cannot count the number of times, the number of decisions, that could have turned this all around and let me drive home together with my husband. I know each and every one of them but they are many. A tidal wave of failures, one right after the other. An indefensible path to an outcome that we can never return from.

I remember praying in the room with him, when he was having trouble breathing, more and more so. Praying “God help him.” Praying with a security guard in the ICU waiting room while they were coding him. For this stranger, I will always be grateful because he spoke words that refused to be plucked from the whirling dervish of panicked thoughts inside my head. When he left to go back to his work post, I remember texting and asking my Daddy to pray and then saying “Jesus, please, help him. Please bring him back. I need him.” Something like those words over and over and over again. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

I do not believe that God chose this path for my husband. I believe He knew it would happen because He is omniscient. I believe He could have stopped it because He is omnipotent. I believe He was with me in that waiting room, with my husband in his hospital room for every terrifying second he was still within his earthly body, and with my mother-in-law as she traveled to be with me, because He is omnipresent.

So why didn’t we get our miracle?

Because God gave humans freedom of choice. He could have forced Adam & Eve to worship him. Made them bow to Him and serve Him. But humans would have then been slaves. If a man or woman tries to force you to love them and stay with them, how much more likely are you to try to get away, to end up hating them? No, He gave us free will.

Part of Joshua 24:15 says “Choose this day whom you will serve…” That day, some people chose wrong. I’m not calling anyone a Satanist. We all choose wrong sometimes. When you have an attitude or are being prideful, you’re choosing wrong. When you are arrogant. When you gossip. When you snap at someone because you’re hangry. We’re all guilty of choosing wrong. Some do more often than others.

For some, even kindness and compassion are difficult to display. And then, mixed in with bad decisions, there are probably just some plain accidents and some ignorance of what to do sometimes…and this time, with us, unfortunately an egregious amount of outright negligence when it came to people, trained and licensed, to whom we entrusted his safety.

There are myriad reasons why he’s not here anymore but it all comes down to the fact that sometimes the enemy wins a battle, already knowing he will never win the war. He (the enemy) knows what the Bible says. He believes in God because, to put it gently, they’ve met. Satan knows Him. He’s just always trying to see if he can sway more people to his side while he’s still got the chance.

For some people, loss does cause a sway. Some people cannot imagine how there could be a good God if people who don’t deserve to die, do. The thing is, God doesn’t cause those things. Satan made sickness, not God. And sometimes faithful people don’t get their healing this side of Heaven. I’m not going to pretend to know what God sees that He allows it to happen. But I do know that what we see is like looking through an old-fashioned keyhole. Our vision is so very limited, just what you can see by putting your eye up to that little keyhole. God can already see the whole world of things on the other side of the door. The full panoramic view. I trust that He loves me even when I don’t understand. I trust that He is for me when all else seems to be against me.

My granddaughter is going to the doctor for shots today; one of her parents will have to help hold her still while she receives them. When my children were young, I took them to the doctor for vaccinations, too. I remember the look on my sons’ faces when they were little. That “I thought you loved me; why did you help them do that to me? You didn’t protect me” look. But I was protecting them. From chicken pox and pertussis and polio. I knew something they didn’t. I knew it would be a moment of pain for a lifetime of protection. I could see what they couldn’t.

As for my husband, glory to God, he is enjoying himself now. There is no pain, no heartache, no loss, no weeping, no disappointment. He went through so much of that in his life and I’m so thankful that he’s free of it all now. That doesn’t change how much I selfishly wish he was here with me.

As for me and my house, we will still serve the Lord. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednago (in the beginning chapters of the book of Daniel) were going to be thrown into the fiery furnace. They told the king that God would save them but then said even if He doesn’t, we won’t worship your idols. We’re still going to worship only God.

God not stopping the tidal wave of events that caused my husband’s demise does not make me hate him any more than my kids, knowing I loved them and cared for them, stayed angry at me after shots. They immediately held onto me afterwards because, even if I allowed something that hurt them, they still knew I was their best protector, biggest fan, and first love.

God still loves me just as he loved my sweet husband. I don’t know why He allowed him to be taken away so young and left me here. I don’t know what plans He still has for me or what purpose He wants me to fulfill but Here am I, Lord. Send me.

I’m always, always going to wish that things had turned out differently. I’m always going to dream about our plans to grow old together, travel, play with grandbabies, and all the things. But even still, I trust that one day I will be okay. I trust that one day He will bring joy and purpose back into my life.

By the time you’re reading this, it will have been a while since it was written. I write because I need you to know that, even when there was wrong done that caused the death of my husband, even though I run a race against anger every day, trying to head him off at the pass with forgiveness, I am still about my Father’s business.

Choose, this day, whom you will serve. I’m still choosing You, Abba God. I’m still choosing You.

Every Single Day is a Wake-Up Call

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I don’t want to cause hurt to anyone who may read this. Whether you’ve been through this before and you’re just further on in your journey than I (and I don’t know “how that works” as you get farther out from where I am now,) or whether you’re reading it going through the same now, or somewhere down the line, I’m farther out and you’re just beginning your journey, I don’t want to cause you pain so ask yourself now if you’re called to read more at this point.

I don’t know who to talk to about this because I do know that people who know me and love me, my kids, my family, my closest friends, they’ll all hurt for me as they watch me hurt. Sometimes I just feel trapped by the need to let all of this pour out but also by the need to hold it in, behind a Hoover Dam type of internal apparatus that keeps anyone else from experiencing it.

Today my daughter-in-love left with my granddaughter, who stays with me during the day while her parents are working or schooling, to go home. My youngest son, who still lives at home, came home from work but left again (like teenagers do) and I sat down, like I always do, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do now, until bedtime.

Today it’s hitting me all over again that I’m alone today and that this is how I’m going to spend the rest of my life…just alone. I sat down to try to watch TV, just noise to fill my house and my mind, but this time it’s not filling anything, even partially. Today it just makes me feel even more empty.

My husband and I used to watch TV together. I mean, we didn’t watch a ton of TV but there are shows we always liked to sit down and watch together, discussing the events, the plots, what would happen next in the series. I still can’t watch any of those programs. But now, even trying to fill my mind with useless stories just feels fake, like even “reality TV” actually is.

It hurts so much to think that this is what I have to adapt to because there’s no going back…and he won’t be back. It’s been five months and my brain still cannot fathom the idea that this could possibly be forever. Even when he was away for work, he always came home. We always talked on the phone or FaceTime multiple times a day while he was gone. He’d have to be at work by 6:30 a.m. so I’d wake up just to talk to him as he got ready and was on his way to work. I haven’t had a day with any part of him except memories for over five months and I just still cannot make my mind accept the fact that he is gone from me until I see Heaven.

I’ve struggled through every 10th of the month since he transitioned to the other side. This month I made a conscious decision to try to be positive. To think of good memories, to honor who he was. I’m trying today to go back to that mindset but I just keep getting dragged back down into the muck. I MISS him terribly. I just miss who we were together and that feeling, that emotion of sadness and despair over never having that again refuses to be challenged.

I know that prayer should be my first decision during times like this but these times, the worst times, are when words to pray are least likely to surface. I do know that the Holy Spirit translates my agony into superfluous prayer, but it always takes time for the comfort to come. The amount of time varies but it is always agonizing until it arrives.

When it does come, I’m able to be grateful for the comfort and some level of peace so I do pray then, praising in the midst of the lighter rain of the storm. I guess I put it that way because it has rained for a lot more than forty days and forty nights here, but there are times now when it’s more like “sprinkling,” or at least less like a deluge.

I know God is here because, even in the sadness when I cannot stop myself from sobbing, I feel him here. He is here and yet the physical absence of my husband feels no less so I cannot resolve the coalescence of those two feelings. It is what feels like the tearing apart of the two that seem to undo me.

Often I feel like I’m not being “a good enough Christian” in how I’m handling this. Understand that, as I admit that, it is not anything I would ever judge anyone else of, only myself. I know fully-well that, if I were listening to someone else say the same, I would admonish anyone else for their overly harsh criticism of themselves. But I cannot escape the feeling that, if I were more faithful, I should just be trusting God to work it all out. Satan screams inside my head that I’m failing while God’s voice is always a calming whisper…if only I could fully interpret His words beyond the noise of the enemy. “You call yourself a Christian but you can’t even believe what you say you do! What a crock. Do you even believe what you keep telling everyone you do???”

Yes. I do. And I’m fortunate to be well-read on spiritual warfare and spiritual attacks. And yet, in the moment when it is I who am standing at the warfront of a barrage of enemy fire, still I fall victim, at times, to his relentless firepower. Even armed with the Word and speaking it aloud doesn’t immediately silence the battle cry.

I say this to you so that, if you, too, feel that you are being held captive, you will remember that Paul was arrested in Caesarea and imprisoned for two years, was shipwrecked, and then spent two more years imprisoned on house arrest in Rome. As a human, albeit a faithful one, he must have experienced spiritual attack because who would Satan have in his sights more than someone who would help write the New Testament. Paul had to have times when He felt alone, dejected, forgotten, and yet he still proclaimed his faith in the midst of it all. Remember that Paul was Saul, who persecuted Christians. Satan has to have screamed his unworthiness to him many times, but Paul persisted in faith.

Persistence is never easy. It means that, despite difficulty, one continues on their original path. Paul continued. While I have no inclination to be compared to Paul’s level of dedication and faithfulness, I am choosing to continue on a path of trust. A friend said to me this week, “faith is easy because it’s specific; trust is harder because it is in the dark.” That has been a resounding message for me this week. Faith, for me, is easy because I have seen evidence in my own life of what it has already done. Trusting that God still has a plan for my future when it feels interminably bleak is harder, but His faithfulness has been true to me in the past.

I’m clinging to that. The future will mimic God’s faithfulness of my past because He never changes. That’s what I’m counting on today.

Jesus, Help Me…

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I feel like I’m dying all over again tonight and I don’t know exactly why. For some reason, a tidal wave has rolled back over me and I feel like I’m back at the beginning, when he died. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop pleading, wishing, arguing about why it shouldn’t be this way. I thought I was beginning to mend but I’m in millions and millions of pieces again tonight. Jesus, help me…I’m drowning.

There is a movie about a Tsunami called The Impossible with Naomi Watts. She is with her family on vacation and, when the storm hits, there is a graphic scene of what happens during the giant wave hitting she and her family, separating them and thrashing them about underwater. One thing I remember is that her breast was ripped open by something she was thrown against underwater, part of a tree branch, I think. I almost feel like I can understand that feeling but the ragged branch punctures all the way into the muscle of my heart. Vivid, yes, but I have no other words to describe the agony of this moment.

I knew when I started to feel stronger that this couldn’t last. I have four friends, three very close to my own age, who have lost their husbands, also suddenly and unexpectedly, within the last three years. I know from their experiences that this will come and go, but it catches me by surprise every single time I fall back into the pit, tumbling endlessly down, hitting sharp rocks, getting caught up in choking vines, and hitting my head, knees, jaggedly ripping open the skin of my breast, and all other body parts along the way. It is more painful than I have words to explain. I can literally feel the moment he stopped breathing, the moment they came to tell me he was gone, the moment I laid my head on his still, warm chest but with no heartbeat inside. And my heart screams WHY???

God is still here or my emotional shattering would most definitely become physical. It’s the only explanation for how my skin remains on my body, for why my body pumps blood through my vessels instead of spraying it, pulsing, from every open wound I feel ripped open. He is here holding me together and yet I am in pieces.

There is a song by Barlow Girl, an “old-school” Christian female rock band, that sings “I cry out with no reply and I can’t feel You by my side, so I hold tight to what I know: You’re here…and I’m never alone,” followed by a strong guitar rock solo. That is what I feel right now. All I can do is hold tight to what I know. God is here; I’m never alone.

Abba God, please show me Your presence wrapped around me in a tangible way right now. I don’t know how else to survive this. I still have a family who needs me and I need to land on my feet. I have to keep my head above this torrential flood of salty tears. Hear me. In the name of Jesus, I’m asking You, please, raise me to where I can stand again. Amen.

My God is Bigger Than I Ever Seem to Realize…

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My favorite perfume, for many years, has been a discontinued fragrance called “Ananya” by The Body Shop. It was a perfume oil and I loved it because, since it was an oil and not a spray, it lasted forever (both the scent when you wore it and the bottle, since you only use a little dab.)

It’s been discontinued for a long time and has gotten more and more expensive to get it when you find it. The photo below shows what I’m talking about. Unreal when it used to cost about $20-$30. Scott even bought a little bottle on eBay once for me because he really liked it, too, but buying it is just not in my budget these days. I went to a makeup counter to smell some different ones but none were close to my favorite and the different ones I liked were pretty expensive, too.

SOOOOOO, I decided to work on making a new perfume on my own somehow. I wanted it to be an oil, like my old favorite, for the longevity. I decided to start off by taking some of my favorite oils that I use in my diffuser, scents I really love, and just playing around with them to get a concoction I was happy with. I bought some empty lip gloss roller bottles to put them in. The bottles arrived yesterday evening.

Do you know that today, literally the first day I tried this AND the very first bottle I made smells JUST LIKE Ananya! I guess it is no wonder that I like each of these diffuser fragrances because my favorites, in varying amounts, ended up creating exactly what I wished I had but couldn’t buy.

I haven’t even worn perfume now for months because, well, what’s the point? There’s no one here to say “Ooohhh, you smell so good!” But I’ve been wanting some recently because it reminds me of date nights with my husband and I have beautiful memories of those times we spent together. (His cologne gets spritzed on a pillow on my bed every time it wears off.)

I can’t even explain to you how 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 this is (in the natural world.) I had to write down what fragrance I was adding to the bottle and how much of each as I mixed it so that I would know how to make adjustments or to recall the “recipe” if I decided I had found something that I liked. Each scented oil has a different amount and there are multiple different scents mixed into it. Some a dropperful, a half dropperful, some in varying numbers of drops only. Having this be the outcome of the very first chemistry-experiment attempt I made is only possible supernaturally. I’m not gonna lie; it made me cry both to smell it and to slowly come to the realization what the odds were of this happening on my very first bottle. I don’t currently have a bottle of Ananya to test it against but I have worn this stuff since I was a teenager living in Germany – which was still separated into East & West Germany at the time – that should give you an idea of how well I know this stuff. If it’s not 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 the same scent, it is so close that my well-acquainted nose is unable to sniff the difference. It’s mind-boggling. I wasn’t even trying to create 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 scent. I just expected I’d be able to find something I liked and have it not cost what the eBay sellers are charging for their products.

I 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 even considered the idea that this would be what I came up with. I’m still flabbergasted, honestly. But God…

See, we tend to think He only has time to care about the BIG things. That’s because our minds are so very finite. But God is infinite in His abilities to care for us. This may seem like such a small thing to some people but it is such a big thing to me. God knew that. He knew and He cared enough to show me how He works…on my very first attempt without having any inclination that I could ever “figure out” that particular scent. I was just being crafty (which I enjoy doing in many respects) and wanted to make something that smelled pretty. I would have been happy just to like how it ended up smelling and not have it smell like a trash dumpster due to mixing random smells together. I didn’t pray “Hey, God, could you help me make this perfume just right, please? I’d like one of these bottles to come out smelling exactly like my favorite perfume, if you don’t mind…” because it honestly didn’t dawn on me to do so. God knows my heart, though. He knows I’ve been hurting. What parent wouldn’t go out of their way to give a soothing gift to their hurting child? God decided to go bigger anyway, even though I didn’t ask, just for me, to show me that He can.

Y’all…HE CAN. I’m here to tell you that HE CAN go big, even when it seems little. ♥️

P.S. I just looked up what the word “Ananya” means; it means “unique.” Today, it is slightly less unique than it was before.

eBay listings for the discontinued fragrance

Grief vs. Faith: A War One of Them Will Never Win

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“If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty’s hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”
‭‭Daniel‬ ‭3‬:‭17‬-‭18‬ ‭NIV‬‬

And if not…He is still good.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednago were thrown into the fiery furnace, which was heated seven times hotter than usual. The fire was so hot that the men who tied them up and walked up to throw them inside died. There were four men seen walking around (unbound) in the furnace. The three of them, however, walked out not only unharmed, but not even smelling of smoke. Not a single hair on their heads or thread od their clothes was singed.

Miracles exist. I’ve seen some of them. Actual supernatural miracles.

So why didn’t I have the opportunity to pray for one? Why didn’t we receive one? Why didn’t my sister? Why didn’t my in-laws? Why didn’t my daughter-in-love or her Oma? Why has my family experienced tragedy after tragedy in such a short span of time?

Every single one of these deaths were sudden and unexpected. Each created cold shock and electrifying pain all at once.

My mother-in-law lost her oldest son (50 years old) just sixteen months before losing her only living son left, my 49 year old husband. Just the idea of the heartbreak of losing all of your children breaks my heart for her every day. We grieve together.

I was never able to meet Patrice’s mom and knew but wasn’t close with her Nanny, (who died six months apart, Patrice’s Oma, who raised her, losing both her daughter and mother inside half of a year,) but I am close with Patrice and her breaking broke me. We have grieved together.

My nephew took his own life at 14 years old while none of us saw even a hint of a clue this would ever happen. A seemingly happy, boisterous, smiling, fun-loving kid who was excited to be getting his learner’s permit soon, suddenly gone by his own hand. Barely over two weeks later, my husband would die. It’s really, really hard but we grieve together.

And the question about why is rhetorical. I don’t have an answer for why miracles happen for some people and not others.

Bad things happen to 𝘢𝘭𝘭 people. None of us leave this world unscathed. Our world has been broken for a very long time and I’ve said before that darkness reigns here unless we call down Light to vanquish it. Even still, some shadows exist when Light is present here on earth.

In any of these sudden, unexpected scenarios, would we have recognized a miracle if it had occurred? We were not expecting death as it stood on our doorsteps and violently pummeled it’s way in. Essentially another rhetorical question. Of course we would not know.

When everything is seemingly going as it should, life carries musical notes of glorious harmony even as a cacophonous chorus of discordance waits, hidden behind a curtain of happy blindness, for the perfect moment to jump in and steal the refrain. But how can you anticipate the song ending in a way you’ve never heard it happening before? You dance around singing the lyrics you know until you realize that the world is suddenly shouting something entirely different.

So, if none of these deaths had occurred, we would still be singing what we know. Without knowing what happens in this alternate reality, we would be blissfully unaware of the miracle that had allowed us to finish the musical.

Amy Grant sings a song called “Angels” that says “God only knows the times my life was threatened just today; a reckless car ran out of gas before it ran my way. Near misses all around me, accidents unknown, though I never see with human eyes the hands that lead me home.”

I am a Christian; I know that He is still good. I am also a human who has had difficulty untangling my grief from my faith at times.

As I struggle restlessly, my faith does not angrily leave me, exiting stage left and slamming the door to it’s dressing room, while I ponder the realities of what faith means. It remains on the stage, a courageous contender in the battle with grief, as a scene of bewilderment is acted out in the theater of my mind, a desperate struggle to decipher the apparent incongruity of how these two actors coexist simultaneously.

My days, and often nights, are still a never ending scrimmage (sometimes more of a blitzkrieg) between looking for happiness and wallowing in loss. Yes, I admit it; sometimes I’m wallowing. It’s such an ugly word, wallowing. Not something I enjoy but, rather, get sucked into by a very strong vacuum.

This morning I wrote a positive blog post about moving forward and finding beauty in the things and people I still have. This afternoon I once again misplaced my keys to unlock that door and found myself floundering in the depths of this grief process yet again.

The thing is, miracles do happen every single day on this earth. I will never know, this side of Heaven, the whys and hows of those processes, nor fully know what stops them from happening sometimes. I know the power behind each side of the fight but not the inner workings of the deployment strategies.

What I do know is this: God’s Word is true and infallible. It’s the only thing that is. That’s faith. That means my only strategy is to hold onto the playbook and keep learning, keep practicing the plays.

I also know that my analogies are all over the place in this writing: music, theatrical and sports references. In each of these, though, there are singers/characters/players we like and ones we don’t. I’m not going to spend my time interacting with the ones I have no interest in following. The same goes for the way life is right now for me. I’m already on the winning team. Bewailing the temporary success of my opponent comes as a direct result of human emotions but it won’t stop me from preparing to win the next time we meet up.

Transitioned

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It’s hard for me to say the “D word” about Scott. I have said it. I have written it. But I don’t like it.I don’t like it at all.

He isn’t dead. His body is; I know that and that’s the part I hate. He isn’t physically here anymore and that hurts every single day. But he isn’t dead because God is not dead. My husband is alive in Christ. He has just transitioned to a new way of being. His body died, yes. He died at the hands of others. I cannot alter that reality any more than I could stop the swells at sea. And I ache over these facts every day.

My God is a deliverer and a healer. He makes all things new. Because of this, my husband’s transition was a glorious moment for him, contrasting sharply with his last hours in his earthly body. For this I am grateful. But the moment he came into glory was the moment my own worst nightmare began. For that, I am bereft of happiness and I don’t know how long that part is going to last.

I experience joy, but joy and happiness are not the same thing. Joy is an inner sanctum, a place inside your heart where you can experience positivity even when your mind cannot feel happiness at all. Our children bring me joy. Our granddaughter brings me joy. Happiness is something that seems to get farther and farther away in my rear view and I wonder if I’ll recognize it when it returns. I suppose it’s like him, though. I’d recognize him anywhere and I’ll know him immediately when my time of glory comes. Maybe one day I’ll have the opportunity to experience happiness in that way while I’m still here and I’ll know it instantly, too. I feel like being happy will come as a surprise, like hearing an urban legend many times and then discovering that it was true all along.

People say “I’m so sorry for your loss.” And it has been an enormous loss for me. But my husband is not lost. He’s just in a place where I cannot reach him, like being on deployment in the desert of Iraq and not having the ability to call home. I only wish he could even write to me from where he lives now. And that I could write back.

I haven’t had any dreams of him yet. I actually rarely even remember my dreams from sleep. I had the most ridiculous dream last week. I very realistically dreamed (apparently) that I had received an Amazon package, something I had ordered in real life. I hunted all over the house for where I had put it. I distinctly remembered opening the box, pulling out the caffeinated, orange mint flavored breath mints I had purchased, separating them into smaller ziploc bags (I spilled some) so that I could give some to my daughter-in-love who is in nursing school, put some in my purse, and saving the rest to keep here at home.

So, as I said, I searched for them everywhere because grief brain makes you terribly absent-minded and I assumed I had set them down somewhere, tucked them into a drawer, or foolishly placed them in a spot that makes no sense (like when I found my lost toothbrush in the kitchen cabinet. But, alas, no mints. I never even thought about checking Amazon to see if they had been delivered yet because I distinctly remembered them arriving. A couple of days later, I got a box in the mail and was surprised to find caffeinated orange mint flavored breath mints inside. Well, they must have accidentally sent them twice, obviously. And yet when I opened the box, they were larger than I expected them to be. Did they send a different kind? That’s when I checked Amazon and found that these were the ones I had been expecting. It ever-so-slowly occurred to me that I had woken up thinking about those mints because it was a dream. Truly incredulous, all I could think was “If I had to have a dream that was that realistic, why couldn’t Scott have been in it?”

People talk about all of these signs you see of people who have moved on from this life. I haven’t witnessed any signs. I know that if there were a way for him to be here other than in my memories, he would do so. But he is in a new place, a new home, a new spiritual body. Maybe one day he’ll come to me in some way (I pray for that and ask him to do so all the time) but it just hasn’t happened yet. I still talk to him every day as if he were here. I still tell him I love him and that I miss him all the time. I still love him and miss him all the time.

Scott’s transition from this life to the next was infinitely harder for me than it was for him. I don’t begrudge him that because what he suffered prior to that moment of beauty for him was overwhelmingly traumatic. I don’t know that I’ll ever fully heal from the terror of those hours and minutes. I’m glad that he has and that he doesn’t have to remember a moment of them because there is no pain or fear where is now. in the same way, it will be infinitely harder for my children than it will be for me when my time comes to leave.

For Scott, transition was a thing of beauty. For me, the transition from wife to widow, from soulmate to loss, has been calamitous. So transition, you see, is a matter of perspective.

My perspective is this:

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” James‬ ‭1‬:‭2‬-‭4‬ ‭NIV‬‬

No, joy is not the same thing as happiness because we wouldn’t count it all happiness when we face trials of many kinds. But I am joyful in the fact that my husband no longer suffers the many trials he faced on this earth. There is no heartbreak. There is no anguish. There is no fear. There is no loss. Not for him. And yet the same event that brought him into that new reality forces me into the one I live now. And I will count it all joy, for one day I will also be mature and complete, not lacking anything, as well.

Desperately Wanting What I Cannot Have

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***Grief Trigger Warning***

Guys, this post has some pretty graphic imagery about how this season is making me feel at times. You know how sometimes you’re in the mood for a happy movie because you’re not in the mood for something sad? If today is that day, please don’t read this post right now.

If you ARE sad already and you’re trying to figure out if it’s “normal” to feel this bad, this lost, this overwhelmed, this some-kind-of-word-that-“sad”-doesn’t-do-justice, read if you’re looking for confirmation that this season messes us all up for awhile. I’ve talked to other survivors a lot lately. It’s going to get better (reminding myself AND you.) Don’t give up trying to go through it instead of sitting in it (at least not forever.)

Oh, and this one will not be in order because, even as I am trying to upload my older posts in order of their occurrence, this one I feel the need to throw out there today. I don’t know why…I just need to. So maybe I’ll post this one again when I get to the right chronological place. Okay, here goes:

July 21st, 2023

The cemetery is hard.

People tend to think you should go there a lot, “spend time” with him, maybe that will make you feel closer to him.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it does the opposite.

When I am sitting propped up on pillows in my bed at night, I can close my eyes and listen for his breathing, wait to feel the covers rustle on his side of the bed, catch a smell that reminds me of date nights because I sprayed his cologne on a little throw pillow.  It’s an elusive feeling, almost ethereal – like you can almost see him there or, if you close your eyes, turn away and turn back, maybe it never happened at all.  Sometimes, I fall asleep now trying to listen, wait, smell….  

The cemetery, though…

Everything around me screams that he is gone.  All the way gone.  No mulligan.  No do-overs.  No rewind button.  No, no, no…

I know that he is not there.  Not his spirit.  I hope today, when I was there at his grave, that he was deep-sea fishing in beautiful turquoise waters, with a sailfish (the bucket list fish he never caught here) on the end of his line in the great ocean in the sky.  I feel sure Heaven has oceans, somehow.  Since there must be beaches or us Florida people might be slightly disappointed. (I kid, I kid…)

No, I know he is not there…but I do know that his body is.  I saw him in that wretched casket that they want you to think of as having a “beautiful finish” when you’re looking for one to lay them in…so you can put them in the ground inside of it.  (Mind you, I know that these people are doing a very difficult job in the very best and kindest way that they know how.  The people I dealt with were full of compassion.  But nothing in the world would have made me think that any casket that would be “laying him to rest” was beautiful, in any way.  I think they would all understand me saying that.)  I know this is a lot of imagery.  Sorry, not sorry.  It’s stuck in my head every single day and you’re reading to find out where my head is these days or because you’re looking for answers as to whether what you see, hear, feel, smell during grief is “normal.”  Well, here it is.

As I kneel on the ground beside the place where a few random weed-looking leafy things have begun to sprout up over the dirt that still sits, too recently disrupted to contain grass (note to self:  bring grass seed and watering can next time), I know his body is approximately (if folklore is correct) six feet beneath me.  He was six feet even.  If they’d stood him up in there, he could reach me. 

The body, his body, that I used to wrap my arms around and he’d kiss my forehead then rest his chin on my head as his arms, so much physically stronger than my own, wrapped me up in a safety that made me feel as good as the forehead kiss.  The body, his body, his chest that I would lay my head on at night and his chest hair would tickle my face but I didn’t want to sit back up.  The body, his body, that was the keeper of his voice as he would tell me how much he loved me, that I was the only woman in the world to him, that I was beautiful, that I was smart, that I was talented…and all the things that I felt that day that I was not.  He always gave me back things I thought I had lost.  He also gave me things I had never even thought to have.  Some memories that I will hold like glittering treasure within me.

I don’t have to “sit there and think about” his body being beneath me in the dirt, lest you’re saying, “Try not to think about that part; think about those memories.”  As my tires crunch against the gravel when I pull into the gates by the road, these thoughts, the unbidden and unwanted ones, are already coiling around me, squeezing the breath from my lungs.  I was here in May and there was a flag laying over him…it’s in my house now.  So, as I actively try to think about good things.  About where he really is right now, about his smell, his sound, his touch, his face, his eyes….I’m trying…I’m trying…I’m trying…nope.  There’s the dirt again.  Still there when I open my eyes.

Today I had AirPods and my iPhone.  There is zero cell service where he is but I have all of the important songs downloaded so I can listen offline.  I played music and, although it made me cry, with harsh sobs that hurt my throat and squeezed my chest and weakened my knees until, there I was, down on the ground with them in the dirt beside him.  I stay there so long that my legs begin to have pins & needles from kneeling so I pull them around front and cross-cross them, always ready to leave but never ready to leave.  So more music.  More memories.  More crying. But maybe distracted from the dirt a little bit.  I look up to the sky, knowing God sees my tears and counts them, saves them.  I feel a tear slip off of my chin and watch it drop to the mound of dirt below me.  It makes me think of the movie Tangled.  It reminds me of when Flynn Rider died in the end and, as she cried, Rapunzel’s tear dripped onto his chest which began to glow as he returned to life.  I randomly think that if his chest started glowing, I couldn’t see it from up here and I wouldn’t even know…at the same time that I remember that cartoon movie are cool but the caricatures can do things we never can.  Not ever, ever.

The sobs have stopped.  The dirt is still there.  But, I feel, somehow, maybe a strangely odd bit better.  Like all of those tears, all of those rib-racking sobs, had been hidden away in a pressurized compartment which was becoming too full, the compression becoming too much for the steely outsides.  Now that they’ve been released there is room to store them up again for awhile, I guess.  I lean back with my hands on the ground behind me and haphazardly wonder whether anyone was in the cemetery witnessing my display.  When I walked from the car, I could only see one grave…now there are others all around.  I glance furtively around, not because I care if anyone saw my ugly crying, but because there may be someone else who needed their moment of depressurization.  No one.  But still, it’s time to go.

I had felt dread coming here.  I know what it means to be here.  I know how it feels to be here.  I know he’s here but he’s not here.  But now it feels as if I don’t want to leave because I’ll be leaving him again.  (Yes, I still know he is not actually here; I cannot control the inert thought pattern.  As I said, they do their own thing, coming and going as they wish and I do not own the key to the lock that would keep them out.)  When we left my sister’s house after my nephew passed away so that we could drive to a place to stay for the night while the police finished their necessary plundering, she began to cry and said “I can’t leave him here alone.”  All I could say was, “Julie, he won’t be alone. They’re going to take care of him.”  Because he wasn’t fully gone in her mind yet, and being taken care of was important. 

This makes me wonder when I will really, fully believe that he is gone.  Gone, gone.  The for real, this is it, never going to change, like it or not, imaginary breathing beside you in bed is GONE, gone.

There are times when I fall apart because I think I’ve just realized it, that this is all really real.  And then my brain throws out flares and pulls the rip cord that inflates the rescue raft and there’s some kind of chance, theoretically, that this is all just an awful dream.  *pinch*pinch*sighhhh*

Driving across the crunchy, loose gravel is just as hard going out as it was coming in.  It’s for a completely different reason but I can’t describe it.  I’ve not said one word to him while I was here.  Because he’s not here even though he’s here.  And if I want to talk to him, I’ll do it in our bedroom at home because it feels more likely that, if there were holes in the floor of Heaven, that would be the place he’d most likely hear me from.  I hope he only ever hears the “I love you”s and “I miss you so much”s, not the sobs.  I would never want him to be as sad as I am, not ever.  I guess now he never, ever has to be.

I love you, baby.  I miss you so, so much.  One way or another, we’ve got this, K?  See you later.

Postscript Edit: the photo from this post is not from today; that wouldn’t have been possible today.