Tag: loss

I’d Like One Speedy Miracle, Please.

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I’ve been thinking on something while meditating over scripture I had read today. What came to me caused me to do a little further research and here is what I have found:

We get tired of waiting on God to do something about things that we pray over. I’m saying “we” because I know I’m not alone in this.

I want to pray and have it happen…like, now would be nice, right? When Jesus performed miracles he said “Your faith has healed you; get up and walk” or a similar phrase which pertained to their own infirmity. The healing was instantaneous. Just (snaps fingers) like that. That’s how I want my miracles to go. Just (snaps again) like that.

My initial thought was “He’s in the waiting” and I spiritually rolled my teenage eyes at the Holy Spirit (awful) and whined “Yes, I know God is in the waiting but if He’s here, why can’t He do something about it now?” If you are never, ever a wayward teenager when you respond to the Holy Spirit (God), then I applaud you. I’m still trying to grow up and straighten up (pretty sure I always will be) and sometimes my own spirit misbehaves. Maybe that’s just me.

The interesting thing is what I got in my spirit 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵. Yes, Jesus performed miracles and they happened immediately, upon command. I mean, He was Jesus, after all. But the people who we read about in the Bible who were healed had been struggling for a LONG time.

The paralyzed man at the Pool of Bethesda had been crippled for 38 years.

The woman with the issue of blood who touched the hem of His garment had been bleeding for twelve years.

Casting demons out of a man and into pigs – the Bible says he had been naked and homeless “for a long time.”

Lazarus had been dead and in the grave for four days when Jesus woke him. I assure you that, to Mary and Martha, four days without him seemed like an eternity. An. Absolute. Eternity. Trust me.

You’re probably seeing a pattern like I did by now but there are many more and all of them after long (or likely long) periods of suffering except for the man whose ear was sliced off when Jesus was detained. 𝘏𝘦 got healed immediately.

These people came to Jesus with faith that He could heal them. If they had faith that He could heal them, at least most of them were probably men and women of faith already. So, they had probably been praying for healing or easing of suffering for a long time.

Enter Jesus, stage left…

When Jesus woke Lazarus from the dead, he had received word six days earlier that Lazarus was very ill and He had been asked to come heal him.

Jesus’ response? No, we’re going to wait two more days. After two days he told the disciples that Lazarus was dead and they needed to go to him now.

“But when Jesus heard about it he said, “Lazarus’s sickness will not end in death. No, it happened for the glory of God so that the Son of God will receive glory from this.” John‬ ‭11‬:‭4‬ ‭NLT‬‬

He waited for the glory of God. Jesus loved Lazarus so much that he wept over the suffering of Mary and Martha when he arrived. But before that, he waited. He told the disciples “Lazarus is dead. And for your sakes, I’m glad I wasn’t there, for now you will really believe. Come, let’s go see him.” John‬ ‭11‬:‭14b-15‬ ‭NLT‬‬

“For your sakes…” For your sakes… For YOUR sakes…

He waited for his friend to die so that others could experience the miracle that the Son of Man performed. So that they could be witness to His glory. He waited so that people would believe.

*********

I don’t like waiting; I’m no good at it. Well, strike that. I have the Fruit of the Spirit and patience is one of those…so I have it but I’m not well-practiced at it because I don’t like it. (There’s that pesky teenager again.)

But He IS in the waiting. If we are waiting for something to happen, it’s going to be in His timing and there’s going to be a reason for that timing. I don’t know what it is and you don’t either, but He has a purpose in the waiting.

That still doesn’t mean I have to like it…but I do have to trust it. And just maybe that will make patience a little easier to use. (But I’m not praying for patience; I’ll pray for grace. If you pray for patience, He may just give you another reason to need it.)

The Breath of Life

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God fixed my broken pieces, but He did it by way of a soulmate he grew, hand-plucked and then planted right into my life. Now my pieces are struggling to remain attached to each other.

My mind keeps going back, over and over and over, to the moment the doctors walked down the hallway toward me, the disastrous results of my husband’s code blue evident on their faces. I cannot stop feeling what it was like to pleadingly and raggedly cry out “No…NO…NOOOOOOO!!!” and then slide down the wall in sobs as my legs failed to hold my weight.

I think I “knew” when I left his room. I’m a nurse. Not only was he not breathing but he had no airway. In the back of my mind I knew the statistics. I knew the potential and likely outcomes at that point. I knew my likelihood of loss. But I was praying for a miracle. I was holding onto hope like I was falling off of a cliff where the raveling thread of someone’s threadbare sweater was all I had to hold onto. I spent about an hour, give or take, grasping that tiny thread so tightly that it wore shreds into the skin of my palms. Or maybe that was my fingernails.

And then I drowned.

I could feel myself suffocating as I slid down the wall. As one doctor said “go get her a chair” and then told me to tuck my head and breathe. I had been holding onto the ICU visitor phone asking if my husband had been brought over yet when I heard them coming down the hall toward me and I remember seeing the handset hanging from the cord, the cord dangling, as I sat in a crumpled heap on the cold hallway floor. I remember men who had walked toward me, four abreast, all of their faces dour, the one clearly intending to deliver the news just a step ahead of the rest searching my face as he prepared to end my life as I knew it. And I could not breathe. I don’t even know how the cries for mercy made their way out except for the breath of wind that caught in my throat as they approached.

My chest clenched. I don’t know what happened to my heart but if you told me it had stopped beating right then, it would not surprise me. I wonder if that’s what cardiac arrest feels like. I wonder if my husband felt like that, too.

I read a post the other day where a widow said that her husband had “died” once before, during a heart attack, for several minutes while they resuscitated him. When he “died permanently” several years later he wasn’t afraid to go. He had told her that during that first time, he knew exactly when he left his body because the pain stopped entirely, there was suddenly no fear and a sensation he could only define as “euphoria and complete peace” overcame him. He thought to himself that he was leaving this earth and he was okay with it. He didn’t bewail the fact that he was leaving others behind but just knew he was safe and that it was okay. He was okay and they’d all be okay.

I hope that’s what it was like for my husband. Of all of the people I know in this world, my husband 100% deserved peace. He spent many years of his life not having it.

There’s a part of me that wishes he’d know how much we miss him, how much we mourn his loss, but not when I think of what that would put him through. So I guess I just want him to know how much and how completely he was loved and how important he was to people here. I hope he knows now that he made a difference, left a legacy of goodness, kindness, compassion, empathy. And I wish I could see his sweet face when he realized that. I loved the way his face lit up because someone really saw him. When someone saw him as the person I already knew he was.

We take breathing for granted. Air goes in; air comes out. We don’t even think about it most of the time. I’ve had many days since that night, well, that early, early morning, where I had to force myself to inhale. It truly felt like my body wouldn’t do it automatically. Or to exhale just so new air could come in. I remember thinking, theoretically, if I didn’t breathe right now, how long would it take? It felt unnatural to just breathe. Like it feels unnatural to be here when he isn’t.

I believe my heart shattered into a million, zillion pieces that day so how can it still feel like my heart is breaking? Or does it heal a little and the scabs then get ripped open every time a thought crosses my mind, those hundreds of times a day. That cannot be good for healing but I don’t know how to stop it because I never know from which direction the assault will come barreling toward me. It’s completely indiscernible until it hits, until my heart plummets to the ground again beneath blood and ash.

Four of “Lillian’s fish” (our granddaughter’s) died from lack of oxygen due to the hurricane this past week; I had no generator to power the aerator. Scott named them Lillian’s fish (even though we’d had them since early 2022) because she loved watching them from soon after she arrived on the outside of her mommy. We subsequently picked out even more colorful fish to entertain her. The fact that some of those fish died, ones he wanted her to have (albeit at our house because he thought that would make her ask to come visit more) has made me cry more than once. Going to the store where we bought them to get her a few more tomorrow will make me cry again…hopefully I can hold it until I get to the car. I’d rather lose my bladder in public than fall apart. People “get” medical issues (like whatever they might assume would cause me to urinate on myself) better than they “get” grief. Grief makes people uncomfortable.

But now, when I say “Lillian, where’s PopPop?” (she is eight months old now,) she turns her head and looks to his picture. That made me cry the first time but kind of makes my heart smile now. I tell her “PopPop loves you, Lillian. That’s Lillian’s PopPop.” She studies his photograph in a way that makes it look as if he is familiar even though she was only just over four months old when he died. It’s like she is trying to remember where she saw him and can’t quite place it, her face so serious and contemplative. It’s a poignant experience because she usually gets distracted so easily but she stares at his photo for a long time without looking away.

And so I breathe. There are moments sprinkled, however sparsely right now, throughout my days that cause me to breathe.

According to my research, Ruach is the word spoken three times in Hebrew scripture for the breath of God. It’s not described so much as a physical being or an entity but as God’s essence that creates and sustains life. Sometimes it is translated as “Spirit of God”, the Holy Spirit.

However, the actual Hebrew term for “spirit,” ruah (notice the similarity) is used 389 times in the Hebrew Scriptures. Ruah is translated using three different words: wind, breath, and spirit. Context decides the translation, but in Ezekiel it is often used with dual context, like breath and spirit are the same thing.

So the Holy Spirit IS breath. Not all breathe by nature of the Spirit’s breath, although all are invited to, but when my natural breath fails to sustain me, the Holy Spirit can. Yes, at some point my body will fail and the Holy Spirit will leave my earthly domain as my own spirit exits, but when my mind no longer wants to breathe, I have a backup generator as a Christian. I didn’t have to go to Lowe’s and pay a hefty sum for this one as it was bequeathed to me and all I had to do was accept the gift.

If you’ve ever been through a high-force hurricane, you know the value of a good generator. And, oh, have I been living in the eye of a hurricane these past almost-four-months. I’ve been living on the strength of my generator ever since the power went out in May.

I’m just going to keep filling up that generator with fuel because without it my life is so very much more uncomfortable…which doesn’t even seem possible but, alas, it is true. It turns out that the Word and prayer are the only fuel it accepts. The dual power generator I have at home (which spontaneously elected not to function following hurricane Idalia this past week) works on gasoline or propane. They’re a lot more expensive.

As you read this, I hope this week finds you healthy. If you are grieving, I hope you have the generator of breath. If you don’t, I know where you can find one for free.

The Valley of the Shadow of Death

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“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me.”

I’ve heard this scripture passage hundreds of times in my life.  The 23rd Psalm.  When I was in about 5th grade, I earned a silver (colored) coin in Sunday School for memorizing it.  It has been somewhat liturgical for me until now.  You say it, you know it, you know what it means.

And then one day you 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 what it means.

Yea, though I walk through the valley (as I’m definitely not on a mountain-top these days) of the 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩….  Suddenly the scripture takes on new meaning.

I am living in the shadow of death.  It looms overhead in everything I do, making the world appear dark, cold, clammy, scary.  Death is a giant, weighty boulder blocking the sun from shining on me.

And the next part goes “I will fear no evil for Thou art with me.”

This is where it gets tricky.  God is with me; of that I have no doubt.  It’s the “I will fear no evil” part that trips me up now and again.  After what happened to my husband, there are 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 to be afraid of.  I can’t even list them all but one of them is undeniably a fear of losing someone else in the sudden manner in which I lost Scott.  I’ve always known we’re not promised tomorrow but nothing has ever quite made it as real and as terrifying as this.

I’m trying hard not to live as if there’s a goblin in every corner but it’s honestly not easy.  I watched him go with my own eyes and stood there yelling for people to 𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨!!! I cannot go into more detail at this time about the circumstances but suffice it to say that it is the most traumatic situation I have ever suffered in my whole life. As a nurse, I’ve seen a lot of people die and I have cried over most of them either during or later, but this was my person and in this scenario there was nothing I could do to help him. So call it severe PTSD (as the therapist has) but I have enormous difficulty with trying not to be afraid of anything that could happen to people I love day-to-day.

I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.  Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.  Now, this part really was liturgy for me.  I know that there are many references to shepherds protecting sheep in the Bible and I chalked it up to another shepherd reference, which it is, but I didn’t understand what it really meant.

This is what I learned:  The rod and staff can be broadly categorized as tools of protection and guidance, respectively. The rod warded off predators; the staff was a guiding tool with a hook on one end to secure a sheep around its chest. Only the two tools together provided comfort to the sheep.

Thy rod and Thy staff comfort me.  Thy rod wards off predators (they are many these days but they are supernaturally being warded off because The Lord is my shepherd.) Thy staff guides me, keeping an arm around me to keep me from straying too far (into anxiety, for one) and showing me how to move next.  They comfort me.

The thing about that is, because sin and evil were invited into our world way back in the Garden, God can ward off predators but evil still has an opportunity to have its day.  If that weren’t the case, my sweet mother-and-father-in-law wouldn’t have lost two sons within 15 months.  So it’s scary.  I AM comforted by the fact that He watches over me and will send angels to fight for me in spiritual warfare, I also know that the devil gets his day sometimes.  He’ll never win the war but there are battles he keeps gnashing his teeth through just to try to get a leg up.  

So I will keep repeating this Psalm because, now that I know I’m actually in the figurative valley of the shadow of death, I need the reassurance that I’m not here alone.  

I feel like I’m living my life between the two gardens. I guess we all are somewhere in between the Garden of Eden, when life feels like paradise and you can’t believe how blessed you are, and the Garden of Gethsemane, where sorrow runs rampant through your veins and you know there is know way out of the pain you are and will continue going through. I think one of the hardest parts for me is that my two gardens met up in one moment of time. One moment he was here and it was still paradise; the next he was gone and I haven’t been able to fully lift my head or my body since.

So, I’m adding in a little bit of John 14 (this part is from the Amplified version because the wording is clarified in just the way I need it):

“I have told you these things while I am still with you. But the Helper (Comforter, Advocate, Intercessor—Counselor, Strengthener, Standby), the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in My name [in My place, to represent Me and act on My behalf], He will teach you all things. And He will help you remember everything that I have told you. Peace I leave with you; My [perfect] peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be afraid. [Let My perfect peace calm you in every circumstance and give you courage and strength for every challenge.]”

‭‭John‬ ‭14‬:‭25‬-‭27‬ ‭AMP‬‬

You’ll notice that in the bracketed Amplified text it explains “give you courage and strength for every challenge.” It does NOT say “Don’t stress out because I’m never gonna let anything bad happen.” Nope. This part: “Do not let your heart be troubled; nor let it be afraid.”  actually indicates that we WILL have trouble. Let My perfect peace calm you anyway.

His perfect peace has the ability to calm me, to shield my mind from gnawing thoughts that constantly try to invade.  His perfect peace is a forcefield.  I cannot control what is going to happen in the world around me.  But I can know that He gives perfect peace in the midst of immeasurably difficult circumstances.  I’ve felt it but now I need to cultivate it.  I need to focus on not feeding the demon of fear but fertilizing the seed of faith and, from that, increasing my measure of peace, because God does have the power to pour that out over me.

Daniel ought to have been terribly afraid in the lion’s den.  And Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace.  Moses and the Israelites as they stood before a great sea with enemies charging up from behind while they seemingly had nowhere to go.  But fear was an unnecessary evil (although it most likely still existed) because God’s plan went before them. He calms fears.

The long and short of it is this:  bad things do happen to the best of people.  My testimony to that is my husband and the deplorable way that he died.  But “Do not be anxious or worried about anything, but in everything [every circumstance and situation] by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, continue to make your [specific] requests known to God. And the peace of God [that peace which reassures the heart, that peace] which transcends all understanding, [that peace which] stands guard over your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus [is yours].” Philippians‬ ‭4‬:‭6‬-‭7‬ ‭AMP‬‬

A peace that transcends all understanding.  It’s over and above my head and my pay grade.  It’s a peace that just simply shouldn’t exist in some circumstances but it does anyway simply because He is God.  I’ve felt it.  I want to bottle it up and drink it for breakfast lunch and dinner every single day.

But it cannot be bottled because it has already been written down.  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner scripture is my new diet.  If I keep feeding myself then I become less weak.  So why wouldn’t I feed myself?  Laziness? Apathy? Forgetfulness? Busyness? Depression? I still need nourishment.  “I lift my eyes unto the hills.  Where does my help come from?  My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of Heaven and Earth.” Psalm 121:1

For the record, I’m still going to struggle with this.  Being a human makes me susceptible to attacks any time, day or night.  I’m still going to be afraid sometimes.  I’m still going to be angry.  I’m still going to wish it wasn’t like it is.  But I’m going to redouble my efforts to combat those feelings with the Sword of the Spirit.  At least I’m fighting back (for today.)

Grief vs. Fear

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Fear is a very intense feeling. It’s something that I don’t really feel can be accurately described if you haven’t truly experienced it. And there are varying degrees of fear. There’s “oh, no…my keys aren’t in my pocket; where did I leave them?” fear. There is “my child let go of my hand and almost darted into traffic” fear. There’s Halloween Horror Nights fear. There’s also BOO! Hannibal Lechter scary movie fear. And there’s “I’m lowering the bucket; she puts on the lotion” kind of fear. You get me? (If you don’t, go Google the “Silence of the Lambs” movie. It’ll start making sense.)

And then there is 𝘍𝘌𝘈𝘙. Italicized, capital letters fear. A guy just dragged me into the woods to rape me fear. My child has gone missing and there’s an Amber Alert fear. You hear a gunshot from another part of your house fear. These are the 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓 𝘒𝘐𝘕𝘋 𝘖𝘍 𝘍𝘌𝘈𝘙.

And grief feels a lot like that, in its own way. Fear cripples your muscles so you may fall to your knees, unwittingly even, and think later “how and when did I get down here?” It squeezes your stomach…not just squeezes but twists it like wringing out a wet washrag. It literally feels like it stops your heart but also like a homemade bomb filled with nails just exploded and every single piece of metal hit the center of your chest.

I’ve been afraid since I lost my husband, yes. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Not talking about the fear of living without him here. Not talking about the fear of not being protected by him, or of facing a disaster without him.

I’m talking about the way capital, italicized 𝘎𝘙𝘐𝘌𝘍 feels. Underlined even.

Even grief has levels of devastation. Someone you know: that’s so sad. A close friend: this is awful; why her/him? A parent: I’ve never lived without him/her before; I’m an orphan now.

And then there is losing a soulmate spouse (because I realize not all spouses are the same) or a child. That’s on a whole ‘nother level.

Yes, when I read the picture I’m posting with this, it hit me that some grief feels a LOT alike bone-chilling fear. It stops you in your tracks. It paralyzes you. It makes you lose consciousness for weeks – everyone else thinks you’re wide awake but you’re really not. It makes everything going on in the world around you n͛o͛t͛ m͛a͛k͛e͛ s͛e͛n͛s͛e͛. And it’s timeless; you don’t know if you’ve been terrified for a minute or an hour or for days.

I’ve found it difficult to explain, to paint a picture of, to validate what this grief feels like. But if you have ever truly been afraid, and I mean TRULY afraid, then just imagine that feeling, the way your body feels and your mind cannot think, continuing for months on end and then think of never being able to determine when there may be a point at which you do not feel that feeling hundreds of times a day. That gut-wrenching feeling of fear is very similar to the agonizing, heartrending, tragic, harrowing feeling of deep grief. Especially if it comes out of nowhere. At least in a suspenseful movie there is music that lets you know “look out….something bad is coming…something scary…” Sometimes with great grief, there is no warning. No cautionary tunes. No “Hey you! Look out!” No. Just an MMA style kick to the gut when you weren’t looking. BAM! And there it is.

Yes. Grief feels a lot like fear…in case you didn’t know.

The Cacophony of Silence

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The sheer cacophony of the unabbreviated silence is deafening.

I’m just indiscriminately drifting, without any method of control, toward an unknown yet unwanted destination.  I may be a nomad progressing forward but I’m still looking back, surveying the path of destruction that will always be behind me now.  But it’s also in front of me; it surrounds me. Yet I’m always still looking back in a desperate hope to see him in the rear view, chasing after me and yelling “wait up!”

Our dreams were a joint effort.  Every single one we had involved both of us.  Any kind of aimless search for a new dream without him feels inconsequential.  It seems now that they were all just hallucinations, pipe dreams never capable of coming to fruition…but how would we have known that?  We were living on the hope of tomorrows adventures that have now faded into oblivion.

I’m an eery stranger to my own life.  I don’t recognize myself anymore, in the mirror or in my heart, and he isn’t here to share my heartbreak over that enormous detail.  He was always here to share my heartbreak and, even as his broke for me, he devised a plan to turn it all back around. Dear God, I don’t know how to turn it back around now. Life has brutally pushed me forward, unwillingly, to where I’m destined to go, whether I like it or not.

I’m living in the constant predicament of yearning and missing in a world where absolutely everything is bittersweet or just bitter…never only sweet.  If it appears it should be sweet, he’s still not here to enjoy it and that allows the bitterness to soak through every fiber of my being.

It’s about so much more than missing his physical presence; it’s about finding myself in the aftermath of a Cat 5 hurricane followed by a trail of tornadoes where trees are wrapped around each other like tumbleweeds in every direction with no clear path in sight.  Finding who I am without him is not only daunting – do I even like who I am without him? – but also seems pointless and disheartening. I feel blinded and deaf in a screaming silence.

God is here. I know He is because I still am. There is no other explanation. I’m not strong enough to stay here on my own, despite everyone telling me how “strong” I am; I know, full-well, that I’m only doing it because God has put life rafts in place to float me past the parts that try to sink me. My sons, my daughters-in-love, my granddaughter, sometimes other family or friends, they are the tugboats, the barges, the canoes, the life rings that glide across the water toward me, hailing me to grab on, to climb aboard the safe vessel that their loving me has built.

It’s funny how no one can hear me screaming.

I was watching a movie recently. Not a sad one; I know better than to wade even deeper into the flood. There was a beach. My husband loved the beach, the ocean, the waves, the sounds, the fishing, the boating. We loved being in The Keys together, paddle boarding the mangroves or fishing the bridges. All I could think was “we’ll never be able to reserve a hotel at the beach together again and just have a getaway.”

That epitomizes pretty much my entire day, every day. Cleaning up after Hurricane Idalia? He’s not here to do it with me. Cooking dinner? He won’t be coming home to eat. Grocery shopping? No reason to buy all of his favorites as I walk past them on the aisle. Trying to sleep? I can’t reach across and just know he’s right there. It’s everything. Ev.Ry.Thing. Every day, all day, a perpetual, rolling tide of agony that refuses to recede more than an hour at a time.

Fortunately, most days I’m good at putting on a happy face. My mask is nearly impenetrable and imperceivable most of the time. I occasionally have lapses in my ability to maintain its stalwart visage but typically it is the picture of perfection and strength. The “picture” of it.

I pray daily for this “strength” that others speak of. I pray for relief. I pray for justice for my husband. I pray for reform in the processes that accelerated his death. I pray for hope…a glimmer of hope. I have big faith in a big and magnificent God and I am working steadily to grow the measure that I have. All of these things are, by human nature, a slow process. I pray for divine hastening. I remind myself that I am not in this world alone when I feel alone in this world.

Be kind, always. You know not what path another is walking, even when you think that you understand it. Some things cannot be presumed or perceived without actual experience. This is an experience I never want you to have.

Just Another Hurricane…

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Everything brings a memory. Ev.Re.Thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you, this is just another hurricane.

Nefarious Attacks

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

When you’re under deafening spiritual attack:

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

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

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

Grief Brain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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August 9th, 2023

Tomorrow is the 10th. Three months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matthew 5:1-16. (The Beatitudes)

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

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

Believers Are Salt and Light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cemetery

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July 21st, 2023

***Trigger Warning*** This post has some graphic imagery related to being a widow at the cemetery. Please read with discretion regarding your own sensitivities in this area.

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.