Tag: purpose

Anniversaries are Supposed to be Happy Occasions…right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk, Talk, Talk…

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I talk to myself more than I used to. And I don’t just mean in my bedroom before bed at night, having the conversations we used to have and telling him how much I love him and miss him. I mean in the grocery store, at the DMV, in my back yard. Doesn’t matter if other people are there, apparently, because I realized this was occurring while in Walmart when a lady looked at me like I was schizophrenic as I had a discussion with myself about which vegetable would go better with the supper I was planning. Yes, it’s like that.

I’ve decided that it’s safer to leave the house with my granddaughter in tow because at least then people will assume I’m talking to her. And I don’t really even know WHO I’m actually talking to (which may be even more scary.) Is this some leftover habit of talking things through with my husband? I don’t know because we didn’t really always discuss what vegetable to have. I’m excusing myself when I burp at home and, just being honest, I didn’t always do that anymore with him either.

On one hand, I’m home with a toddler most of the day every day and have very little adult interaction overall. Maybe it’s just that I have a quota of words that I need to spend each day (if you know me in person then you already know that’s typically a high number) and I’m just fulfilling the minimum requirement to relieve the pressure of holding it in all the time. I think I drive my boys (autocorrect just changed ‘boys’ to ‘joys’ and that’s true, too) crazy wanting to talk forever when I do see them because I have to fit it all in somewhere.

Loneliness has a way of creeping up on you, too, though. My person isn’t here. When I talk to my mother-in-law (love) we can talk for long periods because the loss is a hole too deep to ever fill but maybe talking eases it some. Maybe talking to air is some strange way of placating the monster of loneliness. I just don’t know. I also haven’t talked to another widow about this (yet) so I don’t know if this is…common. I won’t say “normal” because that’s only a setting on the washing machine. In people, there’s no real “normal” because it’s okay to be whoever you are, but some things are more common.

Ultimately, what I have come to realize is that I’m not directing as much of that loneliness, that random talking anywhere and everywhere, up to God. Why am I talking to an unrecognizable void rather than to the Living God? The one who never leaves. The one who always stays. The one who is omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient: all powerful, everywhere, and knows all. My words should be directed at my power source. Over the past year, when my spirit has not wanted to live in this realm any longer, Abba God came through every single time and reminded me that He is still here and He has a plan; I just need to wait for it to be revealed in a way I am able to understand. Mind you, I do pray, but there is still all this extraneous talking that I apparently feel the need to do to no one in particular. I can definitely make better use of those words.

I don’t even know if this is a “stage” other people go through but, if you’re here with me, I see you! I truly believe that God never leaves us alone. If you can’t feel Him there, someone else is feeling what you do and you just have to find the helpers. The whole beauty from ashes? Sometimes it’s when God uses us to help those who come to a place after we do. We are the map. If you’re in that place where you feel lost, I hope something I say gives you a place on the map to start.

Change is the only Constant

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I’m not who I was a year ago. There are parts that are healing. There are parts that still feel beyond repair but I know they will heal…they just won’t ever look or feel the same where the scar lies. There are parts that are wiser (about things I don’t really want to be wiser.) There are parts of me that still can’t figure things out. All I know is that change is the only constant in life. How ironic is that?

The one year “anniversary” of my nephew’s death is next Tuesday. It feels weird to call it an anniversary – those are supposed to be happy occasions, like birthdays…but those aren’t as happy either anymore. After we fumble our way through that day, it is only 16 days until it’s been a year for me, too. It’s like there is a convoluted countdown going on. Part of your brain unwittingly hopes that one year means “Whew! I made it through the firsts. Should be smooth sailing from now on…” while the part of your brain that contains intellect knows full well that an anniversary date is no longer the end of anything. It ended last year and once it’s ended there can be no other ending. There’s no reprise, no encore act. The bow has been taken and the theater long cleared out.

I’m different because I’ve made it this far. I have exercised my faith this year as if I were training for a double triathlon. God has come through every time. None of it has been easy – the exercising of my faith to what felt like the full limit part, or even the parts when He came to the rescue. It’s still all been really hard, but I am here. I am still living in our home and was not forced to move. I still have three amazing sons and three wonderful daughters-in-love plus a grandbaby. I was able to care for my granddaughter during my daughter-in-love’s entire nursing school program so that my son didn’t have to pay for daycare and so that my sweet grandbaby was exposed to as little illness as possible. My husband and I had agreed to do that for them and I was trying my best to hold true to that. The fact that I feel so much loss and brokenness but am still so blessed seems like a crazy paradox. An impossible coexistence.

I will be applying to jobs soon. The retirement my husband wanted and planned out for me was revoked once he was no longer here. I’m so thankful that the grace of God has provided ways to allow me time to grieve and to be with my granddaughter; He has provided hand over foot, over and over again, each time I even considered that the time may be coming when we’d be forced to look into daycare for the baby. Then suddenly a solution that would appear, in the natural, to be completely out of the blue, totally unexpected…they were solutions that were promised to me last year. He said “don’t worry; it’s already taken care of” and it was, right on time, every time.

I really didn’t want to go back to work but I am thankful that I was afforded this time to walk the brittle beginning of this journey with my granddaughter to light up the darkest days and without added stressors to keep me from processing all that I have been able to thus far. Now I will work on walking back into the work world and figuring out how that is going to look.

Money has been a sticking worry point for me throughout the last year. I’ve often felt guilty for worrying about it because figuring out how to deal with the money part isn’t nearly as difficult as figuring out to deal with the loss of my husband, my soulmate. Also because God tells us not to worry about what we will eat or what we will wear because the birds of the air do not sow or harvest but God provides food for them. And the lilies of the field are dressed in the most beautiful finery but need not worry about clothing. How much more does the Father love us? (Matthew 6:26-30) Every time I tried to stop worrying about money, another problem would pop up, making everything feel like a monetary house of cards all this time. And every time, He provided a way like He said He would.

I figured out this week one of the main and primary reasons that I’ve been so worried about the financial part. First off, my husband and I were both nurses but he was in a position to make a lot more money than me. As is typical, our bills grew to what we were able to afford and we bought a new home just four years ago, right before the onset of COVID-19. We bought a home together. For anyone who doesn’t know already, this was not either of our first marriage. He had a home and I had a home when we met. He eventually moved to the home I already lived in. Then his career path changed course and we were able to begin looking at houses together. We found one we loved for various reasons and we purchased it together. Then we made even more memories here.

I think it was in the first few days thay I said “I can’t lose our house; God, please don’t let me lose our house.“ This home represented so many of the dreams we had together. Things we wanted to do here for future grandchildren. Upgrades and even addition we dreamed of doing one day. Plans of what life would look like after all of the kids had moved out. I was terrified of an empty nest but he had a way of making it seem exciting and fun to be “on our own,” able to leave town at the drop of a hat and explore places we wanted to go. So one thing that has been at the tip top of my mind this whole time was “how am I going to afford to keep this house and all of the bills that go with it?” I was talking about how going back to work was the only choice but that I should be able to work it out to have the house paid off before retirement (hopefully and prayerfully.) Someone said “well, you could look into selling the house and moving into something smaller since you don’t need so much space.” That person meant no harm at all and was just trying to give a helpful potential solution, but my heart felt like it fell past my stomach and to my knees. Literally like the first downhill of a roller coaster. That same fear of not having this place where we planned our forever jumped right back into my throat while my heart tried to find its way back to my chest. It was all I could do to hold the grief break inside of me til later. It was only then that I fully realized that was the source of almost all of my money fears. Yes, I could survive if I had to sell our home. Yes, I could probably afford a tiny home more easily. Yes, I know many people end up not having a choice but, if there is anything I can do about it, I will have a choice about whether to keep or sell my house. And I will stay right here.

Now that I know part of my plan to do that means I have no choice but to return to work and that I know I will have gotten through my granddaughter’s first year and a half with no daycare, at least, I am able to build the resolve to step into it. I’m in the process now of figuring out how to plan for retirement without him here, too, but God still says it’s all going to be okay…the money part anyway.

So, things are still changing every day. Nursing school ends next month and then I go back to being one, too. It wasn’t the plan but things keep changing. But I was wrong about one thing. The only thing constant in life is not just change. It’s also God. He is never-changing.

Rod & Staff

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Grief is a UFC championship level scuffle except there are not only two contenders; anger, despair, thankfulness, pain, grace, loss, panic, praise, fear, disbelief, worship, and longing are only a handful of the emotions fighting to be the one on top, the one you can’t shake.

When loss happens and you’re knocked off your feet, life still keeps going on, unbidden, around you. You still get sick. So do your kids. You still have mishaps that cause the need for home repairs. You still get flat tires. If you’re in Florida, hurricanes still come and go. Nothing just stops while you feel like your heart has. You don’t get to just grieve “in peace” because the world just keeps turning and everyone else goes along with it. One thing I have learned in this process is that grief feels like unmitigated emotional chaos.

In a maypole dance, the pole stands still at the middle but children holding ribbons dance around it, over and under, which leaves the pole completely wrapped in ribbons. Braided ones that you can’t just let go of and have them fall off; nope, they have to be untangled. This is how it feels when you’re just standing still trying to catch your breath, but the emotions and the daily occurrences of “normal” life are still swirling around you, over, under, and around. It all gets tangled up and twisted around until just the normalcy in itself makes it hard to breathe. HOW can the world be normal without that person here who was so very much a part of what your world IS…was…

And so a daily (and sometimes nightly,) battle ensues. The battle to try to keep the positive things on top and wrestling the negative ones to the bottom, underneath…but underneath means they’re still there – maybe even closer to the core than they were before.

Since January, for reasons I cannot even identify, my core has been strangled by emotions that I have great difficulty controlling. I’m doing the things that I know to do: taking medicine for major depressive disorder (not my first tangle with this beast,) staying in the Word daily, trying to stay busy on the days I can force the energy to do that, taking vitamins, trying to eat food that is nutritious (sometimes) and drinking water, journaling to get the thoughts in my head to the outside so I can sort them. Nothing is making the scales tip in my favor lately, however.

It. Just. Hurts.

I’m not a stranger to pain. I’ve had kidney stones several times. I have given birth to three children. Each of those children has been hospitalized at one time or another – actually, each has been more than once. Each of these things has a time when the pain will cease. You pass the stone (and/or have surgery to be able to pass it.) The baby is born and the contractions stop. Each of my children, thankfully and by the grace of God, have come back home with me from various hospitalizations. But this…this has no end date as long as I am on this earth. When people say “Honey, you’ll be alright; this too shall pass” I want to say “Yeah…like a kidney stone.” It will never go away. It hurts as it passes and there are more up in the renal pelvis just waiting to get stuck. Last count I had five on one side and four on the other. So there is really no end; there is just wondering when the next attack will begin.

I’ve lost people I loved and cared very much about before. It sucks. I have a pretty good vocabulary but any way you shake it, that phrase just feels right. It just sucks. And yet even still, this is different. The cut is so deep that sutures won’t fix it; it has to be left open to heal from the inside out. And being open leaves it accessible and vulnerable to every single organism. In the case of grief, the visceral pain leaves you open to spiritual attacks on every side.

I don’t war against God. I war with Him. Even when I already feel defeated, I’ll be on the winning side of this one day. In the meantime, He’s got a plan for what He wants to do with me during the rest of the time I’m here. It’s my job to figure that out. Even while I’m sick. Even in the middle of a hurricane. Even with a flat tire. I have to figure it out. No pressure.

My purpose right now is my granddaughter and doing what I can to help and keep “raising” my already grown up kids. Turns out they do still need their mama after they turn 18. (Don’t tell them that when they’re 16 or you’re going to get a fight.)

I guess it’s not that I don’t have a purpose. It’s that God promises to give beauty for ashes. I think it’s that this tragedy needs a purpose. I did not find solace in the purpose of trying to make it right for other people who would tread the same path my husband trod in the hospital system. Giant corporations are going to keep doing things the way they do them because the laws are written to protect them and because they have enough money to fight against having to change the way they do things just because it’s the right thing to do for the people they are supposed to serve. The way they do things saves money and they have zero reasons to stop doing that when our laws don’t hold them appropriately accountable. That is what it is. Period.

So what purpose can come from him being gone? Nothing is ever going to make this right. It cannot be “fixed.” That is what I’m waiting for God to tell me. Please, take the ashes and show me the beautiful part.

My granddaughter is beautiful. The ashes are that her PopPop doesn’t get to see her grow up. My children are amazing. The ashes are that they don’t have the benefit of his example and his help learning things anymore. My home is beautiful. The ashes are that we bought it together and now I own it alone. There has to be more than ashes in all of this. Of all of these ashes, something good must be made by shaping them into some kind of art. Some mosaic of the broken pieces of our lives.

Since January I have been tossed in waves of despair and feelings of desolation. I survived the holidays! That alone should have been cause for some feeling of accomplishment but instead the road began a downward spiral on an escarpment of epic, steep curves and I cannot seem to stop the trajectory right now.

What I do now is know that God is riding it out with me and will catch me before I hit the bottom. He’ll either lift me back to the top or He will walk back up the steep path, carrying me when necessary. What I do know is that, although in so many ways I feel alone, I am not alone at all. His rod and His staff, they comfort me. His rod wards off enemy predators when I feel them approaching. His staff guides my direction. As long as I don’t wander away from Him, He can reach me with those. That’s what shepherds do; stay close and tend the sheep.

I don’t know how long I will remain in the valley I am wandering through. I do know that I don’t do it alone.

Look Now From The Place Where You Are

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New beginnings sound like something exciting, something adventurous. In order to experience a new beginning, however, an ending must be acknowledged and accepted. Truly believing there is no way to alter an ending, especially when that ending was not how you wanted things to end, is outrageously difficult. It is hard for those who have not experienced it to understand, but even when that ending is death of someone you love, it’s very difficult to accept the finality of it. The acceptance comes in fits and starts. There are fits of raging against the world that it shouldn’t be this way. There are desperate cries of sorrow and pleas for an altered ending. I am becoming convinced that the only way to defy the disbelief, to nudge into the acceptance, is to focus on what God has planned for your future, even when it wasn’t the future you planned. In fact, especially when it looks like this isn’t the future you wanted, it’s important to lean into God’s new plans and have faith in them, even when it feels like there is no hope.

Several times in the last three weeks, God has brought a specific passage from Genesis into my path. Imagine that: Genesis, defined by the dictionary as “the beginning or origin of anything,” is the place I’m found studying and pondering.

Abram, eventually to be renamed by God as Abraham, has been waiting for the fulfillment of God’s promise to him. When they arrived at what Abram must have assumed was the Promised Land, his nephew, Lot, took all of the best areas of land and left Abram with the rest. Abram must have thought something like, “Your promise was for leftovers?” but:

”The Lord said to Abram, after Lot had parted from him, “Look around from where you are, to the north and south, to the east and west. All the land that you see I will give to you and your offspring forever. I will make your offspring like the dust of the earth, so that if anyone could count the dust, then your offspring could be counted. Go, walk through the length and breadth of the land, for I am giving it to you.”“
‭‭Genesis‬ ‭13‬:‭14‬-‭17‬ ‭NIV‬‬

In a different translation God said ‘Lift your eyes now and look from the place where you are.’ He was saying don’t look behind you because there is nothing left there for you. Don’t look ahead into what you think should happen or should have happened. Look from the place where you are and, in that, keep having faith that I will do as I promised. My promises were never contingent on whether this would happen; I already saw this coming and I have prepared.

One of the most difficult things about grief is not constantly looking back at what was and also not looking forward at how wrecked what-should-have-been now is. It’s really hard to look from the place where you are. It feels as if disaster surrounds you from behind and ahead. Everything in the now is challenging and leads you to wish for what was and worry about what will be, but we are called by God to be thankful for what was (what we were blessed with in “the before” because it was beautiful and we loved it and them) and to trust His promises for the future.

One of the things He has steadily promised me was provision. I constantly feel internal pressure to do something to make sure His promise comes to fruition. I’m in a challenging place right now and I’ve been instructed to wait on the Lord and to trust and believe in His promise. I’ve been called to be still, which is not a strong attribute of mine. In my heart I truly do believe in Him and His voice. Still my nature consistently challenges me with “what are you doing about it?” Even when I know there is very little I can personally do to alter outcomes ahead of me.

I’m also challenged by purpose. I was a wife, a mom, and a “Lolly” (grandmother) and those were my identity. I’ve lost an identity before and it hurt tremendously, causing me to question who I was as a person if it was not this. I am a nurse by licensure but I’ve known for a long time that God was redirecting that calling on my life and had new directions for me to walk. I thought that direction was wrapped around being a good wife, mama, and Lolly, but a huge part of that identity is gone now that I am a widow.

I’m faced with the question of where that leaves me because it feels as if there is a gaping hole in part of who I am. Multiple people have said things to me about “finding a new husband one day.” This leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. While I do know that people mean well and, to them, they are offering me a new sense of hope that one day this hole will be filled, my husband cannot just be replaced. I don’t think that, when one loses a child, people would just say “well, just have another one; that’ll make you feel better.” And while I understand that I do not have any idea what God has in store for the rest of my life, that is absolutely something in which I have no interest at all right now. Honestly, if that ever was God’s intent and part of His plan for me, He would have to essentially, figuratively, drop someone in my lap for me to even consider it; even then it would be a challenge to navigate my way through the emotions that would surface as a response.

The overarching theme here is that I have to look now from the place where I am. I cannot look back toward what shouldn’t have happened (only at the joy and blessings that my husband brought to my life.) I cannot look forward as if it were a puzzle I am capable of figuring out; I say this meaning that, although we do make plans, I cannot determine the outcome of my life. I don’t know if I will die tomorrow or not for fifty years so trying to make a plan that encompasses what the rest of my life will look like is foolish. I have to look from where I am now. One step at a time, one day at a time. There are no shortcuts or crystal balls. The world works in such a way that new beginnings don’t just come the day that you are born. Learning to walk is a new beginning. Starting kindergarten is a new beginning. First love is a new beginning. Marriage is a new beginning. Having a baby is a new beginning. Divorce is a new beginning. Scott was a wonderful new beginning but now I am, once again, at a new beginning.

Becoming a mama was a new beginning for me, almost 26 years ago. When they moved out, it felt like an ending but it was really just another beginning, a different but still lovely path that has led to one beautiful granddaughter (so far.) I have to learn that my husband physically leaving this earth as another beginning. I didn’t like when my kids moved out on their own. I still miss them when I’m not with them. The same for my husband. I never wanted this particular new beginning. But I had to continue when the boys went out to spread their own wings. I had to learn to look from the place where I was then and begin to take steps toward being a mom from a distance and what that would look like.

Today, I’ve already begun my journey as a widow and I’m still figuring out what that looks like for me. I don’t know exactly where it’s going to take me. I do know that God already knows exactly what that looks like in my future and I wholeheartedly trust that he means it for good and not for failure. That’s where I’m standing right now, looking from the place where I am, knowing that I will be okay. I will have joy. I will have purpose. And I will always have a God who loves me and wants what is best for my life. I’m going to follow that lead.

Reinvention

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It might not seem like it, but what you’re looking at is me reinventing myself.

I started this project about a week ago. When my husband and I bought this piece, we wanted to paint it white but never got around to it. I’m getting around to it now, even though he’ll never be here to see that I finished it for us.

God speaks to me most often and most personally during creative processes. This is why writing is so cathartic for me, as well. I would be lying if I said that I know how every bit of information He spoke today relates to my grief process, but I’m quite sure they do. Some of them are already quite obvious; see if you can pick them out. Some I don’t really get yet but I expect Him to keep talking as I work my way toward figuring out how this is going to turn out. Below are some things that He told me today while I was working on this furniture rehab:

  1. There will always be naysayers telling you that you’re doing it wrong. There are two categories of these people: the ones who’ve never gone through doing this and the ones who are “experts” and like the way they did it better.
  2. There will always be imperfections. Some are there because of the way the wood has imperfections and some are because I missed spots or don’t like how I painted them. I’ll either be doing touch ups for the rest of my life or I’ll accept it as it is one day. I will probably vacillate between both of these choices.
  3. It needs more than one coat of paint. In every single area. Some areas will need more than that.
  4. When I feel like it’s completely done, I’ll have to gently take a razor blade to the fragile glass parts, but that’s isn’t going to stop me from getting a little paint on them now; I’m doing it anyway, even when I’m scared I might mess it up.
  5. I haven’t moved the breakables out of the curio part because I’m afraid they’ll get broken outside of it.  At some point I’ll have to remove them to paint the shelves on the inside.  That time is not now.
  6. I might sand down some of the parts I painted at some point for a different “feel” or “design.”  I can’t decide all of that right now or even until I think it’s done, so I’m not thinking about that right now.  I won’t know how I want it to look until it’s closer to being what I want it to be.  That’s okay.
  7. Sometimes I paint carefully. Sometimes I just smash and glob it on. That doesn’t really have anything to do with the part I’m painting. It has more to do with how I feel when I’m doing it. Sometimes I don’t feel like working on it at all, so I don’t. It will get finished whenever it gets finished.
  8. I don’t have any idea of what this is going to look like when it’s “done.” Sometimes, as I get further along in it, I feel like I can see a glimpse of what it might become.  Sometimes I think it’ll look okay; other times I think it may always be a disaster that I can’t fix.
  9. Some parts of the wood are darker, just by the nature of the grain. These parts are harder to cover with paint and will require more work.
  10. There are places that are hard to get to properly without taking the doors off. Despite knowing this, I still do not have the energy to take them off yet.
  11. Eventually I will need to buy new hardware for the knobs and handles, finishing touches. Since I know that, I’m not worried about getting paint on them now while I’m trying to redo the rest of it.
  12. Today it looks more complete than the last time I worked on it. That doesn’t mean that it’s finished. If I stop now because it looks better, I’ll never achieve what I wanted to before I ever started it.
  13. I didn’t create or build this piece of furniture. It’s something I acquired. That means there will always be parts of it that I wish had been built differently. The yellow wood and gold paint were parts of that. They’re a part I can change, so I am. The carved in parts are something I cannot alter so I have to just do the best I can to make it look like something I can find joy in.

All of this came just today, in a couple of hours of allowing my mind to be open to the work. For me, the work and the Word comes through creative projects but for others it comes differently. Whatever your process is, find time to let it work. And yet, if there are times you just don’t have the energy or mental bandwidth to deal with it, take a break – for however long you need. I think today’s work is going to be useful in the long run.

I’m also working on other things at home. I’ve worked on cleaning my bedroom, my bathroom, and my kitchen. I’m making my bed every day. These may seem like small things but, for me, they were big because my life felt like utter chaos. There aren’t before photos of those “projects” because I’d honestly be embarrassed for you to see the clutter that had developed. I’m having to get to a simplified place in my life so that I can even see where the pieces are supposed to go, like sorting puzzle pieces into edge pieces and various color piles before you start to assemble the entire picture. None of this is a “yay, me” statement. I’m telling you so that, whether it’s grief or depression or looking for purpose in your life, you’ll know that this is what worked for me; it’s a place to start if you don’t have a clue where to start. For me, the most important part is that you don’t have to do it all at once. Sometimes I do one small thing, like putting dishes in the dishwasher and waiting down the sink area and counters. Other times it’s cleaning off just my dresser, or emptying one clothes drawer, taking out what no longer fits, and reassembling it with what is left knowing I’ve decided that I only have to do one drawer today. Then some days I have the energy and the desire to do more than just that. I’m trying to make a point to do ONE thing each day, at least, even if it’s just one drawer. If I encounter a day when I can’t do even one, I’m giving myself for letting it go until the day when I can. This morning I also just cleaned my range hood, nothing else. For today, that may be all I am able to do. And that’s okay.

After first day of work
Today (still not even close to finished…but I’ll get there one day

For Auld Lang Syne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Can Do Hard Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Power of the Shadow of Death

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three more truths in the Bible say this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.