Tag: soulmate

The NFL of Marriage

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It’s the 10th again. Each one that comes adds one more month since he went to his new Heavenly home. This time it’s ten months. Our wedding anniversary is in eleven days. I feel like that may be the hardest day yet.

I’m sure a lot of people pick special dates for when they get married. We kind of got married on the sly. 😏 Our families knew but for everyone else it was a “surprise” – sort of because we’d been engaged awhile. We got married at a beautiful park in Jacksonville on a beautiful, sunshiny day with the sweetest officiant who also offered to be our photographer afterwards. We purposefully chose 3/21, even though it was a Tuesday, because we said it was like 3-2-1 blastoff! Like we were finally getting to “officially” start our life together, even though we’d know we would be married a long time before that. We thought of all of the dreams and plans we had together and talked on the drive to Jacksonville specifically about putting a roof over both our side porch and back patio and adding rocking chairs so one day we could rock our grandbabies when we were old. Little did we know we’d have two coming long before we were “old.” And that Scott would only live to meet one of them.

I’ve said this before but losing a spouse is not just the loss of the person. Oh, that alone is big enough to make your life implode, but that’s not the whole hard part. It’s losing your future. It’s like playing football since you were five, planning your entire life from then on to be an NFL player and having the God-given talent and skill to be one of the greats, then sustaining a career-ending injury during one of your first big games as a pro. You didn’t make another plan. You didn’t choose a backup plan because this was the only one you’d ever wanted, ever dreamed of. And now it’s gone.

Except losing your spouse, your partner for everything life throws your way, is so much bigger.

We knew when we got married that we were pros. The NFL of marriage? That was us. We went through some really, really tough stuff together and we smashed it every time together. Neither of us had a doubt that this was forever. I’m sure that could be said of a lot of newlyweds but we’d both been married before and this time we had learned a lot about the work it takes to stay married through thick and thin. And we truly loved each other through each of our quirks, frustrations, mood swings, bad habits, and life lessons. We knew we were 100% married til death do us part.

And we were right about that much.

I may never be able to afford to put a roof over our patios but I’m working on doing what I can to make our home what we wanted together. We used to go outside to our back patio and drink coffee together in the mornings. We’d sit in chairs by the patio table, looking out over our pool and our beautiful back yard area, listening to the church bells from down the street and trying to figure out which hymn they were playing that day.

And we’d plan fruit trees to plant so the grandkids could pick it and have healthy snacks. We’d plan other new plants around the pool to make it even more pretty out there, and plants like Jasmine and gardenia and plumeria that would make it smell beautiful, too. Little by little I will keep trying to bring the dreams we both had to fruition. Sometimes I feel selfish doing that, like, why should I have all of these things now when he can’t enjoy them with me. And then I remember where he is and that he would want me to at least have this until I can get there with him. And I think he’d smile knowing that our dreams are still important to me, the ones I’ll be able to figure out how to do.

I bought a hammock. Today I will put it outside. We laughed over wanting a hammock we could lay in together and over what could potentially happen if we both tried to lay in a hammock together. That was one of the times we laughed until we cried because the scenarios were pretty hilarious as we talked about them and pictured them in our minds. I’m going to get in that hammock today and lay there alone for a little while…assuming I can get in without of of those crazy scenarios occurring, and just think about what he would say if he came home and saw I had put it together for us to try out.

I still have all of our dreams and plans in my head. There were so many. Some may never occur. Some I wouldn’t want to do without him. Some I will do in honor of him. Any of them I complete helps me heal in some small way, so I’ll keep looking for ways to do that.

I can feel God’s peace over me today. I’m not crying as I type, as I often do. The memories, at least for today, are coming in gentle waves and not tsunami crashes. I’m thankful to have had the opportunity to dream with him. ♥️

Chasing Peace

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This is from Joyce Meyer but I think it’s my primary problem right now:

You can’t just sit back and wish for peace, wish the devil would leave you alone, or wish that people would do what you want. The Bible tells us to actively pursue peace. You have to make up your mind to crave peace.

It actually feels as if a the opposite of peace is actively chasing 𝘮𝘦, every single day lately. And I know the author of peace but I know who dishes out the other, as well. And I absolutely do 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦. But the Bible says we have to actively pursue peace: ”Turn away from evil and do good. Search for peace, and work to maintain it.“
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭34‬:‭14‬ ‭NLT‬‬.

The verse makes it sound as easy as a Nike commercial: Just Do It. But, holy cow, it is NOT easy to maintain sometimes. I’m reading my Bible. I’m doing four separate devotionals every day (because they’re all very helpful – while I’m reading them but then somehow I get off track walking away from them.) I’m praying. I’m seeking it. Still, it is elusive. It’s as if it found the ultimate hiding spot in a game of hide & seek while I’m getting hot and sweaty outside looking for it, ready to throw in the towel and just go get a glass of cold Kool Aid and plop down on the couch in front of the TV until it comes to say “why’d you quit lookin’?”

Trying to muffle the chaos inside my head does not work because that just wakes me at 2:00 a.m. when my mind figures it has nothing better to do. Raging at the tornado I’m constantly facing doesn’t help because, alas, I do not control the wind and waves. Crying over it doesn’t help because I just get a headache and stopped up nose…although sometimes it feels like it helps release the pressure in the moment. The only thing that does help is reading my Bible and I’m sure that’s what I’m being called to do even more than I have been but I’m kind of stubborn sometimes (no comments from the peanut gallery, please.) My childlike mind wants to say “I’ve already done my homework and I worked hard on it! Why are you assigning me more? I’m tired already!”

And so I pray to crave it as strongly as I crave peace since sometimes I can’t seem to remember that they’re the same thing. And I pray for my stubborn, childlike mind to maintain a stubborn, childlike faith but to do a better job growing out of the attitude I tend to get when I’m tired or hungry. The I Can’t attitude.

For now, I will try to sleep. When I wake up, I will try to start again, again.

Not Me

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I’m not who I once was.

I was a “social butterfly” at one time. But my wings have gotten wet. Wet butterfly wings don’t make for easy flight. When I’m around large groups of people and noise, I feel hot pins and needles all over my body. My skin feels too tight, like after you wear tight, not-stretchy jeans to Thanksgiving and then feel like you can’t breathe after you eat until you peel them off or at least undo the button and maybe even the zipper while you pull your shirt down to cover it up. Oh, and by the way, by ”large groups of people,” I now mean something like ten where that term wouldn’t have been used for less than fifty or a hundred people before. I’ve performed on stage for over a thousand before. This person who used to enjoy being surrounded by people is much more comfortable with one or two now.

No one really knows how to deal with this other me. They keep waiting for me to get straightened out and become myself again but I really think that person died when my husband did. I really think I’m not the same me and that the person they used to know isn’t coming back again. Yet, still, no one knows how to adjust; I’m supposed to.

I’m very anxious in social situations now. It becomes difficult to breathe. Often that is because I’m trying very hard not to cry. Nothing has to even “trigger” the tears reflex and that’s another whole part of this different person I’ve become. My husband used to wonder why I never cried. I told him I thought it was learned behavior from being a single mom. I’d compartmentalize things to avoid crying so that they’d never be worried or upset. I just wasn’t someone who cried. Now I cry uncontrollably and sometimes at the most inopportune times. Inopportune, for me, means in front of people, thus why I will struggle to breathe normally while desperately attempting to hold back tears. Who 𝘪𝘴 this person???

Well, now I guess it’s me. And it doesn’t feel like it’s a me who will just go back to being that other woman. The one I barely recognize anymore. The one who laughed to the point of tears of hilarity when my husband tried to raise one eyebrow without raising the other, making ridiculous faces in the process and laughing just as much with me. The one who played the game where you try to talk with a mouthguard in and then talked even a little sillier when it made people laugh to hear it. The one who was everyone’s “mom” at work and had extra chocolate, unopened chapsticks, safety pins, pens, tampons, and Vicks VapoRub in her locker at all times in case anyone ever needed anything at all. I don’t know where that woman went because I’d really just rather be at home, even alone, doing homemade projects I devise for myself to do by myself. I don’t even know if this new person is healthy but I don’t feel sick. I feel like I’m finding some kind of peace in an otherwise untenable situation in which I have no choice but to live.

People keep telling me it’s not healthy for me to be alone so much, to stay home so much. But if it’s not healthy then why do I feel better doing it and feel torn every single time someone asks me to do anything else? I love my children and my granddaughter; I feel joy when they come through the door and when I hug them. I love sitting and just reading books to my granddaughter or listening to her laugh at the dogs. I enjoy sitting with my sister and just doing random things like cooking something and talking. I feel good sitting and having coffee with my best friend, even when we talk through the hard stuff. I enjoy spending time with my mother-in-law, just sitting in the living room and talking about the people we miss. I just don’t love the chaos of noise, and groups, and tornados of activity anymore. Maybe that’s not so bad, right? Maybe the new me is just an introvert, and if I’d always been that way then people would think it was okay. I’m not sure why it’s not okay now.

The me you knew before is not me. Can that just be okay? When the doctors walked down that hallway and said “I’m so sorry…” my heart shattered into a million razor-sharp pieces and my world went black; when I picked up the pencils to try coloring it back in, it was impossible to make everything match the original because you can’t photocopy life. What is here now is different, but I’m still in here somewhere.

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

Rescue Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Auld Lang Syne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Process is YOUR process

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

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

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

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

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

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

God Waits Until We’re Softened

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Can Do Hard Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Power of Retreat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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