“He’s in a better place.”

We all say it and it’s not that I don’t believe it. Someone like me, who cut my preschool teeth on the doctrines of the church and has spent my entire life processing through the principles of my Biblical heritage, certainly believes the claims made by Christ himself and others in scripture:

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” John 3:16

 For my Father’s will is that everyone who looks to the Son and believes in him shall have eternal life, and I will raise them up at the last day.” John 6:40

 “For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.“ 1 Corinthians 5:1

 To the believing thief on the cross Jesus said, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke 23:43

 To all of us who believe we return to God when we leave here, to all of us who affirm, “To be absent in the body is to be present with the Lord” (2 Corinthians 5:8), we instinctively know those who die before us are in a better place.

The problem is they’re not HERE with us. Not anymore. Not ever again in this life. And that matters. A lot!

Mike’s absence created a falling domino effect of chaotic change, problems, logistics, emptiness, longing, yearning and loneliness, impossible to describe. A grief so deep and guttural I knew it could rip me apart.

I‘m not one to engage in comparisons of what is worse. Death is hard, for those left behind, regardless of how it comes. Maybe if he had been sick over a span of time, maybe if I had to watch him disintegrate through prolonged suffering I could say this platitude with more acceptance. But the brutal long goodbye was not my experience so I can’t know. We had no goodbyes at all. He was here. He was fine. Then in a moment he was gone.

Yes, undoubtedly he is in a better place. But while Mike is there, I’m not, and the knowing of this does not balance the scale of grief. However it occurs, our person being in a ‘better place’ is still that person gone for the rest of our life. What I do know, is that in the early raw days of his death, hearing this statement wasn’t comforting. At all.

What this statement repeatedly told me is Mike is doing great, he’s fine, but my loss, my pain, the fact that I am most certainly not in a better place without him didn’t matter. What I was suddenly up against, this tornado turn of events, felt unacknowledged and completely negated by reassurance that all was well for him, while everything that was normal and secure for me was spinning out of control.

Of course, there’s no intention of harm when we repeat these catch phrases in someone’s loss. Nothing I say here is meant to criticize only inform. Often we’re so uncomfortable in the stark reality of another’s grief, we feel the need to offer something and these Hallmark card sentiments are all we have.

The truth is there are no words to cheer up the reality of death and for certain nothing can ‘fix’ it. Nothing can begin to fill the void, replace the absence or replenish the emptiness. Nothing but acknowledgement of suffering and personal presence.

At times the overwhelming emotion and personal isolation of grief can also minimize these but with time (lots of it), patience, understanding, listening, hugs, prayer and practical help, we can validate and enter into another’s suffering.

“I’m so sorry, but I‘m here. I‘m with you. As much as I can be. For as long as you need,” is the best offering we can make.

   

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I haven’t had a dream with my late husband in it for almost a year. In the first months after he died I had them regularly, most of them waking me in panic. Last night I had another one.

I was coming out of a building somewhere and as I started walking down the steps, I recognized Mike walking on a sidewalk that was parallel and about seventy five feet in front of me. He had on the bright green golf style shirt he loved and his favorite baseball hat. My heart burst with excitement and my first thought was, “Oh, he didn’t die. He’s still here!”

I started calling to him and picked up my pace, but he didn’t see or hear me. As he reached the end of the sidewalk he was on, he turned right, walking farther away from me. I kept calling his name and started running. Suddenly, to my horror, he collapsed and two men nearby caught and carried him to the grassy area along the sidewalk, laid him face down, shrugged and went on their way. I screamed his name, begging the people around me to help him. Everyone looked the other way and walked on.

I tried running faster and realized I couldn’t close the distance between us because the sidewalk I was on was moving backwards with no way to step off. I startled awake. It took me a minute to realize it was just another one of ‘those’ dreams. The kind that leave me sad and broken all day.

Why am I sharing this intimate and difficult dream here? Because we have a mistaken belief in our ‘get-over-it’ society that in time, the heart and mind forget what has been lost and how we lost it. Time heals all wounds, right? It’s been over three and half years now, since Mike died suddenly, unexpectedly and I returned home to find him lifeless in the yard.

For the most part, humans have an innate ability to adjust over time. We adapt to the void and even the trauma, that absence and loss carries. Strength and a will to live return and eventually, at times, good memories or new circumstances outweigh the sadness carried. But we never forget.

Our love for them doesn’t end, nor does the longing and yearning for their physical presence. Five, ten, twenty years later our heart can remind us that we had an amazing person in our life that is no longer here. And can also remind us that how we lost them was difficult.

Time might heal the wound but it doesn’t take much to rip that scar open. You never know what another is battling so be patient with those who are once again ambushed by loss.

A bit of mercy, compassion and understanding goes a long way to help all who experience the hidden side of lifelong grief.

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Her only son is dead. And she’s a widow. Women in her time and culture, had no means of survival or sustenance outside of a husband or son providing it. She is suddenly plummeted into uncertainty and poverty.

We find Jesus walking with his disciples into the town of Nain, and into the middle of this scene, just as this broken hearted, grief stricken widow and her accompanying mourners carry her son’s body outside the town gate to a burial place.

There is no mention this widow had ever heard of Jesus. She didn’t run to Him as others had, begging for help, pleading for the life of her son. Immersed in the depths of loss and sorrow, she was unaware of His presence.

Grief consumes. It overwhelms everything. At Mike’s memorial service and in the months following, I was mostly unaware of who and what surrounded me.

People rotated in and out of my days, brought things, did things, hugged, spoke words. I barely remember any of it. It’s all a blur, still. A horrid slow motion video with sight, sound and activity taking place on the far edges of my existence. None of it making sense in the permanent absence of the man who, for years, had been my most intimate partner in life. I was the walking dead, a zombie going through the motions of the legalities and responsibilities Mike’s death had suddenly thrust upon me. The entire time my mind repeating like a scratched vinyl record, “He’s dead, he’s gone. How can this be real?” And my heart screaming in refusal to accept what my head already knew. This was it. It’s done. He’s not coming back to us anymore.

There is this me that understands what the widow was feeling. But what I find most stunning about this account is how it completely implodes the long standing belief that it’s our job, my job, to have ‘enough’ or ‘more faith’ so God will notice, show up and do something. How do you have ‘enough faith’ when you can barely breathe? When your heart throbs with aching and your mind is a hurricane of fear, confusion, shock? When you’ve lost all appetite for food, are sleeping only thirty minutes a night for months on end, and are so mentally, emotionaly and physically exhausted the only thing keeping you upright is the adrenaline of grief? How?

“And when the Lord saw her..”

That’s it right there! She didn’t see Him. She was unaware. Blinded by her sorrow. Deaf in her lament. He saw her. “He had compassion on her..” His heart suddenly exploded with mercy and love. He understood the desperation of her circumstance and without needing ANYTHING from her. Without being asked. He dried her tears and touched the stretcher that held her son’s cold body. Everything and everyone stopped as he returned life to this little family.."and Jesus gave him to his mother."

Though I begged and pleaded for it at the moment of Mike’s death, I, of course, didn’t get a resurrection story. At least not in the way I would have preferred. Wouldn’t that have been awesome! But what I find comforting and am coming to understand, is in the midst of pain, confusion, anger, suffering, sorrow, Jesus is always doing resurrection work.

It’s not easy this coming back from the dead, but His compassion, mercy and love does not look away. Never forsakes or abandons.

He Sees.

Notices.

Touches.

Renews.

Resurrects.

Even when I don’t know how to trust. And even when I don’t have ‘enough faith’ to see. It’s Who and What He Is and Does.  

2 Timothy 2:13 "..if we are faithless, he remains faithful—for he cannot deny himself."

Luke 7:11-15 Soon afterward he went to a town called Nain, and his disciples and a great crowd went with him. As he drew near to the gate of the town, behold, a man who had died was being carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow, and a considerable crowd from the town was with her. And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her and said to her, “Do not weep.” Then he came up and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, “Young man, I say to you, arise.” And the dead man sat up and began to speak, and Jesus gave him to his mother.

John 11:25 “Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live”

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It took about three weeks of random days, doing a section at a time, but I finally finished pressure washing the pool deck today.

As I was pulling the weeds that grow between the pavers with pliers, because my arthritis crippled fingers aren’t strong enough to grasp them, I was thinking about how adaptable humans are. How we endure and adjust to life’s difficult twists and turns. The Serenity Prayer has been quoted for a long time: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference.”

I‘ve had to adapt to many difficult challenges through the years and realize of late, that I have always had a problem with the acceptance line of this quote. I‘ve never been good at accepting what I can’t change because I’m not sure I should. To me acceptance means giving up, giving in to a thing and allowing it to rule, and I see little in scripture or history where that has ever been a good idea.

My first son was born with a genetic disability, and while I accept and love HIM for who HE is, I have never fully accepted the imitations disability has placed on him. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done everything possible to help him reach his full potential through the years. Have I adapted to how his disability affects him, me and our family? Yes, and continue to adjust daily. But I have never rejoiced that my son has not been able to live his life the way others do. I have never stopped grieving in the depths of my being that he still needs continual supervision as an adult.

I know in my heart God’s original creation was never meant to be this way, so complete acceptance still alludes me. All the ways I’ve adapted to having a crippling chronic illness, beginning in my mid-twenties, are too many to list here. Pulling weeds with pliers is just one of hundreds. Learning to eat properly to reduce inflammation in my body is another. Acceptance means I would give up. Lay in my bed, drink soda pop and eat donuts, howling in pain, expecting others to do everything for me.

There are times when we need others to do for us, but ‘the wisdom to know the difference’ is part of adjusting to our situation. I can never accept coming home from grocery shopping to find the man I loved for forty three years, dead. Just like that. Gone. No. Never. Because I know physical separation, death in this life, was never God’s intention from the beginning. Death was chosen and since then, we all live with the physical consequences of this choice. So after a lifetime of marriage, I’m at a new level of adaptation. Learning how to be single. How to be alone. How to get things done that are hard for me to do. So many of the tasks Mike did are now mine and I’m slowly adjusting to all these new responsibilities; knowing when I should and who I can call for help, who I can trust and when I can do a thing myself.

I‘m certain I‘m making mistakes, bumbling along, asking for wisdom, help and endurance to figure it all out but I also understand I have to be patient, even with myself. I’ve been dropped suddenly into new territory, without a map or GPS, and this journey requires a steep learning curve.

As humans we grieve all our losses. Some impact us so deeply, that we never think of them without feeling that sludge hammer of sorrow to the heart and it is a huge misinterpretation of scripture to believe God asks us to deny this reality. What He wants is to be invited into it. To meet us there. To walk with us in and through.

So while I will not blindly accept any of these things that were never His original intention, neither will I pretend they don’t exist. I meet them head on with HIS strength and guidance. I have little of my own. Many days are exhausting and difficult, but I must not, cannot, settle into acceptance. I must keep trying. Keep asking. Keep seeking. Keep enduring.

By Father’s great grace I adjust. Adapt. Pull weeds with pliers and keep going.

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Jon is often a night owl and I sometimes try to be one with him, just to be with him.

A few late nights ago, I was lying on the sofa watching determined chefs attempt to cook their best dish in a ridiculous amount of time, competition. Jon was rustling around in another part of the house.

At one point he came and stood behind me and began repeating, “He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone.” I‘m never sure if Jon is parroting a movie line he’s heard or trying to express a thought. I turned the TV volume down. “Who’s gone, Jon?”

More repeating, “He’s gone. He’s gone...” I asked again. “My Dad. He’s never coming back.”

Grief does not play out on a short path. The journey is long and arduous. We have moments now, when we laugh and smile, but there’s still a pile of sad and edgy and raw and vulnerable. There’s still many days it’s difficult to wrap our brains and hearts around the truth that Mike is missing from us.

 My son in his simple, yet profound voice has stated, here we are, still struggling.

Where will this journey take us? I don’t know. I do know this. When our son was born, I had to become an advocate for the disabled. A few years later I was run over by chronic illness and eventually took up the banner of reclaiming health through lifestyle choices. Now that close and sudden death has taken my breath away, I will become a spokesperson in this modern, sanitized, look the other way, death and grief illiterate western culture, for those whose hearts break. For those who walk the long, shadowed path of living after great loss.

 If it’s true that our mess becomes our message, then it appears I’ve been given something to share. I volunteered for none of these difficulties, (I mean, come on, who does?) regardless, I’m learning our brokenness is not to be hidden or disregarded, but is meant to come along side another, reach out, weep, hug, love with feet and hands on, encourage, and proclaim, “I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how to fix this but I will not run from your pain. I will not ignore your struggle. I see you and I am here.”

In the time of His greatest sorrow, Jesus wanted his friends near him. As he grieved and struggled with what was ahead, he longed for human companionship. Near-ness. “What, you couldn’t even stay awake with me for one hour?” (Matthew 26:40)

There was nothing his follower friends could do to change what was about to happen but He needed to know they were there for Him. I have come to believe our main calling and purpose in this life is to walk beside each other in all of it’s joy and brokenness. To show up. To just be there.

Do that for someone you know today. And I pray, if and when needed, someone will do the same for you.

2 Corinthians 1:3-4 “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.” 

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I found this photo today, upside down on an end table in the family room. An old one, judging by how we’re dressed, possibly taken in the late 1980’s or early 90’s.

A snapshot of happier days with Mike’s youngest sister and husband, and me and what used to be my husband. Used to be is the key phrase here, because two years ago my husband died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. And as you can guess, he was in this picture. If you look closely his hand is draped over my right shoulder.

As soon as I flipped this photo over, I saw Mike had been scratched out. And I knew who did it. But I wasn’t sure why. What I do know is Jon is still internalizing the loss of his father, as am I, and though he’s spoken little of it from the beginning until now, this is proof.

I took the photo to Jon, put it down in front of him and very gently asked, “Jon, why did you you scratch your dad out of this picture?” It was a shot in the dark to ask and I really didn’t expect an answer from my mostly nonverbal son.

He glanced at the picture and looked away. “He’s gone,” was the reply. So much sadness in his expression. So much hurt and pain in his eyes. Maybe my disabled son thinks scratching his dad out of a photo somehow makes it all go away. I wish it was that easy. Wish I knew Jon’s thoughts. Wish we could have that conversation. Wish he could open up and pour out everything he’s feeling inside. But he never has. He doesn’t have those words.

So he just makes his father disappear.

In the past we’ve been told by ‘experts’ and believed that grief is on a timeline, it’s not. Two years is nothing compared to the lifetime we had Mike with us. Thirty seven for Jon. Forty three for me. So you will excuse us if it takes us that many years to ‘get over him.’ Please?

Honestly, I doubt we ever will. As much as we would love to scratch the sorrow and pain of loosing him away, we can’t. Mike not being here has impacted us greatly and it’s painfully difficult. Still. We are so aware of his absence, his physical presence missing here, in our daily life.

Time does not erase the memory of him. Or the loss of him. We’re simply learning, with the passage of days, months, years, how to live without him. Maybe time will permit us to be better at that. I hope so, because scraping Mike’s image off every photo we can find, certainly won’t.

In the days ahead, I pray I can find the wisdom to help my son’s heart know this. And mine too.

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It’s been two years. Today.

What I never knew, what you can’t know until you’re here, is the large part of you that dies with your spouse. It can’t be helped. Through the years of togetherness your existence becomes so completely entangled and intertwined, you loose entire pieces of yourself when they’re gone.

Not only do you suffer the loss of a person but also the unique history the two of you created. The glances, the personal jokes, the comfortable silence only you both understood. The way you often knew what the other wanted, liked or thought without even asking. The decisions made together that shaped the path of your life. The parts of your mind, soul and body only your loved one knew. All of the small nuances and intimate sharing that was just the two of you. These all have vanished and nothing or no one else can ever replace them.

I lost so much when I lost him. Ironically one of the last sermons Mike preached was on how to handle loss. One statement he made that has stuck with me is this, “God is the God of all we’ve lost and the God of all we have left”. For seven hundred and thirty days, I‘ve lived in the aftermath of stumbling, faltering attempts to move forward. My heart has been much slower to accept what my brain has known since the evening he left me, Mike is gone from this earth and he’s never coming back. And while the passing of two years has done nothing for the missing of him, I must continue to live.

Discovering who I am without my husband is a daunting task. I still don’t know. But God does. “The LORD says, "I will guide you along the best pathway for your life. I will advise you and watch over you.” Psalm 32:8

He is the God of what is left of me. As year three begins, only He can show me where to go from here. I‘m Hoping. Trusting. Listening.

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Good Morning Father. I’m awake.

Another day, and my first thought as always, is he’s gone. Still.

His side of the bed unruffled. Comforter flat and wrinkle free. Pillows smooth and in place.

Here I am without him. Again.

I can’t do this widow thing. But You can.

I can’t do this single mom/caregiver of a grown son with disabilities thing. But You can.

I don’t have enough faith. But You do.

I am without hope. But You’re not.

I’m not strong. But You are.

So I will push this blanket back. Put my legs over the side of this bed and my feet on the floor.

I will stand and get ready for whatever this day brings.

I’d rather pull this blanket over my head and stay right here. But You’re with me.

He’s not here. But You are.

Thank You for never abandoning us. You and Your Son have not forsaken me and mine.

You have and are everything I need. I place my trust in You.

We will do this day together. Here we go.

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Mike and I moved many times through the years of our marriage (read about that here).

Whenever we relocated we left houses and some unnecessary things behind and carried many possessions with us to the next destination.

 Such is the nature of life. Change comes and we have to decide what to carry with us and what to leave behind. It’s rarely an all or nothing proposition, but a mix of both.

Since the death of my husband, a little more than year ago, I’ve learned the pervasive thought of modern western culture is to grieve on a linear path of stages for a while, get through it, get over it and finally move on to a happy, contented new life.

 Grief is a problem to be ‘fixed’ rather than an experience to be acknowledged. Our culture doesn’t deal well with death, pain, suffering or grief. We personally avoid these at all costs and we often don’t know what to do with those who are experiencing them. Our convenience loving, pleasure seeking, short attention span, hurry-up-and-make-bad-stuff-go-away culture, often and unintentionally places grieving people in a position of pretending to be alright or having to defend their sorrow, eventually forcing them into suffocating silence.

Moving on implies leaving everything behind. To not speak of our dead loved one again, acting as if they never existed, if not ridiculous, is at the very least, unfair and a dishonor to our departed and the love we shared with them. The truth is, our love for a person doesn’t die with them. We never ‘get over’ it, because their life and death are ingrained into our experience and become an integral part of who we are. As long as I breathe, I will carry Mike’s life and death forward into the future I learn to live without him.

Recently someone was brave enough to tell me they had heard about Mike’s death and said, “That must be so difficult.” This was an acknowledgement of the pain. “Tell me about him. What was he like?” This was an honoring of his existence. They didn’t dance around the reality of his life or death and what I was going through. They didn’t assume I didn’t want to talk about it. They didn’t offer cliches or platitudes. And they weren’t afraid of my sadness or tears. They entered into the loss with me.

It was a beautiful thing and something we all need to practice as we enter into one another’s pain and suffering. When we do we are mirroring God’s heart for the broken. He didn’t avoid our pain and suffering or run from it. He put on a suit of skin and entered totally into the experience of humanity. The blessings, fear, joy, sadness, laughter, tears and darkness.

 God chose and still chooses to be with us in all of it. He doesn’t pretend to make the hard stuff go away but enters into it with us. He promises to be Emanuel. God With Us!

And moving forward, especially during the sadness of another Christmas season, I can be thankful for this, even when it’s difficult to be thankful for anything else.

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Job 23:2 “My complaint is bitter again today. I try hard to control my sighing.”

I’ve read the book of Job many times through the years, but reading it with a grieving heart is eye opening. I completely relate to all the raw, brutal emotion, the questioning, flailing and anxiety of humanity displayed there; a cacophony of thoughts and words flowing from a broken heart. Tossing, turning, struggling with answers to a deluge of why questions.

 I admit to finding consolation in the story of Job, since some of his experience is also mine. I am not unlike him. Desperate prayers and pleas erupt from a mind, that is often a tornado of chaotic thoughts. Fear, insecurity and desperation leer in the background of my days. The battle is real.

 In his suffering, Job exhausts himself further, trying to reach God, trying to understand why he has been targeted for such loss and pain. We don’t know how long it took Job to reach the other side of his grief. The story is read in forty two chapters so we assume it’s short, but I doubt that, because grief never is. Could have been months, even years.

What I do know is, though he never seemed to find the answers he was searching for, in the end he found a clearer revelation of God. Job finally tells God, “You asked why I talk so much when I know so little. I have talked about things that are far beyond my understanding. You told me to listen and answer your questions. I heard about you from others but now I have seen you with my own eyes,” Job 42:2-5.

Grief and loss have a way of knocking the props out from under us, forcing us to re-prioritize, re-think, re-evaluate everything we thought we believed. I pray I eventually emerge on the other side of this season with a broader sense of how great God is and how deeply He loves, especially when nothing makes sense.

‘Well, you were a pastor’s wife, you should already know such things,’ some may think. No. Regardless of expectations or ‘titles’, my limited lens on life and it’s purpose will never measure up to God’s panoramic view.

Relationships are in a continuous tension between struggle and growth. God created us for relationship. In the pleasant and hard places, God longs to be up close and personal. He only waits for the invitation that my hurting heart delivers.

I want to be able to say with Job, “In all my days up until this, I had ‘heard about you from others but now I have seen you with my own eyes.’

He can still be trusted. He is still worthy to be known.”

In my struggle, let me SEE you, Lord.

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Dear Marriage,

I get it. It’s hard sometimes. 

You start out young, starry eyed, idealistic. You know exactly how you want this love to go forward and what it should look like. Then life gets in the way. The kids come. They grow. You work hard every day, keeping a roof overhead, food on the table. Responsibilities pile up. Another diaper to change. Another meal to make. Another bill to pay. Another illness. Another obstacle.

Health challenges or special needs add extra weight to this marathon. It’s heavy and all-consuming. Money, energy, time and patience often run short. And it seems the love has as well. The expectations are high and no one is meeting them exactly.

You weren’t aware that love was more choice than feeling, keeping it alive was such hard work and the sacrifices would be so huge. This hasn’t turned out the way you envisioned and you’ve forgotten why you did it in the first place. The days are routine. Mundane. Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months and months into years.

Then one day, suddenly, it’s over. One of you is gone. The other chair is empty, the bed lonely. There’s less clothes to fold, no one to talk to and the person you made history with, the one who knew you like no one else, doesn’t come home anymore. The final vow has come to collect and one of you is left to sift through the memories.

As the grief overwhelms and the great aloneness presses in, you realize all of life together was lived, not in the beginning or in this ending, but in the middle. In the mundane and in the routine. In the imperfection. In the stress and the joy. In the days that both dragged and flew by. Then you know without a doubt, you’d go back and do it over again if you had the chance. Love was far from perfect, and was sometimes buried beneath the constant challenge of everyday life, but it was there and it was good.

Remember Jesus, who loved the most and gave His all? He willingly offered the greatest grace. How can you not do the same?

Still somewhere in the middle? Be helpful. Be patient. Be prayerful. Find closeness and joy in the small moments. Persevere all the way to a no-regrets ending.

As you drown in tsunami waves of grief and sob through tears of unrelenting sorrow, a breath of joy will arise from that broken heart, a thankfulness that you didn’t give up on love, even when you couldn’t always see or feel it. You stayed. You endured all the way to the end.

And it was worth choosing. Every time.  

Ecclesiastes 7:8 “The end of a matter is better than its beginning, and patience is better than pride.” Galatians 6:9 “Let is not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

 

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Two grandfather clocks stood side by side, polished wood grain gleaming in the dim light. They were beautifully ornate without being gaudy.

It was obvious much care had been taken to keep them in good working order. Their pendulums swinging in perfect synchronization created volume louder than normal as they chimed in harmony.

Then suddenly, one stopped ticking, it’s pendulum coming to an abrupt halt, hanging motionless from the clock face. In my dream I panicked. Terror ripping through me in disbelief. The sight and sound of the silent clock, sent waves of shock and sorrow deep into my soul. This couldn’t be happening! It can’t be real! But it was. It is.

God ordained for man and woman to become one in marriage. It doesn’t happen all at once but with the slow steady pattern of learning one another over many years. A rhythm develops, a synchronized ticking of two hearts, minds and souls. At some point you know each other so well, in many ways, you become one another.

When one clock stops, the loss of rhythm, identity and certainty is large. There’s no desire at first to continue keeping time on your own. Time becomes irrelevant, a matter of annoyance. Caught in this moment between the past and the future, you’re now faced with the great challenge of learning how to keep going on alone, resetting the clock to a solitary rhythm.

Ironically time is the healer of this unsettling dilemma, or so I'm told, and though there’s no end to missing the heart that beat with our own, eventually there will be release from this purgatory of in-betweenness. It can neither come fast enough or be hurried. I must be patient, let the process play out. Once again time is the Master and I am subject to it’s whims.

Ecclesiastes 3:11 tells me God has written eternity on the human heart; that there is more than what I feel, more than what I see. Believing there is satisfaction above what this transient world provides, is comforting. I’m thankful for the knowledge that God, who created time, also lives outside of it.

My husband ticks on in eternity away from the time limitations of this earth. He’s already knows what I have yet to experience.

“Brothers and sisters, we want you to know about people who have died so that you won’t mourn like others who don’t have any hope. Since we believe that Jesus died and rose, so we also believe that God will bring with Him those who have died in Jesus,” 1Thessalonians 4:13-14.

The day will come when time no longer holds us in it’s greedy grasp. Such a wonderful hope in the depths of great sorrow. 

“He has made everything appropriate in its time. He has also set eternity in their heart, yet so that man will not find out the work which God has done from the beginning even to the end,” Ecclesiastes 3:11.  

“..and the two shall become one flesh So they are no longer two but one flesh,” Mark 10:8.

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Jon’s birthday was a few weeks ago, May 4th actually, and birthdays have always been a big deal around here. Mike made sure of that. He believed if God took the time to make you and put you here on this ball we call Earth, you mattered. You were valuable, thus birthdays were cause for celebration.

“No one should have to work or go to school on their birthday,” he’d tell me every year, that little scowl line erupting between his eyes over the unfairness of it all. “It’s a holiday. In fact you should have your whole birthday week off!”

 Who could disagree with that? Mike would buy a cake, candles, balloons and ask the birthday person in advance, “What would you like for your birthday? Where do you want to go?” Then he’d make it happen. And he loved it.

I went to the store the day before Jon’s birthday. Bought a cake and candles and made sure he had a few gifts to open. I asked him where he would like to go, what he’d like to do, and made a few suggestions. Before I went to bed that evening I reminded him, “Don’t forget to think about what you want to do tomorrow Jon. It’s your birthday.”

He was standing in the kitchen and turned to look at me. “I don’t care,” he said and my heart broke into a zillion pieces. Again. I went to bed that night, cried into my pillow and cried out to my Heavenly Dad. “Help us please! We are so wounded. Heal us. Bring us to a place of new joy.”

“Hear me, Lord, and have mercy on me. Help me, O Lord.“ Psalm 30:10

Jon never left his room on his birthday and we didn't go out. It was the first time in 38 years he didn’t want to hear the happy birthday song or burn the candles down to the frosting before he blew them out.

Several days later that unopened package of candles was tucked away in a drawer, when I finally cut the cake and gave him a piece with his dinner. Right now, the loss of Jon’s father in his everyday life, turns every special occasion into pain. The events we usually celebrate become mile markers for what is missing. Reminders of what was. This is the nature of grief.

 Choking back tears, I gently replied, “It’s OK Jon. I understand. Maybe your next birthday will be better. Maybe next year both of us will care again. Let’s just keep asking Jesus to help us with that.” Maybe by next year or the one after we will celebrate.

Maybe then we will say, “You have turned my mourning into joyful dancing. You have taken away my clothes of mourning and clothed me with joy, that I might sing praises to you and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever!” Psalm 30:11-12

Please Lord, let it be so.

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There was water all around. No land in sight on any horizon.

So small and insignificant in the sea, the cork was lost and floating aimlessly. Disconnected from her original purpose. Identity gone. Afraid. Alone. Without hope of rescue. 

Suddenly a wall of water loomed in the distance, racing forward, a formidable tsunami wave that would certainly be the end of it all. The force of the wave shoved the cork, flipping and swirling, to the bottom of the ocean and the overwhelming despair and fear accompanying it became far greater than the violence of the water itself. Instant panic seized her. She would never survive. Not this time. 

The swirling current subsided and the cork drifted to the top, exhausted and disoriented. Just when a moment of relief came to the great sea, another wall of water appeared, sending her to the bottom of fear and loss again, this cycle continuing in never ending successions.

In slow agonizing increments, the waves eventually pushed the cork toward shore. She tumbled back and forth in the swirling breakers until she was finally left lying for days, with little energy left to care, in the sand.

On a bright sunny day a woman and her child walked the beach looking for treasures to fill their plastic pail. They found the cork, took her home, washed her and made her part of a useful and beautiful display in their home. The cork had come through the deep, dark waters and found purpose. New, different, even foreign, but a purpose just the same.

In my deepest despair I asked God for something, anything, to reassure me I would survive the devastating death of my husband.

He gave me this dream. I am the cork. Can new life be restored after such loss? Can the thing meant to destroy, become the catalyst for rescue and new meaning? Can the waters of dark despair bring forth renewed hope?

God promises I will not drown. Hope, like a cork, rises again. It’s true, life will never go back to what it was. I will never be the same. There are moments, hours, days, nights when I hate the reality of this truth, but I long for the time when I might be excited about living, when I finally wash up on the shore of hope and find new joy, new purpose.

As each reoccurring wave continues to bury me in the depths, I hang on to Jesus, my life preserver, until hope floats again.  

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you, I have called you by name; you are Mine! When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they will not overflow you.” Isaiah 43:1-2

“And now, O Lord, for what do I wait? My hope is in you.” Psalm 39:7

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In October 2017, when my husband died, this sudden, life altering earthquake shook me to my core. Everything that was secure, safe and predictable took a seismic shift. I feel as if I‘m clinging to the edge of open ground, trying not to fall into the deep chasm it has created. If I‘m honest, I have no dreams right now and many moments I struggle to have hope. It’s daily survival mode around here. So where do I go from here? I’m still taking care of an adult disabled son who needs me and there are so many complicated layers to this dynamic I’m often at a loss to explain. Jon requires most of my breathing hours.   I’ve heard I should have dreams, goals. I should allow God to resurrect them. I should go back to where they died and bring them back to life. But how? Where? When? At this point I can’t even recall any. My life has been spent supporting my husband and taking care of my children. There’s been very little of it that’s been about me and I’m not one bit sorry for it. My youngest son is grown and on his own now and my husband is gone. He’s not coming back. There’s no resurrecting that! As I talked to my Heavenly Dad about it this morning He spoke quietly to my heart. “Daughter, This is not complicated. YOU are MY dream. I AM your goal. Your dream should be to know you are LOVED by ME. Your dream should be to KNOW ME. Every other thing you do, have, want and become will flow from there. Walk with ME through the Valley of the Shadow of Death and Darkness. Don’t struggle so much to figure it out. Trust MY LOVE FOR YOU and let your dream and purpose unfold as we travel this road together.” I‘m not very good at this yet and I ‘m struggling to trust Him in this new, hard place. I have neither the energy or faith to dream but He has all the strength and faith I need. HE is my faith. HE is my source. HE is the wellspring of my life. Dreams that never existed can’t be resurrected BUT could it be, God can create brand new ones after everything inside me has died? For those of us who feel like it’s over and there’s nothing left to resurrect - Yes!! He can make all things new! Even ME. Maybe someday I‘ll dream again. That’s all I got for now and what I’m holding on to. Revelation 21:5 “And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.”

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Jon came out of his room and down the hallway toward the office where my friend and I were talking, me in my office chair and she on the opposite side of the desk, in the chair Mike once occupied. Mike and I had often hung out together in this room and many engaging conversations took place from these chairs. Jon’s face lit up, as he peeked through the glass panes of the French door and the large fake fern blocking most of his view. He quickly hurried through the door then stopped, frozen, as heart wrenching disappointment flooded his expression. This son, who rarely talks, clenched his fists, “That’s my dad’s chair! You are not my dad! Get out of his chair!” He yelled, his face grimacing in anger. Surprised by his outburst, my friend stood up, looking from him to me, the ‘What should I do?’ question in her eyes. As I watched this play out, a new wave of deep sorrow flooded through me. I began to cry. I understood, Jon had seen the silhouette of a person in his dad’s chair and for a moment, he believed Mike was there. My friend finally spoke, “I‘m so sorry Jon. I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t sit in this chair anymore if you don’t want me to.” Anger was suddenly replaced by sadness. Jon turned, leaned his head against the filing cabinet and began to cry quiet, trickling tears. I wanted so much to wrap him in a long embrace and cry with him but I knew he would never allow it. Attempting to maintain some composure for this grieving son who desperately needed comfort, I went to him and placed my hand on his shoulder. Barely. Only touching his shirt really, not his skin. “I’m so sorry Honey. I know you thought that was Dad in his chair when you first looked. But remember, he’s not here anymore. I know that makes you sad, angry and disappointed all at the same time because sometimes it does me too. I’m so sorry you have to go through this. I know you miss him.” He wrenched his shoulder back and threw my touch away, anger surging through him again. We faced several more tidal waves of emotion as Jon processed his disappointment. Eventually he quieted and went to the kitchen. Last night, this text came from my other child.         And my heart breaks again. My sons are still reeling from the loss of their father and the empty chair is but a reminder of what an amazing, caring, family man Mike was and how severely he is missed. I wonder at how blessed we were to have Mike in our days and how we’ll learn to move forward without him here. We each had our own way of leaning on him and loving him. His absence is an emptiness, a large sink hole, pulling us in with an unrelenting ache of sadness. I pray for my children in their sorrow. I pray at some point, the weeping of this long night will be replaced with a renewed joy (Psalm 30:5) for all of us. I pray God will fill the emptiness of our hearts with His overwhelming love and goodness. I pray...pray..and pray. From the empty chair.   Psalm 147:3 “He heals the broken hearts and binds up their sorrows.“

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I’ve gone to the grocery store almost every week in my forty two years of marriage and family raising. Multiplying fifty two weeks in a year by forty two years equates to two thousand one hundred and eighty four times. Other than a parking lot ding on my car’s bumper, an occasional broken jar, squished peach or the bottom falling out of a full bag, it has been a nondescript task. Tuesday, October 3rd, 2017, I came home from the grocery store to find my husband dead in the front yard. There is absolutely nothing nondescript about that and I’m not sure I’ll ever look at buying groceries the same again. Mike’s last words to me were, “I’ll see you when you get back.” He didn’t. Now I attempt to navigate from here. The shared weight of responsibility Mike carried for Jon has been added entirely to me. It is heavy. I feel as if I’m suffocating right now. I’m hanging on to Jesus like the leaf of a tree in a hurricane. I see and feel the concern, love and prayers of those around us and am incredibly grateful to all who are rallying around me and Jon. But I’ve noticed the frequently asked question seems to be, “How are you doing?” So I’m feeling the need to explain to those who have yet to experience this particular type of storm, the difficult answer to this question. Quite honestly, I don't even know how I'm doing. There is no answer. However, an attempt to put it into words might go like this. I am a bucket of mashed potatoes. I have been picked, peeled, quartered, boiled, whipped, shoved through a sieve for extra fine-ness and tossed onto Florida’s Interstate 4 at rush hour to be run over by three hundred vehicles a minute. For the unforeseeable future, my answer to the ‘how you doing’ question will be “Mashed Potatoes and God is still good!” Just have a spatula to peel me off the pavement and a little salt and butter when you see me. I’m hoping these mashed potatoes will eventually be able to feed a hurting, desperate soul somewhere on the interstate of life. “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

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