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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One year ago today my husband and I woke up and went about business as usual with no hint of what the day would bring. By it’s end, Mike was gone, instantly and without warning. Death came calling and the life we had together, the one I had known for so long, suddenly evaporated.

 “Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring.” Proverbs 27:1

Honestly, it’s been my worst (and there’s been some tough ones) year ever. It feels like yesterday, still so fresh in my mind and heart. I still can’t believe he’s really gone.

The gnawing sadness and giant void that replaced what Mike’s existence once filled, remains. I wonder if it always will. I miss him constantly. I miss all that was us. This year my faith has been severely tested. The past twelve months have been a season of grasping, clawing, failing, falling, leaning and learning. I’ve taken some steps forward and many more backward.

 I’m learning how to make decisions and handle situations on my own and deal with emotions never experienced before. There are still nights of fear and anxiety and days when giving up seems to be a better option than moving forward.

 A year ago, I could never have imagined a life without Mike in it. When I think I won’t make it through another day God, who is The More I desperately need, is patiently guiding me on a growing faith journey like none I‘ve walked before.

Today is a day of remembering and sadness. But also a day of thankfulness because I’ve survived. I didn’t know I could at first. Didn’t think I would, especially in those early days when just continuing to breathe seemed impossible.

So I take time today to thank God for being More.

More grace,

More comfort.

More peace,

More strength.

More provision.

More faithfulness.

More mercy.

More love.

More trust.

More of everything I am not, without Him. And More of all there is the possibility of becoming because of Him.

“God has the power to provide you with more than enough of every kind of grace. That way, you will have everything you need always and in everything..” 2 Corinthians 9:8

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My mother passed on to her eternal home in 1994. She's been gone twenty three years now and in many ways I'm happy for her. A strange thing to say? Maybe? But most of what I remember about my mother was the difficulties she endured. Shortly after I was born, she had a complete and devastating nervous breakdown and was committed to Willard State Psychiatric Hospital in upstate New York for several years. Over my lifetime, I've heard bits and pieces of family speculation and attempted to piece ambiguous information together, but I still don't really know why. These things were not discussed openly by previous generations as they are now. My older brother went into foster care and I was shuffled around between grandparents and a few aunts and uncles before finally landing with a family down the street who had five kids of their own. They took me in and it was because of them and out of desperation to see his family reunited, that my Dad had his come to Jesus experience. Though our family life was imperfect, and at times dysfunctional, I was raised with a foundation of Bible, church and a solid belief in God that later became an anchor for my own life storms. When Mom finally came home from Willard, she wasn't the same, at least that's what I was told. I don't remember her to be anything other. She was just Mom. She was somewhat timid, emotionally fragile and often fearful, yet I knew she loved me, though I have no memory of her ever saying so. She was a cigarette addict (wasn’t everyone in the 50's?), married to a hard-working, sometimes overbearing and exacting man, she never learned to drive and developed rheumatoid arthritis sometime in her thirties. I would come home from school to find her sobbing on the sofa, a knee or wrist so painfully red and swollen she couldn't function. Mom never went to a doctor and never took anything for the pain but aspirin, which does nothing to alleviate any of RA's symptoms, as I would later discover for myself. I remember her walking me to kindergarten and later, on days I walked home from elementary school for lunch, there was usually a grilled cheese sandwich and hot Campbells soup waiting on the small table in the corner of the kitchen. On days she felt better, she'd be in the kitchen cooking meals or doing endless loads of wash and hanging heavy, wet clothes on the rope stretched between the shed and the sour cherry tree in our backyard. Because she didn't drive, I'd sometimes ride my pink, banana-seat bike two miles to the corner store, with a note giving me permission to purchase a pack of cigarettes. An extra nickel or dime would buy me some penny candy, then I'd happily pedal back home. On hot summer days, she'd occasionally hand me a dime, and I'd dash to the curb for a cherry snow cone from Mr. Frosty's truck. Somewhere toward the close of her fiftieth decade, RA got the best of her. She couldn't walk anymore. With the cushioning cartilage and synovial fluid in her knees gone, the joints fused and locked in place. She finally had wheels of her own - a wheelchair - and Dad became her caregiver. Several years passed before he couldn't lift her anymore. At age sixty she went to live in a nursing home and at sixty-two she died of cancer. Unfortunate for us, but fortunately for Mom, only in that her wheelchair, pain and emotional suffering stayed behind when she left this earth. What I remember most about my mom? She was always there for her family and rarely complained. She didn't whine, claim entitlement or victim-hood. With no social media on which to unveil every detail of her life and in the oblivion of my youth, I gave little thought to the difficulties she faced. It wasn't until I developed rheumatoid arthritis in my mid-twenties and had a family of my own that I came to appreciate my mother's perseverance. I wonder what dreams she had as a young girl and if she ever felt slighted because her life didn't go as planned. Like so many mothers, she did the best she could under difficult circumstances and well into my adult years, I realized a simple truth; parents are human too and perfected people are non-existent. A sure mark of maturity is realizing this and forgiving ours for being flawed and possibly less than we hoped for. Maybe ingrained deep within my DNA, is a measure of my mother's endurance; an assistant in carrying me through life, as it did her. Someday I will tell her how grateful I am for the legacy she left me. "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." 2 Timothy 4:7  

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