Why The WARM Place?

     There is a long (but surely incomplete) list of stuff I can remember using to protect my kids from physical, emotional, psychological or spiritual harm: outlet covers, baby monitors, night lights, car seats, toilet locks, cabinet locks, stair gates, personal flotation devices, swim goggles, training wheels, helmets, knee pads, elbow pads, bug spray, sunscreen, sunglasses, coats, mouth guards, internet filters, my quick reflexes, my raised voice, my fervent prayers. I am hard wired to protect those sweet babies God blessed me with. I have not always been successful. Kids and situations are unpredictable. I’m not a perfect parent. I have failed, forgotten, ignored, overlooked. Like everyone else, I guess. But I am a pretty good parent. I have protected my kids from lots that they needed protecting from. Even though I have poured considerable energy and money into protecting my kids, I could not protect them from cancer. From melanoma. From death. From losing their dad to that wretched disease when they were just 14, 12, 12 and 8 years old. There was no gate to keep that horrible enemy out. No lock to stop it from entering my house. No spray, filter, or screen to shield my children from the devastation it caused. I am a woman of faith and God never left us, but the valley of the shadow of death is dark, scary, cold and unrelenting. When darkness pushed in, I gathered my children close, but I really could not protect them from reality. Daddy
was gone. He is gone. He is never coming back. Your life is forever changed. Some part of your precious, carefree innocence lost.

 
     Death is lonely. I believe that we will see Dan again, but death is still lonely. I never expected this to be my story. He was only 40. We have 4 kids who need a dad. What am I supposed to do? I was terrified. Afraid of the finances, afraid of the dark at night, afraid of losing my mind. Mostly I was afraid that I wasn’t enough. How could I possibly fill the gap Dan left? How could I get 4 kids through the death of their father when I wasn’t even sure I could survive it? What would I say? Would his death be the event that sent their young lives into a downward spiral? I thought on more than one occasion that perhaps being left here with just me as their only parent was actually going to be the event that would be their demise. Fear loomed large and constant. So many fears. Overwhelming, crippling emotions.

     We found The WARM Place a few months after Dan died. A hospice social worker had referred me and I took the kids to check it out. I had never heard of The WARM Place until Dan got sick. I had a hard time wrapping my mind around the concept of it. How could there be enough kids and families who had experienced loss to make this place necessary? The name is an acronym that stands for W​hat A​bout R​emembering M​e, but walking through the doors of the building you can’t help but feel the emotional warmth in that place. It feels like you’ve walked into a sweet neighbor’s house. We were immediately welcomed with gentle smiles and a home like atmosphere. I admit that I actually dreaded going there the first time because I didn’t want to be in the situation we were in and going there made it seem that much more real. I was a widow and my kids had lost their dad. I didn’t want people looking at us and pitying us or feeling sorry for us. So why did I go there? Because I was desperate. As much as I felt like an emotional, exhausted mess, I knew I had to find a way to get my kids through this. I had seen and heard too many stories of children who had lost one parent to death and the other to grief. I resolved to do all I could to keep their lives moving forward in a positive way.

 
     I could not have done it without The WARM Place. We started attending every other Thursday night. It started with a potluck dinner with all of the other families who were there for the very same reason we were. It was awkward at first because I could not stop thinking how sad it was that a room full of parents and children was all gathered here with deep pain in their hearts and one family member gone, never to share a meal with their family again. I was amazed and sort of puzzled at the families who had been attending longer. They smiled. They even joked and laughed. I wondered how or why they would smile or laugh at a place like this. At a time like this. I didn’t talk much for a while. I was polite but all I wanted to do was cry. That was ok. Not one person was offended or surprised. They knew where I was coming from and they knew where The WARM Place would take us. The potluck meal was always followed by the kids splitting into age appropriate groups and the parents meeting to support one another
with amazing facilitators there to help encourage and direct the group discussion. The kids did activities and crafts that I know they enjoyed. They may not have really known how to articulate
what grief was, but they had very real and very big feelings and were learning how to process those feelings with caring, attentive facilitators. I could go on and on about how much the parent support group helped me. I loved it there. I went from dreading showing up there to looking forward to it. I was privileged to sit in that circle with so many brave, honest, real people who were trying to hold the pieces together for their kids and were just as scared as I was. And brave. We didn’t crawl into bed, withdraw from the world and neglect our kids in the tragedy. We got them to a place that could help them. A place that could help us, too. I’m proud of us. Some of the best people I have ever met were in that group. We kept going for about 2 years. Thinking about the difference in where we were emotionally when we first crossed their threshold to where we ended up upon saying goodbye to The WARM Place makes me smile. Who would’ve thought, huh? I’m not saying The WARM Place was the beginning and end of our grieving. Not by a long shot. But I can sincerely say that The WARM Place gave us the understanding, support, tools and permission to grieve that we needed to continue our journey of grief in a healthy way. What a gift and a treasure. A lifeline.

 
     I wish The WARM Place wasn’t needed. I wish no more kids had to lose a dad, or a mom, or a sibling. I wish all kids could be protected from that. But they can’t and The WARM Place continues to open it’s doors to those new families every day who never wanted to be there but who will leave there so blessed. The WARM Place never charges families a fee. It’s a free service to the families who benefit immensely from it. They depend on donations. Isn’t that amazing? It doesn’t even seem possible that something so valuable and top notch could be a gift but it is. That is why I am committed to helping raise funds for The WARM Place. No doubt, I sell t­shirts every year around Dan’s birthday to honor his memory. It feels so good to remember him in that way and share that with so many people who may or may not have known him but want to help us remember and honor him. However, I also sell t­shirts so I can give back to a place that gave so much to my family. I want to continue to raise funds because if I can be a small part of helping one child learn how to find a new ‘normal’ and process the immense grief they are experiencing, I truly believe I can affect not only that one child, but also generations to come. That one child will become an adult and maybe a parent ­ ready to love and protect the next generation. It’s way bigger than me, or my family, or our grief.

Check out The WARM Place at www.thewarmplace.org. Go to
www.bonfirefunds.com/hugs4hope­-2016 to buy a t­shirt. All proceeds will benefit The WARM
Place. Thank you from the Smiths❤

Call Me Jack

    I’ve been growing a beanstalk of perfectionism. I’m not exactly sure where the seeds of my perfectionism came from. It probably doesn’t really matter at this point where I picked up those not-so-magic beans because they have now grown into a perfectionism of giant redwood proportions. Sometimes, when I try to chop it down, I feel like Jack when he faced his formidable beanstalk. This thing is out of control and I’m not sure how to uproot it.

I don’t like to admit it, but the truth is…I want to be perfect.

  I want to be the perfect mom, the perfect friend, the perfect sister, the perfect daughter, the perfect homemaker, the perfect widow (whatever that means). I have subconsciously and sometimes deliberately avoided, quit or suffered through valuable and potentially beautiful experiences and relationships because I feared they would be less than perfect. Feared I would be reminded that I am less than perfect if I attempted them.  I can talk a big talk about grace for myself and others and even extend some grace to myself (but mostly for others). The reality is, in the deepest, darkest recesses of my heart, those roots of perfectionism grow deeper and I continue to give them what they need to extend to the depths of my soul.  I fill my watering can with unrealistic expectations, lies about what makes me worthy of love and comparisons to other imperfect people.  The roots are deeper than I even know and the fruits of my perfectionism are self-centeredness, impatience, intolerance, ungratefulness, and discontent.



Most recently, I have realized that I even try to recruit those I love the most to help me nurture my perfectionism and then get angry and manipulative when they have the audacity to be human and blemish the perfect landscape I am trying so hard to develop--my beanstalk serving as the centerpiece of it all.  I choose to nurture the beanstalk--or the idea of it--more than the people.  Oh, that just makes my soul ache with regret.  Will someone please hand me an axe?  I mean, honestly, there is a giant trying to kill me at the top of this thing and I keep watering it anyway.



There have been so many events in my life that should have served as my metaphorical axe.  Events that made it clear that neither I, nor this life, are perfect.  My parents’ divorce, 2 kids with autism, cancer, the death of my husband--very clear, concrete slaps in the face that shake me by the shoulders and say, “Snap out of it!”.  And maybe those events have given me a much needed dose of my imperfect reality.  At least temporarily.  Maybe there HAVE been moments in those traumatic, heart wrenching times when I have loosened my death-grip on the desperate pursuit of perfection.  Moments when I have basically given up and let life take me where it wanted to.  Moments where I trusted God enough to trust His plans.  But then, I look out on the landscape of my life and instead of noticing all the beauty around me, I notice that wilting beanstalk of perfection and coax myself into reviving it instead of letting it die.  This time maybe I can make it happen.  This time maybe I won’t mess up.  This time maybe I can control everything.  I can control cancer and death and autism and people and the future.  It’s a powerful, ugly, ridiculous beanstalk.  It has to come down.



       John 16:33 says, “In this godless world you will continue to experience difficulties.  But take heart!  I’ve conquered the world.” (MSG).

The only thing that will ever be perfect in this life is God and His grace.  I can look at that fact as a major disappointment because my notion of ‘perfect’ will never happen, or I can look at it as a huge burden lifted off of these tired shoulders.  I am not perfect!  Hooray! (chop chop)  My life will never be perfect!! Yay!! (chop chop)  The people in my life who I love so dearly will never be perfect!!  Yesss! (chop chop)  God’s grace in my life is perfectly sufficient. Enough.  And He uses all the imperfection to mold me into who He wants me to be!!  (Timberrrrrrr!!!!!!)



       Is this a one time, clean break from my treasured beanstalk?  Not likely.  The landscape of my life will have a noticeable bare spot where the perfectionism has flourished for so long.  That stump isn’t pretty.  But if perfectionism is gone, more light can come in and other things start to grow--tenderness, authenticity, compassion, faith, approachability, understanding, joy.  I want to end this post perfectly.  But I can’t. And that’s ok.

 See what I did there?

Hugs

There is no 'right' or 'standard' way to commemorate the death of your husband--the father of your children.  This is the 4th time this awful anniversary has come around and every time, I wish I had orchestrated a really meaningful plan to capture all this day means to me and to my kids (This neurotic thinking is a by-product of chronic perfectionism. I will soon be posting a blog about my perfectionism which, of course, is being edited to 'perfection').  The honest to God truth is that everybody does it differently. I like (and kinda hate) reading on social media about the Hallmark-ish ways people do this.  I have the same enormous feelings everyone in my shoes would have about losing my sweet husband and the father of my 4 kids, but when I get to the anniversary of his death,  I am much less about creating a beautiful memorial and much more about just crying my eyes out or imagining what he would think about how the kids have grown or pouring over old pictures until I want to throw up.  It's not pretty.  No one would want to watch this Hallmark special or read this story on Facebook.  I get sad. And mad. Still. After 4 years.  So that's what I'll be doing to remember Dan--crying, venting, regretting, wishing.  Obviously, I'm also writing, which is one of the more productive things I do.  I dug up a journal entry I wrote just weeks

after Dan was diagnosed with melanoma.  I intended to post it but felt it might come across as melodramatic since we were so early on in our journey with cancer.  I didn't want to totally believe that he might die, but now that he is gone, I feel thankful that God opened my eyes to the simple truth I wrote about before it was too late.  Here it is:

Hug your husband today.  Not the rushed, obligatory hug before you leave the house.  Not the tired, begrudging hug when you are exhausted and thinking of yourself...really...hug him. Wrap your arms around him, pull him close and linger there.  Close your eyes and experience all there is to experience in something as simple as a hug.  Hear him breathing and maybe even his heartbeat.  Be weak and protected by those arms around you.  Recognize the way he smells and drink it in.  Imagine if this were the last hug you could ever give him or receive from him - know that someday, maybe sooner than you think, it WILL be the last hug.  Be there, right there in the middle of that hug and take your time.  Don't underestimate the blessing of this simple gesture.  Know that being able to stand right in front of this person God has given you and reach out to touch him and be together, stopped, connected for even a brief piece of eternity is usually taken for granted and not a guarantee.  There are those who would give anything for what we have right now - would give anything for just one more hug...Time runs out eventually and though we are confident that there is life beyond this physical world we are a part of, the simple connection of a hug can carry us through and keep us going - even when all we have is memories of hugs.  Hug him now. Hug him often.  Hug him differently from now on.

I wrote that as a reminder to embrace Dan in the midst of the ensuing chaos of cancer. You'd think it would be obvious, but even when we could taste the bitter brevity of life, it kept moving forward at breakneck speed and we had 4 kids and 2 jobs and all the stuff grown ups have to deal with.  Add to that countless appointments to hunt down an elusive cure for cancer, surgeries to remove the beast, varied treatments all over the metroplex with an impressive line up of specialist after specialist, the looming questions you never want to ask about prognosis, and the palpable, justified, taunting fear.

We could have easily let it swallow us up and forgotten to hold on to each other.  But. We didn't let it swallow us.  I think we loved each other better in that last year than we ever had--kinda sad and beautiful at the same time.  He died a little over a year later. So, in addition to wallowing in the sad (which is okay to do), asking God some questions (like any child of the Father is allowed to do), and just getting through the day, I am going to remember the hugs again.  If each one of you hugs differently today because you've read this memorial post, I'd say I've honored my sweet Dan.  Hugs.

Giants, Milk and Honey

When I woke up to a New Year this morning, I was less than inspired. Without leaving my bed, I peeked in on Twitter and Instragram. As expected, the social media theme right now is 2016. A new year. Fresh start. Best year yet! #hastobebetterthanlastyear (that one makes me chuckle a little because I think it's a back handed compliment to 2016 depending on how rotten 2015 must've been for someone). People are tweeting inspirational messages and hashtags about taking on the new year. Instagram is bursting with beautiful photos of mountains or long, winding roads with words meant to convince me that I can climb that mountain or walk down that road and it's gonna be A-MAZ-ING. I scroll through all of it with a hint of cynicism.  To add to the negativity, I see photo collages of the #bestof2015 and convince myself I probably didn't take enough pictures of my kids last year. Or do enough pic-worthy activities with them.  Sigh.  There's nothing wrong with all of the inspirational new year's buzz--I think it's a positive use of social media. It's just that I didn't wake up today with a freshly written list of resolutions or a sense that the best is yet to come. Since I'm being honest, I'll have to say that I woke up feeling a bit overwhelmed. Defeated. Another year to struggle. I stayed under the covers a little longer and cried. It was a moment of grief. It was a reminder that although the calendar will show a new year (and I will write the wrong one for at least 6 more weeks), there is nothing new about my circumstances. Can you say 'Debbie Downer'? I seriously considered just stewing in my negative soup but I needed more. Way more.  I needed God to pull me out of that moment and give me a pep talk better than any hashtag or scenic mountain range. I opened my bible app and started reading the passages assigned to me on my reading plan (the one I consistently get behind on). I didn't seek out a particular verse to speak to how I was feeling. It was more of a comforting routine. Enter a sweet, loving Father who never misses an opportunity to encourage me if I am willing to let Him. The passage I was assigned today just 'happened' to be in Numbers. It's the account of when Moses sent a scouting party into Canaan and most of them came back in a panic. A whole group of downers who focused only on what would be challenging in that land God promised to them. Okay, God, the connection is not lost on me. The real focus in this passage, however, is the pair of scouts who came back with more than just overwhelming concerns. Joshua and Caleb came back admitting that there were obstacles but they were determined to focus on the potential. Determined to focus on God.  Sure, they saw the giants in the land but they also saw a land 'flowing with milk and honey'. Numbers 13:30 says, 'Caleb interrupted, called for silence before Moses and said, "Let's go up and take the land--now. We can do it."' When God spoke in chapter 14, verse 24, He said, "But my servant Caleb--this is a different story. He has a different spirit; he follows me passionately. I'll bring him into the land that he scouted and his children will inherit it." I love when I think I'm just reading my bible and God reminds me that He wants to speak to me. I'm no Caleb, but I want to be. I clearly woke up this morning ready to tell myself how overwhelming the obstacles are and how I will never make it. But God wanted to remind me that I can do it. God didn't give the Israelites or even Caleb a step-by-step plan for their journey into Canaan. He didn't tell them exactly how they would overcome all of the very real obstacles ahead. And He didn't take those obstacles away. But he did express his approval of Caleb's attitude. Caleb had seen how scary Canaan seemed but he refused to give in to fear or discouragement.  He had seen hard times.  He was wandering in the wilderness with all the others and still trusted that God had more for him.  I don't know if 2016 will seem more like the promised land or wandering in the wilderness, but I do know that I want to be a Caleb. I want God to look at my heart and say 'This is a different story. She has a different spirit. She follows me passionately.' So whether you are pumped about 2016 or still under your covers crying, I say 'Let's go up and take 2016--now. We can do it.'