The Thing About Being A (Relatively) Young Widow

 So, here’s the thing about being a (relatively) young widow. There’s a good chance that, as time passes and life keeps moving, there will be a new love. If somebody was in love (I was), built a beautiful life with the one they loved (I did) and then lost that love to death, there’s usually a longing to have that again - not the exact same life because every love story and every relationship is different, and if I’m trying to replicate the first story, maybe it’s too early to start a new one.  What I mean is that there’s a longing to be loved again and to love someone, care for them, be each other’s person(s), especially if it seems like there’s plenty of time left for that to happen again. In a ‘perfect’ world, (minus the part where anybody dies at all) this would never be an issue - people would fall in love and stay that way for 70 years until they both die...peacefully...in their sleep...at the exact same time. Or there’s the Hallmark movie way where the first love does die, but then enters the new love and the devastation is wrapped up in a neat little package and everyone lives happily ever after. In reality, life is messy, death is messy, and love is messy.  There’s no such thing as a clean break or a fresh start when it comes to bridging the gap between what was and what will be. I like order and I like peace. Clear endings and beginnings. A straightforward label for myself and predictable feelings to follow that. Ideally, I should either be a full-time, lifelong widow or somehow erase the 20 years before he died, never to mention my marriage or my late husband again.  It feels disingenuous to combine the two identities and be a widow-seeking-new-love. As if I’m a ‘bad’ widow if I’d like to find somebody else to love or I’m bad at moving forward if I also look back sometimes. For the record, I need to be clear that I doubt anyone expects things to be this cut and dried for me. This is my own neurotic need for order and control. My need to have some sense of organization in the middle of feelings and circumstances that I can’t control. I’ve been a widow for almost 9 years now. My life has changed in lots of ways in the last 9 years. I have changed in lots of ways in the last 9 years. I spent a good part of the first couple of years ONLY wanting my old life back and wanting my first love back. At some point, though, I wanted to start a new life and hopefully find new love. It didn’t and doesn’t mean that I forgot about my first love, but I’m still alive and I was done with clinging tighter to death than to life. Moving forward was (and is) a big mixed up ball of messy, exciting, scary, sad, hopeful, unpredictable, growth-inducing, funny, difficult, awkward, confusing, happy, exhausting, surprising… you get it.  All the feelings.  I would love for this life to be a neat little package with no loose ends or painful reminders of what ended but that’s not gonna happen. The old gets mixed in with the new and the pain of yesterday sometimes pushes its way into the beautiful things that have begun. I loved Dan. He was a wonderful husband and a wonderful father. I did not want to lose him. Our 29th anniversary is on Monday. It’s sad that he died and that we only made it to 20 years.  It’s sad that his children will not know him as adults and that memories are what they have left of him. Sweet memories, but just memories. I will never ever forget him. And at the very same time, I am in love again.  I miss my new love, too, because he’s been deployed for almost 6 months and is coming home this month. That makes me so happy.  So, at the very same time, I’m sad and happy. It’s possible and it happens and I’m going to give myself permission to feel both and not apologize for either.   Anyway, the chances are that the only one I’m apologizing to is myself because my old love would want me to be happy, my new love is incredibly gracious, understanding and confident that I love him,  and all of the other people in my life think way less about this than I do.  So, Happy Anniversary, Dan. We loved each other so well in the 20 years we had and I’m proud of us for that. And come home soon, Frank. I love you and can’t wait to see you again.

 

Sacred Moments

I was driving Isaac to his first day at his first job.  It's a REALLY big deal - a long awaited accomplishment.  I ask him what he wants to listen to on the ride  (the pre-game warm-up, hype building music).  "Eye of the Tiger?" I ask.  No. Weird, mom. Then he suggests, "How about Train?" (his favorite band of all time).  I happily comply and 'Hey Soul Sister' is the first song that Spotify picks.

Suddenly, I'm transported to some mall food court, years ago, where we were sitting in a crowded space, eating fast food.  Dan, me and all the kids.  I remember feeling exhausted and absently watching the music video for 'Hey Soul Sister' on a big screen hanging above the bustling, hungry crowd. I suppose to provide mindless entertainment while shoppers ate.  I remember having the keen awareness that Dan had cancer.  It's interesting to reflect on so many 'ordinary' events during the post-cancer-diagnosis stage when no one observing our little family would have necessarily known we were silently fighting cancer, but the knowledge and weight of it hovered over us like an invisible cloud.  We woke up and it was there.  We went to work and school and it was there.  We did completely mundane things like eating fast food in a mall food court and there it was.  And maybe the hyperawareness of our mortality was what made these seemingly mundane moments precious because Dan was still with us and likely would not always be.  The knowledge of the limited time we had remaining turned these days into sacred days, causing our minds (or at least mine) to soak them in.  Burn them into my memory.  Like that song.  I can't hear that song without thinking about that day and thinking about Dan.

The drive to Isaac's new job is less than 10 minutes, and the song 'Hey Soul Sister' is precisely 3 minutes, 37 seconds long.  My mind and heart travel a long way in those few minutes - from Isaac's first job, to a sacred moment in the past, to thoughts of Dan and how proud he'd be of Isaac and of all our children.  I think of how happy he would be to meet our first grandbaby who will arrive in the next day or 2, and then I think of this Saturday when it will be 8 years since Dan left us.  I fight tears which I will not allow until Isaac is out of the car because he has no idea where my mind has gone while my body simply drove him to his new job.  I want to tell him how proud his Dad would be of him, in so many ways. But if I do, I'll lose the fight against these tears and Isaac doesn't need a super awkward, blubbering mom sending him off for this new adventure.  So, I just swallow the lump in my throat and we sing at the top of our lungs, creating yet another sacred moment.  I'll tell him soon how proud Dan would be of him.  And eventually, I'll tell my grandbaby all about the grandfather they never knew and we will all remember him so fondly, and miss him, and keep capturing the sacred moments until we see him again.

The Promotion

I was driving home yesterday and as I waited for a light to turn green, I was looking through some old memories on Facebook. A picture popped up of one of my twins on the day he got his braces removed. I didn’t pay attention to the date, but it was probably about 6 years ago.  It was an old enough photo that I couldn’t help but stare at it because it highlighted not only newly straightened teeth, but also how much that kid has grown and matured in the last few years.  The light turned green and as I pushed the gas pedal down slowly, the tears started. I’m not a super emotional person and seeing an old photo of a grown up kid does not always send me into tears, but seeing that picture brought to the surface something I’ve been pushing down for several months. This son of mine graduated from high school in May – a major accomplishment in life, especially for someone with the obstacles he had to face.  He was a preemie, weighing only 2 lbs., 8 oz. at birth. He had lots of surgeries for plumbing issues as a baby and at 2 yrs. old,  had to get a g-button (a type of feeding tube) because he had severe reflux and was becoming malnourished.  Around kindergarten, he was diagnosed with ADHD and by 1st grade, with Autism.  In the last couple of years, he has also been diagnosed with epilepsy.  He struggled with school and needed lots of extra help to get through. He worked really hard to graduate and I couldn’t have been prouder.  Unfortunately, the end of high school is only the beginning of adult life and that’s where we are now.  And it’s scary. He is one of the kindest, sweetest, most loving people I know and he loves to be around people and desperately desires to be important and needed. Like we all do. Sometimes I feel very sad for him because I know his struggles in life are not over.  He tried some college classes and it just wasn’t his thing. He got a job at Wendy’s and it didn’t work out. So we have begun to seek help with agencies that exist to help people with similar struggles.  He is in the process of getting trained in various ways in order to be able to get and keep a job. I know he will succeed, but watching the struggle is hard on my heart sometimes because I know it’s hard on his. When I saw that picture of him, at about 13 years old, beaming and just happy to not have braces anymore, it broke my heart a little because he didn’t have a care in the world and now he does. I see it in his face sometimes. He’s scared, too. Being a responsible adult is a lot and he knows it.  When he decided he didn’t want to go back to community college this semester, I said that was okay – he is an adult and he gets to make decisions about his own life. But since his job training has not started yet he had nothing purposeful to do and after a couple of weeks of basically sitting at home, I told him to start volunteering somewhere because it was not good to be at home so much with very little to do.  (I know, I just said he was an adult and could make his own decisions…mostly).  He had done some volunteering at the local food pantry a couple of summers ago with me, so he got online and signed up.  I expected him to sign up maybe once or twice a week, but he wrote down his schedule and brought it to me and he had signed up to volunteer 4 times a week. Okay buddy, don’t let me hold ya back.  He would have to Uber to and from the food pantry most of the time because he doesn’t drive and my work schedule doesn’t allow me to give him the rides. So he started volunteering. It’s his very own thing that he signs up for online every week, sets up his own Uber rides, gets himself up to go, does whatever they ask him to do, and then he Ubers home.  That, in itself, is amazing. I’m super impressed with him for doing all of that independently. I ask him a lot how his day went and he usually says ‘Fine’. Then I ask what he did and he usually says ‘I stocked shelves.’ Today when I got home, he came to the kitchen and I asked how his day went, ‘It was good’ was his answer. He stood there and I could tell he had more to tell, so I asked again what he did today and he said ‘I started filling grocery orders. By myself.’ And I wish you could have seen the look on that kid’s face. He was so proud. I told him what a big deal that was and how proud I was of him and that it was kinda like he got a promotion.  I don’t even care that I may have overdone it a little because that is really how I feel and I could see on his face that he felt the same way. We reveled in this ‘small’ step forward. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that God gave him and me this little boost today. We needed some encouragement and a reminder that our sweet, loving Father is interested in the details of our lives and is never going to let us down or give up on us. We’re gonna struggle, yes. But we are never alone and never forgotten and the plan God has for us is perfect. He rejoices with us when we get our braces off and when we graduate from high school.  He holds our hand when the future is scary and we struggle.  He gives us hope exactly when we need it most in the most unexpected ways like a promotion from stocker to grocery order filler.        

Take THAT, Grief

         

            Grief.  This is probably a weird analogy, but for me, it's like a beautiful tattoo I didn't agree to.  I can appreciate the beauty of it and yet, I wish it were not there. A horrible necessity.  It's the price that most will have to pay for loving deeply and it's a fair and excruciating trade.  When Dan died 6 years ago, I was introduced, really for the first time, to grief.  It’s a heavy, intrusive companion who was never invited on my journey but shows up with no real predictability except the assurance that it WILL show up again…maybe when I’m expecting it (like at anniversaries, memorial services and birthdays) but often unannounced (like when I’m walking down the candy aisle at the grocery store or cleaning out the garage or listening to Rocket Man...REALLY? why?…stupid, random grief). 

            At some point, after becoming acquainted with it, I resigned myself to the fact that it does not go away.   Not that I always wanted it to go away.  At first, I couldn’t get enough of it.   In fact, I looked forward to spending time grieving because it was the only feeling I felt. The only one that made sense to me.  All encompassing, crippling, crushing grief.  I understood the weight of it, the darkness of it.  I felt at home wallowing in the despair.  I cried and cried and grief just let me.  It required nothing of me and I let it consume me without a fight.  Go ahead, grief…you win…I quit.  My broken heart ached for Dan and I could not imagine how I could possibly finish my journey without him.  I didn’t really want to.  I was so devastated for myself, but also for my kids.  Life wasn’t fair and it would be impossible and I was not equipped and grief understood all of that and agreed with me.  No empty encouragement or false hope – grief is not in the business of sugarcoating.  And I liked it that way.  I had just spent 16 months living the harsh reality of cancer and dying and death and I was not about to rush right back into the effort it takes to hope.  It was my darkness and I embraced it and dared anyone to convince me that the light was better. 

            But familiarity bred contempt.  I began to hate grief and the very dark place where grief had taken me became too dark.  Too heavy.  Too hopeless.  I began to need light.  I began to want to hope.  I started wanting grief to go away.  I resented the unannounced visits from my old frienemy, grief.  I was ready to be stronger.  I was ready to move ahead – not to forget Dan, but to live. I was still here, among the living. I was supposed to live.  I was ready to be someone who could use my experience to reach into that dark place and help pull others out.  I thought I was ready for that.  I thought that I could leave grief in that utter darkness and just remember it when I chose to while forging ahead into Life: The Sequel.  That was hard.  It still is sometimes.  Grief refuses to stay where you put it and sometimes, I just despise grief.  Hate it.  At the same time, I appreciate that grief has a job to do and I let it work sometimes.  Begrudgingly.  Mostly because I have no choice.

            Now here I am, six years later.  Here WE are.  Me and the kids.  And, yes, grief.  I am different.  Stronger, yes, but way more tenderhearted.  My lows are not as frequent or long, but just as low and sometimes I am surprised at how quickly I can fall back into the pit.  I have a theory that your heart soaks up sadness and gets saturated and although you can live just fine with all that sadness in there, and even be very happy at the same time, the minute more sadness flows in, the excess pours out because it’s always just under the surface.  On the other hand, joy is more joyful and so easy to embrace because I don’t expect it like I used to and I appreciate how rare it is and grab hold of it with both hands like a parched person reaching for water in the desert.  Water seems mundane and can be taken for granted until you’re in the desert and then it is all you want.  When joy is absent for awhile or hard to come by, it is so very nice to see it show up.  I savor joy. 

            The kids are different.  Completely different, really.  Three of them are legally adults now, one a junior in college and two graduating from high school in a few months.  My baby is a teenager, starting high school next year.  I can't make myself not hate that they missed out on Dan being here for them all these years and I am convinced I've flubbed some stuff up, but in spite of all that, the kids are all so good.  I’m really proud of them.  Not one of them is perfect which is good because neither am I, but they are finding their own paths and it’s terrifying and wonderful.  Grief is a big fan of milestones and it never fails to show up right in the middle of them to taunt me and remind me that Dan is not here to experience the big moments.  But grief is wrong.  Dan is here.  He’s right here with us in all of the growth and the achievements and the changes.  He’s on their faces and in their walks and weaved into their interests and their character and their sense of humor.  He’s in our memories and our hearts and he’s not ever going away, so take THAT, grief.  If I'm giving grief the benefit of the doubt, maybe it reminds me of Dan not so much to make me sad, but to prove he never has to really leave.  Not completely.

             I know you’ve got many more appearances to make, grief, but it’s okay.  You are a part of me now and I see you in others.  Grief introduces and connects people who might never have crossed paths meaningfully and who are not necessarily even grieving over the same circumstances.  The mark it leaves is easily identifiable and so endearing to someone who carries the same mark.  It’s a terrible gift.  A beautiful burden.  I needed it and I hated it.  I am still learning how to live with it, six years later.  And how to live without Dan.  We will see him again and that’s when grief will go away forever.  I won’t miss it.  And I won’t even mention it to Dan.  I’ve got lots of other stuff to tell him.

               

Just Babies

Tomorrow is January 4, 2018 and it marks 26 years since I married Dan.  We were both 20 years old. Yes, 20 short years old.   I feel the need to pause here and apologize to our parents for the stress we must have caused announcing that in all of our utter adultness, we would be getting married.  Oh my.  Just babies.  So, I'm sorry, Parents, and thank you for going along with it.

Marriage is not for wimps.  Under the most excellent of conditions, marriage is H.A.R.D.  It's also wonderful and sacred and a gift like no other, but it's stinkin' hard.  I doubt I'm bursting anyone's bubble here. Most everybody knows marriage is difficult.  But when I weigh all of the struggles against all of the blessings, the blessings win every time.  And that's not necessarily based on quantity.  I'd say that in the 20 years of marriage that Dan and I got to experience, the number of challenges was greater than the number of blessings...for you math types: CHALLENGES>BLESSINGS...but I'm telling you that the QUALITY of blessings we experienced from being married to each other can hardly be described and those blessings are certainly not tainted by time or even death while the sting of the struggles is harder to remember and definitely not what I hang on to.  I've had plenty of time to reflect on our story together and I would like to go ahead and declare that, in my opinion, and perhaps the opinion of my friends and family, Dan had a way more difficult task being married to me than I did being married to him (and if Dan could vote, he would probably not agree with me because he was just the nicest guy EVER...more about that in a bit).  He wasn't perfect.  Nobody is.  But the longer I am able to sift through those memories and mental pictures in my head of the husband Dan was, the more I realize how blessed I was to have him and how blessed I am to have the memory of him.  Of us.

On this, our anniversary, I feel sad that I can't see him, talk to him, hug him. But I don't want to just be sad.  I also want to pour over snapshots, physical and mental, of him and of us.  I want to remember all the ways he was such a good man, good father and a devoted, sweet husband.  When we were dating, he ASKED me if he could call me his girlfriend. It was adorable.  He was so humble and never presumptuous.  He wrote love letters.  He proposed on the dock of a lake and although I think the first thing I said was "Aren't you supposed to be on one knee?" he opened the box and gave me the ring and married me anyway.  He spent the first couple of years of our marriage working hard to put me through graduate school when we were dirt poor and although I was a 5'4" bundle of stress for those 2 years, he never seemed to resent it and even yelled out "4 point 0!" and "That's my wife!" when I walked the stage when I probably deserved a "She's super grouchy when she's stressed out!" or "Thank God that's over!"  He surprised me on the Fall break of my first semester of working in a school in Plano with a getaway to San Francisco.  On days he was able to work from home, he would show up at my work with lunch or flowers or a drink from Sonic.  He shared my joy in finding out we were expecting our first child (and the next 3) and took such good care of me.  He was an excellent father and even when the kids outnumbered us 4 to 2, he was so consistent in temperament.  It was very admirable and almost mysterious to me, as someone who was more prone to horrible-ize things and freak out and get snippy when under pressure.  He taught me, by example,  how to tone it down and still kept cool when I chose not to tone it down.  He wouldn't fight with me.  The nerve.  There were times I really wanted to argue and he just wouldn't do it.  I have no idea how he could do that because I could be really obnoxious, but he just wanted to love me.  He wanted to talk things out and think things through and the balance between him and me was a perfect design.  He knew when to shield me from life.  Especially when parenting some precious but autistic boys got to be too much, he always found a way to give me a refuge so I could calm down and gain perspective and get back to being Mom, but with a second wind and the knowledge that I was never doing it alone.  He worked hard so I could be at home with my kids, even after all the time we had both spent getting me through graduate school.  He bought me chocolate (and various types of candy...I may have a bit of a sweet tooth) for no reason except that he knew I loved it.  He would come home with an outfit he had bought for me just because he had some extra time in the day and I would rarely go shopping for myself.  He planned family outings and vacations and bought a nice camera (before people were practically born with a camera phone) and took SO MANY PICTURES.  What foresight and what a gift those pictures are now.  He compiled them into slide shows burned onto CDs, accompanied by sweet songs that still take me back to those times when I hear them.

He was so brave.  I feared lots of stuff through our 20 years from not having enough money to pay the bills to our kids' future to dealing with autism to how to survive cancer.  He had to be scared, too, but it never really showed.  He was my rock and he knew it and he took it very seriously.  Even when he became so sick that there were few options left, he was the one who made the tough decisions, like going on hospice because he didn't want to endure another procedure and I think he didn't want to put me through the stress of that although I would have done anything for him and supported any decision he made.  He spent those last several weeks with a laser focus on getting his affairs in order.  Where I felt foggy and exhausted, he seemed to have a clarity and determination that made me wonder who was the stronger one here, the wife sticking by her man's side, into the valley of the shadow of death, or the dying man, still leading the way and taking care of his wife until his last breath and beyond, somehow.  My birthday was less than a month before he died and he rarely got out of bed and never left the house anymore but he made sure that someone went out on his behalf and bought a big, soft, bathrobe for me that was just like the fancy hotel ones because just weeks before, we had celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary on a surprise trip to California and stayed in a beautiful hotel with, you guessed it, fancy robes.  I ooohed and ahhhhed about how nice they were (I'm a fairly simple girl) and he must have decided right then that he would get one for me.  That trip was so hard for him because he did not feel well at all, and so bittersweet for us because we knew it would be our last,  but he did the best he could and he treated me like a queen and it is one of my most treasured memories.

I was so loved.  No doubt about it. It's permanently etched on my heart and it's the place I sometimes go when life makes me feel like maybe I'm not all that loved or loveable. I was and I am and I can be steady and strong like Dan was. And for the record, he was that way because of his devotion to following Christ's example.  Mystery solved.  He's not here to celebrate #26 and, yes it makes me sad and kinda mad, but it's ok.  Seriously, it is.  Because it was a beautiful love story and I had a leading role and, just WOW that I got to experience it.  My story isn't over even if that part of it is, but having been married to that wonderful man will always be one of the very best parts of the story.  Happy Anniversary, Dan.  I love you.

#authentic

Lately, my Instagram feed is a gallery of dreamy nature pictures. They serve as a serene backdrop for scripture I have read and needed in that moment. I post these verses because they speak comfort or wisdom into my life.  Maybe I post them because I long to be in those faraway, beautiful, ‘not in my real life’ places. I post them thinking maybe someone else might also be in need of the same message--everybody’s going through something, right?  If I'm being honest, I will admit that I also post them as a telegraphic state of the person address. I’m not the only person who uses social media to send out a status report, support (or protest) a cause, make an attempt to connect with folks, cry out for acknowledgement of pain, ask for help. Some people are subtle about it. Some not so subtle. I'd like to think I'm subtle, but it's not hard to peruse my Instagram and figure out something may be troubling me.  Something kinda bad happened to me lately.  Details aren’t necessary or fun to go over, but suffice it to say that I find myself reeling from another major bump in this road I’m on.  No one died, but I am having to grieve another loss.  Grief.  Again.  This grief is different just as this loss is different.  Some of my grief resume’ is coming in handy and I am using skills I discovered and honed during my first real bout with grief.  But still, loss is loss and grief is grief and it’s never pretty or easy. And you can't bypass grief just because you've done it before.  In response to this latest loss, I took a picture of an old, established tree in my backyard.  I doctored it up a bit with a filter because the picture was too dark and finished it off with Proverbs 31:25, ‘She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.’  I do love that verse. And I got the response I desired.  Several ‘likes’ and sweet comments expressing love for me and mutual appreciation for the message in the verse.  One friend commented, “High five fist bump squeezy tight hug tears in eyes head thrown back yelling yesssss” which another friend piggybacked with “What she said!! Love you so much!!!”  Mission accomplished, right?  Dreamy Instagram picture + scripture for the win! But something was not sitting right with me.  I knew that how I felt on the inside did not match Proverbs 31:25.  Does not match it. At least not consistently and for sure not lately. I wanted to own the enthusiasm my friends had but I just couldn't. Not with authenticity.  My ‘strength and dignity’ clothes are ill-fitting, like a tiny girl in dress up clothes, and although I do laugh sometimes, I also fear the future sometimes.  Let me be clear, this scripture is TRUTH.  I am not refuting that this is God’s plan for me.  I’m just being naked honest and saying that I’m not walking around with a big smile on my face, kicking grief’s butt and taking names.  I’m hurting.  I’m insecure.  I’m sad.  I’m angry.  I’m confused. I’m tired.  And here’s why I’m pouring all of this out into the cyberworld.  Because I believe that MY job in this life--this crazy, super-eventful, sometimes resembling a Hallmark channel movie life--is to be vulnerable enough to draw others toward the only Light I have found to save us all.  Jesus.  I never want to portray myself as some kind of grief goddess who can weather all of life’s storms with a twinkle in her eye and a clever joke to make everything better.  Life is so messy and I couldn’t even begin to tell you how to clean it up with your own strength.  I’m doing the best I can and praying that any heartache I experience is recycled and used for good.  I’ve seen it happen. God’s word guides me, sustains me, teaches me, challenges me, saves me.  It’s more than a bite-sized meme I use to fit my mood or situation.  I have to devour it and let God knead it into who I am, during good times and bad times, so he can make me who He wants me to be.  Sometimes what I read there about who I am to be, like in Proverbs 31, seems unattainable. It’s not, but it’s a process.  I’m getting there, but I have not arrived.  “But blessed are those who trust in the Lord and have made the Lord their hope and confidence. They are like trees planted along a riverbank, with roots that reach deep into the water. Such trees are not bothered by the heat or worried by long months of drought. Their leaves stay green, and they never stop producing fruit.” Jeremiah 17: 7-8.  This verse would look nice on my Instagram tree picture.  It will also look nice on my life. I decided to go in my backyard and take another picture. This time of a sapling, no filters. I feel more like this right now. A sapling planted right where God wants me, trusting Him to take care of me and provide everything I need so that my roots get deeper and deeper. Patiently awaiting the fruit that only He can produce in me and around me. In His time and with His strength.

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.'

Reunited

I had the great pleasure of returning to my hometown recently for a reunion of the church youth group I grew up in.  I was an awkward, gangly seventh grade girl when we started attending that church and over the next 6 years, my sister and I kept showing up every time the doors opened until I graduated from high school. It was home for me--complete with a family made up not only of my peers, but also a group of adult volunteers who would be a crucial part of 'the village' that raised this child. It's been almost 25 years since I left that safe place to start college.  I went back a few times over the years, but never for very long.  I got married young, at a few days shy of 21years old, and married life followed by kids meant I grew roots elsewhere and let the memories and most of the friendships I had formed there fade into the back of my mind and heart.  Not gone, but buried deep.  It was earlier this summer that one of the girls who had also been a part of the group put feelers out on Facebook to ask if anyone might be interested in a reunion.  I have to think that most people had mixed emotions about reuniting after 25 years.  I can speak from my own experience and say I felt a mixture of excitement, curiosity and nostalgia.  I loved those people and the idea of many of us being all together reminiscing, catching up and reconnecting in a more-than-Facebook kind of way was exciting.   I also felt a healthy dose of fear, anxiety and, at times (keeping it real here), just downright terror.  It's no secret that people want to look like they have somehow fought off gravity at reunions and I am no exception, but my most gripping anxiety stemmed from fear of having to share my story.  It's sad.  Really sad.  And I didn't want to be voted Most Likely To Bring The Entire Reunion Down With Her Sad Life Story (there actually weren't any elections held, but wouldn't that be an awful award to receive?)  I RSVPed anyway and made plans to travel back home with my sister and brother-in-law.  The closer the reunion got, the more anxious I got.  Days before, I was a basket case (in the privacy of my home or for my sister to witness).  I literally began hoping some kind of illness or homeowner's disaster would prevent me from going.  I even considered just not going and letting everyone fill in the blanks of why I canceled however they wanted to.  I got a good pep talk from a few of my closest confidants, reminding me basically that:  1. They would be supporting me and that  2. It was not all about me and that I was not unique in having experienced great pain and loss--after all, it HAD been 25 years-- so I put the whole thing in perspective and made the trip.  Once we walked through the door of the restaurant where the reunion was being held, I felt at ease and at home.  Inwardly, I was so relieved and so thankful to be over the hurdle of just getting there and I was thoroughly enjoying watching and being part of the multiple mini-reunions occurring all over that room.  The youth group was back together again and we all seemed to pick up right where we had left off.  A few people made reference to Dan's death when they greeted me and I appreciated them acknowledging him even if it might have felt uncomfortable or awkward.  Because the venue was reserved for 5 hours, it was possible to really relax and enjoy visiting and eating together.  There was also time to watch a slide show of pictures from way back when and laugh, remembering all the great trips we took together and how much fun we had.  Our youth minister, Mark, got up and was able to capture in words what our journey together so long ago meant to him.  It was a rare and wonderful opportunity for all of us to hear his heart and for us to have confirmed in our own hearts that all of those years were as important to him as they were to us.  It was pretty awesome.  We were now several hours into the evening and the fear had dissipated that I might crumble and cause some kind of scene by crying in public (which is, by the way, MY number one fear--for me, public speaking is cake compared to crying in public).  And just when I had completely let my guard down and thought I had made it through the night unscathed by a surprise grief attack, (insert ominous background music here)...IT happened.  I remember it in slow motion, like in the movies where something so bad is about to happen that it's played in slow-mo with someone always saying, 'NOOOOOO!!!,' while all eyes are on the trauma that is in the process of occurring. Mark wrapped up what he was saying and decided it was a good time to go around the room and have everyone tell what's going on in their lives right now. Gulp. He looked over to our table. Gulp.  He said 'Let's start with that table'.  Double gulp.  THEN he said...to ME....'Why don't YOU start?'.........PANIC! Are you kidding me?!? I am certain I either heard or said the slow-mo 'NOOOOOO!!!!' at this point.  I would love to tell you that I slowly stood up at this point and elegantly gave a moving synopsis of my most recent life events, concluded with an inspirational directive to seize the day, but that was not the case.  Not even close.  What I really did was awkwardly stand up on shaky legs, say 'I live in Fort Worth with my 4 kids' and then I lost it.  Horror of horrors, I started crying!  In public! (Disclaimer: I realize I have issues....I know what everyone would say to me at this point, 'It's ok to cry'--I realize it's OKAY, but I'd prefer not to do it in public.  I would even tell my kids it's okay, just not MY cup of tea). I quickly sat down and fumbled around the table trying to find one of those scratchy napkins to blot my eyes while at the same time, shrinking down to avoid the sympathetic eyes of others.  As much as I wanted to disappear right then, it didn't happen, so I sat there and regained composure ASAP.  Once my head stopped spinning, I saw a friend who had been sitting to my left earlier come back from the bathroom.  He had missed the entire slo-mo saga.  He was pretty puzzled and asked what had happened.  The conversation that ensued was the silver lining of that dark cloud of crying in public.  Because of my crying moment, I was able to start a conversation with this dear friend whom I knew had also suffered the loss of a spouse.  For him, the death had occurred several years earlier and he has been blessed with a loving wife, 2 kids and a new beginning.  I would never have started a conversation with him about our common losses, but I am so very grateful that an awkward moment for me turned into an opportunity to ask him some questions about life after life.  I don't regret crying.  There is only one thing I regret about the reunion and that is that I was not composed enough at that very scary moment to REALLY say what's going on in my life right now.  It might not have been moving or inspirational, but if I had the chance to say it without crying, here's what I might have said:  'I live in Fort Worth with my 4 kids.  They are my world. Although I will admit I am sometimes overwhelmed by the task of raising 4 kids alone, most of the time I embrace it and realize how truly blessed I am to have them.  Over 20 years ago, I met and married the love of my life and his name was Dan.  You guys would have loved him.  He was a great guy and an exceptional daddy and husband.  I miss him so much.  I wish he could have been here for this because he knew how important this group was in my life and how it kinda made me who I am today.   Knowing Dan, in his life and in his dying, also made me who I am today and although I wish he could come back to me, I like who I am today.  I believe that even back when we were kids in this group together, God knew the different parts of life He was preparing all of us for and I also believe he was using the precious experiences we had as a group way back then to prepare us for what we have encountered and what lies ahead, good or bad.  I consider it a privilege to be able to gather in a room with all of you and thank you for the parts you played in God preparing me for life.  This room feels a little like a 'great cloud of witnesses'.  I love you and wish you all the very best in life.  Don't be strangers.  If I don't see you again this side of heaven, we can catch up again there.'

Happy Mother's Day

Mother's Day this year is coming at an interesting time for me.  I say this because I've done so much thinking lately about what kind of mom I am.  I thought I had emerged from a fog months ago and even blogged about it, but after having come through the first year, I think it's only now I feel I really am seeing things a little more clearly and I'm able to honestly evaluate my parenting over this last year. Overall, I am giving myself some grace and saying that, given the circumstances, I did okay.  Basically, our ship sank and I was getting my kids into the life boat, intending to assess our situation once I could get myself into the boat.  I have been a mom for almost 16 years now and I would like to think I've grown in that time, but I am more aware after this year of how much growing I have to do.  When my oldest was a toddler, someone I really respected told me I should have lots of kids because I was doing such a good job--oh SURE, who couldn't do a good job with one very low maintenance girl with a sweet, cooperative temperament (so much like her Daddy).  I now realize she was just born that way and allowed me to pretend that she needed me to parent her (wink wink). I had twin boys and a singleton boy after my girl and although I love them with all my heart and they are good boys, it took all we had to outwit, outplay and outlast those guys.  IT WAS HARD!  As our family grew, my confidence as a parent shrank. With 4 different personalities developing (added to the 2 adult personalities already present in our home), parenting did not seem like so much of a slam dunk anymore.  As medical issues and autism crept into our lives, I knew for a fact that I did NOT have this all figured out.  I WILL give the Dan & Linda parenting team some props because I think we did pretty well considering what a full parenting plate we had.  We were a united front and truly worked together to give our kids the parents they needed.  We had our individual weaknesses, but where one would begin to fail, the other would step in and take over.  It was a well oiled machine for the most part with Christ at the center of it all because we knew we could do none of it without Him.  Obviously, since Dan died, I am left here with the responsibility of finishing this colossal task of raising our kids.  I am indescribably blessed with family who live minutes away to help me and they are the most amazing people--I have asked for so much help from them this year and they have gone out of their way to be there for me and for the kids.  They are a priceless treasure in our lives.  However, the parenting buck stops with me and at this point in our family's journey, I am now forced to reinvent myself as a parent.  This parenting solo thing has been one of the biggest adjustments in this first year without Dan.  Even on my best days of parenting alongside Dan, I realize now that I always had a back-up and I operated as only half of the parenting machine--in fact, Dan was such a great dad that I sometimes wonder if I was even half!  Being both parents is  E X H A U S T I N G.  No good cop for my bad cop--I have to figure out how to be both.  No one there when I'm at my wits' end to say "I'll take it from here, go take a break.". Maybe some people never have that, but I did.  I am sad to think of the impatience and frustration my kids have witnessed from me while I figure this single parenting thing out...sad to think of the times I have clung to control of my out of control environment at the expense of grace for 4 sweet kids who are feeling just as out of control as I am...sad to think of the opportunities I have given up to experience simple pleasures with my kids like a board game or a silly tv show or a lame knock knock joke because I had to keep the household running smoothly...no more.  No more dwelling on what I could have done better because I was, for the most part, doing the best I could.  No more feeling overwhelmed by single parenting.  I am ready to move forward, humbly.  I never was a perfect parent and neither was Dan--even with both of us here, we messed up sometimes.  I am thankful that through losing Dan, God is showing me weaknesses I don't think I would have ever seen otherwise.  If I can't see my weaknesses, I can't get stronger.  Most importantly, I want to show my kids that my weaknesses are perfect opportunities to let God carry me and grow me up.  That seems a little contradictory, but it's when we are empty that He can fill us up. So we've kept the life boat afloat for a year and now we're approaching dry land.  I am certain I have not made my last parenting mistake, but maybe I can make fewer and keep learning from the ones I do make.  Happy Mother's Day to all of the wonderful, imperfect, evolving moms I know! 

Big Tex, The Holidays and Spring

Ok, I will come right out and admit that the title of this post is all over the place.  All you type A's just stay with me and it will all fit together in a fairly neat package. It's just that I haven't posted in so long that alot has happened.   When I sat down to write this, I found a half-written post that I had started back in October when the State Fair of Texas was in full swing.  It has been almost six months since then, but I know why I never finished that post.  FIRSTS. I was overwhelmed with FIRSTS to the point that I really didn't have it in me to blog - only survive. Starting with the first State Fair any of us would attend without Dan, October kicked off a relentless series of FIRSTS.  The list continued with the standard firsts...Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's....it continued with our wedding anniversary on January 4th and my birthday on January 15th.  By the time February 8th rolled around (1 year since he died) I felt exhausted. I also felt relieved that we had survived all the FIRSTS.   I should offer a little explanation as to why Big Tex and The State Fair would even be considered significant and ranked among the other obvious FIRSTS.  I mean, it's a hot, crowded, expensive, smelly event with gross fried stuff everywhere and people pressuring you to buy a ShamWow or a hot tub or something else you never knew you needed until you got there, right?  Not for Dan! I will never understand the spell Big Tex had on Dan, but that man LOVED The Great State Fair of Texas. He had gone every year for as long as he could remember and he had seen every show and knew where everything was and it NEVER got old for him.  You could not go to The Fair with Dan and not enjoy yourself.  He was like a big kid there and once he had his own kids to take to The Fair, it was like a Lion King circle of life moment for him!  Really.  Not even kidding.  I must say it was kind of fitting that Big Tex burned down the year Dan died.  Almost like a tribute to the most dedicated fan The Fair had ever seen.  Dan had already been diagnosed when he took the kids to The Fair in 2011.  I couldn't go with them because I was working that day...regret...but I remember him being very emotional when they got home that evening.  He said it was the last time he'd be able to take the kids or go to The Fair himself.  I had hoped he was wrong, but, of course, he wasn't.   When The Fair rolled around in 2012, I felt the pressure to continue the tradition and take the kids myself.  I got all psyched up to brave it without Dan.  I was getting so stressed about it and I told myself it was because of the long drive and then parking and crowds and the expense of it and etc.,etc.,etc.  When I finally confided in a few dear friends about my near panic attack about The Fair, it hit me. I wasn't afraid or stressed out about the logistics of The Fair, I was afraid I could never make it the experience Dan had made it.  I knew my attempt to do The Fair would pale in comparison and I knew it would only make me miss him more.  I pictured myself walking around The Fair with the kids, trying not to cry, wishing Dan could be there with us.  Just the kind of Fair day every kid dreams of, right?  Then, one of my very wise friends said, "Who says you have to go to The Fair?"  Best. Advice. Ever.  Seriously - the thought that I was not REQUIRED to go to The Fair was so freeing.  I realized at that point that I could not possibly BE Dan.  I want to keep his memory so alive for the kids and for myself, but I am not required to BE Dan.  In fact, I can't.  I just have to be me and some of the great memories will be just that...memories.  We did not go to The Fair this time.  We survived.   That realization helped me through the holidays and all of the other FIRSTS as well.  They were hard, but not because I was putting ridiculous expectations on myself to make them wonderful.  I allowed them to flow naturally instead of trying to force them into being the almost perfect holidays minus Dan.  They were not perfect, but I found some sweet moments in all of them and learned the anticipation of them was sometimes worse than the actual FIRST. Now, jump forward and Spring is here again.  It has always been my favorite season, but I like it even more now.  It will always follow the hardest part of the year and it will always remind me that Winter does not last forever.

My Need To Over-Inform

It is no surprise to me or probably anyone else that I am experiencing a bit of an identity crisis.  Actually, I think crisis is not the right word...I'm not in immediate distress or panicking about it.  Maybe an identity inventory? An identity evaluation? Identity adjustment? I have a pretty good handle on who I am, but I am working on how exactly I fit into the world now.  Right after Dan died, I knew my title: Widow.  It sounded very strange at first and I was sure I was too young to be a widow.  However, it was one word that explained so much.  It almost wasn't even necessary to use that word because I was surrounded by familiar, close friends and family who knew exactly what had just happened and to them I was just me.  I have met new people since Dan died like my counselor or the other parents at The Warm Place (an awesome grief support center for kids) or people in Griefshare, but there's not a lot of explanation required there either.  New people are coming into my life now who never even knew Dan or what has happened and I am realizing my deep seated need to give them a clear picture of who I am.  Not just who I am NOW (single mom of four), but who I have been for the last 20 years (mom of 4, happily married to father of aforementioned children until his untimely death just months ago).  Let me describe for you what might possibly be the most awkward introduction I have ever made of myself.  We have new neighbors across the street who just moved here from North Carolina.  I noticed some activity going on over there after the house had been vacant for a couple of months, and it became obvious we were getting new neighbors.  I could see out my window some little kids and a young mom and dad walking in and out of the house, weaving through boxes and starting to get settled in.  When it seemed like a good time, I walked out to check the mail and waved to say hello.  The dad was the only one outside at the time and I approached their house to introduce myself.  We stopped in the middle of the street and I shook his hand, told him my name, got his name, asked about his kids and then (here it is) proceeded to tell him it was just me and my kids in our household because my husband had died 6 months before.  Poor new neighbor guy.  What was he supposed to do with that? Then his wife came out, got the same smile, handshake and uncomfortable info I had just given her husband.  These poor, poor people.  Some welcoming committee I am.  Fortunately, they are very sweet people and both said 'I'm sorry' and have since become my friends in a very short time.  I've even apologized to the wife for laying that on them in the middle of the road while meeting for the first time, but she assures me they did not consider re-packing the moving truck in search of a neighborhood with less open neighbors. We all went to the high school football game a couple of weeks ago and one of their daughters, a five year old, asked me why my daddy wasn't at the game.  I figured out that she meant my husband and I just told her that he had already gone to heaven.  She was a little confused, so I told her he was really sick and God took him home to heaven, but brought new friends into our lives, like her family, to help us.  This answer satisfied her, so she hasn't asked about it anymore.  I also started a new part-time job recently working with kids.  One of the first questions I was asked on the first day was "Are you married?" I answered without thinking with an immediate "Yes".  Then it hit me and I began to try to explain, "Well, I am, but my...um...my husband died...and so, I, uh, well...". I also corrected someone who called me MISS Smith instead of MRS. Smith and then realized I wasn't even sure what it was supposed to be....is it MS. Smith? How about The Speech Therapist Formerly Known as Mrs. Smith? Like I said, I have a need to be known and I guess I am not in a place yet where I don't care if people know how I got to where I am.  The thought of my new neighbors 'filling in the blanks' on my life without painfully accurate information would have driven me crazy. I'm not sure what that says about me, but I'm going with it for now.  I apologize in advance to the unsuspecting strangers who will be victims of my need to over-inform and I want to thank, in advance, those who stick around to see how it all turns out.

God And The Elephant

Although I've made reference to God in some of my previous posts, I thought it might be time to be really honest about where I am with Him right now.  I can't imagine that any death occurs without questions about and for God from those left behind.  I think we like to ignore our mortality to some extent, but death is the elephant in the room that tramples us into the awareness that we don't live forever.  I also think it's nice to feel like we have God all figured out and it's unsettling to realize we don't necessarily know Him as completely as we thought we did - even more unsettling (especially for us Type A types) when we realize we can never understand Him fully in this life.  It has a way of exposing the deepest recesses of our souls to bare what we truly believe and sheds light on inconsistencies in what we say we believe vs. what we believe when our world seems to be falling apart.  Sorry...I'm not trying to get all philosophical on you...I'll let you have your own questions (or not have any) and I'll just stick to where I am.  I have to start by saying that I don't believe that God has changed or moved away from me or punished me in any way in all of this.  I believe that God is good, all the time.  I still believe God is in control.  I still believe He loves me and my kids and has a plan for us.  I believe that because I am human and fallible that I can't be good enough on my own to have a relationship with God, but that Christ made that possible when He died on the cross in my place and for my sin - that's God's grace.  I believe that God can and will use this for our good.  I believe God sees, feels and understands my heartache in losing Dan and that He holds every tear I have cried and continues to hold me.  I believe that God's ways and thoughts are higher (way, WAY higher) than mine and that although I don't understand why He allowed Dan to die when and how He did, He can be trusted.  God illustrated this for me recently with a memory of one of my children from several years ago.  One of my twin boys was pretty sickly at birth.  They came about 6 weeks early and this little guy only weighed 2 lbs., 8 oz.  Feeding was a major challenge for him and he could not seem to gain weight despite Herculean efforts.  This struggle continued his first two years of life (which seemed like an eternity!) to the point where he was considered malnourished and needed some pretty drastic intervention.  It was then decided that he would have surgery to place a device called a g-button in his belly so that we could tube feed him and not depend on his ability or willingness to eat for his growth and health.  Although this basically saved his life, it was a painful ordeal for him and a challenge for all of us.  I won't go into detail here, but suffice it to say that kid went through so much - he's a fighter.  He had that feeding tube in for  t-w-o  l-o-n-g  y-e-a-r-s.  God brought the memory of all of this to my mind recently to illustrate, for my limited brain, the inability I have to fully understand all of the WHYs.  My child experienced a lot of pain which, ultimately, made him healthier - probably saved his life - it was for his good.  During all of it, his perspective was not what mine was.  I could have tried to make him grasp the big picture until I was blue in the face, but he was only two years old and although he trusted us to take care of him, he would not, with his limited perspective, have chosen that path for himself.  I might as well be a two year old when it comes to understanding why God let Dan die.  It hurts and I don't like it or understand it.  But I believe that His love for me is immense and that He can see the big picture.  Let me be very clear that I struggle often, even though I trust Him.  For weeks and even months after Dan died I felt so hurt by God and confused by what He was doing.  I didn't even pray.  Not because I was mad at God, but I had no idea what to say to Him. I felt like what was done was done and what could I say at that point? I was in spiritual shock.  I never stopped believing in God or that He was sovereign, but I felt so hurt.  I still struggle with prayer sometimes - understanding what God wants from me in prayer and what He does when I pray.  One thing I know is that I am supposed to pray.  Period.  So I do pray and I will keep on praying and searching for answers and for as much of God as I can comprehend while He has me here.  I want to have it all figured out because I am a prideful, imperfect perfectionist, but that's not how it works.  I will resign myself to being a child, striving to be childlike in my faith and obedience...childish and immature at times, but still a child. His child.

When I'm 64

In a few days, it will be 6 months since we saw Dan for the last time on this side of Heaven.  I started writing this when it had been 5 months, but summer consumed all of us around here with enough activities to suspend reality temporarily.  6 months is not a very long time in the grand scheme of things, but it can feel like an eternity.  I always think of it terms of if he were alive - before all of this, if Dan had said he would be gone for 6 months and we could have absolutely no contact with him....it would be excruciating...and, at times, it is.  Late spring and summer were full of those dreaded 'firsts' without him...Mother's Day, my daughter's 15th birthday, Father's Day, Dan's birthday, our youngest son's 9th birthday...all within the span of about 6 weeks.  We also took a trip to Colorado that Dan would've loved.   As one of our excursions, we somehow managed to get 12 people (that's counting friends and family who were part of our group) up and down what seemed like Mt. Everest.  It was actually only a small portion of a beautiful mountain in Colorado, but the round trip was over 6 miles (mountain miles!)  Let me tell you that it was not an easy hike, especially with my 4 kids.  They were troopers, though, and I know Dan would have been so proud to see them accomplish such a feat.  Here's my secret about the trip....I had brought Dan's ashes to Colorado with the intent to spread them on our hike at a place called Blue Lake.  It was the endpoint of our hike up the mountain and my friends who are familiar with the area and have visited several times said it was like a postcard. After seeing it, I'd have to agree.  I had been trying to decide what to do with his ashes and thought that taking them to a beautiful place that he would've loved would be a fitting tribute.  The day before the hike, my sister and I were riding in the car, listening to a mix CD that Dan had made.  The song 'When I'm 64' by the Beatles came on and I lost it.  It made me miss Dan so much and it reminded me that we will not grow older together.  He will always be 40.  My sister wisely suggested that maybe it just wasn't time yet to say goodbye in that way.  I was not ready even though I thought I was.  The longer he's gone, the tighter I want to hold on.  It might be hard for some to understand, but I think when the one you love is suffering and dies, among all of the initial emotions is a tiny bit of relief that their pain is over.  For me, that feeling is being incrementally replaced with wishing he was still here, realizing more and more what he will not be here for.  However, even as I write that, I'm reminded that none of us knows what we will be here for.  I think my task is to be right here, right now, right where God has me.  I'll figure out,in time, what to do with these ashes and these memories and these feelings.  God knows what I'll be doing when I'm 64....

In Their Heads

Would you like to know how my kids are doing? Most people would.  It's usually the question that follows 'How are you?'  The truth is that I would like to know how they're doing, too.  I wish I could spend a day or two in each one of their heads and really see what they're thinking....how they feel.  Sure, we talk and spend lots of time together, but I want to see all of this from their perspective.  They seem alright, but are they? Really?  When my youngest seems more angry than I've ever seen him over something that does not seem to warrant that kind of anger, is he thinking about why he's so angry? Can he even connect those dots between the out of control feelings he's having and the loss of his Daddy?  When one of the twins comes unglued because our schedule has changed and no one told him, does he think about how everything in his life changed just a few months ago and he has no control over that either?  When I attended all of those end of the school year award ceremonies, recitals and concerts, did my daughter think about last year's events when her Daddy was around to cheer her on?  When they have to endure the parenting moments I am not proud of, when I am not parenting with 'Love and Logic' but with fear and desperation, do they long for the balance their daddy brought to our parenting....do they wish I was more like him....or that I was him?  I don't know.  I do know this: we all love each other and there are still happy times.  Not exactly those 'all is right with the world' kinds of times, but pretty good.  One of my children (whose name will be withheld to protect the not so innocent) has told me some lies lately.  Mostly lies to get out of doing stuff he doesn't want to do (like shower or brush his teeth....boys), but lies are lies and I have a zero tolerance policy for lying.  I explained to him that when he lies I don't trust him and if I don't trust him, I need to keep my eye on him all the time, so he spent his entire day shadowing me.  Not in his plans to follow me around - cleaning bathrooms, folding laundry, loading the dishwasher, organizing my closet (I was way more productive than usual with my little shadow).  This was an interesting day for both of us - I thought it might be punishment for me, but in between the short lived pity parties he would throw for himself, I think we both sort of enjoyed being together all day.  Now don't get me wrong, he was very clear that he had other plans which were being ruined, but when he intermittently forgot about those big plans, he did things like offer to help me with whatever I was doing or chatted about things he would think of - we even found some old pictures in my closet of a vacation we took to Florida and sat in the floor of my closet looking at each one...by the end of them, we had the other 2 brothers in my closet, too.  Before you start thinking 'He's enjoying this 'discipline' a little too much', let me tell you that the clincher was when his aunt called to take the kids out for ice cream and (gasp) I said I needed him to stay with me because that was the consequence of his choice to lie to me...my mantra was 'lying leads to lack of trust which leads to lack of freedom'.  This was, of course, devastating and 'unfair' in his eyes.  Watching the others leave to have ice cream resulted in a flood of tears, anger, another long talk about lying, remorse and finally an unsolicited and sincere apology for lying accompanied by a better attitude (for the most part).  He was still anxious for his freedom and was surprised when the others returned that his sentence was not over - I had told him it was for the full day and I was sticking to it.  At bedtime, I needed to sever my new appendage, so I asked where he wanted to sleep (meaning on the couch with his brothers to watch a movie or in his own bed).  He hesitated answering and just shrugged his shoulders.  Although he never sleeps in my room, something made me ask if he wanted to sleep there (very unlikely I thought since I was offering him his first taste of freedom in 12 hours).  A huge smile spread across his face and he nodded enthusiastically.  So here he is, right by my side, reading his own book while I write about him.  I guess at the end of the day the most important thing I have to remember is that we all love each other and we miss Dan but we are still a family.  No matter how hard things get, we want to be together - that makes me feel pretty content.