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.'