2021 Winter Storm

 Just as I think there is nothing else to write on grief, a historic winter storm hits my entire state, resulting in an emergency situation of no electrical power or water. No heat for 65 hours forced me, like others, to drain pipes in a desperate attempt to prevent breakage. (The jury is still out on this, as I have not yet turned on the water.) When our neighborhood finally received restored power, we set about boiling possibly contaminated water. 

Fortunately, I have a lot of camping experience in primitive environments. I spent a summer sleeping in a tree hammock while providing health care to young children. I’ve enjoyed the wilderness with little amenities, but goodness, not in my own suburban home and rarely alone. 

Fortunate to have a small tent, I crawled in it several times a day to warm my chilled body. However, that  was also the very place where I struggled with intense loneliness.  Where are you, Rob? I need your body heat; I need you to tell me all is going to be well! Somehow, those two seemed to always go hand in hand in the past. Once again, I found myself fighting the demons of grief and loss.

As I begin to thaw, I’m struck with how tired I am. Not only physically, but emotionally and spiritually. My conversations with God have been  brutally honest. How long, oh Lord? I’m still waiting for the year when the land is supposed to rest! I’m tired of tragedy, Lord. I’m tired of coronavirus- induced isolation and all of it’s hideous loss. I’m just tired and this is the only thing in which I’m not alone. Please, tell me You’re listening!

 But once again, I lay down my questions and trust with a limp along with the rest of the fatigued. What else can we do?  I am grateful, Lord, that in You I find greater refuge than an earthly tent.  You’ve sheltered me in the shadow of your wing so many times; You’ll do it again and again with each trial ahead. You are good and trustworthy and kind enough to understand my need for my husband’s shelter as well.

Perhaps, I’ll never really be at a loss for grief words. 

“Give sorrow words; the great that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”  William Shakespeare

May His favor be upon you
And a thousand generations
Your family and your children
And their children, and their children

There are no words for watching your firstborn son watch his firstborn son play on the resting place of his grandfather. Such emotion has no voice. 

Tonight, I was bumped and oh boy, did I spill. What I normally would have received as an unfortunate glitch, I, instead, became unglued. Tears spilled everywhere and I just wanted to bury my head in my husband’s chest. A lot like 9/11 when Rob was stuck in the air, he’s not here to make all this better.
Social media, heck, media of any kind, has crippled me today.  What I thought would be helpful, because I’m a fact person, is just too suffocating. I’m weary of the “first worldness” and weak attempts to cover up and assert control over our fear.  I’ve lost my grace tonight and I dearly want to regain it. It’s time to unplug and run into the Father’s arms. I desperately need Him; I just wish I could literally feel Him. 

 Recently, I’ve had to talk back to myself... a lot!
I think the anticipation of turning 65, retirement age, without my partner has crushed me. All of our dreams, our plans sit in a pile, threatening to steal the joy that I’ve so pleaded for during my bouts of loneliness and depression.
 Today, I remind myself: my most expensive real estate is my mind. I can’t let anything or anyone stay there for free and I must capture destructive thoughts the moment they check-in and leave them with Christ. 
Presently, I’m wrestling with the idea of not holding on to those who let go of me a long time ago...that includes my late husband. Releasing him proves the hardest as there was no obvious toxicity in our relationship. However, the truth remains: he did let me go as he prepared to depart from this life and begin beyond. 
My retirement plans (emphasis on mine) included total immersion into the world of grandkids! Close proximity, much spoiling and teaching, relief for tired parents...that was not anyone else’s plan. I can’t find fault for we, too, chose the same with our own parents. It’s just harder on this end, isn’t it? And eternity together seems a long way off. What looms heaviest is they might forget my love for them. How will I leave a legacy they can touch?  
So much for rambling in the dark...in a strange manner, I welcome this painful season; I’m confident  this constant renewal of my mind is vital to an ongoing, growing walk with my Lord. 

 

I’m not particularly good at lament, but I’m learning that it is a helpful spiritual discipline. Aubrey Sampson suggests all laments lead to the truest form of worship-the worship of God alone. “Not God and blessings, not God and benefits, but God for God’s sake. “ The Louder Song
On this cold March morning, my bones lament.  I can’t tell if it’s the fibromyalgia or sadness again settling in. Perhaps a cocktail of both. 
I wish my heart was frozen, unable to feel absence. I long to be held; my bones cry out for touch. 
How long, oh Lord?
Yesterday, I reached my hand out into the empty space next to me in the pew. I used to do so in the early months of grief and I almost felt the warmth of my mate’s grasp. Not yesterday...just air. 
How long, oh Lord?
I know You carry me until the hairs of my head turn white with age. I just can’t feel your Presence, only ache...deep ache. 
Yet, I trust.

Five years later

This December has been different; my grief is softening.  Five years have passed since ugly cancer changed everything. The chaos of the last 15 months is settling and I love being back in my own home that’s decorated with two trees and a lot of red! Last night,  I walked into a party and for the first time didn’t feel awkward; I was comfortable being plain old solo me, surrounded by a lot of friends.  And boy did I have fun!
But let me be honest, every December is rough. There’s the day Rob died, the day he was buried, his birthday and then Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Every December day, I have to choose to get up and get through it.  For five years I’ve asked God to use me and for most of that time I’ve waited. Much of that time I’ve wondered if I make most folks uncomfortable; am I a big, glaring reminder of their biggest fear?  Where in the world do I belong?  Will I ever feel normal? But He’s beginning to reveal His plan for my next chapter; I’m being used.
Recently I’ve embraced a new joy, the acceptance that my Rob is more alive than ever before. I had head knowledge of this truth, but it wasn’t buried in my heart until now.  It’s bringing great peace.  I’ve also accepted aloneness as a beautiful gift; I’ve drawn closer to my Heavenly Father than ever before.
So to my dear friends who are numb, hurting, lonely this December, I so get it! I’ve lived it! May I encourage you to watch the joy that spills from me this season for it’s a reminder that yours will come... And when it does, the music will be sweeter, the friendships warmer and the Light much brighter.  Keep taking baby steps. Let those a bit further down the road into your pain. Know that you’re stronger than you think; God is carrying you.  Joy is coming!

Our old piano bench sits waiting for the Christmas tree to takes its place. It soon will be off to the upholsterer for a new plump cushion in an updated color. 
On this dreary Halloween, though, I linger a while at it, running my hand over the worn spots where we sat for hours. Sometimes, just Rob, practicing Chopin or enjoying contemporary favorites, other times with a child in his lap and another by his side, banging out Beauty and the Beast along with some great impersonations of Gaston!
This morning I had the strangest longing to slip in next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and listen to him play “O (Fly On).”  Rob would have channeled his best Chris Martin and I would have tried to join in harmony. 
Rob did not make it long enough to hear Coldplay’s haunted “Ghost Stories,” but I know he would have immediately sat down to play this song after hearing it for the very first time...by ear, of course...
And I would have fallen in love with him all over again!
Yes, Rob, maybe one day I’ll fly next to you. 

Fly on. 

I've really missed Rob lately. I'm not sure if it is the anticipation of moving back into the house alone, the recent loss of friends, the fifth anniversary of our cancer journey, or just a big jumble of all of the above. Again, I find myself anxious about life without him.
Author Lori Reynolds Streller jolted my inbox this morning with this one statement:

We've lost enough. Let's not choose to give more to death than it has already taken.

Anticipating the pain of the missing. It can be downright crippling...if we allow it.  

I'm sure I've written about my encounter with a seasoned widow minutes before we left MD Anderson for the last time. She was a soft spoken artist. She asked to draw Rob. In a rush to get him home again, I declined the kind offer, a decision I shall always regret. But as the nurse prepared Rob for his ambulance ride, this wise sojourner drew a picture on my heart. She assured me that I would never lose Rob. I would take him everywhere I went, not hand in hand anymore, but perched upon my heart.

She was right...and in a few days, I'll carry him along with the last boxes into a new chapter, a reset, an opportunity. Our memories will quietly grace the walls while new memories are made. May our home  be filled with joy and laughter, family and friends.

Death, I won't let you steal one more piece of my heart.

This photo at our favorite beach popped up on my feed the other day. It was jolting. It marks the last normal month before beginning goodbyes and finding my way without Rob.
What makes the five-year mark so unsettling? Perhaps, because we often count life in intervals of five...and milestones.

Are there milestones in grief?

Yesterday, I had to figure out my home energy plan. I struggled and desperately wanted to defer to Rob.  I'm not sure I made the best financial decision, but I decided to go with a 3-year fixed plan. 

Where will I be in three years? 

Eight years of singular stinks of permanence. Fixed...alone?

I attended my first gala post Rob last night. I entered alone, sat among strangers; it was really hard. I don't feel any stronger for doing so. 

Are there some things better put to rest?

Could I possibly be ready for some real change?

How are you holding up? I desperately needed to feel compassion from those closest to me. I sent out updates, hoping they would grasp the reality of the flood. I made excuses...their lives are too busy to take on my pain.  I needed them to hug me from afar.  But very few family members showed up. I never expected their physical presence, but I made the assumption that they would offer emotional support. 
I placed that expectation on them. But this week, I was able to own it as mine and release it.  It has been tearing me up, keeping me from moving forward. So I begin to grieve another loss, the expectation that my family will walk alongside me and rescue me when I think I can't take another step.
There is so much collateral loss in this flood. It often seems as layered as our piles of debris. We must name and grieve each one just like the physical loss.
But as we inventory, we must look hard for the unearthed treasures.
Just like the unexpected photos, children's artwork, slips of paper scrawled with truth found in the rubble, we have to hunt for the joy, the gifts, the purpose in our uninvited catastrophe. 
It's truly been like Thanksgiving for me each day. So much goodness to celebrate, my list too lengthy to share. Each turn is decorated with generosity, wisdom and kindness. A month ago, there was not a first floor storage unit to be found in West Houston, but one came open and a Sunday School class has funded it for several months. My spiritual family continues to show up to pack and demo. Sometimes, I have no idea what I need, but they just seem to know. Cookies, chocolate, mold spray, masks, even a needed hammer...the blessings flow. 
I wonder how many times I've failed to show when a loved one really needed me. I hope that has changed because of Harvey.  Yesterday, a motherless child on my street begged for a hug. His brother ran for his as well. Sometimes we just have to let go of our to do list and just show up in the middle of the rubble.

The trucks with the big claws turned on our street this afternoon. Our turn for the city to haul off the growing pile trash had finally come without warning. I'd left my biggest, most intimate possession for the last: the bed. That beautiful sanctuary in which we had laughed for hours, playing our own version of Name that Tune into the wee hours of the morning, the safe place to shed our tears and prayers over our children, the soft surface where I gingerly massaged Rob's swollen feet in those last days. 
Of course, we would not have kept it much longer than the "replace every eight" recommendation, and even in this situation, we would have simply run to the store to purchase a new one...together.
But this was our bed that I was placing on the rubble. Our bed is forever gone.

I suggested to my pastor last night that we need to spill our grief on paper, so again, here I am.
Yesterday, I met with a contractor. We walked through each room and again, just as with the insurance adjustor, I felt the overwhelming task of rebuilding sweep over me. Judging the remaining piles of things to inventory and the foreboding weather, I temporarily closed up shop. I could not face another day of rain falling on debris plus the devastation of the hurricanes, the earthquake, friends' personal loss rendered me useless. 
 I needed some normal: a visit to my hairdresser, a sweet dinner with some of my favorite people, an opportunity to gift someone else.  And I needed a lot more Jesus!
So many lessons rise from this rubble. Most strikingly, I've accepted that family comes in many forms. Most of my relatives are far removed from this disaster; they can't even fathom the catastrophic effect Harvey has had on the Texas Gulf Coast. Though only a few have reached out to me, God has provided a faithful spiritual family. Most escaped the physical devastation of the reservoir release, yet, their empathy and compassion surrounds me  through each and every day. They act out of love, not survivor's guilt; they are God's lavish gift. My newfound family calls, advises, listens, provides. They truly ease the pain of being separated from my relatives. 
I'm duly learning that just as my damaged foundation needs repairs before rebuilding, so does my life's footing. As this new chapter ensues, even though unwelcome, my emotional and spiritual health must be shored so the bricks will stand firm. For me that requires respite, community, much prayer...and an occasional trip to the salon.

God sent me a team of amazing women and men on Saturday.  I was leaking hope until they arrived to divide and conquer. The men from my church tore out cabinets, sheet rock, appliances and some nasty gypsum board from my home's exterior walls. The women washed and packed fragile items that no longer have homes. Then, a sweet couple came and rescued my carload of books, saving me a trip to donate my large collection. That's after they had already washed all of my clothes.
After everyone had left, I stood in awe of the work they had completed, blown away by the sacrifice of their weekend with their families. I can't even describe the outpouring of love. Overcome with gratitude, I just wept and thanked God for this gift I could never repay. And I felt hope rise once again.

Later, I ventured off my street, surveying the rest of my neighborhood. I am overwhelmed by the magnitude of destruction. The further I drove, the greater the stench and heartbreak.  The piles look just like mine, but something about seeing it all run together helped me drop my self-pity and encouraged me to care beyond my own tragedy. 
So today was  a day to process and worship. The loss of Rob's things are taking its toll and I will need to seek counsel on how to trudge forward in my journey of grief...once again. I took some time to reflect on how I'm going to allow something beautiful to come from the rubble. As I've said before, I don't want to waste this tragedy.
Sunday night is quickly coming to a close. I'm thankful for a day off to rest my weary legs and soul, yet I feel a sense of dread.  I don't want to face  another work week of decisions, piles to pack and discard, and that ever-present and necessary MASK! But I know who will see me through the rubble.

“Your most profound and intimate experiences of worship will likely be in your darkest days – when your heart is broken, when you feel abandoned, when your out of options, when the pain is great – and you turn to God alone.”  Rick Warren
I'm in the final countdown until I lose my precious family, a place I hoped I'd never visit again. I'm learning firsthand worship under trial all over again.   My heart hurts something fierce, I feel abandoned, and I don't desire to worship in the least little bit. But I choose to...
Oh, it's not pretty. It looks more like closing my eyes and reciting: You are good, You will never leave me, You are faithful (mixed with a few desperate why's.) I search for even a few things to offer weak gratitude.  There are no polished hymns or beautiful acts of service, but, instead, an out-stretched hand, reaching for His tight-fisted grip.
Profound...intimate? Can one describe complete, fetal-position dependency in such terms? 



  

We lost our parents in a relatively short span of time and there was little time to recover from one death before we were faced with the next. I was very close to Rob's parents.  Because they were extremely loving people who treated me like a daughter from the time I was a teen, I grieved terribly my second set of parents. The loss was huge, but Rob and I turned to each other in our pain, drawing us even closer together.

That's what makes the loss of a spouse so different from any other loss.  The person with whom we share the deepest pain, grief, hardships is absent; we no longer have a partner to help shoulder the unthinkable questions, the intimate details of life. Rob and I faced tragic things together, but the blows seemed softer as we leaned on each other for support. Spouses bury brokenness in each other. 

Sometimes, I catch myself having a lonely, running (audible) dialogue with the furniture, the walls, or anything that doesn't talk back! It's a habit from 37 years of marriage, wanting his opinion on even the little things. I never realized how many decisions couples make together.  Rob just always knew what to do, no complicated weighing of options.  I, on the other hand, mull over every house repair, every purchase, every little detail. To whom do I turn?  I can't call up the kids and ponder! No, no, only a patient spouse lets us get away with that.

I find myself asking, God, how long must I do this? Of course, I know God never leaves my side and that He is growing me through this. Yes, I'm learning to trust Him and even, myself, but it's still hard not to hear an audible voice reassure my fears, to feel real arms hold me up, to turn to a man who has always been here.  

Tonight I confide in God,

I am sad and [so,so] tired.

    Make me strong again as you have promised.

Psalm 119:28 NCV

“Missing someone is the love that remains.”

~written by an 11 year old cancer patient

They're gone!

Rob's bouquet missing and when I realize the ground crew has not replaced them after a nearby burial, I fall apart.  My husband's grave bare of flowers on Valentine's Day.

A silly thing for most, but not a grieving wife who knows little else to show her love on this side of Heaven, especially when she is 1,300 miles away.

My note, weathered by the elements, remains.

I snatch it and leave.

Again, I have to take care of business I thought I would never undertake.

I don't want to put flowers on a grave; I don't want a grave.  I want Rob!

Truth be told, I'm tired...tired of loneliness, business decisions, and putting on a mask for all to feel a bit more comfortable.

I miss Rob's arms swallowing me, his smile, his soul next to mine. 

I want to give up and that's exactly where I need to be.

Back in the starting block, back to run  straight into arms that hold me best.

A God who doesn't compare my pain to others or sit me on his lap for a scripture lesson, but a Father who simply embraces and loves all of my brokenness. 

For He is strong in my weakness.

Whom have I in heaven but Him?

He is my strength and my portion.

  

Working through this messy journey of grief, I recognize I must deal with my unmet expectations of others.  In order to restore some of the lost intimacy in my upside down world, I naturally turn to relationships in which I am deeply rooted.  But intimacy requires a desire, a commitment from both parties which isn't always realized at the same intersection of life.

 So I begin the hard process of letting go of my plan. I accept that I have no control over the choices others make, but I do have control over my reaction to their choices. I don't have to hang on to hurt and disappointment.  Letting go allows God more room to fill my life with new purpose, passion and people, but mostly, Him.  And if His plans include some of those lives I so dearly cherish...well, then I'll be blessed all the more.

We have this one life to live, so we sow our dreams plenty. We plan, we persevere, headed for great harvest.

So how do we survive when there seems to be no yield?

No dream left of growing old together... no expected laughter of grandchildren...no sight of purpose in an unfamiliar land.

How do we breathe when the distance grows longer, the phone shouts silence, the loneliness sucks out the very oxygen that moves us? 

Best laid plans buried in a garden plot.

We grasp for the next of kin and realize they're sowing their own plans and we aren't a part of them.

How do we bury life-long dreams; is there even enough desire or energy to plant new ones?

  

2014

The year I awoke to pain and loss.

The year I pledged to discover the real meaning of joy.

I've found it!

It sits with me in the pew, at the table for one, beside a good man's grave.

It fills me in a house full of family and friends. 

Joy guides me through confusion and chaos, ordering my life.

JOY

Gratitude precedes it.

It's found in a manger and on a cross.

JESUS

He's the author of joy; He is my JOY.

I've grasped for it in the dark places; I've reluctantly let go of both treasure and rubbish to fully experience it. 

It spills with tears, laughter and hard questions.

JOY

is not a marketing "feel-good" strategy based on emotion.

It's truth that God has a better plan than I ever will, that I'm deeply loved by the Creator of the Universe, that the end may not be in sight, but will be perfect in all ways.

JOY

is a quiet confidence, a known, a peace.

Can I spread it like cheer or  

 catch it like happiness?

I don't know.

Often, I hold on to it with my dear life; sometimes, I feel it slipping from my soul!

JOY 

 will continue to be my constant, conscious choice in the new year.