We Will Be Okay

I will never forget the face of the EMT who broke the devastating news to me that Woody did not survive the fall. His eyes were full of regret, his brow furrowed. “I’m so sorry.” That’s all he said. No more, no less, but the meaning in those three words was communicated effectively.  My only response was a weak “no” as I fell to a heap on the ground. A couple, who had just come upon the scene, picked me up and held me. They walked—carried really—me to the waiting ambulance where more medical personnel waited, anxious to tend to my needs.

Everything was a blur. They had to be wrong. I asked the EMT’s who were in the back of the ambulance to check again. Someone was mistaken. There had to be more they could do! No. No mistake. They did all they could for him. He was dead. “Pray with me,” was all I could muster in that moment, and awkwardly they complied.  My only thought was for my waiting children whom I had promised hours before that their daddy would not die. And now I must break my promise. I would be responsible for relaying the news that would turn their world upside down.

White County had a chaplain waiting with Hunter, Haley and Haden. By the time I asked one of the EMTs to drive me to my waiting children, I was calm, a miracle really. I do not remember the words I used. I do not remember their response. I only remember that we stood in a circle holding hands with the chaplain and we prayed. Before we began, the chaplain looked around at the circle of blood-  and tear-stained faces before him and said, “I have done this a lot, but never have I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit like I do with this family. You will be okay.”

And here we are. Nearly eight months later, we have survived our first holiday season without the life of the party. We gave thanks for our blessings, picked out the perfect Christmas tree, decorated for the season in which we would celebrate our Savior’s birth, and opened presents one by one in front of the fire place and gave thanks because we were together. We all wrote letters to Woody and placed them in his stocking Christmas Eve and prayed that God would read them to Woody. We wondered what it must be like celebrating Jesus’ birth in His presence. And other than hitting a wall mid-afternoon, I survived being mom and dad to our children and kept everyone cheerful and grateful. We did it!

Somehow God keeps us grounded. Somehow He has brought joy and peace when in all reality, standing in the parking lot at Mt. Yonah nearly eight months ago with my children and a nameless chaplain, I never thought we would ever have again. We have survived a nightmare too terrible for words. We lived through the most traumatizing experience we will ever know, and yet we are sane.

I do not know what the future holds for me, but I do know that I am healing. I now know what the chaplain knew that day—we will be okay.

Beautiful As You Are

I have shared this post many times. However, I believe it is a message that every woman/girl needs at least once a year. You are beautiful! Do not let the world around you define who you are. We have a great identity crisis in our world. We have let an unseen enemy steal our identities and feed us with lies. What's worse is that we believe the lies! We believe we are not good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, skinny enough, talented enough, and the list goes on. If you want to know who you are, read Ephesians 1 or John 16-17. You are empowered and loved by the God of the Universe! You are beautiful just as you are!

“I’m fat!”  She looks in the mirror with loathing.  The image being reflected back to her looks nothing like the image she sees gracing the cover of every fashion magazine at the supermarket.  Her physique isn’t dangerously thin; her complexion isn’t satiny smooth and airbrushed to perfection.  Therefore, in this media driven society, she has come to believe that she is fat and ugly.  And as a woman, we have all stood there with her, believing the lies, hating the image.

The reality?  She is perfect.  She is a healthy weight and refreshingly natural for a growing, adolescent girl.  Yet, one can’t tell her the facts enough that she’ll ever believe them.  She believes what she sees, and the voice of truth passes by her like a soft, summer breeze barely noticeable in the heat of the scorching afternoon sun.  The images burn her soul until her self-confidence lies in a heap of ashes waiting to be carried away with the next gust of wind.

God created a world full of beautiful, diverse things.  No two sunsets are ever the same, yet each one is as breathtaking as the next.  Not once do we stop and say, “No, this one’s not pretty.  Only the one that had the streaks of magenta swirling through the slate blue sky in just the right proportions was beautiful.  That’s what every sunset should look like.  And if it doesn’t, it’s not good enough.  It’s not perfect!”  Instead, we appreciate each sunset for its uniqueness.

Of all the flowers in the world, with their varying shades of color, size, and shape, not once have we taken a pure white, slender rose and photographed it (airbrushing out all its imperfections), and placed it on the cover of every gardening magazine and said, “This is the only flower that has beauty worth having!”  In fact, most horticulturists would tell you that those lovely white roses fade very quickly and are difficult to raise.  It would be more practical to choose something with a more lasting beauty that is hardier.

Why, then, does our society do this to women?  And who gets to choose the ideal?

Daughters of America, do you not realize you are wonderfully and perfectly made by a loving God that recognizes what true beauty is?  You are beautiful because you are different!  Psalm 139:13-14 (NIV) states, “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.  I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”  Did you get that?  God’s works are wonderful!  You are His work!  You are beautiful!  You are perfect just the way God created you while you were still in your mother’s womb.

It’s time to go to the mirror, look at the reflection, and appreciate the image that you see—another sunset gracing the sky with diversity and delight; a rare flower blooming to perfection.  That’s you!  It’s time to embrace who God created you to be no matter what your color, shape, or size.  Be beautiful, my dear sisters!  God created you that way!

Preparing For Our First Christmas

Twelve days until Christmas—our first Christmas without Woody. I have wondered many times how I would feel, or even manage to muddle through the holiday season without him. He did all the Christmas shopping knowing my aversion for shopping of any sort. He was the one who seemed to always finagle at least one party invitation or organize a Christmas dinner for his employees at our house. He loved entertaining. He loved any reason to celebrate, and Christmas embodied everything he loved most—faith, family, and friends. And yet, here we are less than two weeks from the day that for the first time in my life I am dreading.

Every Christmas morning for the past 20 years, Woody has risen before anyone else to prepare the family room for our arrival. The Christmas tree lights were turned on, Christmas music played, a fire roared in the fireplace, stockings were stuffed, and eggnog was poured. When all was ready, he would come to the bottom of the stairs and look up where I waited with our children and dogs at the top. He would snap our picture, and then bellow, “Who’s ready to see if Santa came?” The children and dogs would pile down the stairs full of excitement. He gained so much joy from watching his family relish the thoughtful little gifts in each stocking, and then he would hand out the presents one at a time as we sat patiently watching the recipient open his or her package to see what surprise waited hidden behind red and silver paper and bows galore. He never wanted to stop and open his packages. We had to insist that he pause to take a turn. We always came first.

I’m not sure how I will manage Christmas morning. We have decided to change things up just a bit in order to avoid the emptiness his absence will leave. Instead of coming home after Christmas Eve service and fixing our standard dinner for Christmas Eve—seafood bouillabaisse—we will go out to dinner. Instead of staying in our pajamas all day on Christmas, we will go see a movie. Anything to shake things up a bit. Anything to numb the pain for just a moment. I know it will still hurt. I know we will still miss him, but I have to try something.

Only five more months of first. And then we will have other milestones to maneuver through, but I think the first Christmas must be the most difficult. However, God is good. He continues to bring healing. Every day I laugh a little more. I am beginning to feel alive again. I know we will survive and find joy and peace just as a hurting world came to know over 2,000 years ago. 

Insomnia

2:00 AM….

3:00 AM….And I watch as the clock continues to mark time. The children are resting peacefully. For that I am thankful. I wonder if they are ever plagued with insomnia—a mind that will not shut down, a mind that relives that day over and over again. I wonder too, how long slumber will elude me. How long will it be before my dreams let me sleep rather than wake me with a frightful foreboding? I could possibly live another 40 years. Will I always wake in the middle of the night with the memory of that day clamoring my thoughts? Will the solitude always feel so substantial?

I know God has protected me from feeling the full force of that day. I am sheltered under His wings from the arrows that whiz toward my heart. However, during the night my guard is down, my mind is weak, and the attacks on my serenity are powerful and persistent. So under those wings I crawl, barely able to breathe, waiting for His sweet relief. I know in time it will come. For now, it just seems  so distant, so out of reach, that it may never come.

4:00 AM….Hopefully, I will not witness that hour tonight, not consciously. Perhaps sleep will finally be mine.

A Daughter's View Point

A cry for help? Physical pain to cover the emotional torment that plagues a young girl’s life? Whatever the excuse, however it may be labeled; the act itself must be taken seriously. Fear. Desolation. No sense of value. My poor daughter’s world has been turned upside down. Her biggest cheerleader, her constant affirmation, the man who made her feel like the princess she is, is gone—ripped violently from her life in a manner too horrible for words. She watched for hours as he struggled against the agonizing pain—as her mother tried to piece together the back of her daddy’s head in an attempt to stop some of the bleeding. She tried to look into eyes that bulged from his face, closed from the swelling. The mouth that had spoken words of encouragement and kissed her lovingly on the forehead coughed up blood and moaned in agony. “How long?” she cried, exasperated, terrified as we waited for help to come. Fear of plunging down the granite slope plagued her with every move her daddy made. “Please STOP!” And the hours lingered. An eternity was lived within a day.

Angry? A constant state of anger, misery, distress, and dread. Yes, God is real, but she questions His choices. How can good come from this? She sees the people who have been helped, but she really doesn’t care. In all reality, she would let them suffer the wrath of God and be forever lost for one more day with her daddy. There is no room for compassion in the midst of her anguish. Not now. And she is surrounded by people who seem to be healing and managing the grief for which she cannot find resolution. Alone in a world where she has no power or peace.

I know she will survive this. In time the trauma of that day will fade into a distant memory with not as much pain associated with it. Those memories will not cut so deeply, wounding the soul with every remembrance. If she can learn to lean on her Heavenly Father, she will come to know the peace she seeks so desperately. She will learn to trust the world again. She will know where her help comes from. Someday the void in her heart will grow smaller as God fills it with the love of a husband and children of her own. Someday only joy will accompany the memories of her devoted daddy.  

Someday….we are just not there yet.

The Hardest Hit

Today I nearly laid my weapons down and walked off the battle field. I was completely defeated. With shoulders slumped, tears blurring my vision, I was ready to raise the white flag and concede to the enemy. Never mind that this week had been a series of victories in which I had taken back battle ground and had revealed the identity of the true enemy. Forget that I had acquired new, more effective weapons which were successfully rendering the enemy powerless. Today I was hit with a nuclear powered blast—biological warfare for which I was unprepared. The wind was knocked from my lungs as I hit the ground with an impact significant enough to register on the Richter scale. However, once I was able to get my bearings and breathe again, feelings of outrage filled my lungs. You see, the enemy hit me where it really hurts; tonight he attacked my kids, and that will always bring out the “mama bear” in me. Satan, the gloves are off! No one messes with my children! When you attack them, you attack my Father, and He has already handed you your head on a platter. You will NOT have the victory here! You will NOT take my children down with you! They belong to the Commander and Creator. AND, they have been placed in my care and I will fight you with my dying breath!

This means war! I have reloaded and refueled. My tears have run dry. My sobs have been soothed. I have strapped on my boots, picked up my shield, and am ready to wield the most deadly sword there is. I am armed and dangerous and I have everything within my arsenal aimed right at you!

No, today I will not give in. Today, and every day that God gives me, I will battle on and eventually stand in the victor’s circle with my King.

No More Lies!

Lies. I have believed so many of them throughout my life. However, the one I am continually deceived by is the one that leads me to believe that I am in control of everything that happens in my life. Satan has me so duped! I have believed this particular lie for so long that I have begun to see it as truth. If only I had been a more obedient child perhaps I would not have been disciplined so severely. If only I had not been alone with a certain male family member I would not have been molested. If only I had had more faith, the children within my womb would have survived.  If only I had prayed more fervently, Woody would not have died.  If only.... And I have believed the great deceivers accusations every time. I have fallen into despair believing that I will never be good enough or strong enough to be an effective warrior in God’s army. I have worn the yoke of oppression and have been crushed under its weight just knowing that I deserved every evil outcome—every strike against my soul—because I am responsible for causing others around me to sin. I am responsible when the laws of nature take away my child or my husband. It’s all on me.

Not anymore! A friend called me this morning to pull back the curtain and reveal the deceiver behind the deception—to connect the dots, so to speak. I had no control over my abuse as a child, no more than I had that fateful Mother’s Day on Mount Yonah. Nothing I could have done would have changed the outcome. Satan, once again, has pulled out every weapon in his arsenal in an attempt to attack and destroy my prayer life. He has tricked me into believing that my relationship with God is damaged and that my communication has been hindered by a lack of faith. That is not the case. I was not the only person on or off that mountain that prayed for Woody’s life. We were completely covered by prayers. Many pleaded for Woody’s life that day. I never thought Woody would die because although I knew his injuries were life threatening and that the laws of nature deemed that he should die, I knew my God was big enough to alter those laws and allow a miracle to occur on our behalf. What I did not know is that He would say no. That was the day God had chosen to take Woody to his eternal home. No one could have changed the outcome. This is not on me!

No more lies! I am finished allowing lies to define who I am. I am a cherished daughter of the King. He is lovingly holding me in His arms, gently rubbing my back as the sobs rack my body, wiping away the tears. He has a plan for me far better than any I can imagine. He has not abandoned my side. He has plucked me up into His arms to carry me through this turbulent time. That is the truth that needs to resonate through my life. The father of fabrication has lost this battle. This lie—the one he has deceived me with my whole life—has been exposed for what it is. From this day forward, God’s truth will define and liberate me. Finally, I have been freed from this lie.

Satan's Latest Lie

Satan’s latest accusation against me has been hurled; and although I know it is a dreadful lie, it still wounds and causes doubt to linger in my mind.

I could not sleep the night before Woody died. I finally got out of bed and tiptoed to the classroom. If I couldn’t sleep, I would write. My thoughts were jumbled—troubled. Focus was an allusive acquaintance, meandering on the outskirts of my mind. After about an hour of struggling, Woody came into the classroom rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What are you doing? I was worried when I woke up and you were gone.”

“I couldn’t sleep so I thought I might as well do something productive.” Woody leaned over and kissed the top of my head.

“Well, try to come back to bed and get some sleep.” Then he made his way back to our bedroom.

I did go back to bed, and finally, about an hour before my alarm startled me awake, I dozed off. We went to church, where I leaned against Woody trying to stay alert. We had already made plans to go for a hike after church, but I was starting to fade and quite irritable. “Please, Mom!” the kids pleaded. I knew once we were on the trail, I would revive so off we went. However, my spirit was restless. I was struggling to feel God’s presence. I couldn’t pray. I felt so far from Him, and I could not identify the reason.

And that is the origin of satan’s accusation.

After the fall, I could not pray—not fervently. I spoke the words, but my heart and mind could not comprehend what was being said nor accept what was happening. I kept thinking, “This is not happening! This is a dream! This cannot be reality!” Not once did I think Woody’s life was in danger, even though I saw the fall and the extent of his injuries. Even while I attempting to piece together the back of his head so that I could hold it together in a weak attempt to stop the bleeding, I still did not believe he would die. I just knew something that horrible could never happen to me or our children. I kept praying, but not spirit-filled prayers that ignite the air waves. I was in shock. I was in denial. And that is where I am being attacked. Satan is accusing me and my lack of faith for killing Woody. I know it’s a lie; however, I can’t help but question my lack of passion while praying. Was I praying effectively? Is it somehow my fault? Why was I feeling so distant from God?

I know it’s a terrible deception, yet it haunts me daily. I remember stopping shortly before we reached the spot where Woody fell and taking a picture. The view was breathtaking! I wanted one of the kids to take a picture of Woody and me with the view in the background. “No,” Woody said, “Let’s wait until we get to the top.” And we went on, expecting something even more spectacular on the summit.

 I never reached the peak, but Woody did. It is where he breathed his last breath. It is where his heart stopped pumping and he went home. God has revealed His love and beauty time and time again. His presence has given me peace in the midst of the most terrifying tempest. Yet, I still let the enemy lie to me. Pray for me. Pray that the curtain will be removed and the truth will be unveiled. Today I need the prayers of God’s children interceding for my heart and mind.

Weary

I am weary. When will the storm clouds clear? When will the ache in my heart dull? When will the tears stop flowing?

Yesterday while driving through the neighborhood, a young couple sat in their driveway supervising their three young children. It brought back a flood of memories—the years we spent raising our three young children and how we cherished our time together, playing, laughing, loving. “Why can’t we go back?” I sobbed. I wanted to turn back the hands of time and relive those years with Woody by my side. I wanted another chance to live and laugh with the love of my life.

Tears. They have a will of their own. They sting and stab at my eyes. I cannot control them. Grief is an unpredictable monster devouring everyone and everything within its stead.  It consumes and confounds. And I find myself floundering within its menacing grip. Why can’t I escape? Why does it persist for so long?

I know God is with me, but even David—a man after God’s own heart—occasionally felt abandoned and alone. I am well aware of that emotion. I am living that reality. It is difficult, at best, to recognize God’s loving hand in the midst of such deep sorrow. Yet, I continue on in faith knowing that eventually I will once again distinguish God’s perfect presence in my life.

Snapshots of Our Lives

So many pictures of smiling faces, laughter, and moments of joy fill my Instagram and Facebook accounts. From the outside looking in we seem to be adjusting remarkably well. And we are. God is good. He continues to gift our days with small treasures of delight.  I find myself taking more photos realizing that before tragedy struck our family, I had become somewhat slothful in capturing our memories on film. Not now. I want to seize every moment and never forget how we rebuilt our crumbling lives. Every smile is a building stone—every bit of laughter a footing.

However, there are snapshots of time that the public will never see. The sobs and screams. The fears and falls. No one will see the messy work ensuing behind the scenes, such as this morning when I fell to the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears, sobs racking my body as I began to hyperventilate. No one will hear the soft footsteps approaching as Haley knelt beside me and wrapped me in her arms and soothed me with her gentle spirit. No one will see the evenings Haden comes into my room with tears in his eyes worried because I am not sleeping, or the times Haley crawls into my bed weeping. These are episodes that no one wants to see or acknowledge, yet these events are just as crucial to the healing process as the smiles and laughter. This is the construction stage that is unpleasant and untidy. It is the phase we want to overlook and avoid, but without it, we cannot continue to build.  Without it, restoration will never occur.

These snapshots comprise our journey, every aspect of it, the good, the bad, and the ugly. I treasure every moment, knowing that it is a gift from God. I will praise Him even in the midst of the storm that threatens my life and the sorrow that fills my soul.  Furthermore, I will continue to capture our flashes in time—all of them—either on film or in my mind knowing that through all of these moments we are rebuilding our crumbling lives.

My Season to Mourn

“To everything there is a season…A time to weep, and a time to laugh; A time to mourn, and a time to dance;” Ecc. 3:1, 4

A season for everything—this morning You gently reminded me of this infallible truth. If there is weeping now, there will be laughter in the future. I may mourn in this moment, but at some point I will feel carefree enough to dance again. You will cause me to laugh and dance. You will give me joy someday; but for now there is a purpose in my pain. This is my season to weep and mourn. I do not know how long I must endure this sorrow. However, I can rest in knowing it is but for a season in my life. I will not always know this overwhelming sense of sadness. I will not always feel this hopelessness. You will shelter me through the storms that gather during this turbulent season until it is time to bask in the sunlight and dance with the wind. For now, I must persevere through the long, harsh winter; yet soon spring will arrive with new life and hope for a future full of laughter and light.

There Is No Way To Explain It Adequately

There is no way to adequately portray what we endured that fateful day on Mount Yonah. The trauma was too great. Your imagination will not allow you to reach the depth of emotional suffering that we endured that day. It was surreal. I remember thinking the whole time, “This is not happening! I will wake up. This cannot be real!” The nightmare was far worse than any drama I had ever seen on the big screen. I just knew that God could not possibly allow something so horrific to inflict our family. And yet, it did.

I will never get the look in Woody’s eyes out of my head, as he slid belly first down the granite face of the mountain right past me. I felt so helpless. There was nothing I could do except scream. “No! No! No! Woody! Please, Lord, no!” His hands and legs were outstretched as he tried desperately to find a hand or foot hold. His eyes were full of fear, yet his voice was silent, and then he disappeared over the ledge. Haden, our youngest son, was at a higher vantage point and watched as his dad tumbled head over heels approximately 100 feet until hitting his head against a stump which stopped his fall. I heard Haden’s cries, but they sounded as if they were travelling through a tunnel. He immediately started running down the mountain to reach his dad. Hunter and Haley, who rejoined us once they heard the screaming, started down the mountain, too. Hunter kept shouting, “Someone call 911!” I couldn’t move. I looked over the edge and saw Woody’s body in a crumpled heap and was stricken motionless. I sat down. I wanted to cry but was completely numb. My mind reeled.  “Where is the trail? How do I get down the mountain? I don’t know what to do.” I could not even call 911. My mind could not communicate with my fingers.

Haden had reached Woody by time I started to come out of the fog. “He’s unconscious but he’s still breathing. It sounds like he’s snoring!” I yelled down not to move him in case of spinal cord injury. My brain started to compute the information. I immediately thought that either Woody’s trachea had been crushed or was blocked. I stood up and slowly, recognition came back to me. By time I made my way to Woody’s side, all three of the kids were there along with two women hikers who had been in the area. Allison was one of them. She stayed during the duration of the ordeal. After Hunter and I quarreled, he agreed to make his way down to the trail head to meet the EMT’s. He had wanted me to go, but I explained to him I was not going to leave my husband under any circumstances. Emotions were raw. We were frightened and Hunter was trying to control a situation he had no control over.  Allison, Haley, Haden, another woman and I stayed and tried to hold Woody. He was still on a steep incline with about 60 more feet to fall. By this point, he had become combative as he regained consciousness and was attempting to escape the pain. His visible injuries were severe, especially his head. His eyes were swollen shut, he was bleeding from his nose and mouth, and blood was gushing from the back of his head. He was attempting to stand up although he was not cognitive of his surroundings. We kept shouting at him, hoping he would hear us—hoping he would understand; but there was no recognition. I noticed that Haley was downhill of him, putting the weight of her body on him trying to keep him still. I made her trade me places, immediately recognizing the danger she was in. I held onto Woody’s hand. I prayed. “Woody, I love you! Please stop moving! We will all fall down the mountain with you!” It was intense. We were all in jeopardy of falling every time he sat up and groaned loudly. He was strong and he was fighting—fighting the intense pain, fighting for his life.  I looked down and noticed the steady flow of blood. We were all covered in a mixture of blood and dirt. I tried to discover the source. At that point, Woody lifted his head in such a way that I finally caught a glimpse of the back of his head. His scalp was completely removed from his skull. Allison asked, “Does anyone have an extra shirt?” No. Haden took off his shirt and handed it to me. I feebly tried to piece his scalp back together and then applied pressure with the shirt to the back of his head.

I’m not sure how long this went on. We heard the sirens long before anyone ever arrived. “When will they get here?” Haley repeatedly cried. Haden wept as he tried in vain to keep Woody’s head from bashing against the granite slab as he continued to wrestle. And we all struggled to keep him from taking us down the mountain with him.

I could go on, but I won’t. When I think about how harrowing that day truly was, I am grateful because I know that God has protected us from the full force of the blow. If he did not, we would be crushed. There is no way to survive that sort of trauma without His protective shield. We are truly loved. However, when you are wondering why I’m not over this yet; or why I struggle to sleep; or why I do not want to be alone, reread this. Try to live that nightmare with us and ask yourself, how quickly would you “get over” it? 

Our Wedding Anniversary

It’s 2:00 a.m. I thought I was finished reaching over to your side of the bed searching for the warmth of your body. But here I am. My hand glides across the cool sheet finding emptiness, and I remember. Today is our wedding anniversary—a day we would have celebrated with joy as we did every year. We realized the value in celebrating another year of dedication. Marriage is work! It doesn’t just “happen.” We both understood this concept better than most. We had toiled through years of drought and plenty to glean the harvest we were finally reaping.

You loved to celebrate. I wonder how we would have celebrated our day. Last year we spent the weekend in Chapel Hill. You surprised me with a new wedding ring to replace the one that I had lost. “Let’s hope I don’t lose this one, or at least not for another 20 years!” I teased. We laughed. We loved. We lived. You were my joy and my security. You made every day a celebration. I knew how blessed I was to commemorate another year of marriage with you. You asked me once again where I wanted to go to mark our 20^th wedding anniversary. We decided on New Zealand. You loved to celebrate, but you loved “us” even more.

Today will not be a celebration, but I will remember—I will remember a lifetime of love built on a foundation of faith. I will honor you by continuing to push through the pain and find laughter. I will survive. Although half of my heart died May 10, 2015, I must live on. I will find joy in our children and the memories you gave.

Happy anniversary…well, not happy, but it is not cheerless. I miss you, but I am so grateful for the love we shared. I will never forget.

For now, my life may feel as if I am reaching into the empty darkness, yet I know I am not alone. God has carried me every step of the way and today will be no exception. Perhaps someday the pain will subside enough that I will find a way in which to mark our anniversary once again with laughter and love. For now, I just need to breathe and remember to live.

Now Is Not the Time to Enlighten Me with Some Profound Truth or Theological Argument

Now is not the time to enlighten me with some profound truth or theological argument. Although there are times for such things, true wisdom is recognizing when. When someone is grieving, all she truly needs is a sympathetic ear and a word or two of encouragement. Please do not use this time as an opportunity to flaunt your philosophical prowess. This has nothing to do with you. Yes, I understand your intentions are good, but tremendous destruction has been wrought in the name of “good intentions.” Look at the crusades or the Spanish Inquisition if an example is needed. If your desire is to truly bring me comfort and you haven’t the words to speak, then don’t. Sometimes solace can be found in silence.

I have been guilty in the past of causing such sorrow with ill-fitted words. Reflecting back on things that I have said, I can now see how insensitive my words were. How I wish I could go back and clutch those words out of the air and swallow them whole before they had the opportunity to inflict more pain upon the hearer! We are too quick to speak. Why? Because we are too prideful. We includes me. I am not immune to this crime. You may be thinking, “No, it was not pride which moved me to speak.  It was the Holy Spirit who requires me to speak truth.” But let me ask you this:  does God kick us when we are down? Yes, I know there are times when He allows us to walk through deep valleys, but would He knowingly speak words that would wound one of His children even more? When your child is in pain, do you offer words of comfort or do you take that moment to speak “truth” that will deepen the sorrow? God is a good Father—a far better parent than you or I will ever be!

I am hurting enough. I should not have to use my rapidly depleting supply of energy to defend a truth that God has given to me during this time. I have clung to Him desperately seeking Him in every waking hour. But even more importantly, before this tragedy ever struck, I sought Him—I developed a lasting relationship with Him. This intimacy was not built in a moment of tragedy, although it has been deepened immensely. The relationship I have with God was built on years of seeking Him first. And now His words are the only words which have brought me true healing. God has revealed things to me that He may not have revealed to you because it has not been necessary. You have not walked through something so harrowing.  Your interpretation of God’s word may be more clinical where mine is painfully raw.  Please try to understand that until you have literally walked in my shoes, you cannot understand God’s word and love the way I do. That is not a prideful statement. I paid the price for that wisdom.  Having this sort of intimacy with God comes at a price that most would not be able to survive.

Give me time to grieve. God will bring me healing, but it may not be on your time table. It may be a year from now when you are wondering to yourself, “Shouldn’t she be over this?” and yet I will still be painfully broken. If it is uncomfortable for you to witness, then don’t. I get it. As a society in general, we do not do “awkward” well. I will survive this because God has protected me from the full force of the blow. He will not allow this dreadful experience to destroy us; and someday I may once again be ready for your words of wisdom and theological arguments.  Someday, just not today….

Grief

Sometimes I cannot escape it. It grabs me by the throat with icy fingers and squeezes while stabbing my heart with shards of glass. I cannot breathe; the pain is excruciating. I feel as if an elephant is sitting on my chest.  I panic and begin to hyperventilate. The reality--the finality--of my loss is suffocating and too frightening to bear.

Grief. It is an ugly beast that threatens the lives of those who survive. It is predatory in nature. It stalks its victim tirelessly, waiting until its prey is weakened by fatigue and sits for a moment to rest. Then it strikes with deadly accuracy. There is no escaping this monster. There is no hiding. Eventually, it finds those it seeks and reeks havoc in the heart and mind. It is inescapable, though many try through various methods to escape its deadly clutch, they only prolong the inevitable. Grief will have its prey.

I will eventually wade through this ocean. God carries and comforts me each and every step of the way. When I find that I have succumbed to my attacker, God wrestles the beast for me and provides hope for the future. For now, the journey is darkened by storm clouds that seem infinite; but at some point the clouds will break and the sun will shine on my face again.

Irreplaceable

LCI will soon fill the vacated position Woody left behind.

The church will find another man or woman to assist in ushering church guests to their seats.

The Miscues will find another pool player to take Woody’s place in the neighborhood pool league.

Friends will find another confidante.

Society will find another citizen.

Every role Woody played can easily be recast except for one—the role he played in the lives of his family members. His parents cannot recast the role of their son. His brother cannot play the part with another man. I will never do another love scene with my leading man. The kids can never yell out, “Dad!” and know that their hero will arrive on site to save the day. Here, in our hearts and in our lives, he is irreplaceable.

Of all the vocations and roles Woody played, husband and father are the ones he performed best. Everything else came in behind family. He knew which job he needed to devote his time and attention to. His priorities were in line; and because he executed his duties so well, the role he played at home complimented every other role he played in his life. That is why we feel his loss so deeply, why the wounds are so severe, and why the grief is so grave.

Sometimes as I watch the world continue to spin and the lives of people around me continue unaltered, I want to scream. I am incensed that in all the parts Woody played he was expendable—replaceable. Yet, in the one occupation that mattered most in life, he will always be irreplaceable. We cannot advertise of his vacancy and take applications to fill the position. Where this tragedy was a speed bump in the lives of others, it was a head on, life-altering collision for us. We have lost something that will never be found again this side of heaven.

I see people around me who do not take the roles they play in their family as seriously as they should. I see families falling apart because husbands and wives do not give their best to the position they play in the family. Their characters are weak and are soon recast through adultery or vices. I want to scream, “Do you not know what you are throwing away? Why can’t you see?” They are blinded by greed and lust. They treat family as if it is expendable. We have truly become a “throw-away” society.

I am thankful for a man who understood the responsibilities God had given him. I am a better person because I was valued above a career, volunteering, friends, and society. I was loved completely and for that, I will continually praise God.  My prayer for you is that you will live life in such a way that when you are gone your family can say, “He/She is irreplaceable.” 

Independence Day

America celebrates her 239^th birthday, the signing of the document that would declare our independence. Fireworks mix with thunder. The sky is illuminated by pinwheels of light and flashes of lightning. I should be celebrating as all American citizens appear to be doing within a 10 mile radius. Instead, I find myself on my hands and knees on my shower floor, my tears intermingled with streams of warm water. Memories of that day haunt my thoughts. I see Woody sliding down the mountain. I remember thinking—crying out to God, really—“No! This cannot be happening! Please, Lord, make it stop! Turn back time! Let’s start over!” Why? Why did it have to end this way? I just knew Woody would live. I just knew God would perform a miracle and he would survive. I promised our children he would not die. I took Hunter’s face in my hands, looked him in the eyes, and promised. I broke my promise. I had never done so before that day. But I just knew God would hear my prayers and do what only He could do. We would recall the glory of God and how he had saved my husband from certain death. We would acclaim the power of prayer when uttered by the faithful. I was confident that Woody would live through this horrible tragedy. Of all the scenarios that played through my head during the hours the EMTs worked to stabilize him, death was never one of them.

But God said, “No.” It was the most heartrending no I have ever received. My chest aches with inconceivable pain. I cannot escape the memories. The look in Woody’s eyes as he slid down that granite slab and over the edge will be with me for the rest of my life. I want to hold him in my arms and feel his warmth radiating through his shirt. I saved one of Woody’s shirts from the dirty laundry. His scent was overwhelming that first night. I held it close to my face, feeling his presence through his scent. Tonight after leaving the shower, I went to my closet where it hangs and held it to my face trying so hard to smell even a trace of the smell I remember as Woody’s. It is almost gone. What will I do when his scent is no longer there? Will I forget? I’m afraid I will. The thought terrifies me. How can I forget the aroma of the man who lay next to me for over 20 years?

I want to celebrate. God has given me much to be thankful for, but the loss of the man whom I loved most in the world is overshadowing any celebratory feelings I might have. Someday, I will smile when fireworks explode over my head with bursts of yellow and red. But today they remind me of the man I prayed for and lost. Happy birthday, America. Maybe next year the sobs will not eclipse the explosives.

Hope

I walked into Woody's closet yesterday to retrieve the dirty clothes from the hamper. Instead, I found myself running my hand through his shirts hanging from the rod just as he left them. I then stood in front of the shelves where his folded clothes rested in neat little piles.  My hands ran over the course denim and smooth cotton blends. I caressed a shirt that had once covered the chest of the man I loved, and I felt my heart ache inside my chest as I longed to caress the man who once wore the clothing I fingered so lovingly. Finally, I laid my head down on a pile of shorts and began to weep.  

It is getting better.  Somedays it doesn't appear that way, but I am gradually accepting my new role. I am always filled with God's peace.  Yet the sorrow occasionally overshadows the serenity that rests deep in my soul.  I feel completely loved and protected. God has given me a church and community full of people willing to be His hands and feet.  Time will bring healing and new hope. However, in the moment there is unbearable pain and longing.

I quickly departed Woody's closet and descended down the stairs to find Haley sitting in the hearth room with a sweet smile gracing her lips.  While in the midst of the dreariest night God continues to provide a precious reminder that Woody lives on through the three amazing children He so graciously gave.    There will always be hope.  And eventually more smiles than tears. 

A Pit of Grief

The kids are gone so I crawled into that pit of grief, and I wallowed in the mire. I felt myself sinking further and further into the pain until my heart felt as if someone had ripped it from my chest and stood nearby squeezing it—not enough to take my life but just enough to cause excruciating pain to burn through my whole being. Why? The question that will never receive an answer this side of heaven. The question that rattles through my brain looking for a place to settle, uncertain of the outcome, needing resolution. This pit may consume me, but not today.

I see that God has thrown me a rope, and reluctantly my fingers wrap around the chords and I grasp it with what little strength I have. I need to believe. I need to know that God will carry me through this. Although some days feel as if I am racing away from the darkness that threatens to consume me, I must believe that I am racing towards the Light, who stands with His arms outstretched ready to catch me and hold me while sobs wrack my body. His hand will soothe away the pain and bring peace; maybe not today, but some day.

I will somehow come out on the other side of this. Somehow I will learn to avoid that dark pit which threatens to swallow me alive and crush my soul. I will learn to grab hold of the life line which God offers me daily, and I will find myself being lifted above the raging sea. I will know laughter and love and fulfillment in the purpose that God has planned for my life. Some day—just not today.

Progress

“I am terrified. I am overwhelmed. How will we make our way through these stormy seas? I feel alone and insignificant. I am weak. I curl up into a fetal position, hugging my knees close to my chest and I cry. My tears sting my eyes. Salty drops stain my face and moisten my knees. What will happen to us? How can I continue on this route when the way is strewn with boulders? Why?

Lord, we need Your divine intervention. Where are you? I have felt you so near, and now Your presence seems so far away from me. Please give me hope. Give me something to believe. I am so afraid. I am wracked with fear. I cannot get my mind wrapped around all that I need to do.”

These words were written exactly one month ago today—eight days after Woody’s accident. Although God has eased much of the pain, there remains a dull ache deep within that causes me to wonder if I will ever experience life the same. Yet, progress has been made.

I am no longer fearful, but I am often doubtful. I cannot see what the future holds for me or the children. I pray for their continued growth and that they will find love and laughter, but I wonder at the same time if I will ever again laugh as carelessly as I did with Woody. He knew exactly what to say and do whenever I was blue. He brought the sunshine into my cloudiest days. He filled my heart with love and joy. And now, I cannot imagine a future that does not contain the human embodiment of God’s love to me.

Every day I take one more step into the future. Every day I learn a little more about how to live without my other half. And every day I am thankful for all I do have—my children, my family, my friends, and my faith. “Breathe,” I tell myself each morning. “Take a deep breath and know that God will give you another.” I will wait and see what healing another month brings. Already, I can see progress. I still cry; I still long for Woody. However, the tears do not sting as sharply as they did nor are they always present. Occasionally, I laugh and I am filled with gratitude for what I have not lost. Yes, it is still a little overwhelming, but I know now we will survive—one day at a time. 

Progress....

Parenting Through Grief

How do I parent from a point of grief children who are grieving? We are all stumbling through the dark trying desperately to find our way. One child seems to be functioning quite well. Another has uncontrollable anger and the urge to rebel. And the third child has thrown himself into a sport he loves and refuses to discuss what happened. I am attempting to put the pieces of our family back together when I feel completely broken and inadequate. How do I mend something which will never again be whole?  

Tears are like raindrops falling at the most inopportune times, soaking the soul, leaving behind a muddy mess. Our pain is raw and all of us are experiencing it in different ways on different levels. Can I allow my children to fully grieve when I have not allowed myself to do so? How do I give myself permission to let go and wallow in my sorrow when I know I must be strong for the three young people who look to me for strength and wisdom? I cannot even see past the day in front of me let alone into their futures. I am failing. And failing at parenting is not something I can afford to do.

I look to God for wisdom, yet sometimes His words are barely audible. Last night Haley told me that she cannot be strong although she feels she needs to be.  I told her that she does not need to be. Her job right now is to become weak so that God can carry her in His strength. Perhaps I need to take my own advice. God’s power will be made perfect in my weakness. Perhaps parenting will best be accomplished when I completely trust God to bear my burden and accomplish what I cannot.

Parenting through grief. My new “normal.” Still, I do not parent alone nor do I suffer in solitude.  Although I no longer have my partner in parenting to physically carry me through these trials, I have my spiritual companion to lift me over every obstacle. I need only remember where my strength comes from.

One Month Ago Today...

Today marks one month since that fateful day when our lives were forever changed. One month, and still I long for one more day—one more day to pray with you, to talk with you, to hold your hand, to hold you close, to love you completely. However, one more day was not to be, and I must hold onto the memories of the days we were given.

I have learned so much about myself during this time and about God and grief. I have learned what it is to truly mourn. I understand what it is to lament, to groan, and to feel completely hopeless. Yet, at the same time I have gained a clearer view of God’s grace and compassion. I have felt His Spirit with me every second of every day since the horrific moment you were ripped from our lives. I have learned that I am stronger than I ever thought I could be without you—evidence of God’s existence. My sanity would have left me that day without supernatural intervention. Most of all, I have learned how desperately you were loved—by me, our children, family, friends, and co-workers. You were even more amazing than I realized.

I have learned, too, that our children are remarkable. We did well. All of those late night conversations full of anxiety concerning their futures and all of those prayers for their spiritual and physical growth have come to fruition.  They have drawn closer to their Heavenly Father and have relied upon His power. They are resilient and faithful. I know you must be so proud gazing upon them from your new home. They miss you tremendously! But in time, they will learn to live life bearing the void that your absence has created. They will build upon the foundation we laid together and it will never be shaken.

I love you! I feel as if I have been walking through a fog since the day you died. I still use present tense verbs when referring to you. I still reach for your hand before falling asleep. I miss everything about you! There are moments when I can almost see a light flickering through the haze, moments where a glimmer of hope lies on the horizon. But those moments are fleeting and far too few to be of lasting comfort. In time, they will become more frequent. In time, God will give me new dreams to replace the ones which were shattered with your life. Until then, I will take it one moment at a time—occasionally, one breath at a time. And I will continue to rely on our wonderful God to carry me through until the journey leads me back to you.

My Dream of You

You visited me in my dream last night. We were lying in bed. I snuggled up to you, letting the heat from your body warm me through. I held you tightly, breathed in the scent of you. My heart was full. I felt so very loved—and safe. The pain of the past four weeks was a distant memory. In fact, it ceased to exist. We lay in silence, breathing slow deep breaths, standing on the edge of dreamland not wanting to close our eyes—not wanting to miss a moment. When I lifted my face to kiss you, you smiled warmly and your eyes sparkled. Soft as butterfly wings, our lips met, but something was not quite right. I looked into your soft brown eyes and watched as the light slowly left them.  “Woody?” No response. “Woody, what’s going on?” Still, no response. Your body which just moments before had felt warm and comforting suddenly felt cold and clammy. I shook you. “Woody! Woody, please don’t leave me!  Woody, you can’t leave me. You just can’t leave me! Woody—please!”

Suddenly, you were no more. My arms were empty, but my heart? My heart was completely vacant. The air became frigid; the darkness enveloped me in cruelty. “Woody!” I yelled into the emptiness, yet I knew it was too late. You were gone—just as suddenly as you had been ripped from our lives four weeks ago. You were no more.

I awoke realizing that the deep sorrow and agony I have experienced cannot be understood by those who have not experienced it. Until you have watched the love of your life slide past you over the edge of a cliff and then have watched as the life slowly drained from his body, you cannot understand the anguish that we as a family are experiencing. Before this happened, I thought I knew heartache. I was clueless, and perhaps as insensitive as some of the people I have happened upon since that tragic day. I did not—could not—comprehend this level of grief. It is too horrible to grasp unless you experience it. There are no words to describe the constant ache in my heart and soul. Until one experiences great trauma and loss, one cannot understand the flux of emotions and the devastating toll it takes. Comfort does not come easily. Tear brimmed, swollen eyes tell the story that words cannot express.

Yet I find comfort in the God of peace. I curl up in His lap and I let His arms wrap me in love. I cry into His all-knowing shoulder. And He does know! He alone truly understands. We will be okay in time. We are desperately missing you, but in time we will learn to find a way to journey through life without your physical presence. God will see us through. And someday, I will see you again. I will be held in your arms and feel the warmth of your lips against mine. Someday. And on that day, I will not have to dream.

Losing a Father and the Jenner Debate

My children lost their “daddy” on Mother’s Day. For three and a half weeks I have watched them mourn in various ways. I have seen the grief overwhelm and numb. I have watched carefully from the sidelines trying to determine when to step in and help them process their loss in a healthy, constructive manner. Losing a parent is difficult. It redefines your reality. It brings up questions of identity. A void has been left in my children’s life that may never be filled. Hunter will not be able to call Woody for advice on how to propose to his girlfriend and then how to be a responsible, loving husband. Haley will not be able to wait in anticipation while her daddy interviews a prospective husband and then years later, walks her down the aisle to entrust her life to another man. And Haden will not be taught to drive and shave and countless other things by his loving father. Yes, I lost a husband, friend, lover, constant companion; but my children lost their hero.

While walking through the dark I have only been slightly aware of my surroundings. I have ignored the news and the events happening around the world. I have been too concerned about my own sphere of influence. My focus has been on my children and ensuring that this trauma does not define or destroy them. Pulling my head from the sand yesterday, I was made aware of the fact that Bruce Jenner is now Caitlyn Jenner; and apparently everyone has an opinion on the matter. Some people are downright shameful in their behavior. Being someone who does not have any association whatsoever to Caitlyn, I have no opinion. I am too troubled by my own life and safeguarding my recently downsized family that I haven’t the energy or time to bother myself with the personal struggles of a complete stranger. I am wondering what is being neglected in the lives of others that they have so much time to devote to saturating social media with sentiments which will be instantly criticized by someone else who has even more time on his or her hands. Why, people, are you squandering precious moments on something that will most likely never affect you when I am sure there are people living with you who need your opinions more than your countless followers?

If you are going to concern yourselves in the whole Bruce/Caitlyn debate, then please consider the people who matter most in this event—six children who just recently in a very public way lost their father. Kylie, Kendall, Brody, Casey, Burt, and Brandon Jenner just lost a father who, regardless of how well he did the job, was their hero. This has to be a confusing time for them whether they publicly admit it or not. Can we demonstrate a little compassion for these young people whose father, in a sense, has died? When I consider my own children and what they have just endured with their father’s death, the one thing that has been a tremendous help is hearing the stories from countless others as to the quality of the character of the man whom they knew as “dad.” Such positive feedback has aided them as they process their loss. I cannot imagine what it would be like for them if every day they had to read degrading comments questioning their father’s integrity. The Jenner children can no longer identify Caitlyn as father. Yes, one may argue that technically he is still part of their lives. But Bruce himself no longer exists. He was living a lie. How is that reality any better than a physical death?

As someone who has just had her life reprioritized by a very tragic incident, I ask you to focus on what really matters. Does a stranger’s sexual identity have anything at all to do with you directly? How will it affect your spouse and children? Is the whole fiasco distracting you from remembering who or what is truly worth your time? What if your spouse slid down a mountain as you stood helplessly to the side and left you a widow and your children without a parent? Would Jenner’s gender really matter? Please, for the sake of all that is truly important in your life, voice your opinions where they will be relevant—with your family, not your Facebook friends. 

How Are You? Really?

“How are you?” My guess is you really do not want the truth; so I respond with a polite “fine” and we both avoid the awkwardness of your question. How do you really think I am? I watched my husband slide down a granite slope and over the edge of a cliff and fall approximately 100 feet until a tree stopped him from descending any further. Then, with the help of two of my children and a random hiker or two, I pinned my husband to a steep slope for nearly an hour while he wrestled against us. We were trying to prevent him from plummeting 60 more feet and possibly taking one of us with him. And all the while, blood gushed from the back of his head no matter what we did to try to stop it. I am not fine. I may never be “fine” again. However, to save us both the pain of recounting my horrible plight to you, I will give you the pat answer and move on wishing people would quit asking me, “How are you?”

I know you are uncomfortable and do not know what to say. I realize it is unpleasant and puts you ill at ease; but if you do not want to know how I really feel, please do not ask. Just say, “I do not know what to say, but I’m praying for you;” or “thinking about you;” or simply, “I’m sorry.” I am feeling exactly as I should be—devastated, lost, frightened, confused. God is slowly helping me process every one of those emotions. But it is going to take a long time. Bear with me. I may not give you the response you want; I may even burst into tears. I am sorry if I am unpleasant to be around or say something that is politically incorrect. You will have to give me grace. I give it to you every time you ask, “How are you?”

Please know, though, that even as I walk through the gloom, I am filled with God’s peace. Eventually I will be okay. But do not expect too much too soon. Give me time. Give me space. And if you do not know what to say, do not say anything at all. I will laugh again. I will find my way back into the light—all in good time. Until then if it makes you feel uneasy to be around immense grief, then avoid me at all costs. I do not mind. It will make it easier for both of us because “how are you?” is just not what I want to hear right now.

From "We" to "Me"

Today is a struggle. While out for my morning run, my mind drifted to us. I thought of how we had celebrated when the year 2014 was over. It had been a year of personal and professional challenges. You had lost your job of fifteen years with a company and people you loved. It took eight long, stressful months before you found a new position which offered the opportunity for a new career. We celebrated all that 2015 would bring, knowing that it would be a year of promise and peace.

Working in Raleigh was tough. You, a family man to the core, had to be away from home five to six nights every week. Yet, we tried to make the most of every minute we had together. The best weeks were the ones when the kids and I joined you in North Carolina. We explored the area we knew was to be our new home. We tried different restaurants and boutiques. We laughed. We were building the foundation for a new life in a new city. We were excited to join you full time. We researched the different suburbs until we settled on Chapel Hill. We had it all planned out. We were once again developing dreams of a new future, one that would see the kids moving out and into lives of their own. We thought of future marriages and grandchildren. We were excited to grow old together. And everything was centered on “we”.

There is no “we” anymore. It hit me like a brick smashing into my thoughts and fragmenting every hope I had for the future. How do I do this without you? How can I grow old when it will no longer be “we”? I can barely even get out of bed in the morning; so how do I walk into the future without the love of my life standing beside me, affectionately holding my hand? We were one, and now half of me has died. I left my sarcastic, jovial, gregarious half on the summit of Mt. Yonah. I am truly feeling lost without you. How is it possible that on one fateful day life was drastically altered and went from "we" to "me'?

I love you, Woody. Death cannot defeat love, nor can it steal the lifetime of memories you gave. I will, with God’s loving assistance, walk through this valley until I am once again standing in the light.  I know that eventually I will grow accustomed to the loneliness of “me,” but even then I will always miss the fulfillment of  “we.” 

For a Moment

While searching for our American flag today, I had to stop myself from calling Woody to ask where it is. For a moment, I forgot. For a moment, I was a devoted wife whose husband was once again out of town on business. For a moment, life was normal. But my moment was very short lived as the floodgates opened and I remembered that my loving husband was tragically ripped from my life exactly two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, I stood on a mountain trail, watching as EMT’s struggled to stabilize Woody so that he could be lifted on a board to where the life flight crew waited. Two weeks ago I stood pleading with God to spare Woody’s life and bring about a miracle. Two weeks ago, God said no.

I still do not understand why this is my story. Why is this my incident to record? Why have I been appointed author to a tragedy? I wanted to create a romantic comedy, with a few glitches here and there. This was not the story I wanted to write. This is not the story I should write. Yet, here I am penning my thoughts, recording my tears, relaying my fears. And still, I lack understanding.

I am leery of the future. I cannot imagine living life solo. My partner is gone. The one who annoyed me with his sarcasm while I was attempting to have a serious conversation will never again laugh at my frustration. The one who cheered me on through all of my creative endeavors even when he hated what I had created will never again cringe at one of my paintings. The one who held my hand every night while I drifted off to sleep will never again cup my hands in his. The one who calmed me and held me through the storms of life will never again assure me of peace. However, I am not without hope. Yes, my future looks lonely without Woody. Yet, I will never be alone.

I could not find the flag today. Still, what I did find in the moment after reality hit was a peace as God held me in His arms and comforted my soul. I found rest as God reminded me that He knows my pain and not once throughout this whole ordeal has He left my side. I may never understand why God said no up on that mountain peak—nor will I ever stop hating that “no.” Nevertheless, I will always know that I am deeply loved by a God who will continue to embrace me while I grieve through this storm.

The Way You Died

“BLUNT FORCE HEAD AND CHEST TRAUMA”

I read the words on the death certificate and tears sting my eyes; I catch my breath. My chest tightens up and the room starts to spin. “So, this is how they will say you died,” I whisper to an empty room.

I can still see how you died. I can still see the look in your caramel-brown eyes as you slid past me and over the edge of the granite cliff. I can still see the dark red blood pouring from the back of your head onto the stone side of the mountain and onto my shoes. I can still see your eyes swollen shut as you bled from your nose and your mouth. I know how you died. It continues to haunt me every night.

 Yet, I must remember how you lived. You lived with so much gusto. You crammed as much living as you possibly could into every moment. Sometimes it annoyed me. “Can’t you just sit still and read a book?” A ridiculous request, I know; but sometimes it was exhausting just watching you live. However, you were an excellent salesman. You sold me on life and love.  We laughed and cried through every quest, always searching for the next adventure. You taught me to be brave. You taught me how to live fully as if every day were my last. But most importantly, you taught me to love—to love God and to love you.

I will miss you as long as I live; yet, I live in hope that one day we will be reunited. God holds me tightly in His ever loving arms as He ever so gently carries me through this nightmare. The ache in my heart is unbearable. My whole being yearns for you. Still, I am thankful—thankful for the years we shared, thankful for the father and husband you were, and thankful for God’s guidance in our marriage.

Yes, you died violently and early. Yet you lived passionately and abundantly. That is what I will commit to memory. That is how I will remember you.

Broken and Blessed

To be loved and love completely is priceless. Life is too short. It can be snuffed out in an instant when you least suspect it. We become complacent in the routine of life and we forget just how precious the people who do life with us are. We tend to take for granted those who trudge along beside us on this journey called life. And then when they are gone we know for certain just how valuable they were.

Love is the essence of life, and if you are fortunate enough to be united with another person in holy matrimony, then you can never neglect the vow to love. Because if—really when—that person is suddenly ripped from your arms by tragedy, you will have wasted two lives. Loving someone completely will provide you solace when life no longer surges through his or her veins.

I have loved and have been loved completely by a man who healed me through that love. I have been content and full to the brim. I have been blessed beyond words by a man who has adored me for nearly 21 years. He has been a devoted husband and father. He has been my life, and I did not take for granted what we had. We had toiled diligently to achieve intimacy forged by faith. I will never forget what I had with Woody and will miss him every day for the rest of my life.

Tragedy did strike our happy home. The bliss I have known, the love and the beauty of a fulfilled marriage, have been ripped from my hands by an incident too terrible for words. However even though I am completely broken, I am still blessed. God gave me the most exquisite gift, one forged through the flames and polished to a golden glow. I will never stop praising the name of the One who allowed me to know what it was to be Woody’s wife. Broken and blessed by the One who blessed me ultimately through His brokenness.

Life is short this side of heaven. However, eternity waits for me and so does the man who gave me just a glimpse of the love and joy I have yet to know there. Thank you, Woody, for being the man God created you to be. And just know you are still loved completely.

Excerpts from My Book

I am busily writing, but not about intimacy in marriage. This time, I am writing to teenage/single young women about how living a life of purity will set the foundation for intimacy in marriage. So, while all my creative juices are working towards that, I will be occasionally posting excerpts from my book Finding Intimacy in Marriage: A Spiritual, Emotional And Physical Journey published by Faith Books & More, copyright 2014. If you have not read my book, then I hope you enjoy these posts. If you have, then please be patient while I work on my next project. I promise I will have new material for the blog once I am finished.

If you are interested in purchasing my book, it can be found on amazon.com or Barnes&Noble.com.

"In our backyard we have fruit trees and grape vines.  Waiting for the fruit to ripen on the branch or the vine is hard during the late days of summer and early days of fall.  However, the tartness of a not quite ripe grape is usually enough to keep me from picking the fruit before its time.  I cannot tell you how many times I have gazed longingly upon a plum-colored grape, bursting with juice and thought, “Now it’s time,” and picked it, only to spit it out in disgust because it just wasn’t ready to be harvested.  We manage to do the same thing with sex.  There it is, hanging on the vine, just ready to be plucked off and enjoyed.  Our greedy fingers grab hold of it, consume it, and then spew it onto the ground, ruining the sweetness of what we might have known had we only waited.  We rob ourselves of the sweetness that comes from the rush of that first kiss or the nerve-tingling excitement of that first embrace.  Physical intimacy before marriage deprives us of the ultimate pleasure of that first bite.

God wants us to enjoy the intimacies of sex within the protective walls of a covenant relationship. Instead, we have traded the perfect for the passing pleasure of the moment and are suffering the consequences. Sex binds people in a way that nothing else can, and it also has the power to break people when it is abused.  That is why God is so clear about sexual immorality and marriage.  There are no gray areas.  This is not one of those “disputable” matters.  God has a plan, and the purpose of that plan is to protect marriages and His covenant relationship with believers.

Many times throughout the Bible, the relationship between the church (believers) and Christ is compared to a marriage.  Isaiah 62:5b says, “as a bridegroom rejoices over his bride, so will your God rejoice over you.”  In Matthew 25, Jesus told the parable of the ten virgins, comparing His return to the bridegroom. Again, in Mark 2, Jesus refers to Himself as the bridegroom, and one of the clearest descriptions of the church as the bride of Christ is given in Revelation 19.

Paul tells us in Ephesians 5:22-23, that the relationship between Christ and the church is a “profound mystery.”  However, through the covenant of marriage, we can begin to understand that union.  Marriage teaches us how to love unconditionally and how to sacrifice self for the sake of another.  It teaches us respect and commitment.  Through marriage we can begin to understand true intimacy, an internal knowledge, a oneness that can only be experienced within the union of marriage.  By understanding this bond, we can better appreciate the connection we have with Christ and how He sacrificed Himself to bring us into the beautiful relationship we have with our God.  Jesus Christ was the unblemished sacrifice—the only offering pure enough to die in our place and cover us with His righteousness.  The blood of the purest Lamb brought us into covenant relationship. He committed one hundred percent.  We were His only love.  He never courted any other.  He waited until the perfect time, and then He gave all He had to give.  That is to be our model of marriage.

Ask yourself this, what would Jesus’ sacrifice upon the cross mean had He been defiled in any way?  What if He had entered into the covenant relationship with a past full of lust-filled fantasies and sexual impurity?  I am not saying that Jesus wasn’t fully man.  He was, and as a man, He was a sexual being.  He appreciated a beautiful woman just as much as any man does.  However, He never desired a woman in an unhealthy, ungodly fashion.  He never lusted.  If He had given in to any temptation, including impure thoughts, it would have disqualified Him to be the Messiah, the Lamb of God, the perfect sacrifice suitable to die in our place and cover our sins.  Do you see how coming into a covenant relationship defiled can fracture a bond before it is even made?

Satan knows how damaging premarital sex and impurity in thought and action are, more so than we will ever know.  He knows that if marriages lose their value, our relationship with God loses its value.  He knows that if he can attack the first union established by God, all others will fall apart too, including the most important one we have—that with God.  We no longer value purity, holiness, what it means to be consecrated for God’s use; in fact, we really do not even know what these words mean anymore.  They have been redefined and secularized.  Even the word “marriage” has been reinterpreted by our society so many times that we are no longer clear as to what it stands for.  And the attack continues to this day.  Sexual impurity is Satan’s ace in the hole.  He understands what this means; he gets the significance.  Why can’t we?

Premarital sex and impure sexual desires cheapen sex inside of marriage.  The beauty of what God has in store is stolen.  God created sex and the way He planned it is far better than any cheap, X-rated film—better than even the most romantic movie Hollywood can imagine.  It is more pleasurable than the lust-driven, heat-of-the-moment romps portrayed in every soap opera with the perfectly chiseled male and exquisitely beautiful, well-proportioned blonde.  It is finer than the photo shopped, airbrushed images in a magazine.  It is even more exciting than forbidden love because it is not associated with guilt.  There is no bitter aftertaste that stays with you robbing you of the sweetness of true sexual pleasure that satisfies with tenderness rather than tension.  That is how God designed it.  Why are we letting our sex-saturated culture snatch this away from us with its cheap, counterfeit version?  And we wonder why our marriages lack intimacy and are falling apart at record rates?  We have bought into a terrible lie.  The world’s offering to engage in sexual sin has turned physical intimacy into a form of self-indulgent, pleasure seeking entertainment.  The value of love-making has been lost.

The reason our marriages lack physical intimacy is because sex shouldn’t be an act of self-gratification and intense passion the way it is portrayed on television and on the big screen.  It should be a moment of considerate, tender love-making.  There should only be two people involved and not a host of memories clouding the moment and stealing the heart.  When you have had physical encounters with people other than your spouse, it can be difficult to keep your mind in the moment and not fantasize about what it was like when you were single and sex was thrilling.  Love-making may not be “thrilling;” it may be quite comfortable.  There should be a familiarity and ease about it.  It has a different sort of “excitement”; an excitement that is healthy and causes our affections to grow stronger and more sensitive to the needs of our spouse.  That is how God designed it.  And there is something delightful about the lack of intensity."