Kathy's Fall

On the day of Woody's celebration of life, his mother Kathy fell flat on her face. It was terribly traumatic. When we were able to get her to her feet, blood covered her face and her eyes were starting to swell shut. Woody's dad Rick took her to the ER to discover the extent of her injuries. Kathy's fall revealed how fragile we were. We had been hiding from the way in which Woody died, focused instead on the devastating loss. But when another freak accident touched our lives, we were instantly back on the mountain, holding Woody, frantically trying to prevent him or ourselves from sliding down any farther, knowing we were at risk of injury or death. Once again the agonizing groans, the blood gushing from his nose, mouth and head were unavoidable facts we had to acknowledge. When I went to bed that evening, my chest ached and I struggled to breathe. Every time I drifted off, I woke to quick breathing and the tightening in my chest. I was terrified. How would I ever live with the images of that day seared in my brain? How would I learn to reconcile the reality that had been dealt to us? I did not see how life could ever hold any hope, not with those memories. One would have to be eliminated—either hope or the haunting images that plagued my every waking and sleeping moment. When would I ever feel anything other than heartache? Again, I fell to my knees in uncontrollable sobs. “God, why? You could have stopped this and You didn’t. I don’t understand. How is this love? How is this Your best?” Every nerve ending felt as if it had been ignited. My heart was so broken and I could not see how it would ever be whole again. Still, as I cried out to God I felt His presence rest on me, as if He were holding me close, and I was consumed with indescribable warmth. I crawled back into bed. No, I could not see any way through the gloom. I could not see any path that led to happiness and light, but deeply buried in the recesses of my mind I knew that God would guide us through and somehow bring beauty from the ashes accumulating in our lives.

Now, I have hope and have learned to reconcile our experience on Mount Yonah with a world controlled by a benevolent God. It has been a journey which I am continuing to write about. Just know that no matter how hopeless life may seem, it will get better. There is always hope somewhere in the future. Sometimes it just takes a while to discover it.

Hopeful

Thanksgiving 2017. It has been two and a half years since our lives were forever altered. We never talk about that day. How do we incorporate such tragedy into the tapestry of our lives? It is as if that day exists upon a separate timeline, far removed from the new reality we have created—the one in which Woody is a beautiful, painful memory. He is gone, but we never discuss how or why. The elephant in the room has a date and a name:  May 10, 2015, traumatic death. And we slowly walk around the elephant, ignoring its presence, pretending that the space occupied by the beast is vacant. Some days I want to grab it by the tusks and wrestle it viciously to the ground. I am so tired of the heaviness it exerts on our lives. “Why can’t you go away?” I demand. As much as I try to approach the elephant and find a way to integrate it into our lives, I can’t. So, just like the children, I ignore it.

Trauma does that. It exists on its own. It is difficult to accept. Yet, accept it we must. Slowly, we approach the mammal, careful not to stir the beast, knowing that we must somehow clear the room of the large animal that has taken up residence in our lives. It is a process that may take years more. There is no rushing healing. There is no easy button, no shortcuts. However, God holds us so closely, and every day we breathe a little easier. I am hopeful for the first time in a long time—truly hopeful! I do not know what the future holds, but I do know God holds our future. And that alone is enough to make me hopeful.

Growing Up Without Dad

Why does it still hurt so badly? The tears that stream down my face seem to be excessive. Shouldn’t the emotional pool that holds my grief be empty by now? Surely I have wept enough. But watching Haden break down in blubbering sobs is more than this mother can bear. He turned 17 yesterday—a young man. When Woody died he was a child of 14, and today it hit him that he is growing up without his dad. “I just want a dad!” he cried into my shoulder as I held his trembling body. “I’m growing up and I just want him here to see me!” There was nothing to say. No words to soothe away the pain. I just held him and tried to keep my tears at bay. He needed me to be strong for the two of us, although I felt as if I were being crushed beneath the weight of his sorrow.

It is wrong. There is nothing right about a boy growing up without his father no matter what the circumstances may be. Yet there are so many who are be it through death, divorce, or desertion. And yes, God is our Heavenly Father; however, that does not take the place of a dad’s hug or a seat in the bleachers. It is difficult to see God’s hand in a situation that seems hopeless. Nevertheless, we keep pushing forward with faith knowing that someday eternity awaits and finally the tears will run dry and there will be no more pain or sorrow. For now though, we struggle through unmentionable grief and the harsh reality that sometimes a boy’s earthly father won’t be there to see him grow from a boy to a man. It is wrong, but it is reality.

Today I mourn Haden’s loss more than my own, and though I wish there were some words of wisdom to bring us both comfort, there aren’t. This is one of those times we plow through the pain and wait for God’s comfort to heal our brokenness. Until then, I will continue to wonder just how many tears remain in my emotional pool of grief.

A Spontaneous Decision

When I responded to my friend’s post on Facebook, I was joking. She was trying to sell concert tickets she had for a performance in Aspen, Colorado. She needed to sell them or find a date. “I’ll be your date!” was my reply.

An hour later, she texted me. “Were you serious…?

“I was tempted,” I responded. The next thing I knew I was booking a flight to leave in a little over a week to go to Aspen. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I told Gaile. “This is the most spontaneous, un-grownup thing I have done since I was in my 20s. What am I thinking?” But I did it. With my dear friend on the phone encouraging me, I clicked the mouse on, “purchase tickets,” and it was done.

I am not a “fly by the seat of your pants” type person. I think things through, logically and prayerfully. I am slow to respond and never make decisions on a dime. Woody learned years ago not to surprise me, but to give me at least a week of advance notice if he wanted to take me on a “surprise” trip. I need time to process things. I can’t just “pick up and go.” Yet, today without thinking through all the scenarios and planning everything out to the millisecond, I decided to take a trip half-way across the continent without my kids trusting that they will be okay in my absence and not making arrangements with friends to check in on them and micromanage every moment of the three days I’ll be gone. I did not let fear hold me back.

And to be honest, that’s what it’s all about. Being their only parent, I have been afraid to leave them since Woody died. I have been too worried about, “What if something happens to me? I can’t leave them alone. I can’t take any chances.” Everything—every decision in the past two years and three months—has been primarily for them and with their best interests in mind. This is the first thing I have done for me, and it is slightly terrifying.

This is where trust comes in. God has brought us this far, and I know He will continue to carry us. So, for the first time in a very long time, I am doing something completely out of character and am going to Aspen to spend a day listening to music with my best friend. I’m going to trust that God will care for my kids, but more importantly that He will care for me and bring me back home safely.

So…here’s to spontaneity and friends that push you out of your comfort zone; and a God who’s bigger than my fears.

Memories & Moving

March 10, 2009, we moved into this home, a family of five with two dogs and a bearded dragon. We had made the 1,947 mile journey from Draper, Utah to Braselton, Georgia, and we were excited to see what God had planned next for our family. Hunter was 13, Haley was 10, and Haden was eight. Life was good and was only going to get better. We were full of anticipation and hope, and for six years we knew laughter and tears as we built memory upon memory into the foundation of our lives. When Woody received a job offer that would relocate our family to Raleigh, North Carolina, we all tried to view the move as another positive opportunity, but truth be known, not one of us wanted to move. Braselton had become our home and the people here had become our family. For eight months Woody commuted as we tried to sell our house and adjust to another transfer. And then life took an unexpected turn; in an instant we became too well acquainted with grief and trauma.

Now, for the last time, we are packing up our personal items and leaving the house we first called home eight years ago—the house we so carefully chose with Woody at the head of our family, guiding our decisions and protecting our hearts. As we pack up the boxes, I wonder how we will pack up the memories. Can we carefully place them in bubble wrap and pray they won’t become fragmented and broken through the move? Can we label the boxes “fragile” and gently place them in the moving van with specific instructions as to how they should be handled? How do we gather six years of memories—memories that pervade every room—and keep them intact? How do we peel them off the walls and separate them from the rooms that Woody once occupied? Every space in this home tells the story of Woody’s last years. I can still picture him sitting behind his desk in his office or standing over his bathroom sink shaving. When we leave, will the memories go with us?

I cannot answer even one of those questions. I do not see how this will play out. However, I do know that just as we have survived every excruciating moment since the day of Woody’s horrific death, we will survive this one too. Woody may no longer be here to guide our decisions and protect our hearts, but God has taken over and will continue to hold us throughout another transition. I will trust Him to carry the memories and store them away for safe keeping, and when the timing is right, unpack them one by one.

July 10, 2017, we will move from this home into a smaller, more manageable one. We are no longer a family of five, yet I know God will be faithful and fill the next house with laughter and tears. We will construct new memories on top of the foundation that has already been laid. So, here is to the next leg of our journey and praying that it will be better.

Hunter's Wedding

We did it. We made it through Hunter’s wedding without Woody. I am not going to lie—it wasn’t easy. The weeks leading up to the event were heart wrenching. How was it possible that our oldest son was getting married without his dad? Who did I have to lean on while reminiscing about Hunter’s infancy through adolescence? Who would wipe my tears and hold me close when the tears began to trickle down my cheeks as Hunter pledged his love to the woman who would become first in his life?

I sat beside a chair that held a framed photo of Woody with a single white rose resting in the seat next to it. In the photograph, Woody stood in front of a body of water, just as Hunter and Lilli took their vows in front of a lake. I did not realize the connection when I chose that photo for the ceremony, but when I realized the similarities I was overwhelmed with emotion. It was as if Woody were there with us standing to the side, smiling, hands on hips, as his eldest son entered into the covenant relationship of marriage. “Thank you, God, for allowing me to feel Woody’s presence.” The tears flowed steadily as I rested my hand on the empty seat with his photo.

Loss is never simple. It leaves devastation and hopelessness in its wake. Grief is no respecter of person or place. It strikes like a snake in the grass, hidden from view waiting for the opportune time to attack. There is no preparing for it when it rears its ugly head. Yet when it does assail its unsuspecting victim, there is a remedy. God has given me the antivenin necessary to ward off the deadly effects of grief. Every time He is there—providing me comfort and hope for the future.

I know there are many more days we will have to maneuver through without Woody, and each will present its own challenges. But I also know that God will be with us, gently carrying us forward as we continue down the road that leads to healing.

Never Again

I’m not sure why it hit me so hard this morning, but out of nowhere a wave of grief came crashing down on me pulling me out to sea as I flailed, trying to catch my breath. For a moment I was buried beneath the weight of the water as it flooded my soul and squeezed any sense of contentment from my heart. It was a thought—one innocuous thought—that sent me reeling. We have a summer league swim meet tonight, which Haden will be participating in. A friend of mine mentioned that her husband will be out of town for it. When she told me, I was completely unaffected by her statement, but for some reason it hit me this morning that Woody is not out of town. That is not the reason he will miss this meet and every swim meet Haden will ever swim in. He is gone. He will never see his son swim again. He will not watch his oldest son get married in nine days. He will not see his only daughter mature into the beautiful, strong woman she is. He will never be here again.

Perhaps, somewhere deep inside, I had fooled myself into believing that Woody has been on an extended business trip. The last eight months of his life he commuted to work in North Carolina, which meant we only saw him two to three times a month. I think I had convinced a part of myself that just as he returned from all of those business trips, he would someday return. I think I somewhat expected him to walk through our front door and apologize for being gone so long and for causing so much grief. I knew he would never miss out on his kids’ big events. He was the most involved father I have ever known. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, “he’ll be back,” has been playing on repeat. But not anymore. Woody is gone. We are on our own.

Therefore, I will crawl into my Heavenly Father’s comforting arms and wait for Him to soothe away the pain. I ache for what Woody is missing. I ache for what the children are experiencing without him. I ache for the life we had planned that will never be. Yet, I know God is here, and He will not miss a single breath. And that is the hope I cling to when grief washes over me and takes my breath away. God is near. We are not really on our own.

Back to Writing About Woody's Death

I know God has called me to write about Woody's death and how He has carried us through. It has been a long process, mostly because sitting down and reconnecting with all of those memories is brutally painful. However, I know it must be done.

Today, I have recounted Kathy's arrival (Woody's mother). The loss of a child has been termed the worst type of bereavement. Let me separate this from miscarriage. We suffered two miscarriages, one at seven weeks and the other at 15 weeks. Miscarriage is a difficult loss, but it is more the loss of opportunity. I never held those children in my arms and nursed them at my breast. I did not stay up through the nights they were sick and nurse them back to health. I did not cry at their weddings and beam as they had children of their own. Woody's parents held and protected and loved their child for 43 years. Their loss is one that I hope to never understand. Please keep them in your constant prayers as they continue to heal. 

The following is an exert from the book I am currently writing:

"So much of those first days is a blur. I felt as if I were walking through a fog, numb, confused, trying to process what had happened. There were so many people, yet I felt completely alone. There is no way to explain it. Everyone was so helpful, which is exactly what I needed because I could not function. My thoughts were scattered and incoherent. Someone arranged a service to pick up Kathy, Woody’s mom, and Dani, my sister-in-law, from the airport. Food was delivered. Conversations took place around me, yet I could not focus on what anyone was saying.

When Kathy arrived, the tears that I thought had run dry began anew. Woody had always been extremely close to his mother. He adored her. They were so similar in so many ways. They both enjoyed cooking, loved serving others, and were extremely sociable. He called his mother nearly every day. I wondered how she would survive the loss of her oldest child—the darling baby boy who had first made her a mother. For 43 years she had celebrated life with him and had done all she could to ensure his happiness and safety. My heart broke for both of us. I knew that I could not endure the loss she now suffered.

There was nothing to say to either of us to soothe the pain—no words can bring comfort when death shatters your world. We held each other and cried, spoke a few words about next steps and then collapsed in each other’s arms again. I wondered if the tears would ever cease. How could we ever feel whole again without the man who brought so much life and laughter into every day? He was the glue that held us all together and made certain that we spent as much time together as possible, even when nearly half a continent separated us. 

Two Years

Two years.

How is it possible? When I consider the valley I have traversed, it is truly a miracle that I am here, standing, and sanely remembering. There has been so much pain. My whole being has ached with the agony of grief. I have shed countless tears—enough to fill a small lake at least. And still they fall, intermittently, unexpected. There is no logical explanation for them.

Occasionally, I am stopped in my tracks as a memory clouds my view of reality. I am taken back to that day two years ago. I am once again on that hard, granite slope frozen in fear as the love of my life slides past me. We have locked eyes just as we did on that day until he disappears over the ledge. I do not know in that moment that I will never look into those caramel brown eyes again. I do not know that our lives will be forever marked by tragedy.

Father God, I am only here at this point in time by Your grace. You have carried me when I have collapsed in a heap full of fear and panicked. You have patiently listened to my ranting when my rage was directed towards You. You have held me all those nights as I tossed and turned reliving every agonizing moment on the mountain top. When I could not breathe as anxiety constricted my airway, You gave me peace. When I was buried beneath a heap of sorrow, you plowed through the tears and gave me comfort.

And now I stand at the two year mark and wonder, “How is it possible?”

One word—God 

Motherhood

Motherhood is a privilege, so they say; but what about those days when it feels like bondage riddled with psychological torture? If you are a mother and you are honest, you have had one of those days. They sneak up on you like a ninja when all seems to be rolling along peacefully. “I’ve got this!” you think, patting yourself on the back for good measure; and then Wham! You find yourself face down on the floor with tire marks stretching the length of your backside from the truck that just ran you over. “You’ve got what?” the driver shouts back at you. Yes, one of those days.

I love being a mother; however, I swear that most days motherhood doesn’t love me. “Okay, God, remind me again what I was supposed to learn from that?” I find myself asking for the 32nd time of the day; and it’s only 10:00 a.m. What is the purpose? 

If I have learned nothing else from parenting, I have learned that I am completely incapable of doing it on my own. I do not have the power or patience to pull it off. I may be full of love, but sometimes the frustration of three young people who refer to me as “mom” and who have very opinionated personalities and lives full of “problems,” leaves me banging my head up against the kitchen wall wondering what in the world am I supposed to do with that! “How in the world did you shoot yourself in the mouth with your airsoft gun?” is not a question any mother should have to ask of her twelve year old son. But I have. “What were you doing that you rear-ended the man in front of you?” also not a question you want to ask your seventeen year old son, but I have. As a mother of multiple children, I find myself investigating crime scenes and mending broken items (from wrecked cars to relationships) several times a day. And I am thoroughly convinced every step of the way that I am not equipped for the job God has called me to do. 

Or am I? Most days I may be convinced that I am pretty hopeless at this whole parenting thing, but then I am reminded of the fact that I am not alone. God has promised to be with me every step of the way. Psalm 73 states that He is holding my hand, guiding me when I am “senseless and ignorant” (verse 22-24). In Philippians 4:13 I am told that “I can do everything through him who gives me strength” (NIV). And somehow, after the truck has bulldozed me over, I am able to stand up and try again. Somehow, the trauma and drama that unfolds in our household day after day is resolved and lessons have been learned. Believe it or not, we are becoming better people, more compassionate, less judgmental. We are learning that success comes through surrender. What is the purpose? Learning to trust in the Power of God. I am not equipped, but I am living for the ultimate equipper.

Motherhood may be the most difficult thing I have ever experienced in my life, and not every moment feels like a blessing. But I know that ten years from now when my children have moved from adolescence to adulthood, I will look back at this time and know with complete certainty that every day was a privilege and they were ultimately my purpose.

Getting Into the Trenches

Christians have become complacent, comfortable. We like everything to run efficiently and with ease. We have no time for those things which interfere with our daily routines. Problems are welcome as long as they don’t involve too much discomfort and sacrifice on our part. Grief, trauma, sorrow—those are messy items that we spend hours upon hours trying to fix and tidy up. We want to remove the suffering and make everything better. We will apply every salve known to mankind in order to ensure that there are no scars left behind. We wouldn’t want anything spoiling our ideal lives; and wounds are ugly, complicated affairs that have the ability to leave nasty scars.

Yet, I look at the resurrected Christ, whose power lives in us, and He had scars. Thomas put his hand in the wounds of the resurrected Christ. Those scars and His suffering are foundational to the power to which God has given believers access. Christ’s suffering is the very thing that has given Christians their freedom. His weakness is our strength.  The message in the scars is not that the power of the resurrection makes our suffering go away, but that God can and will use it for His glory. In Philippians 3:10, Paul states that he wants to know Christ and the “power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings.” How many of us are truly willing to share in the fellowship of suffering? How many of us are willing to walk among those who are suffering great trauma and loss and enter into a relationship founded upon suffering? But that’s what we have been called to do.

Christians need to get over this idea that suffering, grief, loss, and sorrow are horrible things to be avoided at all costs. When someone suffers great trauma, it is our job to climb into the trenches with that person—not in an attempt to make the suffering go away, but to help that person process the unspeakable and bring the power of the resurrection to revitalize the dead places. It is our job to assist the individual as he or she figures out how to live with the atrocity and visualize how God can work through weakness to demonstrate His great strength.

Life is messy, and grief is even messier. Quit trying to sweep it under the rug. Instead, encourage healthy conversations that will truly help the person who is suffering learn to heal.

Haden's Driving, Another Milestone

Haden turned 15 four months after Woody’s death. Although he had finally reached the age when he could obtain his driver’s permit, I was not ready. Teaching the kids to drive had always been Woody’s responsibility. He had nerves of steel and was extremely laid back about near misses with mailboxes and vehicles. I had the luxury of waiting until the kids were relatively proficient at driving before getting in the car with them as a passenger. Then it was my job to fine tune their skills until they reached 16 and could test for their provisional driver’s license. I was not ready to teach Haden. I couldn’t. It was just another reminder of all the things Haden would miss doing with his dad.

Five months after Haden’s birthday, after much pleading, I was ready. It was terrifying for me, but somehow we made it through without me yelling or puking. Only once after he had pulled out into oncoming traffic nearly causing a collision, did I make him pull over and let me drive. Six months after he began, I let him drive on the interstate for the first time. He was nervous. Little did he know, I was terrified. Yet, I remained calm and encouraged him as we made our way south on I85. I couldn’t imagine that I would ever quit gripping the arm rest and praying while he drove us through rush hour traffic. But I did.

This past Friday, Haden was eligible to take his driving test for his license. Although he had had an instructor from Taggart’s Driving School work with him on parallel parking and backing into a parking space, he was terrified that he would fail those two skills on his test. “Everyone I know has passed it the first time!” he anxiously informed me.

“So, are you afraid that you’ll be the first person who doesn’t?” Yes. Haden contacted our youth pastor who was in between winter retreats with our youth, but he made the time anyways. Dustin arrived at our house Thursday morning with cones in hand and took Haden to a nearby parking lot to practice. He offered to help him again in the evening, but Haden felt at that point he was prepared. Needless to say, he passed with flying colors. Another milestone without Woody.

I am so proud of Haden. He never complains about Woody’s absence. He never behaves as if he is unfortunate. He stays positive in the face of insurmountable loss and trauma. I know that is God in him. Haden’s faith has remained rock solid throughout all of this, and God continues to bring people into his life to help him through these moments. You see, Dustin wasn’t the only man who offered to help Haden. Ryan, a man who works with our youth ministry, also offered. And truth be told, there were probably 20 more men in our church who would have gladly stepped in to assist Haden. I must remember God’s provision when our loss weighs heavily upon my heart. God will always be there—especially for the milestone moments.

“A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.”—Psalm 68:5

One Year and Nine Months

“I cried out to God for help; I cried out to God to hear me. When I was in distress, I sought the Lord; at night I stretched out untiring hands and my soul refused to be comforted.” –Psalm 77:1-2

One year and nine months. I have suffered more than I can adequately articulate. My heart has been shattered countless times. My tears could have filled an ocean. Suffering?—it has become an old associate, one whom I am ready to abandon. I have been intimately acquainted with despair. Like the psalmist, I have stretched out my hands at night, waiting for comfort that constantly eluded me.

Yet God has brought me through the storm. He has lifted me out of the darkness where my memories tormented my soul and filled my heart with hopelessness. God has pried the fingers from my throat that threatened to snatch away my life. He has given me shelter and satiated my whole being with peace. He has sat quietly by my bedside as I sobbed through the nights, waiting for the morning light to bring reprieve. God has been by my side through every tear, every fear, and has loved me through it all. I am His—completely and continually.

There may still be valleys that I must voyage through, and misery may accompany me through them. However, I will never be alone and eventually the gloom of grief will be completely overcome by God’s glorious love. You see, I am not forgotten.

King to Queen

I saw the advertisement on a Facebook page dedicated to our neighborhood—“Antique French bed includes headboard, footboard, and side rails. Good condition.” Hmm.... I thought about it for a week before making inquiries. Another week passed before I heard a response from the owner. Today was the day I finally made contact with the woman who was selling it and arranged a time after church to see the bed. Today was the day I officially decided that it is time to exchange my king sized bed for something smaller.

When I drove up to the home to examine the bed, an older couple was working diligently in the front yard, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm January day. I immediately liked them. They both had smile lined faces and the lines around their eyes told the story of all the joy they had shared over the years. “Hi, I’m Kim. I texted you about the bed.”

“Hello, I’m Renate,” the woman spoke with a thick South African accent and extended her hand to take mine. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” We made our way to the garage where the head board leaned against a wall. Renate showed me a stamp near the bottom. “See, this is the stamp showing it was made in Paris.”

“Where did you find this?” I was curious to know more.

“I bought it 42 years ago in South Africa when we were first married. It was in an antique store. We just recently bought a bigger bed.” Her husband joined us in the garage. Their mannerisms demonstrated a love and intimacy that was over forty years strong.

“I’ll take it.”

Her husband spoke up, “When will your husband see it? When you get home?”

“No,” I hesitated a moment, “my husband is dead. That’s why I’m buying this. I have a king bed and just decided it’s time to downsize. I don’t even use half my bed.”

There was an awkward silence. “I’m sorry,” he responded, eyes downcast.

They helped Haden and I load the bed into the back of our Expedition. They gave us pillows to provide padding between the pieces, and then Renate followed us home so that we would not need to return them. We spoke a little and with every word I liked her even more. Before she left I told her, “Now I have a piece of your story.”

She smiled and her eyes twinkled. “Yes, you do.”

Marriage is such a gift. It is the covenant relationship that God uses to demonstrate His connection with the church. I believe wholeheartedly in marriage and value it even more now that Woody is gone. It is not something to be taken for granted but to be cherished and preserved. Renate and her husband reminded me of what Woody and I had hoped to have in another 22 years. However, our story was rewritten and now I have learned to lean on God as I adjust to a life that does not include a husband to have and to hold into old age. It means a life of transitions, such as downsizing from a king to a queen. But with every adjustment, with every change I grow stronger. God is slowly removing the clouds to reveal His brilliant sunlight.

Hopefully soon I can begin the work of restoring the queen bed, and as I do I know I’ll remember Renate’s beautiful smile and the marriage that began in South Africa 42 years ago. I will also remember how God has faithfully carried me through the darkness and continues to restore my heart. King to queen—another step forward.