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.