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.

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.

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.