The Theology of Suffering & The Resurrection

             As Gary R. Habermas relayed the story of his wife’s death due to stomach cancer in his book, The Risen Jesus & Future Hope, tears stung my eyes and a knot formed in my stomach. His wife was 43 when she succumbed to cancer, the same age my husband was when he died from blunt force trauma. Habermas was very transparent as he shared his fears and doubts.[1] Through studying Job he discovered that Job’s real problem was his inability to understand the circumstances he was questioning.[2] This seems to be a common theme when considering the theology of suffering.

            The problem of evil has been a philosophical argument against the existence of God since Epicurus first formulated and classically stated the problem. Why would an omnibenevolent God allow suffering and pain in the world? What do believers do with the theology of suffering? The crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ answers these questions and more.

            On Mother’s Day 2015, my children and I watched as their devoted father and my loving husband lost his footing and slid belly first down a granite slope until he disappeared over the ledge. He continued to tumble like a rag doll for over 100 feet until his head crashed into a tree stump and stopped his descent. When we reached him he was still alive, but it was only his brain stem that was still functioning as he moaned and thrashed around like a wounded animal. His skull was cracked and his scalp hung from the back of his head. We held him on a steep slope for over an hour waiting for the EMT’s to arrive, constantly in fear of our own lives, knowing there was 60 more feet to fall. When the EMT’s arrived they hurried everyone out of the area knowing it was too dangerous. They worked on him for hours, but as he was strapped to a board being lifted by a helicopter to the life flight crew, he died. Life would never be normal again.

            As we all struggled through post-traumatic stress disorder and the loss of our leader, the one question I asked God continually was, “Why? Why did he have to die in such a traumatic way? He could have died from a heart attack or a car accident—anything that did not involve my children being traumatized in the process.” God kept taking me to the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus anguished over what lay ahead. Then God took me to the flogging and the humiliation Jesus suffered in the hands of His tormenters. God reminded me, just as He reminded Habermas, that He had watched His son die a humiliating, brutal death and Jesus was only 33.[3] “I understand your pain,” God whispered to me in my despair and brokenness. I realized that God was the only one who could understand my pain perfectly.

            Why does God allow suffering? Vince Vitale suggests that it is because He desires to create a specific community of individuals, and suffering allows Him to obtain precisely that community.[4] In Ephesian 1.4-5, Paul tells us that God chose us before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless and adopted us as His children. If we consider that God’s own Son learned obedience through suffering, how can we truly believe it should be different for us?[5] Philippians 2.8 states that Jesus humbled Himself and was obedient unto death. How can we hope to escape the circumstances of living in a fallen world? Through suffering we are transformed into new beings, and as we seek consolation in God’s mercy and grace, we are comforted.

My hope through all of this has been in the resurrection. Because Jesus bodily rose from the dead, I will see my husband again. I know where he is. Through Jesus’ suffering, death, and resurrection there is hope for all mankind. Although there are several reasons mankind suffers in the world, Jesus’ death and resurrection is the answer to them all. Something I wrote to be read at my husband’s celebration of life sums up how the crucifixion and resurrection are tied to the theology of suffering:

“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.”

            We will suffer in this lifetime. However, because of the resurrection our mourning will be turned to joy. I no longer view the trials we continue to face because of that fateful day in the same way I did before trauma marked our lives. I know I will never suffer to the point Jesus did, and I know I am never alone in my pain. Slowly, I am being transformed, as the dross is removed. God will continue to polish me until He is able to see His reflection in my life, and like it or not that requires suffering.

---

[1] See chapter eight in Gary R. Habermas, The Risen Jesus & Future Hope (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2003).

[2] Ibid. 190.

[3] Ibid. 194.

[4] Ravi Zacharias and Vince Vitale, Why Suffering? Finding Meaning and Comfort When Life Doesn’t Make Sense (New York: Faith Words, 2014), 71.

[5] See Hebrews 5.8.

The Fifth Holiday Season

This is our fifth holiday season as a family of four. The fifth year we will sit around our oversized farm table with room enough for eight and realize one of those chairs will remain empty. The fifth year I will hang Woody’s stocking without stuffing it until it overflows with silly little gifts and his favorite treats. The fifth year…

Shouldn’t I be used to it by now? Shouldn’t I be over it? Maybe, but something about knowing this is the fifth time around the sun since our last holiday season with Woody makes it feel so final and devastating. I feel completely drained—exhausted, really—as we round the bend to another season of thanksgiving and joy.

Do not misunderstand me. I am thankful, and God’s joy fuels me daily. However, sometimes I am angry, angry at Woody for leaving; angry at the pain my children still endure; angry that my life is nothing like I envisioned it would be as I journey through middle-adulthood. So many transitions have occurred during 2019, and as 2020 begins to introduce itself I want to run and hide. I’m tired of trying.

Yet, during those moments of weakness, when my weary soul feels as if it cannot take another step, God gently lifts me from the floor into His loving arms and breathes into me the strength necessary for another day. And because He is faithful I know somehow, some way, we will survive the fifth holiday season

A Fatherless Father's Day

“How are you and the kids doing today?” It’s a valid question, but not one I want to answer.

“Fine,” I respond with a superficial smile, and then we part ways and no one feels awkward. No one feels as if he or she overstepped any boundaries. I know people are still concerned about how we are dealing with the fatal blow we received a little over four years ago. I know it takes a lot of courage to even broach the subject with us. I appreciate every person who remembers and doesn’t just smile and pretend it never happened.

It is difficult to explain how a fatherless Father’s Day feels. I lost my dad nearly eight years ago, and I still wish I could pick up the phone and call him. I miss his voice and his ornery smile.  I miss the love he had for me. And then I think of my children who lost the most amazing daddy I have ever known. They were still children. They had not had the opportunity to know him as an equal. They still needed a father to guide them through the adolescent years into adulthood.

I asked my oldest son today how he was doing. His response was, “I don’t miss dad any more one day over the next.” Perhaps not, but Father’s Day reminds us of our loss. I liken it to a world class soccer player who has had a foot amputated. He will always miss the loss of that foot. However, the loss is amplified every year as the World Cup approaches. That is when he faces the reality that he will never play again. A crucial part of the game has been painfully removed. Watching other players kick and volley is too much; especially when those players take for granted the blessings they still have.

If you still have your father, please do not take that wonderful gift for granted. Love fully everyday realizing life is a precious gift and you do not control when the game begins or ends. A fatherless Father’s Day reminds us all of what we had and what we have lost. So please, make that call or visit and treasure the time you still have.

A Father to the Fatherless

Psalm 68:5, “A father to the fatherless...”

I remember the first time I read that verse to Haden. “Do you believe God will be your father now that your daddy is in heaven?” He nodded his head with tears and doubt in his eyes, but he held on to hope.

I wondered if those beautiful brown eyes with flecks of bronze would ever again be full of joy. I wondered how my 14 year old would adjust and learn to live without his daddy. I wondered if I was capable of raising him on my own. And now that boy with so much doubt and despair in his eyes is a young man in Kenya serving children with joy and confidence. I scan the photos he has sent me and stand in complete awe. God is so good! He has transformed my child into a servant, and I am blown away by the joy not just in his eyes, but in the eyes of the children he has been pouring into. How did I ever believe I was raising Haden on my own? Every step of the way, God has been leading and guiding. He has made the path straight and although I have failed several times along the way, God never has.

“A father to the fatherless…” Never has there been a truer statement.

Three Years & Six Months

Three years and six months. How is that possible? I remember day one thinking we would not survive. For two years my heart was scattered and buried under an insurmountable mound of grief. The possibility of ever feeling whole and healed always dangled from a stick, but never did I believe we would reach it. And still yet I do not believe the children have fully held it in their grasp. But we now have it within our possession and hope is truly on the horizon.

Through it all, God has been just. I have pondered this truth relentlessly because there were many times within the past three and a half years I questioned that statement. Then I realized man’s definition of justice is egocentric and culturally defined. How can we truly understand justice? It will vary from person to person, and often it is emotionally laden and outright illogical. I can never truly understand the greater good when I comprehend what is “good” based on how it affects me. Only God can determine what is truly just.

And I believe it is God’s perfect and just purpose that has brought us through the darkness and despair. We have faced our biggest fear and we have survived and in a way we have been set free to live boldly, to take risks we never would have taken. We are survivors and we are stronger and wiser for the experience that devastated us three years and six months ago.

My Prayer This Morning

My God…

You have taken me on a journey through the depths of hell. My heart has hurt with pain so intense that even now the memory of it takes my breath away. I have cried oceans of tears and have fallen flat on my face in deepest despair. My soul has been splintered and severed from all solace…And yet You were there. Somehow you found me in the trenches of sorrow under the refuse. You gently pried me free. Oh, how intensely I have known anguish! Yet, never have I known your love so intensely. Even now as I reminisce on the past three years, I plead with tears in my eyes that I never walk such a journey again. I am not sure I could survive the harrowing grief again. I do not know how I survived it in the first place, other than the fact You—and You alone—carried me through. You held my shattered heart and gradually brought me back to life. You gave me strength to breathe and taught me how to laugh and love again.

Thank you, God!

Is There an End?

“Is there an end to the sadness and grief?” As I read my friend’s text, I paused. I wasn’t sure if I could honestly answer. I am healed from the grief, that much is clear, but is it ongoing?

I pondered the question for quite some time. While doing so, my mind drifted back to the previous week. Haden had been distracted and moody. I was on him several times a day to stay on track and complete his school work. Tuesday it had come to a head. As he headed out the door for his piano lesson, I wondered out loud how prepared he would be since he had hardly practiced the previous week. On his way home, I discovered just how unprepared he was. He called me in tears. “Mom, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Ms. Tomi was worried about me and didn’t even want me driving.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I just started crying,” he muttered through sobs. “I just miss daddy so much!” and then the floodgates opened.

“Haden, please, don’t do this now.” I was very concerned about my teenage son driving while tears blinded his eyes. “Pull yourself together and wait until you get to swim practice.” I listened as he gradually gained control over his emotions. “What triggered this?”

  

He was silent for a moment. “I just wish dad could see me swim. I didn’t even take swimming seriously when he was alive.” There was catch in his throat.  “I just wish he could see me now.”

How did I respond to that? He was justified in feeling cheated and wanting his dad to see the young man he has become. “Haden, Daddy was always proud of you no matter what. It wasn’t your ability to swim or play the piano or anything else that made him proud. It was your heart.”

Another pause. “I know, but I have no one. I just want a dad here to watch me and cheer for me. I know God’s my dad, but I can’t hear Him.”

We spoke a few more minutes until he reached the interstate. “I love you, Haden.”

“I love you, too.”

He reached swim practice safely and he made it through this week and even through this weekend and the swim meet he had so desperately wanted Woody to see. Today he stood in church and worshipped whole-heartedly as the band played his favorite worship song. One would never suspect the brokenness which had arrested him in anguish only five days earlier.

Perhaps grief is ongoing, even though we will heal and have healed. However, what death steals from those left behind is a perpetual loss. Maybe that is what gives grief its lasting power, although it becomes intermittent and less severe. Those left behind learn to bear the burden with God’s loving assistance, and eventually they learn to put it down. Possibly, that is the end to sadness and grief, when we completely relinquish our control to God. I really do not know, but I do know the losses my children will accumulate due to the death of their father will always be ongoing. To that there is no end.

The Treasure of Healing

I recently made a discovery. It was almost like finding hidden treasure in a spot I had passed a million times before, never seeing it glimmer in the sunlight. Perhaps the shadows of sorrow had obscured my view. Perhaps it was only recently deposited there. Whatever the scenario, sometime within the past month I finally discovered it—healing from the sting of grief.

It’s a funny thing. While walking through the gloom of despair after Woody’s traumatic death, I wondered if the sun would ever shine as brightly or if the birds would ever sing as sweetly. I wondered if the raw ache settled deep within my soul would ever relinquish its unyielding grip. Recovery seemed so distant, like an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean that I must swim to after being abandoned on the beaches of California, all the while battling a tropical storm. I could not imagine a life again without sorrow tainting my every experience. Yet, here I am, finally laughing and living with joy in my heart. Don’t misunderstand me. It does not mean I do not miss Woody and the life we had together, but I have learned to survive and thrive without his bright light shining upon me. I have learned to lean in to God and allow His love and light to fill my sails as I soar into the future. The constant thud of grief's relentless hammer has finally been laid to rest and resounds no more.

I still do not know what my future holds, but I can finally look forward with hope. Who knows how valuable my little treasure will be or what other discoveries lie waiting for me, but I do know I will never be alone even when the storm rages and conceals the sun. God will never forsake me and I will persevere.

“Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.” James 1:12, NIV

From a Place of Deep Anguish

This post is from the book I am currently writing about Woody's death. So, why am I posting this particular excerpt? Because I believe American culture has a problem with grief. We expect people to hide it after a week or two and for everything to go back to normal. We do not embrace it and accept it as a normal part of life. Death is the only thing we all have in common, yet we pretend that somehow it's avoidable. Therefore, we feel very uncomfortable with the grieving process and the mourners are left feeling as if it is their responsibility to make those around them feel better and to ignore their own need to mourn. As a result, the grieving family members often hurt each other.

I want people to realize grief is ugly and messy and quite normal. I hope the incident I am sharing today helps someone realize that anger is a normal part of grief, especially when accompanied by trauma....

I had been struggling to connect with Haley all month. She often complained about how she felt around her friends. She believed they expected her to be the happy-go-lucky person she always was. So, while she was with them, she would put on a smile and feign happiness. As soon as she arrived home, the façade would fall away and I was unfortunate enough to bear the brunt of her anger. Her outbursts towards me became more vehement by the day.  Nothing I said or did was appropriate. I didn’t know how to parent her in the midst of my grief. We both were on edge, and I did not have the strength or patience to be the consoling mother she needed. While Hunter was home, she began to belittle and openly defy me. Hunter, being my self-appointed protector, jumped into the middle of our argument, which caused Haley’s rage to escalate. She locked herself in her bathroom and yelled out to me, “I wish you had died rather than Dad!” Her words struck me like a fist in the gut. My breath left me and the room began to spin. I knew she was speaking from a place of deep anguish, but it did not soften the impact of the words.

            Hunter and Haden both roared at Haley, condemning her for her words.
"It’s true!” was her furious response. “I wish Mom had died!”

“Shut up! You’re so stupid! How can you say that?” Hunter’s voice was full of shock and fury. He smashed his fist against the bathroom door. I heard a thud and crack. He had knocked a hole in one of the panels on the door.  

I immediately fell to my knees in tears. “Please, stop!” I weakly cried. “I can’t take this.” Hunter and Haden immediately came to me and feebly attempted to comfort my breaking heart. What was happening to us? The seams of our lives were quickly unraveling and I was clueless as to how they would ever be mended. “Please, God!” It was all I could pray. There were no other words. My thoughts were too jumbled and my heart was too damaged. I could not see an end to the anguish that permeated our lives. 

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.

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.

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 

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.

It Is Well

In 1873, Horatio Spafford sent his wife and four daughters on to Europe hoping to join them after attending to some urgent business matter. Unfortunately, the Ville du Havre, the ship upon which his family traveled, was struck by another ship and most of the passengers were killed. Horatio’s wife survived, but not one their daughters did. While traveling on another ship to join his wife in Europe, the captain pointed out the place where it was believed the Ville du Havre had gone down. After viewing the place of his family’s demise, Horatio returned to his cabin and penned these words: “It is well; the will of God be done.” Later, those words became the foundation to the hymn It Is Well.

What does it mean to be well in my soul? I have pondered that question for a year and seven months ever since the tragic day we lost Woody in a horrific hiking accident. We have suffered tragic loss, but even more than that we are suffering the effects of unmentionable trauma. One cannot comprehend the full force of the weight of which we have been under for so long, trying desperately to prevent it from squashing the very life from our bodies. The image of my children covered in their father’s blood while tears flowed down their dirt covered faces still haunts me. The look of fear in their eyes as we held Woody trying so desperately to hold onto hope and hold onto his life, will always be with me. Yet I still know that it is well with my soul. It is a knowledge that permeates every pore of my being. I know God holds my breaking heart and not once has He dropped a single fragment. He is with me—always! And as long as my eyes are fixed on Him, I have peace—not to be mistaken for trouble- and pain-free circumstances. No, peace is quite different. It is a deep seated sensation that no matter what I am walking through in this moment, eternity awaits my arrival and then my tears will cease and my heart will once again be whole.

I believe what Horatio did over 140 years ago when faced with harrowing circumstances; it is well with my soul because the God I have placed my faith in is just, and eventually He will turn my life's anguish into a beautiful hymn.

Dreams

It’s the dreams that kill me. I can manage the days so well, in complete control of my environment and my thoughts and then the night comes. My mind is no longer being directed by my consciousness and it ransacks my memories and creates illusions that, although pleasant at the time, remind me of the loss and loneliness. I am startled awake by the chimes of my alarm clock; and I have to take a moment to remember where I am, why I set my alarm, and what day it is. As consciousness awakens to reality, I remember that the security and comfort I was enveloped in only a few moments before as I wandered through the dream state is not real. That is not my reality anymore. Instead I am left with a longing—an aching really—for the only man whom I have ever loved.

Grief is a process and unfortunately, there is not a manual that can adequately guide anyone through it. It is not a “one size fits all” item. It cannot be analyzed, categorized, and placed neatly on a bookshelf ready to be perused at leisure. It is as unique as the individual who experiences it. There are no words which can minimize the effect, although people try in vain to do so. And unless you have been thrown into the gloomy, desolate pit that grief creates and have had to fight for every breath, you cannot fully comprehend or appreciate just how debilitating grief can be. The only glimmer of hope I have had through the whole process has been found in my faith. Although I have been absolutely crushed under the weight of despair, I have felt a peace that can only be explained through the existence of an omnipotent God. However, even faith cannot shelter one from the anguish of loss and horrific trauma. It merely keeps one moving in the face of an overwhelming desire to quit. Faith helps keep the process of healing moving forward.

I am hopeful that someday the dreams in which Woody is alive and well and doing life with me will be as pleasant visitations rather than sorrowful reminders. I am hopeful, too, that I will continue to find joy in the moment. On the tenth it will be one year and six months since that fateful day. Although I am still damaged, progress is being made. I need only look back through my blog posts to see that. I am moving in the right direction. There will just be days when it feels as if I am going nowhere, and today is one of those days because of a dream. But someday not even the dreams will slow me down. I’m just not there yet.