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.

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[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 Five Year Mark

In three weeks we will cross the five year mark of Woody’s death. We have survived half a decade since that fateful day. At times, I feel like I’m still on Mount Yonah, trying to hold onto the man who completed my very being, begging God for his life. And at other times, I feel as if that day never happened. I still grieve—for my children more than myself, and for Woody’s parents and brother. Strangely enough, I rarely grieve for my own loss. Am I still in denial, waiting for Woody to return from a prolonged business trip? Or have I busied myself so efficiently I have no time to contemplate what Woody’s death has meant to me? I believe it may be the latter more so than the former. Since Woody’s death I have gone back to school and completed a second undergraduate degree and am nearly finished with my masters. I have single-handedly renovated/remodeled four houses and flipped three, written a book, finished homeschooling my two youngest children, started a grief ministry at my church, and have reentered the work force full-time. Am I avoiding my grief or using it constructively? Who knows.

What I do know is that every step of my journey I have walked in the arms of my Savior. There have been moments where I questioned His presence and felt desperately alone, but at the very core of my existence, I knew He had not abandoned me, nor would he. Yes, it is still a struggle. We are still battling the long-term effects of post-traumatic stress disorder and it is not pretty. I wonder if we will ever know life without suffering. However, I know even in the midst of my sorrow when my heart is heavy and the darkness looms, God is still good! And He will not leave me to travel this path alone.

So as we approach five years I will recall when it was five days and I could barely breathe. I will remember how I doubted my ability to survive. Yet, here I am by the grace of God, standing in awe of His ability to see us through such a harrowing experience and teach us how to live. Because of Him I am a better human being, someone who has learned how to walk through every day with praise on her lips realizing tomorrow is not a guarantee. Yes, three weeks will still be difficult, especially this year since May 10, falls on Mother’s Day once again. But I know the same strength and resilience that has brought me this far will continue to carry me through; and somehow I will continue to breathe.

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.

On the Eve of Another Birthday

This morning I held my man child in my arms while he sobbed. “I’ll never get to do anything with my dad again,” he wailed as I tried unsuccessfully to soothe him. You see, tomorrow is Woody’s 47^th birthday, a day  we will not celebrate with him, just as we have not been able to celebrate his 44^th through his 46^th. The harsh reality of a life taken too soon slams us in the face every March 21, and there is no way to escape the pain. There are no justifications for a young man who was just a child when he lost his hero. There will never be an explanation good enough no matter how you wrap it up and redefine it. Yes, he has faith; and yes, he knows God is good, but this is not good. This aching for a daddy to help him find his way into adulthood is unbearable. I can offer little assistance in this area because I am not a man. Try as I might to be the best mother and father, I will always fall short. He needs his dad here, wrapping his strong arms around his shoulders and giving him advice about college, girls, and what the future might hold. I am inadequately equipped, I know that; and although I know God is on this journey with me there are moments when I feel terribly alone—moments like this morning as I watched my child sob.

But I continue on in faith, believing that someday this journey will not be so lonely and treacherous, believing that someday this heaviness will cease to exist and in its place peace will reside with comfort close by. Someday…we’re just not there yet.

The Top Five Things You Should Not Say or Do to Those Who are Grieving

I am frequently asked by others what they should say or do when a friend has lost someone to death. I thought it was time to make a list of my top five things not to say or do. I hope this helps those who are really concerned about supporting the grieving.

First and foremost put the idea out of your head right now that you can say or do something to remove the pain and heal the grieving person. You can’t. Your vain attempts may do more harm than good. So often individuals puffed up with self-importance believe they know exactly what to say and that their words will be the magic pill to swallow and eliminate all the pain. They are wrong. There is nothing anyone on this planet can do to remove that sort of anguish. The sooner you swallow your pride and realize that, the better. Your presence means more than 1,000 words. Care for the grieving person’s needs. Take them dinner. Run errands for them. Offer to stay with them through the night. Prove your concern through your actions.

Do not question the grieving person’s faith/spirituality. This is not the time to demonstrate your theological prowess and educate the person as to why their thinking is flawed. You are not the Holy Spirit, so quit trying to do His job. Trust God to work through the grieving process, and if there comes a time in the person’s life when he/she seeks your advice, give it humbly and sparingly, remembering how fragile the person is.

Do not avoid the person or act like nothing has changed when you do see him/her. EVERYTHING has changed! That person’s world will never spin on the same axis. Their foundation has crumbled. A grieving person questions everything that was ever known, every belief, and suddenly nothing can be trusted because he/she has learned that in a millisecond the whole world can come crashing down around you. If ever your friendship was needed it is now! Grieving people need to know that you can be trusted and you will be consistent. They need you to acknowledge the loss and ask questions about how they are coping in the moment. They need to know you care. I know it’s awkward, but trust me it’s a hell of a lot more than “awkward” for the grieving person. So, get over yourself and be the friend you have always claimed to be.

Do not EVER say, “I know how you feel” or any variation of that statement because you do not know how any other person feels! I don’t care if you have experienced the exact same type of loss in the exact same way. That is where the similarities end. People grieve uniquely based on biological, emotional, relational, spiritual, and intellectual factors. It is offensive to grieving people when you try to equate whatever experience you have had to theirs. Then you make it about you and your loss. For now, just listen and try to understand admitting you never will. You are not God, so give up.

Finally, do not try to rush grief. Do not get impatient when six months to a year someone is still hurting over the death of his/her loved one. It may take up to five years or longer before a grieving person begins to heal from grief. Now, if after two years there is absolutely no change, then suggest some type of grief counseling or group therapy and offer to go along for moral support. However, do not make the person feel like there is something wrong because he/she needs a little help processing the pain. Encourage them to realize little steps they have made towards recovery and be patient.

Remember, your friend may never be the same. Loss changes you. However, your friend will find a way back to you and your relationship. It just takes time. Although the loss seems like an event far in the past for you, for your friend it may feel like yesterday. Someday he/she will learn how to smile again and find joy in living, but right now it takes every ounce of energy just to breathe and do the next thing.

Come to Me...

“Come to Me, all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” –Jesus

I have read that verse a million times, especially during trials. After Woody died, I prayed those words repeatedly, begging God to give me rest. I was weary. I was burdened. I needed the comfort only Jesus could provide.

It is interesting that a more literal translation from the Greek is “Come to Me, all those laboring and being burdened.” How often do we labor through our suffering trying anything to relieve our pain? We self-medicate through substance abuse, relationships, shopping, work—whatever it takes to distract us from the unbearable heartache and affliction. And Jesus says all we need do is turn to Him and He will give us rest. It doesn’t mean He will remove us from our circumstances, but He will refresh our spirits and give us the strength to live another day. It doesn’t mean the pain will immediately subside, but He will expand our lungs to take another breath when the weight of our sorrow is crushing our rib cage. God’s mercy responds compassionately to the cries of the needy. It is an attribute of His infinite love. So why in the world do we keep laboring in an effort to stop the pain?

I could have taken a million avenues to escape the torment that resulted from Woody’s tragic death, and at times I was tempted. However, God gently reminded me of the easy route, the one that leads to Him and rest for my weary, grieving soul. No, it did not change my circumstances, and yes, it still hurt like hell; but I had a peace that gave me the strength to breathe through one more day and stand when I could not feel the ground beneath me. So today, if you are laboring in an attempt to “heal thyself,” stop and turn toward the only one who can refresh your soul.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.