Happily Ever After?

The Christmas cards arrive sporadically, photos full of handsome faces and wishes for a joyful holiday season. Couples with their children smile at us from the cardstock greetings, and I find my emotions are as sporadic as the cards. “Why do they get their happily ever after?” I question. “Why do their children get to find success without trauma induced decisions that will define them for the rest of their lives?” Another question without an answer—and I realize how pathetic I am.

I wish I could look at the beautiful families that greet me from the two-dimensional realm and feel nothing but joy for them. I wish I could praise God that they will never experience the loss and trauma we have. I wish I was spiritually stronger, but in reality most days I fall at the feet of my Savior and ask Him once again for the strength it will take to make it through another day. The loneliness and heartache can be unbearable at times, but yet I am still here, still functioning, still wondering. 

It has been over 6 ½ years. Shouldn’t this all be behind us? Perhaps if the trauma did not keep poking its head into our lives and attempting to derail us every opportunity it has. Perhaps then. However, PTSD is not as simple as that. It can lead to deviant, self-harming behavior. And it does not ever disappear completely. It may dissipate, but it is always present, waiting for those moments of fatigue and frailty. It is opportunistic and relentless. Therefore, we endure and occasionally we overcome.

I wish I had my happily ever after. Yes, our photo Christmas card is full of smiling faces, too. But if you look closely, you will see the pain that still lingers in our eyes. We are still broken, waiting for complete restoration that we will never experience this side of heaven. My happily ever after will need to wait, and I will need to keep in mind that this is not all there is. Only then will I be able to truly be joyful for those who are experiencing a little bit of heaven here on earth as they live out their happily ever after.

Still Growing Through Tragedy and Pain

For nearly two years I have pondered several times how I would write this chapter of our story. How do you reveal such darkness and deviance? How do you share a story that isn’t your own but one that has impacted you so deeply it has become part of your own? Now, after many hours spent on my knees asking for God’s grace and wisdom, I will share a snippet of what the last two years have been like, but first we must revisit the dreadful day we lost Woody.

Trauma like we experienced on the mountain is inexplicable. No one can understand. It is estimated that only 5% of the population has watched a loved one die a traumatic death. Add in the fact that while we held Woody on the mountainside our own lives were at risk, and you have narrowed the percentages even more. Post-traumatic stress disorder rewires the brain and arrests neurological and emotional development. All three of my children were at neurologically critical stages of development. Even with therapy, one of my children tried to take “their” life three times within the first two years. One of my children refused therapy at all and little did we know, he was the one who needed it the most. 

He began living a double life—his whole life became a lie. He began playing different roles for different people, and we all believed he was healing and growing. We did not notice that he was no longer being true to who he was or to anyone in his life. He married the young woman whom he had only been dating for a short time before Woody died. In fact, Woody never met her. We all thought things were going well—at least I did. I look back now and realize there were so many red flags. However, when you are healing from PTSD and trying to keep one child alive while helping another one navigate pre-adolescence, you allow situations that are not emergencies to continue on course. It was all I could do to breathe most days. My decision making was hindered by grief and trauma. I needed one thing to function normally, and my oldest child’s life appeared to be. Therefore, I averted my attention to the emotional upheaval that faced me at home with my youngest two.

Things came to light two days before Thanksgiving 2019 when the unimaginable happened. Through it all, we learned my oldest had been unfaithful to his wife and had engaged in unimaginable, uncharacteristic behavior. When it all came out in the open, he was completely broken. Destitute, he thought he was too far gone from God and grace. Our campus pastor visited him when he had finally hit rock bottom and reminded him that God is the God of restoration. That was the turning point for my son. Although he lost his wife, his job, and his reputation he finally gained true salvation. He has told me since that day he really does not believe he had been saved before that moment. Over the past nearly two years I have seen God work a miraculous transformation in this young man’s life and I praise Him every day.

My son was diagnosed with severe PTSD and avoidant behavior. He has been in intense therapy for nearly a year, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude for his therapist. I am also overwhelmed with the grace so many have shown him as he tells them his story. Every time he expects people to recoil in disgust, he is met with God’s mercy and understanding. And now he is in graduate school attending his dream seminary working towards his MDiv.

Although I wish we could change how this impacted the young lady he married, we know that God uses all things for his glory as he conforms us to the image of Christ. We know God has a very specific ministry for my son, and we wait with anticipation to see how he will be utilized. I am finally waking up from another nightmare and am cautiously optimistic. It has been a LONG six and a half years. However, I know God is not finished with me as I consider committing my entire life to living in God’s service. I am thankful for what this experience has taught me about people and about true believers in Christ. God is good even in the darkness, and every day we move toward his light and love.

Rescued

             We have felt broken and forgotten. There have been moments when breathing was all we could manage. The pain of loss and trauma threatened to entomb our family in a crypt of cold, unfeeling marble, never to be seen again. We have traveled a road few will ever stumble upon. One therapist told me after reading our case file that in 30 years of practice he has never seen something so traumatic happen to a family. “You can’t make this stuff up,” he told me with a mixture of shock and sympathy. Yes, we have felt broken and forgotten, but mostly we have felt alone—alone to journey through horrific trauma and devastating loss. Yet, we still stand.

            Recently, we have had to wade through the ugly consequences of post-traumatic stress disorder once again as we came to terms with a terrible addiction that manifested itself due to the PTSD. This addiction nearly destroyed one of my children. He lost everything that mattered to him, and almost lost his faith. However, God is faithful and provided a godly mentor to pull him back from the edge of annihilation. Our campus pastor, Mark, faithfully reminded my child that God is a god of restoration and redemption. He crawled into the muddy trenches with my child, where it was ugly and messy, and took his hand and pointed him to the beauty of grace and salvation. Mark reminded him that God rescues.  Now, over a year after that fateful day, my child is finally healing. He is finally becoming the man God has always purposed him to be. The ashes are slowly being transformed into something beautiful. Now he realizes everything he lost was nothing compared to what he has gained.

            We are still not “through” this. I’m not sure there will ever be an end. No one can witness what we did without being permanently scarred. However, God is faithful. He will always rescue us in the midst of our brokenness, and He has never forgotten. Although we may feel alone as we travel down this road of life, God has proven time and time again He will never leave us or forsake us. Therefore, we keep on breathing and even after horrific trauma and devastating loss we are able to stand.

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.

My Book and Why I Wrote It

May 10, 2015, altered the course of my life forever. It was the day I learned how truly temporal life is. It was the day I discovered how devastating trauma can be. It was the day my identity was forever changed. Grief and trauma are rarely addressed in society. We ignore that which is unpleasant. We ignore the harsh reality of death and destruction and scroll through Facebook and Instagram admiring pleasant photos with smiling faces rather than the newsfeed which presents the reality of dozens being killed in Gaza or some other piece of disturbing news. Chaos and death surround us, yet we choose to look the other way and remain in our little bubbles of existence because we are clueless as to how to face trauma and loss. Rather than educating ourselves in those areas we shun the unpleasant and cling to the very thin thread which keeps us far above the harrowing incidents occurring around us. I was part of that group until May 10, 2015, when I came face to face with trauma and grief.

My book, After the Mountain: One Family’s Journey Through Trauma and Grief, was written in an attempt to open the eyes of those around me and invite them into the private moments in our lives to witness what it is like to live through something so horrific. Yes, it was very therapeutic to chronicle our ordeal, but more importantly I wanted to shed a light on what those who have been traumatized may experience. One need only view the news to realize that with school shootings and random terrorist attacks, people are more prone to experiencing trauma and grief in our day than they were in the past. We can no longer turn a blind eye to violent death and believe, “Oh, it will never happen to me.” No one is immune!

I hope those who read my book become more understanding and compassionate to those who may be suffering the loss of a loved one through death. I hope they value life more and realize there is more to it than social media and airing their own views. I hope they will pray more, listen attentively, and speak with kindness. You see, no one ever knows when he or she may be faced with his or her own life altering date, as was May 10, 2015 for me.

The url to purchase my book is included with this blog.

For those in the US:

https://www.amazon.com/After-Mountain-Familys-Journey-Through/dp/1939761514/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1526395542&sr=8-2&keywords=after+the+mountain&dpID=41R4V5YMAKL&preST=_SY344_BO1,204,203,200_QL70_&dpSrc=srch

For those in the UK:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss/258-4099051-9413820?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=after+the+mountain+one+family%27s+journey+through+trauma+and+grief

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.

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.

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 

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.

Easter

When people hear my story they are usually moved to tears. I see the pity in their eyes—the shock, the sorrow. They cannot believe that someone so young, so good, and so full of life could have died such a horrific, agonizing death. For nearly five hours Woody suffered before the trauma of the fall caused every organ in his body to shut down. I can still see his blood-caked, swollen eyes, blood flowing from his nose and mouth; and his scalp hanging from the back of his head, uncovering a skull that had been bashed by the granite rock. His body was covered in lacerations. He was dying the minute we reached him, yet we still prayed for a miracle. “How awful!” you may exclaim, and you mourn for my loss. It moves you in a way you never expected. You realize how short life is and that every day is a gift. Some people have told me it has made them want to be a better parent or spouse. Something about Woody’s death leaves an impression on every one who hears about it.

So why do we treat Easter like any other day? We dye eggs and fill Easter baskets full of goodies. We may attend a Good Friday service and walk through the Stations of the Cross, but we do it with as much zeal as we do any other religious activity. We take communion without a tear in our eyes. It has become so routine that we have become desensitized to what it all means.

Jesus was only 33—ten years younger than Woody. You want to talk about good? He was perfect. Yes, Woody’s death was horrific, but Jesus’ beating and death were ten times worse. And whereas Woody did not choose to die, Jesus did. This is not a fairy tale. Jesus was a historical figure whose beating and death can be proven. Four eyewitnesses recorded the whole gruesome flogging and crucifixion in great detail. Tell me, why are you moved by my account of Woody’s death, yet are completely complacent about the death of the One who gave His life in order that you might have eternal life? His loss was just as real to His mother, brothers, friends, and co-workers as Woody’s death was to everyone who knew him.

I have witnessed a dreadful death. It scarred everyone who was there that day. However, the death and resurrection we celebrate this weekend should be much more impactful than what I experienced on Mother’s Day 2015. Please, think about that this Easter 2016.

Satan's Latest Lie

Satan’s latest accusation against me has been hurled; and although I know it is a dreadful lie, it still wounds and causes doubt to linger in my mind.

I could not sleep the night before Woody died. I finally got out of bed and tiptoed to the classroom. If I couldn’t sleep, I would write. My thoughts were jumbled—troubled. Focus was an allusive acquaintance, meandering on the outskirts of my mind. After about an hour of struggling, Woody came into the classroom rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What are you doing? I was worried when I woke up and you were gone.”

“I couldn’t sleep so I thought I might as well do something productive.” Woody leaned over and kissed the top of my head.

“Well, try to come back to bed and get some sleep.” Then he made his way back to our bedroom.

I did go back to bed, and finally, about an hour before my alarm startled me awake, I dozed off. We went to church, where I leaned against Woody trying to stay alert. We had already made plans to go for a hike after church, but I was starting to fade and quite irritable. “Please, Mom!” the kids pleaded. I knew once we were on the trail, I would revive so off we went. However, my spirit was restless. I was struggling to feel God’s presence. I couldn’t pray. I felt so far from Him, and I could not identify the reason.

And that is the origin of satan’s accusation.

After the fall, I could not pray—not fervently. I spoke the words, but my heart and mind could not comprehend what was being said nor accept what was happening. I kept thinking, “This is not happening! This is a dream! This cannot be reality!” Not once did I think Woody’s life was in danger, even though I saw the fall and the extent of his injuries. Even while I attempting to piece together the back of his head so that I could hold it together in a weak attempt to stop the bleeding, I still did not believe he would die. I just knew something that horrible could never happen to me or our children. I kept praying, but not spirit-filled prayers that ignite the air waves. I was in shock. I was in denial. And that is where I am being attacked. Satan is accusing me and my lack of faith for killing Woody. I know it’s a lie; however, I can’t help but question my lack of passion while praying. Was I praying effectively? Is it somehow my fault? Why was I feeling so distant from God?

I know it’s a terrible deception, yet it haunts me daily. I remember stopping shortly before we reached the spot where Woody fell and taking a picture. The view was breathtaking! I wanted one of the kids to take a picture of Woody and me with the view in the background. “No,” Woody said, “Let’s wait until we get to the top.” And we went on, expecting something even more spectacular on the summit.

 I never reached the peak, but Woody did. It is where he breathed his last breath. It is where his heart stopped pumping and he went home. God has revealed His love and beauty time and time again. His presence has given me peace in the midst of the most terrifying tempest. Yet, I still let the enemy lie to me. Pray for me. Pray that the curtain will be removed and the truth will be unveiled. Today I need the prayers of God’s children interceding for my heart and mind.

There Is No Way To Explain It Adequately

There is no way to adequately portray what we endured that fateful day on Mount Yonah. The trauma was too great. Your imagination will not allow you to reach the depth of emotional suffering that we endured that day. It was surreal. I remember thinking the whole time, “This is not happening! I will wake up. This cannot be real!” The nightmare was far worse than any drama I had ever seen on the big screen. I just knew that God could not possibly allow something so horrific to inflict our family. And yet, it did.

I will never get the look in Woody’s eyes out of my head, as he slid belly first down the granite face of the mountain right past me. I felt so helpless. There was nothing I could do except scream. “No! No! No! Woody! Please, Lord, no!” His hands and legs were outstretched as he tried desperately to find a hand or foot hold. His eyes were full of fear, yet his voice was silent, and then he disappeared over the ledge. Haden, our youngest son, was at a higher vantage point and watched as his dad tumbled head over heels approximately 100 feet until hitting his head against a stump which stopped his fall. I heard Haden’s cries, but they sounded as if they were travelling through a tunnel. He immediately started running down the mountain to reach his dad. Hunter and Haley, who rejoined us once they heard the screaming, started down the mountain, too. Hunter kept shouting, “Someone call 911!” I couldn’t move. I looked over the edge and saw Woody’s body in a crumpled heap and was stricken motionless. I sat down. I wanted to cry but was completely numb. My mind reeled.  “Where is the trail? How do I get down the mountain? I don’t know what to do.” I could not even call 911. My mind could not communicate with my fingers.

Haden had reached Woody by time I started to come out of the fog. “He’s unconscious but he’s still breathing. It sounds like he’s snoring!” I yelled down not to move him in case of spinal cord injury. My brain started to compute the information. I immediately thought that either Woody’s trachea had been crushed or was blocked. I stood up and slowly, recognition came back to me. By time I made my way to Woody’s side, all three of the kids were there along with two women hikers who had been in the area. Allison was one of them. She stayed during the duration of the ordeal. After Hunter and I quarreled, he agreed to make his way down to the trail head to meet the EMT’s. He had wanted me to go, but I explained to him I was not going to leave my husband under any circumstances. Emotions were raw. We were frightened and Hunter was trying to control a situation he had no control over.  Allison, Haley, Haden, another woman and I stayed and tried to hold Woody. He was still on a steep incline with about 60 more feet to fall. By this point, he had become combative as he regained consciousness and was attempting to escape the pain. His visible injuries were severe, especially his head. His eyes were swollen shut, he was bleeding from his nose and mouth, and blood was gushing from the back of his head. He was attempting to stand up although he was not cognitive of his surroundings. We kept shouting at him, hoping he would hear us—hoping he would understand; but there was no recognition. I noticed that Haley was downhill of him, putting the weight of her body on him trying to keep him still. I made her trade me places, immediately recognizing the danger she was in. I held onto Woody’s hand. I prayed. “Woody, I love you! Please stop moving! We will all fall down the mountain with you!” It was intense. We were all in jeopardy of falling every time he sat up and groaned loudly. He was strong and he was fighting—fighting the intense pain, fighting for his life.  I looked down and noticed the steady flow of blood. We were all covered in a mixture of blood and dirt. I tried to discover the source. At that point, Woody lifted his head in such a way that I finally caught a glimpse of the back of his head. His scalp was completely removed from his skull. Allison asked, “Does anyone have an extra shirt?” No. Haden took off his shirt and handed it to me. I feebly tried to piece his scalp back together and then applied pressure with the shirt to the back of his head.

I’m not sure how long this went on. We heard the sirens long before anyone ever arrived. “When will they get here?” Haley repeatedly cried. Haden wept as he tried in vain to keep Woody’s head from bashing against the granite slab as he continued to wrestle. And we all struggled to keep him from taking us down the mountain with him.

I could go on, but I won’t. When I think about how harrowing that day truly was, I am grateful because I know that God has protected us from the full force of the blow. If he did not, we would be crushed. There is no way to survive that sort of trauma without His protective shield. We are truly loved. However, when you are wondering why I’m not over this yet; or why I struggle to sleep; or why I do not want to be alone, reread this. Try to live that nightmare with us and ask yourself, how quickly would you “get over” it? 

Now Is Not the Time to Enlighten Me with Some Profound Truth or Theological Argument

Now is not the time to enlighten me with some profound truth or theological argument. Although there are times for such things, true wisdom is recognizing when. When someone is grieving, all she truly needs is a sympathetic ear and a word or two of encouragement. Please do not use this time as an opportunity to flaunt your philosophical prowess. This has nothing to do with you. Yes, I understand your intentions are good, but tremendous destruction has been wrought in the name of “good intentions.” Look at the crusades or the Spanish Inquisition if an example is needed. If your desire is to truly bring me comfort and you haven’t the words to speak, then don’t. Sometimes solace can be found in silence.

I have been guilty in the past of causing such sorrow with ill-fitted words. Reflecting back on things that I have said, I can now see how insensitive my words were. How I wish I could go back and clutch those words out of the air and swallow them whole before they had the opportunity to inflict more pain upon the hearer! We are too quick to speak. Why? Because we are too prideful. We includes me. I am not immune to this crime. You may be thinking, “No, it was not pride which moved me to speak.  It was the Holy Spirit who requires me to speak truth.” But let me ask you this:  does God kick us when we are down? Yes, I know there are times when He allows us to walk through deep valleys, but would He knowingly speak words that would wound one of His children even more? When your child is in pain, do you offer words of comfort or do you take that moment to speak “truth” that will deepen the sorrow? God is a good Father—a far better parent than you or I will ever be!

I am hurting enough. I should not have to use my rapidly depleting supply of energy to defend a truth that God has given to me during this time. I have clung to Him desperately seeking Him in every waking hour. But even more importantly, before this tragedy ever struck, I sought Him—I developed a lasting relationship with Him. This intimacy was not built in a moment of tragedy, although it has been deepened immensely. The relationship I have with God was built on years of seeking Him first. And now His words are the only words which have brought me true healing. God has revealed things to me that He may not have revealed to you because it has not been necessary. You have not walked through something so harrowing.  Your interpretation of God’s word may be more clinical where mine is painfully raw.  Please try to understand that until you have literally walked in my shoes, you cannot understand God’s word and love the way I do. That is not a prideful statement. I paid the price for that wisdom.  Having this sort of intimacy with God comes at a price that most would not be able to survive.

Give me time to grieve. God will bring me healing, but it may not be on your time table. It may be a year from now when you are wondering to yourself, “Shouldn’t she be over this?” and yet I will still be painfully broken. If it is uncomfortable for you to witness, then don’t. I get it. As a society in general, we do not do “awkward” well. I will survive this because God has protected me from the full force of the blow. He will not allow this dreadful experience to destroy us; and someday I may once again be ready for your words of wisdom and theological arguments.  Someday, just not today….

My Dream of You

You visited me in my dream last night. We were lying in bed. I snuggled up to you, letting the heat from your body warm me through. I held you tightly, breathed in the scent of you. My heart was full. I felt so very loved—and safe. The pain of the past four weeks was a distant memory. In fact, it ceased to exist. We lay in silence, breathing slow deep breaths, standing on the edge of dreamland not wanting to close our eyes—not wanting to miss a moment. When I lifted my face to kiss you, you smiled warmly and your eyes sparkled. Soft as butterfly wings, our lips met, but something was not quite right. I looked into your soft brown eyes and watched as the light slowly left them.  “Woody?” No response. “Woody, what’s going on?” Still, no response. Your body which just moments before had felt warm and comforting suddenly felt cold and clammy. I shook you. “Woody! Woody, please don’t leave me!  Woody, you can’t leave me. You just can’t leave me! Woody—please!”

Suddenly, you were no more. My arms were empty, but my heart? My heart was completely vacant. The air became frigid; the darkness enveloped me in cruelty. “Woody!” I yelled into the emptiness, yet I knew it was too late. You were gone—just as suddenly as you had been ripped from our lives four weeks ago. You were no more.

I awoke realizing that the deep sorrow and agony I have experienced cannot be understood by those who have not experienced it. Until you have watched the love of your life slide past you over the edge of a cliff and then have watched as the life slowly drained from his body, you cannot understand the anguish that we as a family are experiencing. Before this happened, I thought I knew heartache. I was clueless, and perhaps as insensitive as some of the people I have happened upon since that tragic day. I did not—could not—comprehend this level of grief. It is too horrible to grasp unless you experience it. There are no words to describe the constant ache in my heart and soul. Until one experiences great trauma and loss, one cannot understand the flux of emotions and the devastating toll it takes. Comfort does not come easily. Tear brimmed, swollen eyes tell the story that words cannot express.

Yet I find comfort in the God of peace. I curl up in His lap and I let His arms wrap me in love. I cry into His all-knowing shoulder. And He does know! He alone truly understands. We will be okay in time. We are desperately missing you, but in time we will learn to find a way to journey through life without your physical presence. God will see us through. And someday, I will see you again. I will be held in your arms and feel the warmth of your lips against mine. Someday. And on that day, I will not have to dream.

The Way You Died

“BLUNT FORCE HEAD AND CHEST TRAUMA”

I read the words on the death certificate and tears sting my eyes; I catch my breath. My chest tightens up and the room starts to spin. “So, this is how they will say you died,” I whisper to an empty room.

I can still see how you died. I can still see the look in your caramel-brown eyes as you slid past me and over the edge of the granite cliff. I can still see the dark red blood pouring from the back of your head onto the stone side of the mountain and onto my shoes. I can still see your eyes swollen shut as you bled from your nose and your mouth. I know how you died. It continues to haunt me every night.

 Yet, I must remember how you lived. You lived with so much gusto. You crammed as much living as you possibly could into every moment. Sometimes it annoyed me. “Can’t you just sit still and read a book?” A ridiculous request, I know; but sometimes it was exhausting just watching you live. However, you were an excellent salesman. You sold me on life and love.  We laughed and cried through every quest, always searching for the next adventure. You taught me to be brave. You taught me how to live fully as if every day were my last. But most importantly, you taught me to love—to love God and to love you.

I will miss you as long as I live; yet, I live in hope that one day we will be reunited. God holds me tightly in His ever loving arms as He ever so gently carries me through this nightmare. The ache in my heart is unbearable. My whole being yearns for you. Still, I am thankful—thankful for the years we shared, thankful for the father and husband you were, and thankful for God’s guidance in our marriage.

Yes, you died violently and early. Yet you lived passionately and abundantly. That is what I will commit to memory. That is how I will remember you.