Irreplaceable

LCI will soon fill the vacated position Woody left behind.

The church will find another man or woman to assist in ushering church guests to their seats.

The Miscues will find another pool player to take Woody’s place in the neighborhood pool league.

Friends will find another confidante.

Society will find another citizen.

Every role Woody played can easily be recast except for one—the role he played in the lives of his family members. His parents cannot recast the role of their son. His brother cannot play the part with another man. I will never do another love scene with my leading man. The kids can never yell out, “Dad!” and know that their hero will arrive on site to save the day. Here, in our hearts and in our lives, he is irreplaceable.

Of all the vocations and roles Woody played, husband and father are the ones he performed best. Everything else came in behind family. He knew which job he needed to devote his time and attention to. His priorities were in line; and because he executed his duties so well, the role he played at home complimented every other role he played in his life. That is why we feel his loss so deeply, why the wounds are so severe, and why the grief is so grave.

Sometimes as I watch the world continue to spin and the lives of people around me continue unaltered, I want to scream. I am incensed that in all the parts Woody played he was expendable—replaceable. Yet, in the one occupation that mattered most in life, he will always be irreplaceable. We cannot advertise of his vacancy and take applications to fill the position. Where this tragedy was a speed bump in the lives of others, it was a head on, life-altering collision for us. We have lost something that will never be found again this side of heaven.

I see people around me who do not take the roles they play in their family as seriously as they should. I see families falling apart because husbands and wives do not give their best to the position they play in the family. Their characters are weak and are soon recast through adultery or vices. I want to scream, “Do you not know what you are throwing away? Why can’t you see?” They are blinded by greed and lust. They treat family as if it is expendable. We have truly become a “throw-away” society.

I am thankful for a man who understood the responsibilities God had given him. I am a better person because I was valued above a career, volunteering, friends, and society. I was loved completely and for that, I will continually praise God.  My prayer for you is that you will live life in such a way that when you are gone your family can say, “He/She is irreplaceable.” 

Independence Day

America celebrates her 239^th birthday, the signing of the document that would declare our independence. Fireworks mix with thunder. The sky is illuminated by pinwheels of light and flashes of lightning. I should be celebrating as all American citizens appear to be doing within a 10 mile radius. Instead, I find myself on my hands and knees on my shower floor, my tears intermingled with streams of warm water. Memories of that day haunt my thoughts. I see Woody sliding down the mountain. I remember thinking—crying out to God, really—“No! This cannot be happening! Please, Lord, make it stop! Turn back time! Let’s start over!” Why? Why did it have to end this way? I just knew Woody would live. I just knew God would perform a miracle and he would survive. I promised our children he would not die. I took Hunter’s face in my hands, looked him in the eyes, and promised. I broke my promise. I had never done so before that day. But I just knew God would hear my prayers and do what only He could do. We would recall the glory of God and how he had saved my husband from certain death. We would acclaim the power of prayer when uttered by the faithful. I was confident that Woody would live through this horrible tragedy. Of all the scenarios that played through my head during the hours the EMTs worked to stabilize him, death was never one of them.

But God said, “No.” It was the most heartrending no I have ever received. My chest aches with inconceivable pain. I cannot escape the memories. The look in Woody’s eyes as he slid down that granite slab and over the edge will be with me for the rest of my life. I want to hold him in my arms and feel his warmth radiating through his shirt. I saved one of Woody’s shirts from the dirty laundry. His scent was overwhelming that first night. I held it close to my face, feeling his presence through his scent. Tonight after leaving the shower, I went to my closet where it hangs and held it to my face trying so hard to smell even a trace of the smell I remember as Woody’s. It is almost gone. What will I do when his scent is no longer there? Will I forget? I’m afraid I will. The thought terrifies me. How can I forget the aroma of the man who lay next to me for over 20 years?

I want to celebrate. God has given me much to be thankful for, but the loss of the man whom I loved most in the world is overshadowing any celebratory feelings I might have. Someday, I will smile when fireworks explode over my head with bursts of yellow and red. But today they remind me of the man I prayed for and lost. Happy birthday, America. Maybe next year the sobs will not eclipse the explosives.

Hope

I walked into Woody's closet yesterday to retrieve the dirty clothes from the hamper. Instead, I found myself running my hand through his shirts hanging from the rod just as he left them. I then stood in front of the shelves where his folded clothes rested in neat little piles.  My hands ran over the course denim and smooth cotton blends. I caressed a shirt that had once covered the chest of the man I loved, and I felt my heart ache inside my chest as I longed to caress the man who once wore the clothing I fingered so lovingly. Finally, I laid my head down on a pile of shorts and began to weep.  

It is getting better.  Somedays it doesn't appear that way, but I am gradually accepting my new role. I am always filled with God's peace.  Yet the sorrow occasionally overshadows the serenity that rests deep in my soul.  I feel completely loved and protected. God has given me a church and community full of people willing to be His hands and feet.  Time will bring healing and new hope. However, in the moment there is unbearable pain and longing.

I quickly departed Woody's closet and descended down the stairs to find Haley sitting in the hearth room with a sweet smile gracing her lips.  While in the midst of the dreariest night God continues to provide a precious reminder that Woody lives on through the three amazing children He so graciously gave.    There will always be hope.  And eventually more smiles than tears. 

A Pit of Grief

The kids are gone so I crawled into that pit of grief, and I wallowed in the mire. I felt myself sinking further and further into the pain until my heart felt as if someone had ripped it from my chest and stood nearby squeezing it—not enough to take my life but just enough to cause excruciating pain to burn through my whole being. Why? The question that will never receive an answer this side of heaven. The question that rattles through my brain looking for a place to settle, uncertain of the outcome, needing resolution. This pit may consume me, but not today.

I see that God has thrown me a rope, and reluctantly my fingers wrap around the chords and I grasp it with what little strength I have. I need to believe. I need to know that God will carry me through this. Although some days feel as if I am racing away from the darkness that threatens to consume me, I must believe that I am racing towards the Light, who stands with His arms outstretched ready to catch me and hold me while sobs wrack my body. His hand will soothe away the pain and bring peace; maybe not today, but some day.

I will somehow come out on the other side of this. Somehow I will learn to avoid that dark pit which threatens to swallow me alive and crush my soul. I will learn to grab hold of the life line which God offers me daily, and I will find myself being lifted above the raging sea. I will know laughter and love and fulfillment in the purpose that God has planned for my life. Some day—just not today.

Progress

“I am terrified. I am overwhelmed. How will we make our way through these stormy seas? I feel alone and insignificant. I am weak. I curl up into a fetal position, hugging my knees close to my chest and I cry. My tears sting my eyes. Salty drops stain my face and moisten my knees. What will happen to us? How can I continue on this route when the way is strewn with boulders? Why?

Lord, we need Your divine intervention. Where are you? I have felt you so near, and now Your presence seems so far away from me. Please give me hope. Give me something to believe. I am so afraid. I am wracked with fear. I cannot get my mind wrapped around all that I need to do.”

These words were written exactly one month ago today—eight days after Woody’s accident. Although God has eased much of the pain, there remains a dull ache deep within that causes me to wonder if I will ever experience life the same. Yet, progress has been made.

I am no longer fearful, but I am often doubtful. I cannot see what the future holds for me or the children. I pray for their continued growth and that they will find love and laughter, but I wonder at the same time if I will ever again laugh as carelessly as I did with Woody. He knew exactly what to say and do whenever I was blue. He brought the sunshine into my cloudiest days. He filled my heart with love and joy. And now, I cannot imagine a future that does not contain the human embodiment of God’s love to me.

Every day I take one more step into the future. Every day I learn a little more about how to live without my other half. And every day I am thankful for all I do have—my children, my family, my friends, and my faith. “Breathe,” I tell myself each morning. “Take a deep breath and know that God will give you another.” I will wait and see what healing another month brings. Already, I can see progress. I still cry; I still long for Woody. However, the tears do not sting as sharply as they did nor are they always present. Occasionally, I laugh and I am filled with gratitude for what I have not lost. Yes, it is still a little overwhelming, but I know now we will survive—one day at a time. 

Progress....

Parenting Through Grief

How do I parent from a point of grief children who are grieving? We are all stumbling through the dark trying desperately to find our way. One child seems to be functioning quite well. Another has uncontrollable anger and the urge to rebel. And the third child has thrown himself into a sport he loves and refuses to discuss what happened. I am attempting to put the pieces of our family back together when I feel completely broken and inadequate. How do I mend something which will never again be whole?  

Tears are like raindrops falling at the most inopportune times, soaking the soul, leaving behind a muddy mess. Our pain is raw and all of us are experiencing it in different ways on different levels. Can I allow my children to fully grieve when I have not allowed myself to do so? How do I give myself permission to let go and wallow in my sorrow when I know I must be strong for the three young people who look to me for strength and wisdom? I cannot even see past the day in front of me let alone into their futures. I am failing. And failing at parenting is not something I can afford to do.

I look to God for wisdom, yet sometimes His words are barely audible. Last night Haley told me that she cannot be strong although she feels she needs to be.  I told her that she does not need to be. Her job right now is to become weak so that God can carry her in His strength. Perhaps I need to take my own advice. God’s power will be made perfect in my weakness. Perhaps parenting will best be accomplished when I completely trust God to bear my burden and accomplish what I cannot.

Parenting through grief. My new “normal.” Still, I do not parent alone nor do I suffer in solitude.  Although I no longer have my partner in parenting to physically carry me through these trials, I have my spiritual companion to lift me over every obstacle. I need only remember where my strength comes from.

One Month Ago Today...

Today marks one month since that fateful day when our lives were forever changed. One month, and still I long for one more day—one more day to pray with you, to talk with you, to hold your hand, to hold you close, to love you completely. However, one more day was not to be, and I must hold onto the memories of the days we were given.

I have learned so much about myself during this time and about God and grief. I have learned what it is to truly mourn. I understand what it is to lament, to groan, and to feel completely hopeless. Yet, at the same time I have gained a clearer view of God’s grace and compassion. I have felt His Spirit with me every second of every day since the horrific moment you were ripped from our lives. I have learned that I am stronger than I ever thought I could be without you—evidence of God’s existence. My sanity would have left me that day without supernatural intervention. Most of all, I have learned how desperately you were loved—by me, our children, family, friends, and co-workers. You were even more amazing than I realized.

I have learned, too, that our children are remarkable. We did well. All of those late night conversations full of anxiety concerning their futures and all of those prayers for their spiritual and physical growth have come to fruition.  They have drawn closer to their Heavenly Father and have relied upon His power. They are resilient and faithful. I know you must be so proud gazing upon them from your new home. They miss you tremendously! But in time, they will learn to live life bearing the void that your absence has created. They will build upon the foundation we laid together and it will never be shaken.

I love you! I feel as if I have been walking through a fog since the day you died. I still use present tense verbs when referring to you. I still reach for your hand before falling asleep. I miss everything about you! There are moments when I can almost see a light flickering through the haze, moments where a glimmer of hope lies on the horizon. But those moments are fleeting and far too few to be of lasting comfort. In time, they will become more frequent. In time, God will give me new dreams to replace the ones which were shattered with your life. Until then, I will take it one moment at a time—occasionally, one breath at a time. And I will continue to rely on our wonderful God to carry me through until the journey leads me back to you.