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.

Love

Love. I have thought about that little four-lettered word for a while now—specifically, marital love. I have come to the conclusion that love should never be a passive verb. It should always be active. Sometimes the act of loving produces pain or requires great sacrifice, but at other times it yields pure ecstasy. It is the most you will ever give, yet has the potential to give you more than you could ever dream. Sometimes it feels like a gentle spring rain, refreshing and pleasing; while other times it is a tempest swirling around your head, tugging at your clothes, ripping apart your world. However, at all times love requires great faith and fortitude. Perseverance is part of love. It is what makes love eternal and desirable.

As frightening as all that may sound, love can be quite practical. It’s the little things—a kiss good morning, pausing a moment to listen, holding hands in the car, flowers just because, preparing a favorite meal, loading the dishwasher, forgiving, a kiss on the forehead, pausing when your spouse walks into the room to smile, and a thousand other little things that say, “You are the love of my life and I’d do it all over again.” Love can be quite simple, but it should always be acted upon.

So today, while you still have the chance, listen to your spouse. Smile. Do something unexpected. Life is short, but love can be eternal.

The End of the Day

I plow through the day without fail. No tears fall from my eyes; no break in my voice to betray my fears. I am resolute. I am resilient. Who wouldn’t be with the knowledge that God fights the battle?

And then nighttime falls. The kids are safely sleeping in their beds. The crisis has passed, and it is time for me to crawl in between the cold, smooth sheets alone. There is no longer anyone there to curl up next to and share the burdens of the day with. There is no one there to let me be weak and gently wipe away my tears. There is no one there to encourage me and to take the weight from my shoulders. No. He is gone. Now the tears flow freely. Now the guard comes down. Now I am shaken and defenseless. Now the full force of parenting alone smacks me upside the head and knocks the wind out of me. I feel isolated and intimidated. I wonder if I can do this. Have I completely failed?

As I sob into my pillow, I sense God’s comforting love slowly creeping into my heart, comforting my head, offering me His strength. “There, there,” He whispers in the darkness. “I will never leave you nor forsake you. My mercies are new every morning. You will not be consumed by this because I love you.” He reminds me once more that although I am unaccompanied I am not alone. He will be a Father to my children. He will guide them through this.  We were never promised a problem free life. In fact, we were guaranteed quite the opposite. However, we do not face this crisis or any other without aid. We have the power of the universe on our side. Although I am weak, He is always strong; and in that I will find comfort and rest.

Nine Months

“Father God, You are my strength when I have none. You are my hope when I am done….” And so begins my journal entry on this day, the nine month anniversary of Woody’s death.

Some days drag on for an eternity, while others whiz by. There is no consistency, no pattern. Therefore, there is no way to prepare for what each new day may bring. Every morning I wake and am greeted by the same solitude as I roll over and stare at the other side of the bed, which remains perfectly made and cold and empty. Every day I parent alone wishing Woody were here to have that “man-to-man” talk with Hunter about his future, a conversation he so desperately needs right now as he flounders trying to find his purpose in life. Every day I watch Haden mature into the man God has designed him to be and am saddened by the fact that his earthly father is not here to see it, knowing how proud Woody would be. And every day I see the sorrow that lives within Haley’s blue eyes and wonder if joy will ever crowd out the grief that has taken up residency in her heart.

Yet, through all of this God has been my one constant—my source of strength, my only hope. I am reminded of Paul’s words to the church in Philippi as he spoke about learning to be content in any state he found himself to be. He knew what I now know that only through Christ can we hope to gain the power necessary to overcome our circumstances no matter how dire.

So even today, as I mark another milestone on this journey, I give Him praise and look to my mighty God to carry me through another day.

I Hate It!

I hate it! I hate the tears, the anger, the despair! I hate that my children are all suffering from such a tremendous loss. Their hearts are all breaking in various degrees of deterioration. I hate that I can’t slap a Band-Aid on it, plant a kiss on the forehead, and send them on their merry way. As a parent, this is pure hell!

Midnight finds me on my knees, crying out to God to remove the spirits of despair and despondency and to fill my children to the brim with a spirit of peace. My prayers are fervent. My pleas are passionate. I have no other place to turn. I feel helpless! Why can’t I fix this? Why do I feel as if my hands are tied behind my back and I am wrestling a formidable foe, who just happens to be kicking me in the gut at this moment? No matter what I say or do, I cannot make everything all-better. I hate this!

I am frustrated and furious! Yet, I am determined and devoted. I will not let grief win this war! I will not allow this incident to define or destroy our lives. I am going to battle with all of the weapons God has made available to me. And if that means I am on my knees all night, then so be it. Sleep will come in the future. Right now, there is a struggle waging for the souls of my children, and I will not slumber.

How I wish I were on the other side of this! How I wish Woody was here to encourage and face this conflict with me! However, this is a battle I face with God as my ally. And because He is with me, victory will be mine. Yes, I hate it. Nonetheless, God will use this too. Somehow even this will be woven into the tapestry of our lives as a beautiful story of redemption and restoration.

Creating Beauty from Tragedy

“Don’t wait up for me.” I knew that I would be home after Haley and Haden needed to be in bed; so I was rather surprised when I arrived home at nearly midnight to find Haley’s light peeking out from under her door. I did not say anything but went straight to my room to prepare for bed. Soon, Haley joined me in my bathroom with red-rimmed eyes and a face full of sorrow. “Why aren’t you asleep yet?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“What happened?” I queried.

“You know the white roses I had in a vase on my desk, the ones from daddy’s funeral? Tonight the vase fell over and a lot of the pedals fell off the roses and now they’re so ugly! I cried for nearly an hour. I don’t know why I cried. They’re just dried flowers! I shouldn’t be upset about something stupid like that!”

I looked into her clear blue eyes—eyes that reflected the soul of a wounded child. Loss. She has come to know too much of it. And now something so trivial compared to what she has been through had brought her to her knees. She was broken and unfortunately I had not been there to pick the pieces up off the floor and put them back together. “Oh, sweetheart! They weren’t ‘just flowers.’ They represented daddy and all he meant to you, and when they were damaged it was just more loss that you had to experience when you have already experienced so much. You have every right to your feelings.” I wrapped Haley tightly in my embrace. “You know what?  I will find something that we can do with those petals and broken flowers to make them beautiful again. We will turn this around into something positive.  We will create something beautiful from this tragedy.”

That is what I have been doing since the day Woody died—finding the ways in which God can use our tragedy for good. I mentioned to someone yesterday that all of this is part of the tapestry of our lives. One day it will all be woven together into an exquisite piece of art. What most people do not realize though, is that on the flip side of a tapestry it can look quite chaotic while it is being constructed. And that is where we are—the difficult stage of bringing all of the loose threads together and weaving them into a beautiful story to be told. We are in the messy stage of composition. However, God is the artisan at work behind the scenes, and we know that He makes all things work together for our good.

And the roses? We are working on that, just as God continues to work on us.

Eight Months and Counting....

It has been more than eight months—eight months of dealing with loss, finding a new normal, learning how to live again. We have come so far. Yet at times, I feel as if I am standing still, searching for something that I have forgotten. I pray for strength and stability. I pray for God to remove the longing. And I wonder if this emptiness will ever be filled.

The kids are adjusting. Life without their daddy is difficult at best. However, they keep moving forward, either denying or ignoring the reality that is now theirs. Hunter avoids the topic at all costs. Haley lives in constant fear that something will happen to me. And Haden is worried that he will forget. I cry for them. Their loss is magnified by the trauma that accompanied it, which creates a whole new level of complexity in dealing with Woody’s death. Even friends who have lost a parent cannot relate because they did not watch their mom or dad die in such a horrifying way. They did not see their parent start to slip and fall over 100 feet. They did not experience holding that parent on the side of a slippery granite slope while blood spilled into their hands. They did not see injuries too horrifying for words inflicted upon someone whom they loved with every fiber of their being. No, it is difficult to find anyone who understands what they are going through and what they have experienced. Yet, somehow, God is carrying them through it and they are adjusting remarkably well—supernaturally well.

And me? I cannot think about that day. I cannot think about the last time I looked into Woody’s eyes as he slid belly first over the granite slope before falling over the ledge. I cannot think about holding his hand and his head while we waited for the EMT’s. It is too painful. The tears sting my eyes and fall unapologetically every time I do. I miss Woody every day. I miss his laugh, his voice, his touch. I miss the way he loved me. I miss the way I loved him. I miss being a wife. In every scenario I imagined for my future, being a widow was not one of them. Yet, this is the path God has chosen for me, and so I praise Him. Even in my sorrow, I find joy in my Father. He has faithfully carried me through the darkest days and has set my feet upon solid ground. The clouds are slowly fading away and the sun is beginning to emerge. Hope is on the horizon. I will survive. Ever so softly, life has begun to edge its way back into my heart.

Through all of this, one thing has remained clear—God is love! He is merciful and kind. No matter what the future may hold for all of us, He will constantly guard and guide us. We are clearly under His protective wings. God is good, and if anyone had the right to question His character based upon his or her circumstances, it would be me. Nonetheless, I still say God is perfect in all His ways.  And that will always be clear.