Memories & Moving

March 10, 2009, we moved into this home, a family of five with two dogs and a bearded dragon. We had made the 1,947 mile journey from Draper, Utah to Braselton, Georgia, and we were excited to see what God had planned next for our family. Hunter was 13, Haley was 10, and Haden was eight. Life was good and was only going to get better. We were full of anticipation and hope, and for six years we knew laughter and tears as we built memory upon memory into the foundation of our lives. When Woody received a job offer that would relocate our family to Raleigh, North Carolina, we all tried to view the move as another positive opportunity, but truth be known, not one of us wanted to move. Braselton had become our home and the people here had become our family. For eight months Woody commuted as we tried to sell our house and adjust to another transfer. And then life took an unexpected turn; in an instant we became too well acquainted with grief and trauma.

Now, for the last time, we are packing up our personal items and leaving the house we first called home eight years ago—the house we so carefully chose with Woody at the head of our family, guiding our decisions and protecting our hearts. As we pack up the boxes, I wonder how we will pack up the memories. Can we carefully place them in bubble wrap and pray they won’t become fragmented and broken through the move? Can we label the boxes “fragile” and gently place them in the moving van with specific instructions as to how they should be handled? How do we gather six years of memories—memories that pervade every room—and keep them intact? How do we peel them off the walls and separate them from the rooms that Woody once occupied? Every space in this home tells the story of Woody’s last years. I can still picture him sitting behind his desk in his office or standing over his bathroom sink shaving. When we leave, will the memories go with us?

I cannot answer even one of those questions. I do not see how this will play out. However, I do know that just as we have survived every excruciating moment since the day of Woody’s horrific death, we will survive this one too. Woody may no longer be here to guide our decisions and protect our hearts, but God has taken over and will continue to hold us throughout another transition. I will trust Him to carry the memories and store them away for safe keeping, and when the timing is right, unpack them one by one.

July 10, 2017, we will move from this home into a smaller, more manageable one. We are no longer a family of five, yet I know God will be faithful and fill the next house with laughter and tears. We will construct new memories on top of the foundation that has already been laid. So, here is to the next leg of our journey and praying that it will be better.

Hunter's Wedding

We did it. We made it through Hunter’s wedding without Woody. I am not going to lie—it wasn’t easy. The weeks leading up to the event were heart wrenching. How was it possible that our oldest son was getting married without his dad? Who did I have to lean on while reminiscing about Hunter’s infancy through adolescence? Who would wipe my tears and hold me close when the tears began to trickle down my cheeks as Hunter pledged his love to the woman who would become first in his life?

I sat beside a chair that held a framed photo of Woody with a single white rose resting in the seat next to it. In the photograph, Woody stood in front of a body of water, just as Hunter and Lilli took their vows in front of a lake. I did not realize the connection when I chose that photo for the ceremony, but when I realized the similarities I was overwhelmed with emotion. It was as if Woody were there with us standing to the side, smiling, hands on hips, as his eldest son entered into the covenant relationship of marriage. “Thank you, God, for allowing me to feel Woody’s presence.” The tears flowed steadily as I rested my hand on the empty seat with his photo.

Loss is never simple. It leaves devastation and hopelessness in its wake. Grief is no respecter of person or place. It strikes like a snake in the grass, hidden from view waiting for the opportune time to attack. There is no preparing for it when it rears its ugly head. Yet when it does assail its unsuspecting victim, there is a remedy. God has given me the antivenin necessary to ward off the deadly effects of grief. Every time He is there—providing me comfort and hope for the future.

I know there are many more days we will have to maneuver through without Woody, and each will present its own challenges. But I also know that God will be with us, gently carrying us forward as we continue down the road that leads to healing.

Never Again

I’m not sure why it hit me so hard this morning, but out of nowhere a wave of grief came crashing down on me pulling me out to sea as I flailed, trying to catch my breath. For a moment I was buried beneath the weight of the water as it flooded my soul and squeezed any sense of contentment from my heart. It was a thought—one innocuous thought—that sent me reeling. We have a summer league swim meet tonight, which Haden will be participating in. A friend of mine mentioned that her husband will be out of town for it. When she told me, I was completely unaffected by her statement, but for some reason it hit me this morning that Woody is not out of town. That is not the reason he will miss this meet and every swim meet Haden will ever swim in. He is gone. He will never see his son swim again. He will not watch his oldest son get married in nine days. He will not see his only daughter mature into the beautiful, strong woman she is. He will never be here again.

Perhaps, somewhere deep inside, I had fooled myself into believing that Woody has been on an extended business trip. The last eight months of his life he commuted to work in North Carolina, which meant we only saw him two to three times a month. I think I had convinced a part of myself that just as he returned from all of those business trips, he would someday return. I think I somewhat expected him to walk through our front door and apologize for being gone so long and for causing so much grief. I knew he would never miss out on his kids’ big events. He was the most involved father I have ever known. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, “he’ll be back,” has been playing on repeat. But not anymore. Woody is gone. We are on our own.

Therefore, I will crawl into my Heavenly Father’s comforting arms and wait for Him to soothe away the pain. I ache for what Woody is missing. I ache for what the children are experiencing without him. I ache for the life we had planned that will never be. Yet, I know God is here, and He will not miss a single breath. And that is the hope I cling to when grief washes over me and takes my breath away. God is near. We are not really on our own.

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.

Getting Into the Trenches

Christians have become complacent, comfortable. We like everything to run efficiently and with ease. We have no time for those things which interfere with our daily routines. Problems are welcome as long as they don’t involve too much discomfort and sacrifice on our part. Grief, trauma, sorrow—those are messy items that we spend hours upon hours trying to fix and tidy up. We want to remove the suffering and make everything better. We will apply every salve known to mankind in order to ensure that there are no scars left behind. We wouldn’t want anything spoiling our ideal lives; and wounds are ugly, complicated affairs that have the ability to leave nasty scars.

Yet, I look at the resurrected Christ, whose power lives in us, and He had scars. Thomas put his hand in the wounds of the resurrected Christ. Those scars and His suffering are foundational to the power to which God has given believers access. Christ’s suffering is the very thing that has given Christians their freedom. His weakness is our strength.  The message in the scars is not that the power of the resurrection makes our suffering go away, but that God can and will use it for His glory. In Philippians 3:10, Paul states that he wants to know Christ and the “power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings.” How many of us are truly willing to share in the fellowship of suffering? How many of us are willing to walk among those who are suffering great trauma and loss and enter into a relationship founded upon suffering? But that’s what we have been called to do.

Christians need to get over this idea that suffering, grief, loss, and sorrow are horrible things to be avoided at all costs. When someone suffers great trauma, it is our job to climb into the trenches with that person—not in an attempt to make the suffering go away, but to help that person process the unspeakable and bring the power of the resurrection to revitalize the dead places. It is our job to assist the individual as he or she figures out how to live with the atrocity and visualize how God can work through weakness to demonstrate His great strength.

Life is messy, and grief is even messier. Quit trying to sweep it under the rug. Instead, encourage healthy conversations that will truly help the person who is suffering learn to heal.