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.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
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.
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.
Thursday, November 30, 2017
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.
Wednesday, September 6, 2017
Growing Up Without Dad
Why does it still hurt so badly?
The tears that stream down my face seem to be excessive. Shouldn’t the
emotional pool that holds my grief be empty by now? Surely I have wept enough.
But watching Haden break down in blubbering sobs is more than this mother can
bear. He turned 17 yesterday—a young man. When Woody died he was a child of 14,
and today it hit him that he is growing up without his dad. “I just want a dad!”
he cried into my shoulder as I held his trembling body. “I’m growing up and I
just want him here to see me!” There was nothing to say. No words to soothe
away the pain. I just held him and tried to keep my tears at bay. He needed me
to be strong for the two of us, although I felt as if I were being crushed
beneath the weight of his sorrow.
It is wrong. There is nothing
right about a boy growing up without his father no matter what the
circumstances may be. Yet there are so many who are be it through death,
divorce, or desertion. And yes, God is our Heavenly Father; however, that does
not take the place of a dad’s hug or a seat in the bleachers. It is difficult
to see God’s hand in a situation that seems hopeless. Nevertheless, we keep
pushing forward with faith knowing that someday eternity awaits and finally the
tears will run dry and there will be no more pain or sorrow. For now though, we
struggle through unmentionable grief and the harsh reality that sometimes a boy’s
earthly father won’t be there to see him grow from a boy to a man. It is wrong,
but it is reality.
Today I mourn Haden’s loss more
than my own, and though I wish there were some words of wisdom to bring us both
comfort, there aren’t. This is one of those times we plow through the pain and
wait for God’s comfort to heal our brokenness. Until then, I will continue to
wonder just how many tears remain in my emotional pool of grief.
Thursday, August 24, 2017
A Spontaneous Decision
When I responded to my friend’s
post on Facebook, I was joking. She was trying to sell concert tickets she had
for a performance in Aspen, Colorado. She needed to sell them or find a date. “I’ll
be your date!” was my reply.
An hour later, she texted me. “Were
you serious…?
“I was tempted,” I responded. The
next thing I knew I was booking a flight to leave in a little over a week to go
to Aspen. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I told Gaile. “This is the most
spontaneous, un-grownup thing I have done since I was in my 20s. What am I
thinking?” But I did it. With my dear friend on the phone encouraging me, I
clicked the mouse on, “purchase tickets,” and it was done.
I am not a “fly by the seat of your pants” type person. I think things through, logically and prayerfully. I am
slow to respond and never make decisions on a dime. Woody learned years ago not
to surprise me, but to give me at least a week of advance notice if he wanted
to take me on a “surprise” trip. I need time to process things. I can’t just “pick
up and go.” Yet, today without thinking through all the scenarios and planning
everything out to the millisecond, I decided to take a trip half-way across the
continent without my kids trusting that they will be okay in my absence and not
making arrangements with friends to check in on them and micromanage every
moment of the three days I’ll be gone. I did not let fear hold me back.
And to be honest, that’s what it’s
all about. Being their only parent, I have been afraid to leave them since
Woody died. I have been too worried about, “What if something happens to me? I
can’t leave them alone. I can’t take any chances.” Everything—every decision in
the past two years and three months—has been primarily for them and with their
best interests in mind. This is the first thing I have done for me, and it is
slightly terrifying.
This is where trust comes in. God
has brought us this far, and I know He will continue to carry us. So, for the
first time in a very long time, I am doing something completely out of
character and am going to Aspen to spend a day listening to music with my best
friend. I’m going to trust that God will care for my kids, but more importantly
that He will care for me and bring me back home safely.
So…here’s to spontaneity and
friends that push you out of your comfort zone; and a God who’s bigger than my
fears.
Monday, June 26, 2017
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.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2017
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.
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