tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778634874624166152024-03-19T20:31:53.899-07:00at home with millie and samCashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.comBlogger201125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-42771267805431229282020-11-11T15:44:00.000-08:002020-11-11T15:44:08.060-08:00chapter two<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;">"I'm a little bit scared," he said quietly in the dark of my bedroom.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I looked over and from the moonlight shining in the window I saw his curly head poking out of my blankets he had burrowed under.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“What are you scared of?” I asked softly.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">There was a pause.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">In that moment, I wondered what was about to come out of my little boy’s mouth. He was weeks away from his world changing yet again. How was he processing this?</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“I’m scared that you will want to spend all of your time with Joe and not with me.” He paused thoughtfully, “I still want you to spend all of your time with me.”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Ah.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It’s true, I spend all of my time with my kids.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Every. Waking. Moment.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. It’s just… Every. Waking. Moment.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My littlest is pretty attached to me. My biggest has been learning to spread her wings and I can venture to say that she can survive without me. For a while. She’s gone to camp. Sleepovers. Camping. She’s learned that she can go and come back, and everything is ok.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Little man, on the other hand, still worries that if I go to the store without him, I might get into a crash and die. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It’s not an unreasonable fear when you learn at a young age that we are mortal.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It’s been four and a half very, very long and very short years since we said goodbye to their Papa. It’s taken that long for me to remember to refer to him as my late husband. Sometimes I still forget to use that verbiage. Which can be confusing.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Especially when I talk about my soon-to-be husband.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Which is the change my little was worrying over one night after I had tucked everyone, myself included, into bed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Oh buddy,” I say knowingly, “you get to spend a lot of time with me, don’t you?”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I see his little head shake in agreement.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“And it’s going to be a change for us. For all of us. No doubt about that.”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">More nodding.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“But you know what? I think our lives are going to be so much better after Mama and Joe get married.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Yeah. Like, I’m really excited to finally have a dad again, but then I have to share you.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Change is hard. For all of us. But think about what you can do with a dad that you can’t with me.”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He thinks a minute, “Fishing. And RC cars. And I don’t think you want to watch Jurassic Park all the time.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I smile, “Yep. There are a lot of things you and Joe will do together. Even if you do see me less, you’ll see him more.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">That thought sinks in for a quiet minute.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Mama,” he finally says, “I’m glad you’re marrying Joe.”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Me too, sweetie.”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“I think I can go to sleep now.”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Ok. Run on and get to bed. Goodnight.”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Night Mama!”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">As my youngest scampers out of my bed and off to find his own, I’m left alone with my thoughts.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’m getting married.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">To someone who isn’t my husband.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But who will be my husband.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Life is such a bumpy thing. Like a gnarly tree with knots forming every which way, life has so many twists and turns. </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I never would have imagined the night I met Todd that I would marry him almost two years later. </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I never would have imagined that I would become a missionary and travel the world. </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I never would have imagined that I would have two love stories in my life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I sit here tonight, a week and a half before what we widowed folk lovingly call our “Chapter Two” officially begins. The prologue began this spring and we’re about to turn the page and start a new chapter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It’s kind of a lovely idea, actually.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Chapter one was a great chapter with interesting characters, surprising plot twists, and an unexpected ending.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Chapter two? I’m sure that I can’t even imagine all that is in store for us. But I can’t wait to find out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhET9h2Kp0l5WHqjc0PqpAcBuVj0qrlZk8govWX63IWM9Kg9OXVFENvlYcd3osuM76HAaltOhZdHWvpj6WwdNig0RjHeayIG0Y1mXQFk26CKj52PRvlI808DXIaLQ1ld0bk5b7Xwr4fcLk/s2048/02000735-CED1-4A2E-A333-6CA4FE4B5DA3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhET9h2Kp0l5WHqjc0PqpAcBuVj0qrlZk8govWX63IWM9Kg9OXVFENvlYcd3osuM76HAaltOhZdHWvpj6WwdNig0RjHeayIG0Y1mXQFk26CKj52PRvlI808DXIaLQ1ld0bk5b7Xwr4fcLk/w640-h640/02000735-CED1-4A2E-A333-6CA4FE4B5DA3.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-58146425044775846302019-12-27T17:59:00.000-08:002019-12-27T17:59:11.907-08:00The Best Worst Christmas EverWe had the worst. Christmas. Ever.<br />
<br />
If it could go wrong, it did;<br />
[x] Our beloved class pet escaped and seems to be gone forever; <br />
[x] Our Christmas plans got canceled because of the death in the family of my friend, which meant that we were home, thankfully, when on Christmas Eve; <br />
[x] Our house almost burned to the ground (maybe a slight exaggeration but the possibility was there. The power cable to our house exploded and smoked heavily and we lost power);<br />
[x] We spent the rest of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the school, which was still a mess from our Friday party, so I spent half of Christmas Day cleaning;<br />
[x] So while we were 48-hours without power;<br />
[x] We started having propane failure. I was outside in my jammies at 3 am Christmas night trying unsuccessfully to get the heat back on;<br />
[x] After giving up and going back to bed, we woke up at 6 am to 54º in the house;<br />
[x] The day after Christmas I drive all over getting things fixed and come home to discover that the screen on my MacBook is flickering.<br />
<br />
Also there is not one photo from Christmas. It was not a magical, tradition-filled day full of love and laughter.<br />
<br />
Also we got a puppy.<br />
<br />
I spent more than a day wallowing in self-pity.<br />
<br />
On top of feeling like this Christmas in particular was the Christmas from you-know-where, Christmas in general is just a hard time for me.<br />
<br />
Four-years ago, we had a magical, tradition-filled Christmas full of love and laughter. It was the last happy day in our family. Two days later, 4-years from today, my husband woke up in pain. <br />
<br />
He went from fine one night, to dying the next morning.<br />
<br />
Literally.<br />
<br />
And so Christmas already packs a lot of emotional punch for me.<br />
<br />
But after having myself a hearty cry (and a little sweets binge-eating), I let myself feel the cold, silent void in my heart for just a minute.<br />
<br />
The funny thing about feeling so empty is that you tend to realize all the space you have in your heart to fill up. Sometimes I feel so dry and empty that I wonder if I'll ever love again, and other times I feel like my heart is just so full of love with no one to give it to...<br />
<br />
These are the thoughts I was contemplating when my kids came into my bedroom. They ether don't notice my tears or are just used to seeing them. I'm not sure. They sat down and cuddled up to me, seeming to feel the weight of my silence.<br />
<br />
"So did you have a good Christmas?" I ask neither child in particular. Knowing that we had a crappy Christmas and now I was going to have to try to do something to fix it.<br />
<br />
Millie looked down at the puppy in her arms, "This was the best Christmas ever!"<br />
<br />
Wait, what?<br />
<br />
"The only thing that would have made it better is if I got a hatchet," Sam Added.<br />
<br />
I honestly felt dumbfounded.<br />
<br />
I smiled, "What made it so good?"<br />
<br />
"I've been praying for a black lab puppy for forever." I can verify she had been.<br />
<br />
"And I wanted a trampoline so much! Thank you, Mama!" My son, so full of life and energy and excitement.<br />
<br />
"So you guys a had the best Christmas ever?"<br />
<br />
"We did!"<br />
<br />
As they bounded off to take Nugget (I bear no responsibility for that name) outside, I had to stop and think. Was it the best or the worst Christmas?<br />
<br />
It's easy as adults to get weighed down by all the things. There's even more weight for single parents. But kids don't let the weight sit on them for long. They feel it, I know they do, but then they shrug it off like a sweater on a 70º December day in the south.<br />
<br />
They leave the weight strewn in the grass on their way to jump on the trampoline. When they get there, they call to me.<br />
<br />
"Will you come jump with us?"<br />
<br />
The weight I bear feels to heavy to jump. Too heavy to set aside.<br />
<br />
"Mama come jump with us!"<br />
<br />
I walk over to the trampoline as Millie attempts a front-flip. "Wow, that's pretty cool. I couldn't do that."<br />
<br />
"Yes you can Mama! Come up here, I'll teach you!"<br />
<br />
I hesitate under the weight of everything gone wrong. But I'm not thinking about it for long. In a moment I find myself kicking my shoes, and my worries, to the side as I climb up onto the trampoline.<br />
<br />
My kids are overjoyed. Their excitement fills my heart. As Millie begins explaining just what I need to do for a flip, I begin to jump beside her. The more I jump the farther I feel from all the problems waiting for my attention.<br />
<br />
Higher and higher we jump before I tuck my chin and throw my body into what I hope ends up resembling a flip.<br />
<br />
Both kids come bouncing on me in excitement over landing my "pretty good try" at a flip on my back. As I watched them celebrate my small victory, I wished I could be more like them more often.<br />
<br />
"I think you guys were right."<br />
<br />
"About what?"<br />
<br />
"This is the best Christmas ever, isn't it?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
PS - Sam got a hatchet the next day. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-76368289708596033842019-06-28T10:40:00.000-07:002019-06-28T10:44:26.671-07:00stolenIn 2005 we were living in the Philippines.<br />
<br />
Todd had left with the other pilot for a 10-day long trip to fly a medical team to a remote island and back. Up until this point I had gone on most flights with them, but because of the small plane and larger medical team, I had to stay behind, alone.<br />
<br />
They left on a Sunday, and Monday I came home at lunch from my office to find that our home had been broken into and everything in the house had been overturned. Sunday, before they left I had taken our file out of the safe with our salary for the next 3 months, our passports, and other important documents. I had meant to return it to the safe Monday morning when I went to my office, but I had forgot it. When I walked in the house, stepping over our belongings strewn around the floor, my heart sunk remembering that file sitting out on my bed. I didn't even have to go into the bedroom to know it was gone.<br />
<br />
I went across the street and got some friends to come back to the house with me because I was afraid someone might still be in the house. As we pawed through things on the floor and found places for the strewn items, I was in disbelief that someone would do this. My purse had been left hanging over the back of a chair was lying empty on the table, the contents emptied and half missing. My Philippine driver license was there, the cash was not.<br />
<br />
We made our way up the stairs and into our bedroom. I felt sick to my stomach to see my underwear drawer open and my dedicates in disarray. That's when the feeling of violation really hit. Everyone had gone to the next room and standing there alone, I turned around to the bed and that's when I wanted to cry for the first time. Everything was gone.<br />
<br />
I followed my friends into the other bedrooms which were mostly empty and then wandered back into my bedroom and sat down on my bed with my head in my hands. I straightened and pushed my hands behind me to prop myself up when I felt something hard.<br />
<br />
I had haphazardly tossed my pajamas onto the bed that morning after dressing, and there, under the discarded nightgown, was our file. It hadn't been touched.<br />
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Christmas 2004 in front of our house in the Philippines</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
+++</div>
<br />
This morning I woke up thinking of that day. This morning I woke up again feeling robbed. Someone broke in, smashed my heart and my life, and left me to pick up the pieces.<br />
<br />
Today we would be married 16 years.<br />
<br />
Instead, it's the 3rd year that I've spent this day alone, no matter who I am with.<br />
<br />
I don't really know what to do with myself on these days that are filled with "would-haves," and "should-haves," and "could-haves." Like, I cried for a while, but now what? I want to honor his memory, but I also want to stay in bed all day.<br />
<br />
I have work I need to do, but find myself staring into the memories.<br />
<br />
I need to write papers for school but the words coming out aren't academic.<br />
<br />
I need to do a lot of things, but I also need to just feel and remember and cry and sit a minute.<br />
<br />
Sixteen years ago I remember feeling like I had our whole lives ahead of us.<br />
<br />
Today, I still have my whole life ahead of me. It's different. It's turbulent. It's like a river that's changed so much over the years that it seems like a different river, but it's still flowing.<br />
<br />
Each day and month and year that passes takes me farther down the river. Away from that day I married my best friend. Away from the day I lost my best friend. Away.<br />
<br />
But "away" isn't always a bad thing, even if it is a hard thing.<br />
<br />
And as I travel the "away" path, sometimes I sit down to rest with my head in my hands a while. But every time I sit back up my hands find something hidden that I never really lost.<br />
<br />
I still feel the love as real as ever.<br />
<br />
I still feel my faith, as strong as ever.<br />
<br />
I still feel mt God, as sure as ever.<br />
<br />
Some things just can't be stolen. <br />
<br />
<br />
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June 28, 2003 in front of our friends and family</div>
<br />Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-39942786108218694122019-06-13T15:51:00.000-07:002019-06-14T11:16:36.048-07:00AgainLife is such a beautiful, broken, messy thing.<br />
<br />
It's been over a year since I've written anything.<br />
<br />
No blog.<br />
<br />
No articles. <br />
<br />
No book.<br />
<br />
No grocery list.<br />
<br />
Maybe that last one is stretching it a bit.<br />
<br />
I have spent the last 3 years rediscovering who I am, what is in my soul, and what I'm going to do with this life I'm left with.<br />
<br />
It's been 3 years and almost 2 months since my world shattered around me. Of feeling a deep longing in my heart that nothing can soothe. Of finding strength, losing hope, and building a protective wall around my heart.<br />
<br />
I now live alone in my own head, having pushed away most people or at best keeping some only at a distance. But never in. No one may come in.<br />
<br />
I went back to school. Became a teacher. Moved away. Started over with a very convenient reason for not truly opening up to my new community; I'm the teacher. It seemed like a good excuse to stay slightly distant and aloof from everyone, right? Teachers have to have their you-know-what together.<br />
<br />
Always professional. Always perfect. Always...<br />
<br />
Now I'll stop the teacher train right here and be first to say that I'm not perfect. Not even close. But I have some still notion that everyone else expects me to be.<br />
<br />
I've never been a very good actress. <br />
<br />
So, I've created this little bubble of isolation around me.<br />
<br />
Everyone is kept at arms length.<br />
<br />
Everyone. My friends. My family. My community. As painful as it is to admit it... even my children.<br />
<br />
Defense mechanisms are so fun. Says no one ever.<br />
<br />
In the recent few months I decided to try opening my heart to see if it was still beating. It was, barely. I let someone in and was reminded of how painful a beating heart can be.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
It's a good thing (or not) that I'm surrounded by constant distractions. I managed to average 10-hour work days by the end of the school year. You don't want to know how many hours I began the school year working everyday. My children, who are both in my class, could see the imbalance in my life before I could.<br />
<br />
Oh my children. Sweet. Loving. Ever-present.<br />
<br />
No really. Ever. Present.<br />
<br />
Every.<br />
<br />
Single.<br />
<br />
Moment.<br />
<br />
I am literally almost never away from my babies.<br />
<br />
I love them so much.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure it's healthy to never have a break. Remember that whole not letting anyone close to me thing? This is one downside.<br />
<br />
But this is different. This week, I am alone.<br />
<br />
This week, my little guy is at his grandma and grandpa's house. He left last week and girl and I will fly out to spend the summer with them next week. And speaking of girl, she's at summer camp for the first time ever. I'm totally OK with this and not stalking the camp website for photos and borderline ready to drive up there at any moment. Or something.<br />
<br />
So for the first time in over 3 years, I am alone. <br />
<br />
Alone. What an odd concept.<br />
<br />
For a good several hours of the day I'm well distracted by the classes I'm taking online. Research articles, papers, projects, and hours of recorded lectures keep me adequately preoccupied from the void that my children's absence has created.<br />
<br />
But then, when I put the books down and walk away from my computer, I'm surrounded by a cloud of aloneness that I find suffocating.<br />
<br />
I stare into the empty cloud and I whisper to myself, "This is what you wanted." And I realize that consciously or subconsciously trying to protect my heart from any possible pain is lonely place.<br />
<br />
Almost as lonely as death.<br />
<br />
But this time, it's not my husband's death. It's the death of every relationship I could possibly have.<br />
<br />
Gutted.<br />
<br />
Ripped out.<br />
<br />
Torn off.<br />
<br />
And I'm finding that what I thought was protecting me, is causing me more pain than than I was trying to avoid.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
I'm reading a book this week.<br />
<br />
Listening to a book, actually (Audio books are the bomb).<br />
<br />
It's not a new book but it's very timely in my life and kicking my butt a good bit. Brene Brown's "Daring Greatly." I've had it on my shelf for years now but hadn't picked it up. I had a spare Audible credit and a long drive and thought I'd listen to it.<br />
<br />
I think God's been saving me from reading it until this week. Like for some reason He knew that when I was all alone and feeling all the effects of my wall-building that I would need to hear it.<br />
<br />
Like somehow every distraction being stripped away and being left to see that I don't have a single meaningful relationship* in my life was a good time to cut me to the heart and remind me that I have an entire life to live and living it this way sucks.<br />
<br />
[*To those offended by that please know I'm not saying that I don't have meaningful people in my life. I'm talking about the relationships with you that I'm not contributing to.] <br />
<br />
Our hands are meant for holding.<br />
<br />
Our thoughts are meant for sharing.<br />
<br />
Our lives aren't just for us. <br />
<br />
My hands are meant for holding and my thoughts are meant for sharing and my life isn't just for me to live as safely as possible.<br />
<br />
I don't want to be alone because I'm too afraid to be hurt. I want to have deep connections and meaningful relationships and close friendships. <br />
<br />
I want to write again. And laugh again. And love again. <br />
<br />
Life is such a beautiful, broken, messy thing. And I want to share the beauty and the brokenness and and mess. <br />
<br />
So this is me. Coming out from living in my own head. <br />
<br />Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-4715991298746719422018-05-12T17:45:00.000-07:002018-05-12T17:45:09.234-07:00the danceWhen I was a kid I danced around the house. A lot. It was my favorite way to irritate my parents. I remember watching Stephanie Tanner dance on Full House and it was all I could do to sit still while she danced. <br /><br />I feel like dance has always been a part of me, although because I’ve had hip problems since birth, and because we grew up poor-ish, dance class was never an option growing up. <br /><br />In college I took dance for my PE. I’m not a natural dance prodigy, but even as an adult I have been known to dance around my house. <br /><br />And then my life stopped. <br /><br />My dance partner took his last breath and all the dance went out of me. <br /><br />It’s been two years of still feet. <br /><br />So much has changed in my life in the last two and a half years. So much instability in our lives. So much moving from place to place. I deep fog shrouded the first year after my husband’s death, and the second year was a smack in the face of adjusting to our new reality. <br /><br />And now, we’re living our new normal. <br /><br />Part of that is learning who I am all over again. I went from living in my dad’s house to living with my husband, with only a very short time in between. I’ve never really been on my own before. So I’m learning who I am all on my own. <br /><br />This girl I’m finding is pretty neat. <br /><br />Totally above average in some ways. <br /><br />But, back to the dance. <br /><br />It was so slow I didn’t even notice it creep back into my heart. Like the thawing of the deep winter freeze, spring has slowly bloomed something in me. Something like new life. <br /><br />All of a sudden I find myself singing again. Smiling again - not the practiced, forced smile I’ve been wearing for two and a half years. A smile that comes from place of deep joy in my heart. And, something I realized today, I’m dancing again. <br /><br />David danced with all his might. I get this guy. I get the deep welling of joy and gratitude and praise that wants to come out through movement. A song asks the question, “Will I dance for you Jesus, or in awe of you be still?” <br /><br />I will dance.<br /><br />Even now. It might not be impressive by anyone’s standards, but the dance is beginning to slip out when I’m cleaning. When I’m cooking. When I’m forgetting my sadness. <br /><br />I will dance. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-24272822967575070742018-04-21T20:39:00.002-07:002018-04-21T20:39:38.710-07:00two plus loveTonight I am laying in bed awake.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow marks the second anniversary of my husband's death. Is that how you say it? Is it an anniversary or is there some other way I should say that? I don't actually know the proper way to talk about death still. Tomorrow, I will refer to his death using the plural: "years." "Years" sounds like a long time. "Years" sounds like I should have learned the proper way to talk about death by now.<br />
<br />
Alas. Not PC. Sorry not sorry. Whateves.<br />
<br />
This is the thing I want to say - tomorrow it will be two years since I stood in the ICU hallway conferring with doctors, agreeing to take him off life support. Two years since I sat my kids down and looked my kids in the eye and told them they had to go say goodbye to their daddy. Two years since that day that is etched in stone in my mind. Every detail. Every hug. Every. Last. Breath.<br />
<br />
But I'm OK. I mean, I'll cry myself to sleep tonight and tomorrow I'll go through the motions of "Remembering Papa Day" for my kids and I'll cry some more. But I'm OK. Until I sat down to write, I wasn't even really thinking too much about the deathaversary. Deathday? Is there a name for it?<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
What's really on my mind tonight is my mom. Two years is not only the measurement of my husband's death, but also the measurement of when I last talked to my mom. It was actually in January. We stopped to have supper with her on our way to Washington where Todd was waiting to begin treatment.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to figure out how to word this. PC is not really my thing tonight. So bear with me. My mom - she hurt me. I don't think she meant to, and I'm pretty sure she didn't even realized that she hurt me until I told her. I've had over two years to process the pain and as much as I want to say I've moved on and forgive and forget and all that stuff, tonight my heart hurts from this still.<br />
<br />
The only thing that hurts worse than the initial hurt was that all I wanted was an acknowledgement of the pain inflicted. That's all I asked for. That's what I've needed to move on. Instead, I feel like a child still. Still wondering what's wrong with me that I'm not lovable enough... I just want to hear you say that you're sorry you hurt me. Because that's what you say when you hurt someone you love. And I need to know that you love me. <br />
<br />
I'm not writing this to rag on my mom. That just is what it is. This is about pain. We all experience pain, don't we? Some more than others. But it's unavoidable. I've endured two years and four months of really intense pain. I thought that the pain would kill me, and sometimes I thought about ending the pain myself. But I have two amazing reasons I didn't. Two things that kept me going. Two little people who are sleeping soundly tonight, not even knowing that more than once, they saved my life.<br />
<br />
Guys, I get pain. If you are hurting tonight, I just want you to know that you're not alone. I get you. I get the numbness and the acuteness and the throbbing and the gut-wrentching, heart-stabbing pain. But there's something else that I get - love. I've been loved on like I never could have imagined. Through the pain, I have been blessed beyond measure. My mom hasn't been there for me, but I can think of several "moms" I have in my church. My husband might not be here, but there are many husbands who have jumped my car and moved furniture and unscrewed tight lids and told my kids the correct names for the kinds of balls and the sports they belong to. <br />
<br />
The only thing I understand more than pain, is love. And that's because I've been loved well - by my sister, my friends, my community, even the cashiers at the Village Market and the teller at the credit union have told me more than once that they're praying for our family. My in-laws - I don't know what the rules are about your in-laws after your husband dies. Are they still my in-laws? Do I call them something else? Whateves. They are family. They have loved and supported us through hard thing after hard thing. I love those people so dearly... I hope you guys know that. I love you.<br />
<br />
At the end of the day - and it is the end of the day - you only have two things when you close your eyes: pain and love. And when you wake up, you have a whole new chance to add to, or subtract from, both of those things. Happiness isn't in stuff. Happiness isn't in money. Happiness is in love. Pain is unavoidable, but what you with that pain is the key. Love keeps us from giving into the despair of pain. Love holds us tight when we're all alone. Love is what keeps us going until that very. Last. Breath.<br />
<br />
"Keep on breathing. Just keep breathing..."was my last mantra to my husband. And it's what I'll leave with you. "Just breathe..."<br />
<br />Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-17468750563278165862017-12-20T19:01:00.000-08:002017-12-20T19:01:13.009-08:00a spark“Why don’t you write anymore?”<br /><br />I paused and looked down to escape my friend’s gaze. I didn’t know how to answer that. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t make time to write anymore…” <br /><br />While that is actually true, it’s not really the reason I stopped sharing my journey. I stopped sharing my journey because I was afraid of being judged. I thought maybe people were tired of hearing about how sad it is to rebuild your life. I just needed a minute to live in my head and keep to myself. <br /><br />It’s been One year and seven months since my husband quietly slipped away from us. I can still close my eyes and be back in that hospital room, holding my breath and praying for a miracle. One year and seven months of rebuilding, moving on, finding balance, and making mistakes. <br /><br />Two years ago I was a missionary pilot’s wife and homeschooling mama getting ready to return to our jungle home in South America. Two years ago I was jealous of an airplane who got more of my husband’s time than I did, and I would go and spend hours scraping paint, filming progress, and hanging out in the hangar just to be with him. Two years ago I was in the full swing of Christmas joy and holiday excitement. Christmas cookies and gingerbread houses and trees and lights and all the things. Two years ago I had no idea that in one week he would suddenly get sick. <br /><br />We had Christmas, and then we had cancer. <br /><br />Christmas isn’t what it used to be. I hold onto the memories of our last Christmas as our very last days together as a normal, happy family. I’m thankful for the gift of that last Christmas. But Christmas is also a marker of the end for me. <br /><br />Sigh. <br /><br />You know what I miss the most? Our time together on the sofa after we put the kids to bed. The time when we could just chat and hang out and be together. And those moments where he’d come home and just hug me for long moments. And falling asleep at night talking. I miss our inside jokes. I miss praying together. I miss walking hand-in-hand. <br /><br />Oh, my heart. <br /><br />The pain hasn’t really lessened. It’s changed. But my heart still feels a void I can’t explain. I have a dull ache in that emptiness that is my constant companion. <br /><br />But I’m finding a spark of new life in a way I never expected. <br /><br />I thought that the only way I would ever feel whole again is if I found someone to give all this love to. All the love that has no where to go. If I could just find someone they would fill the hole in my heart, I thought… <br /><br />I dated way too early trying to fill the void. It was what I needed to try, and I made some good friends in the process, but time revealed to me that, like it or not, I had to go through the process of grief. And it is a process. And I’m going to be in process for quite some time. <br /><br />But as time goes on, I am finding that my emptiness can be filled in other ways. I am substitute teaching right now, and stepping back into the classroom lit a spark inside me I had nearly forgotten about. I love teaching. I love ministering to young people. I could spend my whole life watching their faces as they learn and grow. I have a newfound mission and calling. I never thought I could be as fulfilled as I was as a missionary, but teaching… teaching fills my heart by the bucketload. <br /><br />In a week it will be two years since my world came crashing down around me. I will relive all the things we did each day. The day he got sick. The day I took him to the hospital and we heard the word “cancer,” The day I flew him out to Seattle to start treatment right away, the day we left to drive out to be with him, etc. I can close my eyes and be in those moments like I lived them yesterday. <br /><br />But in a week something else is going to also be happening - I’m starting to apply for full-time teaching positions. I can’t think of anything else, other than being a missionary in the jungle, that I would want to do with my life. <br /><br />This last year and a half has been a crash-course in so many things. I basically went from living in my dad’s house to living with my husband (there was a short time in between when Todd and I were dating). Until my husband died, I literally had never made a decision on my own. My dad helped me buy my first car and get insurance and all the teenage things, and then my husband helped me decide just about everything after that until a year and 7 months ago. <br /><br />And since then, I have purchased our tiny home on wheels, spent countless hours renovating and repairing it, put my kids in school, got a job, and on and on. I think that Todd would be proud of me. I hope he would be. I want him to be. <br /><br />So, this is where I’m at in this journey. I’ve gotten used to being on my own and if God has someone out there for me, I will be happy when that time comes. But if there isn’t someone out there for me, if Todd was my someone and my only someone, I’m OK with that too. Those fifteen years with him were the best fifteen years of my life. I’m blessed to have them. <br /><br />I’m trying not to be a grinch for my children’s sake. But if you don’t hear much from me for the coming weeks, I’ll be alternating between applying/praying for a teaching position, and cuddled up with my pup living inside my own head a bit. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-31716530544410261112017-09-06T06:00:00.000-07:002017-09-06T06:00:23.945-07:00two different livesIt might seem like widows, me in particular, are a little (ok, maybe a lot) bipolar. <br /><br />In one week on Facebook I made a blubbering post (I’m pretty sure you could hear me sobbing my eyes out through the computer), and then a few days later a shining post about how God is working in my life. Annnd then there’s days like today where I drop the children off at school and cry at a teacher. <br /><br />Stellar. <br /><br />Here’s the thing about being a widow and these mood swings - I had an incredible 15 years with my husband. Thirteen of those years I got to be his wife. I can’t think of a greater thing happening to me unless it’s being a mother. I have two amazing children that I get to watch grow up into awesome little people. Buuut. My husband is gone. And my little blessings of children, well it’s really, really hard to raise them on my own. So sometimes I feel so blessed for those years with my husband and sometimes my heart feels gutted of all substance. Sometimes I look at my children and I can’t believe I’m so lucky to call them mine. And sometimes I hear myself and wonder who that lunatic yelling at my kids is. <br /><br />I’m not really bipolar. I’m not really as crazy as I might sound when I’m sobbing about the laundry piling up and having to cook another supper and having to put our shattered life back together all by myself. It’s hard. And most people can close their eyes and imagine what they would do in my situation, but most people aren’t in this situation and don’t know what it’s like. <br /><br />I have two separate, totally different lives. One is gone and I want it back, and one is the replacement life that I never asked for and don’t want. It’s a funny thing to have two lives. It take a lot of mental balancing. I often will close my eyes and go back and and live the old life, just for a few minutes. But then when my eyes open, the other half of the bed is still cold and empty. <br /><br />I know that there is a camp of people out there who think, it’s been 16 months. Get on with your life. I have a special kind of smile for you folks. Spoiler alert: it’s not reeealllly a smile. No amount of crying will ever bring him back. But tears are healing. I can write 500 posts on how much I miss him and it won’t change anything. But my heart feels good to speak his name. <br /><br />As time goes on, each day draws me further into this new life, there are moments when I see the world of possibilities before me. But, each day also carries me from a life I loved deeply. So some moments I will be filled with hope of our future, and some moments cling to the past life of love. I loved so much about that life. I loved being married. I was made to be a wife a mom. I loved living in South America. I loved the work we did. I loved watching Todd and the children, oh, what a special bond he had with his babies.<br /><br />But the future - maybe I can love that too. The day after I ordered my GRE prep book I was offered a job - a job with career potential. I looked at grad school and I looked at my other option, and I set the prep book down and haven’t opened it again. I will someday. But right now, I’m of a different and unexpected, yet fitting and fulfilling path. I don’t know what, or who, might be in our future. This morning Millie crawled into bed with me and discussed all the things she’s hoping for in a new daddy. She hopes he hurries up and finds us. She wants him to be kind and playful. <br /><br />As I sat and listened to her describing the perfect daddy (who sounded suspiciously like Todd), I just smiled and agreed and someone who likes roughhousing is a necessity. I don’t know if there is a man out there who will find us or not. There’s a good chance that there’s not, honestly. Most guys my age are already married. Or don’t want to be a daddy. Or, I don’t know, they don’t have a good sense of direction to find us. But whether or not there is a guy out there for us, we need to learn how to do this new life. I need to find happiness where I’m at. Sometimes I think I’ve found it. It’s getting easier to fall asleep alone, and cook meals for just the three of us, and now that the kids are in school, there are days when I am home alone. And I need that. <br /><br />If widows, me in particular, seem like they’re a little all over the place, it’s because we are. But I hear that nothing lasts forever. I hear that time bring healing and with healing comes happiness. So just bear with me. I’m a work in progress. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-52466393127428165492017-07-18T11:32:00.001-07:002017-07-18T11:32:51.918-07:00tanglesIf you want to understand something about grief, borrow my sweet Millie’s dolly Maeva. <br /><br />Millie came to me this morning, Maeva in one hand, a comb in the other. <br /><br />“Mama, will you brush Maeva’s hair for me? It’s too tangled.”<br /><br />I looked down at the dolly she set in my lap and sighed. I knew that was an hour of brushing. Yes, a full hour. A labor of love for the girl I love so much. It’s not for me that I find myself camped on the sofa, working through the tangles in Maeva’s hair and thinking about the tangles I’m working through in my heart. <br /><br />Brushing a dolly’s hair is basically working through the grieving process. <br /><br />I try to take a bit of hair to begin with, but the hair is so tangled I can’t even get a small handful free. It’s hard to know where to start, but I know if I don’t, the hair will stay tangled. So I do the best I can. It’s an awkward start. There’s a lot of pulling at the tangles to work enough free that I can start working the comb through. <br /><br />Finally, I have a little bit of hair away from the rest of the tangled mess and I start the process of separating each hair from the rest until I’m holding a small bit of shiny, straight hair in my hand. I can comb through that little bit easily now. But this dolly has way more hair on her head than any girl needs. For a brief moment I consider giving her a haircut to match Millie’s hair. But even though taking scissors to her hair seems easier, all that hair would still be tangled. <br /><br />There was a point in my grief I didn’t talk to many people about. I wanted to run away. I was so broken I didn’t want to carry on the life I had been given. It would have been easy to take the scissors to my life and cut myself off. But my heart still would have been tangled. And I had two little people that needed me to start the process of separating the strands of my heart. These are who kept me getting out of bed and going everyday. <br /><br />I’m not even halfway finished brushing the dolly’s hair before I need a break. My legs are falling asleep from being crossed under me and my hand is getting a little sore. I set Maeva down next to me and stand and stretch. I go and pour boiling water over a tea bag and hop in the shower while my tea steeps. <br /><br />In the shower, I run my fingers through my own hair. Unlike Maeva’s thick, dark locks, my hair is fine and thin. I’m reminded that grief doesn’t negate grief. I’ve had to remind myself that when I’ve been tempted, in my darker moments, to say to someone complaining about their spouse’s less desirable quirks, “At least he’s still alive!” I’ve also had moments when I have gently reminded to a friend of this after apologizing for talking to me about her failing marriage. <br /><br />“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”<br /><br />“It’s ok, I’m always here to listen.”<br /><br />“I know, but you lost your husband. I should just be thankful for life.”<br /><br />I looked gently into my friend’s eyes, “Just because I am working through a huge grief, it doesn’t mean your grief isn’t real or meaningful.” <br /><br />Grief doesn’t negate grief. We all walk our own path, and we all have to face our own obstacles. We’ve all traveled different miles. We’d do well to have more grace with each other and stop comparing our griefs against another’s. <br /><br />I finish dressing after my shower and head for the kitchen. My tea is the perfect temperature. I take it and sit back down on the sofa and pick Maeva back up. There is a stark contrast between the smooth, shiny hair I’ve combed and the knotted, tangled side still waiting for me to work though. Sometimes those tangles in our own lives are noticeable. Sometimes though, like when I pick up Maeva and the smooth hair falls over the tangled hair, hiding all the knots, we can’t see the parts of our lives we’re struggling with. <br /><br />Another friend, also in the midst of marital struggles, recently told me that she can’t talk to anyone about what she’s going through because people see her picture-perfect family and can’t believe anything could possibly be wrong. But when you turn over the dolly and brush the smooth, brushed hair away, there’s still a tangled mess under there. Brush away the smiles and the lives we present to the public and you’ll see mess in all our lives. Picture perfect only exists in photos, not in real life. Be gentle, my friends, with one another. <br /><br />I’m now halfway through untangling dolly’s hair. Sigh. I don’t really want to be doing this anymore. I just want to be done. I remember expressing the same exact sentiments about grieving. But if I stop now, all my work will had been for nothing. And if I try to speed up the process I will just rip hair out and do more harm than good. I grab a larger chunk of hair. That doesn’t work either. The only way to get through this is one little bit at a time. In grief, one little day at a time. One little hour at a time. One little moment at a time. <br /><br />I can see progress. I’m getting there. <br /><br />Millie walks into the room and sits down beside me. Her hand reaches out and she gently strokes the smooth hair. <br /><br />“It’s beautiful!” She quietly murmurs, running her fingers easily though the brushed half. <br /><br />“What about this half?” I ask her, hold up the unbrushed, tangled half. <br /><br />Her nose wrinkles and she halfheartedly tries her fingers in that side but they just stop in the tangles. “Ugly.” Was her assessment. She goes back to petting the smooth side.<br /><br />“But it’s the same as that side, isn’t it? It’s just not brushed yet. But it will get there.” <br /><br />She thinks about that for a minute and then her fingers slowly return to the tangled side and she feels all the knots, “It will be beautiful too.” She gets up and runs back into the room her and Sam are watching a show. <br /><br />“Yes, it will be,” I think to myself. Not sure if I’m talking about dolly’s hair or my own healing heart. <br /><br />I have left the worst of the tangles for last. Sigh. <br /><br />Another 20 minutes and the unforgiving and unyielding tangles are finally smooth over Maeva’s head. Finally. <br /><br />The mess has been put right. The tangles untangled. <br /><br />For now. <br /><br />In a week, Maeva will likely need to have her hair brushed. The braids that I quickly twisted into her hair will be taken out. Millie loves to see Maeva’s hair cascade around her shoulders and watch it flow as she lovingly spins her around. <br /><br />The thing about mess is - mess means life. Mess means love. It’s much cleaner to keep Maeva on a shelf. He hair would never get tangled up there. If I kept my heart to myself and never opened it up again it would be much safer. <br /><br />But we’re not here to be safe. <br /><br />We’re on the Earth to be free and wild and to live fully and love recklessly. <br /><br />I return the braided dolly to her waiting little mama, who takes up her beloved dolly in her arms and hugs her close. Her smile both thanks me and rewards me for finishing the task. All of a sudden, an hour of brushing didn’t seem like such a waste of time. Love is never a waste of time. <br /><br />Did you hear that? Love is never a waste of time. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-31893714487346698042017-07-02T12:50:00.000-07:002017-07-02T12:50:51.640-07:00all this adultingIt’s a very strange thing to go from living the life you always dreamed of to losing almost everything and starting all over. <br /><br />I’ve heard people say adulting is hard. <br /><br />No truer words have ever been spoken. <br /><br />Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time introspecting. Who am I and what do I want out of life? These are among the most common questions on my mind. <br /><br />I was confident in my role as a missionary pilot’s wife. Homeschooling mama of 2. Mission project videographer. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do. But now, none of that fits anymore. That’s not me anymore. <br /><br />Driving 7-hours from one place to another in my 32’ tiny house RV today, I relished every mile. Washington. Oregon. Idaho. The Pacific Northwest. Home. Driving over the Blue Mountains I took in the beauty of this place I grew up in. The last time I lived here, I knew where my place in life was. Oh how things have changed. <br /><br />I gave myself a year to wallow. A year to cry. A year to give myself an extra measure of grace and a year to feel all the feelings. Not that any of that ends a year after losing your husband, but it was my year to wallow. I thought the one-year anniversary of my husband’s death would be almost as hard as the day he died. Instead, it was almost liberating. I gave myself permission to wallow, and then I gave myself permission to step of out the wallowing and live again. <br /><br />I still wallow at times. I still cry every once in a while. I still sometimes find myself in need of grace - don’t we all? - and I still have LOTS of feelings. Don’t get me wrong. I left behind the state of constant wallowing but not grieving. I’ll miss my husband till the day I die. <br /><br />Life for me is much better as I begin the second year of widowhood than it was the first year. There’s not as many firsts. I feel more nostalgia and less searing pain in my heart. I no longer need medication to help me keep it together. Things are much improved. <br /><br />But there is still so many hard things. Finances. Parenting. Decisions. Oil changes. Travel. <br /><br />I still don’t have a life plan. I’m impatient and feel like I should know what I want to do with the rest of my life by now. But I don’t. This is an area in which I just have to remind myself to give myself a little grace. <br /><br />I’d really like to do grad school. But financially that’s not possible. I’d love to go back to overseas missions. But I don’t feel God calling me back to the jungle as a single mom. I’d love still homeschool my kids. But I’m only just barely keeping my head above the water and need to start working soon or else things are going to go downhill. I’d like to start working but I don’t know what I want to do or where I want to live. <br /><br />With two little lives depending on me and me alone I want to get it right. But I’m not sure what “right” is quite yet. If anyone has a road map for life I could really use that right now. Or tuition for grad school. Snort. <br /><br />This life is nothing. I’m nothing more than a little leaf on a big maple tree. Life is fleeting and over so fast. Most of us will never be remembered in future generations. A few generations will pass and then I’ll just be a box on ancestry.com with my name under it. It’s not a greatness that will be remembered that I want to strive for. It’s the quality of character and integrity and love that I want to pass down to the boxes under mine. <br /><br />My wallowing is over. But my life isn’t over. I want to live. And love. And embrace all that I can while I have it. I might not have a life-plan, but I have a love-plan. And I’m OK with that for now…<br /><br />I’ll pause here to give a little update for those who have made it though my ramblings thus far. I’ve been widowed a year and 2 months now. We have lived in our tiny house RV for 9 months now. Winter was HARD. The rest of the year I actually rather love living in my 320 square-ft of a tin can. Samson the great dane is a year and 3 months and I haven’t weighed him in a while but he’s an impressive beast. Our kitty Moses was killed (we don’t know from what) but little Mary is still in Tennessee waiting for us to come home. We have been on the road for over 6 weeks, driving from TN to Washington, Canada, and a whole slew of places along the way. I met a very nice gentleman a little over 2 months ago and we are in a relationship. He lives in Idaho but if we can find him a job in TN we might be able to talk him into moving. <br /><br />The children are doing amazing. These little people never cease to amaze me. Their stamina and endurance and ability to rebound are quite impressive. They are such troopers and are excellent little travelers. They continue to grieve in their own ways. It comes out and then they move on. Then it hits again. And they just keep right on going again. Sam is 6 and Millie is 7. Sam is obsessed with dinosaurs and Millie loves horses. Sam starts kindy in August and Millie will be in 2nd grade. <br /><br />Ok. That’s my update. <br /><br />I wish each of you peace and love. And a break from adulting when possible. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-35820269934364171332017-03-30T05:27:00.000-07:002017-03-30T05:27:34.884-07:00breaking outI have learned so many lessons over the past year. <br /><br />Hard lessons. Good lessons. Painful lessons. Beautiful lessons. <br /><br />I’ve learned things about myself and what I am capable of, and I’ve also learned where I fail miserably. I sometimes wonder if grief has changed me in ways that will be changed forever, or if some of these changes will lessen with the grief as it slowly retreats back to the ocean until the next wave. <br /><br />I’ve learned that the people we think will always be there for us… aren’t. My husband isn’t here for me anymore. My mother. Some friends. Funny how people like to say they are here for you, but… where are they? <br /><br />I’ve also learned about an entirely different world that exists out there. A world full of compassion and love and support. People who grant me the grace I need when I screw up. People who look past my selfishness as I’ve been so focused on my own survival and that of my children. This is the world I have needed. <br /><br />But as the fog continues to lift, and my mind stops spinning so much, I find that as wonderful as the loving cocoon is that has been created around me in my community is thinning. And that’s OK and natural. My cocoon was what held me together and carried me though, but it’s a temporary covering. <br /><br />And maybe, just maybe, a butterfly will emerge…<br /><br />March 22 hit me like a ton of bricks to the face. Eleven months. The last time I will be counting in months since he passed away. Soon, it will be counted in years. I’ve been whirling in a stormy sea of grief, as if he’s dying all over again. <br /><br />When I laid next to him as he slowly slipped away from me, I watch his face intently. Would I see a miracle? I silently pleaded with God to breathe life back into him and heal his body. This was the moment, God… but God missed the moment… or did He? <br /><br />I will forever remember that moment. Just like that, he was gone… In that one moment. <br /><br />But that was just one moment. Our lives are full of moments and I’ve missed so many this last year. But every today we are given is a new day with new moments. Seize them. Cherish them. Hold them close to you. <br /><br />God doesn’t miss these moments, He holds them in His hands, along with us, and carries us on to the next moment. <br /><br />One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn, aside from RV plumbing and letting go of homeschooling, was that I can’t make anyone love me. <br /><br />That’s a hard one.<br /><br />The heart is a funny thing. Capable of so much more than I ever imagined. Stronger. More resilient. More tender. <br /><br />I want you, you know who you are, to know that I forgive you for not showing love to me. You still don’t see how you’ve hurt me and I’m guessing you never will. But I forgive you anyway. Not for you, but for me. My heart is letting go of this hurt. Hurt is a heavy burden to carry and I need to lighten my load. There is a scar left behind, but no longer will I carry this hurt around with me. <br /><br />I want you, you know who you are, to know that I am so sorry for hurting you. I have been selfish and wrapped up in my own world and uncaring about yours. It was unintentional but nonetheless my actions still have consequences and I will accept them. I will try harder all of the tomorrows I am given. <br /><br />I want you, you know who you are, to know that I’m so very thankful for you. Not in a public, shout-out, telling the world what you’ve done for me kind of way, but in a quiet, eternal, you’ve changed my heart kind of way. <br /><br />I want you, all of you, to know what maybe I’m still closer to a worm than a butterfly, and I still feel like a hot mess on a freezing day, but your kindness, your support, your encouragement, and your love are not unnoticed. I’m learning. I’m living. And someday I hope to be part of your cocoon. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-42767725504415412972016-11-13T06:47:00.001-08:002016-11-13T06:47:58.346-08:00don't miss the giftThis day greeted me with peace and hope. <br /><br />Today, I choose to trust in God and His timing. Today, I choose to not say the unkind thoughts rolling around in my mind. Today, I choose to live in this moment, and even though my life isn’t what I had planned on, or hoped for, or dreamed of, this is what’s before me and I don’t want to miss the gift. <br /><br />I’m in several widow groups online. I read the stories of pain and brokenness and shattered lives. I can relate to so much of it. But then again, I think I’m different. I don’t want to be defined by my pain for the rest of my life. I had an amazing marriage and I was loved more than any one person deserves. But oddly, that doesn’t make me want to wallow… it makes me just want to love all the more. Love is the best decision I ever made. <br /><br />I recently met someone who made me realize that, contrary to what I thought after Todd died, I can love again. It’s exciting! Things didn’t work out with this person, but my heart isn’t wholly dead, as I used to think, so I’m grateful for the lesson. <br /><br />I was - and am - well loved. I’m not sure anyone will ever love me the same as Todd did, and I don’t think I’d want anyone to. What we had was so special and I can’t even find the words to tell you how so worth the past 15 years have been. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. I will never regret saying, “yes.”<br /><br />But I have another gift still unwrapped. <br /><br />I have the potential to have another 15 years - or 5 or 50 - of love all over again. If God brings love to me again, I will be the most blessed woman ever. To love and be loved all over again - I’ll say, “yes.” Every time. I will never regret love. <br /><br />My girlfriends and I have been having some hilarious, some serious, and some painful conversations on the topic of finding love again. I don’t even know where to meet guys my own age that aren’t already husbands. I’m pretty sure that I can add socially out of practice and awkward to my list of fine qualities I have to offer. LOL.<br /><br />Yes, I’m still grieving the loss of my husband. I think I always will. A love like that isn’t something I even want to forget or get over. I want his love to stay in my heart forever. Yes, I still cry a lot and have lots of fresh pain and memories. I hope I never forget the painful parts right along with the happy parts. Yes, I have a lot of feeling and emotions and I don’t expect that to ever change. LOL. <br /><br />I am a widow. I’m not bitter or angry from my marriage. I come with a set of baggage that is unique and not what most people are used to. I won’t stop loving my husband, or talking about him or missing him. I come with two kids who long for a daddy here on earth. We’re a package deal. I feel broken and I feel like I don’t have much to offer anyone, but someday, someone will help my heart to heal and remind me what I can give. Someday. <br /><br />And, I have really high expectations. My husband set the bar really high. I’m not going to settle for less. <br /><br />So while I wait for God’s timing, and learn how to open my heart up again, I want to tell you to be brave. Say, “yes” to love. Don’t miss the gift. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-68455960974331476782016-11-04T06:40:00.002-07:002016-11-04T06:40:59.113-07:00the blessings to comeIn the dark moments of life it seems that there’s always a light waiting to shine though, if only we look for it. <br /><br />For me, this light has come in many forms. Sweet cards and letters. Family who is there for me. Friends with open shoulders to cry on. Smiles from strangers who know our story. Hugs from church members. <br /><br />So much love. So much light. <br /><br />In Tennessee, it is still 85º and sunny. We’re at the park. My mother-in-law is here visiting us for Todd’s birthday which was last week. Hard day. The kids are playing in the sand with friends and the MIL is watching the pup. So I’m sitting in the shade of a tree and trying to sort some things out. <br /><br />I know when I have too many feelings that I need to write to sort them out. The hard ones, the happy ones, the yucky ones. <br /><br />As we enter November and the leaves change colors and drift to the ground, I think about the changes in my own life. There have been so many this year. But those aren’t the ones I’m thinking about. <br /><br />I’ve decided to be intentional about living in each day. I can’t dwell on the hurt and pain of my past, I need to focus on the blessings that are to come. Each day as I remember to breathe, try to eat, and watch my kids grow I look for the beauty and the blessings in the moments we have together. <br /><br />I find myself wondering about to blessings to come. <br /><br />Will anyone ever love me again the way Todd loved me? <br /><br />Will I ever be able to open my heart again? <br /><br />Am I too broken to have hope in love again? <br /><br />I’m inpatient not knowing the future. Life takes time and love takes time. My brain knows these truths, but my heart looks to fill the holes torn through it. <br /><br />The warm fall breeze reminds me that life is ever-changing. What I once was secure in was ripped out under my feet. I’m no longer naive enough to believe that it can’t happen again. Dare I risk it? <br /><br />The fear of losing part of my heart again is real and raw. <br /><br />Yet knowing how much his love was so very worth all I’ve endured, I feel that maybe I can risk it again. Maybe my heart will beat fast and my tummy will flutter again. Maybe someday. <br /><br />As for today, I’ll face the sun and let the breeze warm my soul. This is the moment I’m living. Someday will come, and patience or not, I can’t rush it. But I can prepare for it. And pray for it. And enjoy the journey to it. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-34835594949077146822016-10-12T03:18:00.000-07:002016-10-12T03:18:23.933-07:00imperfections Throughout our thirteen years of marriage, I used to get annoyed at the imperfections in my husband. <br /><br />As time went on, I seemed to notice more and more of them. <br /><br />Now, as I lie alone in bed at 4 am, all I can remember are my own imperfections. <br /><br />The times when I was impatient. Unfair. Misplaced my anger. <br /><br />All too late, I’ve been reminded of one of life’s quiet truths - you can’t change other people, nor are you responsible for their behaviors and actions. At the end of the day, all you can change is yourself. Your actions. Your responses. Your character. <br /><br />Self, stop trying to change other people. Let’s work on you. On kindness. On patience. On grace - shall we?<br /><br />Sigh…<br /><br />Starting over in life isn’t an easy task. Neither is it a particularly gentle process. <br /><br />We’ve been thrust into a world I was not prepared enter. This world is messy and rocky and often times I’ve felt like I’m failing at every single thing I try to do. <br /><br />Life isn’t fair. I vividly remember my dad telling me that with a shrug when I was growing up. I never realized how painfully true those words are until the moment I had to say goodbye to my husband. <br /><br />Life isn’t fair. <br /><br />It isn’t easy. Or predictable. Or laid out in a neat little package. <br /><br />Life is something else, something unexpected and complicated. <br /><br />And here we are, starting plumb over. <br /><br />It kind of feels like we just watched a really great movie, and then it ended. And you don’t know what’s going to happen next, but you hope they make a sequel. <br /><br />I wish there was a script we could follow. I need a line prompt right about now…<br /><br />I feel caught in a world where, even though I’m “doing well,” I’m an absolute mess. On the outside I smile and say, “we’re doing fine, thank you for asking.” I appear to have showered, and my children are relatively clean. <br /><br />But on the inside, I don’t want to talk to people. Even my closest friends wouldn’t hear from me if they didn’t call me. I can see how easily it would be to close up inside myself and never open up again. <br /><br />I loved him, and he died. <br /><br />These other people I love, what if they die too? I don’t think my heart could handle it. It’s too risky. Better to let a little distance in to buffer the potential pain…<br /><br />What a painful life we live. <br /><br />If I didn’t have the hope in a life to come, a life without pain and death and tears, I don’t know how I’d make it through this life. <br /><br />But just because something is painful doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. <br /><br />Knowing what I know now, I’d marry that boy all over again. <br /><br />Only this time, I’d be a little more gentle when I felt injustice had been done. I’d be more patient. I’d be more adventurous and do more of the things he wanted to do. <br /><br />I’d kiss him more. I’d communicate better. I wouldn’t have any regrets. <br /><br />Instead of getting to have my love story with my husband over again, I have a whole life to live without him. Maybe slowly, I can be more adventurous. And communicate better. And live without regrets. <br /><br />As for the kissing…<br /><br />It’s a hard thing to imagine anyone else’s lips right now. And I’m good with that. <br /><br />Back to the starting over bit - we live in a RV-turned-tiny-house. The idea was to go wherever the wind took us. But as it turns out, there was just a gentle breeze and we didn’t go very far. For the first time since 2016 began, we’re starting to feel a little settled. A little stability. Weekend trips have been fun, but it’s nice to just be settled a bit. <br /><br />Our grand plans of grand trips - it just feels a little hard and a little lonely right now. So we’re just going to hang out here till the wind picks up. <br /><br />The children are growing. The pup is growing. The kittens have turned into cats. Life just has this funny way of going on, even if you don’t want it to. <br /><br />As life goes on, hope goes on. Love goes on… <br /><br />I never wrote thank-you cards. If you were wondering if yours got lost, it didn’t. It’s still in the box. I addressed them and sobbed over them. It feels like it’s the last thing to do. The final item on the list. Once I write thank-you cards, it’s over. <br /><br />Please be patient if I hang onto them for a little while longer. I haven’t forgotten your generosity. Your kind words did not go unread. Your thoughtful gesture was not unnoticed. <br /><br />Grief is just a funny thing. It doesn’t make the most sense or is always logical. <br /><br />Please know, dear friends, that I am grateful for you. For the words and notes and kindness. My aloofness is a protective layer. <br /><br />I think that someday I’ll shed that layer and emerge from the pit I’ve landed in. Until then, we would love your prayers. If you want to go on an RV adventure with us, we’d love your company. And if you don’t mind that I might not remember when the last time we showered was, we’d love your hugs.<br />Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-84962590411614517942016-07-30T07:29:00.000-07:002016-07-30T07:29:39.635-07:00freedom“How can you be gone?” I whispered to one of the many photos on our fridge. <br />
I took a moment to study the faces. One from the dating days, and then one from the parenthood days. <br />
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We both got older. A few wrinkles have begun to claim space on our faces, a few grey hairs have claimed space on top. <br />
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We grew up, I realize. <br />
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We grew up together… <br />
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If you’re new to my little blog, hang on. You’re in for a roller coaster. There’s a lot of feelings going on here. <br />
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Three months ago I said goodbye to my best friend, my husband. Our children and I laid in bed with him as he slipped away from us, silently changing the course of our lives forever. <br />
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We had a happy Christmas, although we had already begun packing to return to our mission field - a remote little village in the jungle in South America. December 30th we found out that Captain had cancer… less than 4 months later we said our goodbyes. <br />
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Now, as I’m trying to pick up the pieces of our lives, figure out this single motherhood business, and find balance with working, nothing, homeschool, housekeeping, etc., I’m left in the quiet. The meals have stopped. The random visits from friends offering condolences have stopped. The barrage of affection from every direction has slowed. <br />
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There is a time and a place for everything, as the shock of our loss wears off in our community, we’re left in the quiet to figure this new life out. <br />
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Please don’t mistake me for complaining; there is a time for rallying and a time for quiet. Now is the time for quiet. It’s needed. (Please don’t mistake this for a lack of support. My tribe around me is very much involved in making sure there are vegetables in my fridge and that the children have clean underwear.)<br />
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Like the gentle breeze stirring the grass, life seems to be gently stirring me away from shock and grief and darkness to light and laughter. <br />
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As I grapple with letting go of our old life, and trying to accept this new life, I’m left also grappling with God. <br />
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So many questions for God. <br />
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One of my best friends told me shortly after Todd died that she wasn’t sure if I would cling to my faith or turn to alcohol. I laughed at her statement, but I also wondered the same thing. Tragedy has a way of making you examine what you believe. <br />
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You figure out pretty quick if you have faith that will be scorched and whither away, or if the roots of your faith will fold fast through the storm…<br />
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There’s going to start to be some changes that you’ll see in our family. I’ll be writing about it, and I’m sure I’ll be posting on Instagram and Facebook too. After a lot of prayer, thinking and discussing, I’ve made a decision about our lives that quite frankly - feels a little crazy. I still can’t believe we’re doing this, but, we’re going to give it a go. <br />
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I know that this decision isn’t for everyone, and that some people are going to think it’s stupid. But don’t judge me. Unless you’ve lost your spouse and know the emptiness and brokenness our family is experiencing, you don’t get to judge us. We need to heal some more before I’m ready to work and put the kids in school, and we have chosen an unusual way for this to happen…<br />
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We’re joining the “tiny home” world. We bought an RV and our goal is to live in it for a year. To take a year and heal, grow, bond, and learn how to be a family of three. We’re going to sick around TN through the winter with a few exceptions (I’ve always wanted to see New England in the fall), and then head west, visit family, see things, and homeschool as we go. <br />
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We might hate this. We might last two months and change our minds. And that’s OK. Our animals are coming with us. We’re going to be a traveling zoo. This is crazy town and I know it. I guess I’m just the right kind of crazy. But we need this freedom right now. The freedom to stay, the freedom to go. To cry some days, and have wild adventures other days. The freedom to cling to each other and to explore and to run in the wilderness. <br />
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Todd would have loved this. <br />
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I don’t know what this next year will bring, but I do know that God is with us. And He loves us. And sometimes that’s all we need to know. <br />
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Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-81593081308939657542016-07-19T19:50:00.003-07:002016-07-19T19:50:54.495-07:00survival“Mama, I need you!”<br /><br />I walked back to my bedroom where my little boy was laying in my bed, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep. Those bright blue eyes looked up at me and I sat down next to him. <br /><br />Earlier we had talked about the sheets we just put on my bed. It was all I could do to make it sound like a happy thing to put these sheets on the bed. <br /><br />Todd had slept in them. <br /><br />Just a couple nights, on the blow-up mattress when he was staying with his parents while the kids and I headed out to Washington for chemo treatments. <br /><br />He had shoved them back in the cloth bag and they were forgotten. <br /><br />Until now. <br /><br />I had covered Sam up and told him to smell deeply. I told him that these were Papa’s sheets and sleeping in them was like sleeping next to Papa. <br /><br />“Mama,” he said again. <br />“What sweet boy?”<br />“I feel like Papa is dead. Can you lay with me?”<br /><br />Sob.<br /><br />It’s the little things in our broken lives that remind us how acutely we feel his death. <br /><br />The skinned knees. Standing at the sink without him hugging me from behind. Riding bikes. Lazy Sunday mornings. The deep void next to me as I sleep…<br /><br />We live in a different world all of a sudden. A different life. What was meant to be a a temporary stop - Tennessee - has turned into home. What was meant to be our dream - living in the Guyana jungles - is nothing more than a distant memory. <br /><br />It was never about surviving. <br /><br />Every time we sat down to talk about our lives in the jungle, or any time anyone else would talk to us about our lives there - we always knew what we would need to survive. <br /><br />But we didn’t want to go to the jungle to survive. What blessing is there in surviving? We wanted to thrive there. <br /><br />Now, I’d be happy with surviving. <br /><br />This is it. This is my life. It’s not the jungle. It’s not with my husband. It’s not what I had signed up for. <br /><br />There’s a common theme among married people these days - people don’t really mean their wedding vows. I’m not sure I did either, truthfully. <br /><br />Till death do us part. <br /><br />Like that’s when the love stops.<br /><br />Death did part us. But the love didn’t stop. <br /><br />Sigh. <br /><br />I don’t want to survive in life. I want to thrive. I want my kids to thrive. I want us to not count cold cereal as a supper meal three consecutive nights in a row. I want us to be able to lay in bed together at night and talk and laugh instead of being so exhausted that I barely tuck them in. <br /><br />I want us to stop feeling death. <br /><br />I want us to not feel broken.<br /><br />I want us to find a new dream. <br /><br />The shock has worn off. I don’t walk around in disbelief anymore. A semblance of acceptance has crept over our home and we’re starting to eat more vegetables and less frozen waffles. <br /><br />I often find myself remembering our other life and feeling apathetic over this life. I wonder if someday that spark that we used to have will find us again. <br /><br />“I feel like Papa is dead. Can you lay with me?”<br />I looked into those hurting eyes. “I feel like Papa is dead too.” <br />“I’m really sad that Papa died.” <br />“I know, sweet thing. So am I. Close your eyes. Ok, Can you see Papa?”<br />He shook his head no.<br />“Try to see Papa’s face. It’s smiling at you.” <br />“I see him!” His eyes were clamped shut but they smiled. “He’s picking me up and giving me a hug!”<br />“That’s right! Do you hear what he’s whispering in your ear?”<br />He shook his head no again.<br />I leaned over and whispered in his ear. “He’s saying, I love you, Samuel. I love you so much!” <br /><br />And he fell asleep with a smile.<br />
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Oh, to dream. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-81198994902412149462016-07-07T05:34:00.000-07:002016-07-07T05:34:29.166-07:00hot messFor being a Christian, I sure do lie a lot. <br /><br />The first thing people generally ask me when they see me is, “How are you doing?”<br /><br />“I’m doing alright, I guess.”<br /><br />Liar.<br /><br />For the first time, yesterday I decided to try the truth. <br /><br />I don’t know what made me say it, but when our supper arrived (our community has a meal train going for our family and is bringing us suppers several times a week), the pastor’s wife asked me the question. <br /><br />“So, how are you really doing?”<br /><br />I hesitated for a moment. What would people say if I told the truth? <br /><br />“Well.” I paused. “I’m a hot mess.” <br /><br />That’s really the only answer I had. And it was the only truth. <br /><br />I AM a hot mess. <br /><br />She followed me into the kitchen and shifted the mess around on the table to set the meal down. I shifted mess around on the counter to set something else down. <br /><br />The kids came in. I told them to wash their hands and set the table. There were only 2 clean plates left. All others were stacked disorderly in the sink and surrounding vicinity. “Uh, just get a paper plate out for me.” <br /><br />A few moments later the report came back that the paper plates were too far buried under the mess on the counter for the 5-year old to find. <br /><br />I looked at Heidi in exhausted confirmation. Yep, hot mess. <br /><br />I don’t want to be a hot mess, but I do want to be real. I don’t want to say I’m OK when I’m clearly not. Why do we do that? Why is it so hard to say that we really aren’t OK? <br /><br />This year has been the worst year of my life. My children have learned far to early how unfair life really is. That bad things happen to good people. That sometimes it looks like darkness wins. <br /><br />But darkness doesn’t win. <br /><br />And yeah, I’m keeping it real over here with all my belongings in boxes lining the hall wall because I don’t want to unpack. I keep forgetting to put things back in the fridge and having to throw them out. Not because I’m ungrateful or trying to be wasteful, it’s just part of the coping. The honest truth is, I’m in survival mode. <br /><br />This morning Millie walked into the front room and gently asked me, “Mama, what are you looking at?” She looked at the blank wall and saw nothing. I tore my gaze away from months ago back to the present and smiled at her. “Nothing.” <br /><br />I don’t know if she understands or thinks I’m crazy, but probably once a day there is a small hand on my shoulder with a gentle, “Mama, what are you looking at?” <br /><br />I’m looking at Papa, I think to myself. I’m watching him sleep in the hospital bed. I’m laying next to him. I’m watching him slip away. <br /><br />I know that someday the time will come to move on. I weep at the thought. But I know that someday, I really will be OK. It won’t be a lie anymore. I know that I’ll be able to be present with my kids without them having to remind me to. I’ll be able to stay on top of dishes and laundry. Ok, maybe not laundry because, life, but the dishes I can handle. <br /><br />Someday… <br /><br />So there is the truth, friends. <br /><br />I’m not OK. But I will be. <br /><br />Until that day comes, I’m so grateful for the community we have here and the support for our family. I’m so grateful for every prayer offered on our behalf. I’m so grateful for the generosity that has been poured out often times from strangers. I haven’t forgot your kindness. I’m grateful that God is holding onto me when I struggle to hold onto Him. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-11229706081518726742016-07-04T17:51:00.001-07:002016-07-04T17:51:57.229-07:00I can't do this...The last few moments of my husband’s life refuse to stop playing in my head.<br /><br />It’s like a song on repeat.<br /><br />I can still smell the hospital smells on his skin as I lay next to him. I can see the expression on his face as he slowly slipped away. I can feel his chest rising and falling… and then still. I can hear his last breath, and then, silence. <br /><br />I can close my eyes and I’m laying next to him in that bed again. Holding his hand. Silently hoping and waiting for a miracle, even though I had thought I didn’t have any hope left. <br /><br />Every ounce of hope in my veins poured out in those last minutes until it was gone. Until he was gone…<br /><br />And now. Ever day of my life is measured by that day. At first it was one week, then two. One month, then two. <br /><br />Every tick of the clock is another measurement of time that passes. <br /><br />Tick. Tock.<br /><br />I never imagined what a halting stop my life could come to. People keep saying, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” But I bet you can, if you try. <br /><br />Life just kind of stopped. Suspended in midair. The wind stopped blowing and all is still. That’s kinda how it feels. Like being in the ocean all alone in a raft with no wind to take you anywhere. <br /><br />It’s a deep and painful loneliness. <br /><br />Tick. Tock. <br /><br />But not all stopped. The children keep going. They keep me from staying in bed all day and from getting lost in the deep retreat of my mind. <br /><br />They get hungry. They make messes. They get bored. <br /><br />So on we go. My body goes. I can carry on conversations and even laugh at the appropriate times. I make polite small talk with the other moms on the playground and banter with the check-out lady at the supermarket. I know the things to say, so I say them. <br /><br />But my heart is still lost at sea, and the clock is still ticking. <br /><br />How much time will pass before I can feel my heart again? How much time until those last minutes stop playing in my mind? How much time?<br /><br />Please, don’t answer that. <br /><br />Sometimes, I talk to God about it. Other times, I can’t find any words, only tears. And still yet I cry out to God in pain and anger and confusion. <br /><br />Every time I am overwhelmed with life and death and fear I cry out to God that I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t be a single mother. I can’t provide for my children. I can’t do this. Every time, God, in some quiet way, reminds me that I’m right. <br /><br />I can’t do this. <br /><br />But I’m the beloved of the One who can help me. <br /><br />Oh how He loves me. Oh, how He loves me. <br /><br />My faith didn’t protect me from pain. It didn’t protect my children or my husband. That’s not what faith is for. It’s not a protective measure, rather, it’s the strong line that connects me to God as I walk through this pain. As my children walk through it. As my husband walked through it. <br /><br />So many people have told me that they were so surprised that Todd died when so many people were turning to God in prayer for him. Todd would have died 100 times to give people the chance to turn to God. This much I know. <br /><br />God heard those prayers. <br /><br />He loves Todd so much. <br /><br />He loves us so much. With every tick of the clock, He loves us. <br /><br />Someday this will all make sense and we’ll know. But for now, as the wind is still, I will close my eyes and cling to the faith that connects me to God. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-76787275112650194332016-06-22T13:49:00.001-07:002016-06-22T13:52:38.633-07:00changes Dear Todd,<br />
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Our lives keep going on and on.<br />
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Everything is changing. Nothing is the same.<br />
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Each change is a stark reminder to me that you are gone.<br />
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We have a dog now. And 2 kittens. I call them our therapy animals. I have a new car. The kids needed new swimsuits. I got new shoes. We got camping equipment. I even have my own paddle board now. All of the new things are reminders of what I can't share with you anymore. Camping trips you will miss. Road trips you will miss. Memories you will miss.<br />
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It's been two months now since you left us. I can still see your smile so fresh in my memory, but sometimes I struggle to remember the sound of your voice. We watch videos of you and look at photos often so we don't forget.<br />
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Today I sat down with a grief counselor for the first time. We met at the park and chatted while the kids played and rode bikes. He says I'm dealing with my grief well. I don't feel like it. I feel like I'm falling apart.<br />
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I wish you could meet Samson. He's our puppy. He's a black Great Dane and his eyes look so much like Alex's eyes. I look into them and I remember so many adventures we had when we got Alex. He was such a good dog, and Samson is following in his footsteps. I'd forgot how much I enjoy training a dog. He really is therapy for me. He's Samuel's dog - Samuel got to pick him out for his birthday - but Samson is a mama's boy through and through.<br />
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The kittens are so much fun. They are so tolerant of the children constantly carrying them around. Amelia named hers Mary and Samuel named his Moses. They are going to be really good kitties.<br />
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We got back to the house just over 3 weeks ago. I thought that once we got back here everything would fall into place and I could think more clearly. Instead, the house feels so empty, just like my heart.<br />
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I printed and framed a large family photo to take to your funeral. It's up on the piano now. It's one of the ones we had taken in November with your plane. I stare at it, that was just a few months ago. Already the cancer was spreading throughout your body and we had no idea. No idea that we were spending our last happy months together. No idea of the fight that was to come. No idea of the heartache that was to come.<br />
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We were happy.<br />
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You were so proud of that plane. I am still proud of you. You know, that plane is going to Guyana soon. James is going to fly it. I know that's what you would have wanted.<br />
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I haven't mustered the courage to go look at it yet. The kids have asked to. Maybe someday.<br />
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We had a little party for Samuel last week on his birthday. It was small and simple and I didn't spend hours making anything. In fact, all I made was a cake. I was fine until I brought out the cake and we sang to Sam. Then, I lost it.<br />
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A boy needs his father.<br />
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Sob.<br />
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Next week I will spend our anniversary without you. Thirteen years. I'm so glad for the time we had together, but it wasn't long enough.<br />
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After that is my birthday, the children are concerned that I'll never get a birthday present again. Haha. There's only one present I want now, and I can't have you... <br />
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I wish I could end my letter by saying, "See you tomorrow!" I can't wait for the day when we are reunited. I'll have so many things to tell you, and so will the kids. They keep growing, you know. I see you every time I look at them. Thank you for that gift.<br />
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I love you.<br />
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I'll always love you.<br />
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Someday when we are together again you'll laugh at me for writing letters to you. I hope that I'll be able to remember to tell you all the things I wish I could tell you now. I close my eyes and imagine talking to you and despite the pain of missing you, it actually makes me feel a little better knowing that someday will come.<br />
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Love forever,<br />
Cas<br />
<br />Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-90200551899275900932016-06-05T09:32:00.000-07:002016-06-05T09:32:33.760-07:00his last letterWe got back to Tennessee a week ago.<br />
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I walked into our house, where I knew someone had been staying the last few months.<br />
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I took a deep breath and let my eyes sweep around.<br />
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The kid's artwork, the Christmas cards I had left on the door frame, our books and personal things were all gone from the walls. The worship books and candles were not on the piano. Furniture was moved.<br />
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I felt like a stranger. <br />
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I just walked into a house. Not our house. Just... a house.<br />
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I went into the kitchen and dining rooms.<br />
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Empty walls stared back at me. Our homeschool shelves still were full of books. But there was no "Anderson Family Kindness Plan" on the wall.<br />
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Even though I knew someone had been staying there, I didn't expect to feel like our home had been violated. It probably wouldn't have mattered at all if my husband had been by my side... but he wasn't. <br />
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It's kind of silly, I now realize, but for some reason I had it in my head that if we could just get back to this house, to where our life was, to where he was, that I would be able to think clearly and make decisions and figure out what I want.<br />
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But as I stood in a empty house there was no clarity. In fact, I felt more confused than ever.<br />
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It's been a week and I've been halfheartedly unpacking at best. The kids' clothes finally made it into their dresser today.<br />
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I don't want to be here.<br />
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I suspect that I don't want to be anywhere.<br />
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Friday morning we spent the morning out at 12-acre farm that's been offered to our family for 2 years. From the emails back and forth prior to seeing the property, I wasn't sure it was something I could handle. But, with a little help from our amazing community here, it's going to be a sweet little house for us.<br />
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I don't know if I'll get there and not want to be there, but for now, it's something I need to try.<br />
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I'm going to surround myself with animals and write and be outside as much as I can.<br />
<br />
I think I'll love the space and hate that I can't share it with my husband. <br />
<br />
I'm still living out of boxes, and I'll continue to do so until we get out to the farm - it will take a few weeks to work on some repairs and such. I'm also having to move our belongings that were moved out of our living space, everything was put in the kids' room.<br />
<br />
As I'm going tenderly though the stack of things that once sat beside my husband's bedside. On impulse I put them back where they belong. Then, I sat down on the bed and looked through his things. Books, notes about airplane things, doodles from the kids. On the bottom was a composition notebook.<br />
<br />
The man loved his composition notebooks. <br />
<br />
I opened it up expecting to find a maintenance log or tax-record log (heaven help my non-record keeping self). It was mostly empty as I flipped though except for the first 3 or 4 pages. I turned the book right side up and let my eyes scan the first page.<br />
<br />
My heart stopped.<br />
<br />
It was a letter.<br />
<br />
To me.<br />
<br />
That he started after we found out he had cancer.<br />
<br />
I read the first few lines and closed the book. And my eyes.<br />
<br />
I can't.<br />
<br />
I paced the room a bit, grabbed the box of tissues, and sat down on the bed again, determined to read the last letter he wrote me.<br />
<br />
We were letter writers. I'm a better communicator when I write, so we've written hundreds of letters back and forth over the years. As I'm reading this letter, it's not just a letter. This was us. It was only 3 pages long, and then it would be over.<br />
<br />
I slowly opened the book and found where I had left off.<br />
<br />
Two more lines and I'm sobbing again.<br />
<br />
The pain. Oh the pain. My heart. Oh how it hurts.<br />
<br />
He never finished his letter. We ended up flying him out to Seattle so fast that he didn't have time to finish it. <br />
<br />
He loved me so much more than I ever deserved.<br />
<br />
Now his love is gone and all I have are his words and the memories of his love.<br />
<br />
Friends, leave memories of your love with the people you love.<br />
<br />
Write letters. Take photos. Do the all the things. Go places. Be present. <br />
<br />
Don't forget to treasure the memories in your heart.<br />
<br />
You'll never regret love. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-91364162520339166442016-06-02T08:56:00.000-07:002016-06-02T08:56:06.179-07:00timeI am restless. <br /><br />I feel as if I’m searching for something, but I’m not sure what it is that I’m seeking. <br /><br />I sit down. I get back up. I sit outside. I go back in. I sweep the floors and put the broom away. Then I get it back out and sweep more. <br /><br />What am I supposed to be doing? <br /><br />Everyone keeps telling me to take my time. For what? What is it that I am supposed doing with all this time? <br /><br />I hate time. Time tricks you and it makes you think you have time, but then it’s gone. <br /><br />Gone…<br /><br />This month will be my 13th wedding anniversary. It will also be 2 months since I lost my husband. Thirteen years wasn’t enough. I feel cheated out of the life I had. And now I have this life… A life of searching and wondering and staring out the window watching for him to ride his bike over the last hill before home…<br /><br />You know, we didn’t have a Hollywood romance. There were moments, but for the most part, it was not a great story. No one will ever make a movie about our love story. It was too real. Too boring for Hollywood. We had hard times and we had great times. We had sad times and quiet times and frustrating times. We had fights and we had hurt feelings and we cried. We made up and we laughed and we never stopped loving. Our love never stopped. <br /><br />We loved until death parted us… <br /><br />And I love him still. <br /><br />I have a new car. When I say “new” I mean NEW. I’ve never had a new car before. Some friends and churches worked together and raised enough money and bought me a new car. It’s my dream car. It’s so fancy and practical and techy and all I want to do is show my husband this amazing gift. I keep closing my eyes and imagining his reaction. His eyes open wide and his mouth drops open. I love his surprised face. It always makes the surprise totally worth it. <br /><br />The first thing he would do after looking inside is open the hood and check out the engine and start a maintenance notebook and start keeping track of the gas milage. <br /><br />But I can’t imagine for too long. My heart can’t handle too much imagining. <br /><br />We also came home to 2 fluffy black kittens. A friend of a friend had a litter and as we were driving home, on a whim, I had someone go pick them up and take them to the house for me. Something to help with the transition. The kids are in love. Amelia named her girl Mary and Samuel named his boy Moses. They named them totally on their own. <br /><br />Samuel is asking for a doggy for his birthday in 2 weeks. I want to get him a puppy, but finding the right one is tricky. When Todd and I got married we rescued Alex, the best dog ever. He was a Great Dane, and that’s what I want to get now. So if anyone has any leads on good puppies, let me know. ;) <br /><br />The kittens, and the puppy and the car and everything, as great as they are, are all things that I can never share with my husband. It’s all part of moving on and I hate that. I hate moving on. It’s so sad and hard and painful. I’m afraid of forgetting. I’m afraid of the kids forgetting. <br /><br />Sigh.<br /><br />Change. Moving on. Time. I don’t have as much control in this life as I once thought I did… <br /><br />Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-78419678478380868732016-05-20T11:04:00.000-07:002016-05-20T21:15:50.978-07:00Dear ToddMy Dear Husband,<br />
<br />
It has been a month now since I heard your voice.<br />
<br />
A month since you told me for the last time that you love me.<br />
<br />
A month... it feels like 2 days and it feels like 2 years. I miss you so much... so, so very much.<br />
<br />
The children mostly just play and are generally happy, although they are both showing their grief in their own ways. Samuel has stopped asking me if you're going to get all better, but when his sensitive little heart gets hurt, he still cries for you. Amelia tells me often that she's sad that you died. She is afraid that I will die too and asks me lots of what-if questions.<br />
<br />
I wish you were here to help me navigate grieving children. I wish you were here to help me with my own grieving heart.<br />
<br />
It's hard for me to get out of bed in the morning. It's hard for me to do the tasks that need to be done each day. I want to stay in bed and cry all day, but the needs of the children keep me going.<br />
<br />
I have this scream that is caught in my throat. Sometimes I'm afraid that it will come out. Other times I imagine standing on a mountain top and letting it out. I feel like if I started screaming I'd never stop. Well, until I lost my voice.<br />
<br />
I want to scream because my heart hurts so much. Because I'm so angry that you died. Because I'm so confused and lost and alone.<br />
<br />
I don't want to move on.<br />
<br />
All I can think about are the plans we had for this year. We were moving back to Guyana with your plane. We were going to build a house. Get a dog. Adopt a child. Our family was going to be full and happy and blessed... but so far... I'm not feeling very blessed...<br />
<br />
A lady from the counseling department at the clinic came by to talk to me yesterday when I had the kids in for an appointment. She said that the first time she met me she was struck by my strong faith... And she said that she knew that strong faith would carry me through this. But I don't feel like I have strong faith... I wish you were here to pray with me. I always feel stronger when you are at my side. How can I be strong without you?...<br />
<br />
I am so thankful that you showed me what love looks like. I'm thankful that you never gave up on me. That you never stopped loving me.<br />
<br />
You used to annoy me. LOL. I can remember getting so frustrated because you did things the "wrong" way. All of that died with you though. I can't think of a single fault you had. In my mind, you'll always be the perfect husband, perfect papa, perfect Captain.<br />
<br />
You never got to see Chelan in the Spring. It's beautiful here. The hills are all green and wildflowers grow along the banks of the river and lake. The seaplane is making regular flights. We always stop to watch him take off or land, and we think of you. That was something you were really looking forward to - getting your seaplane rating. I wish you could have taken at least one flight...<br />
<br />
I wish a lot of things... <br />
<br />
I'm so glad that we have the hope of heaven. The hope of seeing you again. The hope of a world without cancer. I feel more impatient than ever for the resurrection.<br />
<br />
There aren't enough words for me to tell you how much I love you, or how much I miss you. Sometimes I wonder if my heart is too broken to ever heal again. <br />
<br />
I know it's silly to write you, and that you resting peacefully, and that you can't read this, but I just have to much I want to talk to you about. So I'll just be silly and pretend I can talk to you a while longer.<br />
<br />
I'll love you forever.<br />
-CasCashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-57580801149725515422016-05-13T18:58:00.002-07:002016-05-13T19:02:40.212-07:00paddle boardingPaddle boarding. It’s my new thing. <br />
<br />
I’m not always excited to drag the heavy board down to the water, but I’m never sorry I did.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
The thing about paddle boarding is, you don’t get anywhere unless you paddle. There’s no motor. No autopilot. No one else on that board but you (unless you have small children, then there is a good chance one of them is sitting on the back). <br />
<br />
Today the current in the lake was pretty swift. And the children were pretty sassy. So I paddled out a ways (my sister was on the beach with the kids) and laid on my back on the board. And I drifted in current. <br />
<br />
It struck me as I looked out, only inches above the water, that I was drifting. And not just in the water. <br />
<br />
I’m caught in a current. <br />
<br />
My head is barely above the water. <br />
<br />
I need to stand up and paddle. Give the board some direction. Go somewhere. <br />
<br />
But instead… I drift. Unable to stand on my feet. Unable to do what I need to do. <br />
<br />
Sigh. <br />
<br />
Today it’s been three weeks since I was widowed. <br />
<br />
That word. <br />
<br />
It still plagues me. <br />
<br />
I picture a widow as an old woman who lost the argument with her husband “who would be the first to go.” <br />
<br />
Not someone in her early 30’s with a 4-year old and a 6-year old. <br />
<br />
Sigh. <br />
<br />
Anyway. Three weeks. Or is it three years? Sometimes I’m not sure. Sometimes it feels like it was only moments ago I last held him in my arms. Other times, it seems like so long ago. <br />
<br />
In the last three weeks I have begun adjusting to being a single parent. We’re not there yet. Oy. Single parenting is not for the faint of heart. I’ve been virtually a single parent for months now, but at least I had someone I could talk to. That at least was something more than nothing. <br />
<br />
I drift alone in parenting. <br />
<br />
In life.<br />
<br />
In all things…<br />
<br />
Yet. The board, even without me controlling it, provides quite a bit of stability. No matter how close to the water I am, I don’t sink. No matter now much I drift, I float still. <br />
<br />
I have a God who doesn’t let me sink either. <br />
<br />
I feel like I might fall - especially when the waves come - but I don’t. <br />
<br />
He is what keeps me stable. And floating. And above the water. <br />
<br />
I’m drifting. But not alone. <br />
<br />
We had a lovely day on the lake and my pale skin has darkened a little. My muscles are starting to get used to moving again now that I’m not sitting at my husband’s bedside for days and weeks on end. I’m starting to make healthier choices. Eating a little more. Drinking a little more water. <br />
<br />
Paddle boarding is good for my body. And my soul. And my heart and my mind. <br />
<br />
Todd would have loved it. <br />
<br />Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-90825699740452861892016-05-08T20:27:00.000-07:002016-05-08T20:27:52.345-07:00the light and the danceI wasn’t going to to camping. It’s too soon. <br /><br />But Jenn and Sandy talked me into it. <br /><br />But then the morning of, I changed my mind. <br /><br />It was too soon. <br /><br />Everything these days is the first of something. <br /><br />The first time we went to church after Papa died. The first time we had fun after Papa died. The first camping trip after Papa died. <br /><br />It’s too soon. <br /><br />But friends have an amazing way of helping you navigate what is really good for you.<br /><br />We went camping. <br /><br />It was warm (minus the night hours, we froze properly for the first camp of the year). We were on a river. It was beautiful. It was peaceful. It was sad. It was hard. <br /><br />Todd loved to camp. We camped as often as we could, which was never enough. He would have loved this trip. <br /><br />Saturday night the kids went down late as always happenes when camping. Not long after they went down (all 6 kids crashed pretty quick), the grown-ups were sitting around the campfire chatting. Actually, it was an impromptu group counseling session. You know who your friends are when you can tell them all the hard, raw, ugly parts of this hard, ugly, raw journey. Those people sitting around that campfire - those are people I can trust with all the feelings. All the fear. All the uncertainty. All the tears. <br /><br />There was a quiet lull in the conversation and someone noticed that there were flashlights bouncing in one of the tents still. One last, “go to sleep!” When Ryan, in a uncertain voice that was almost comical, said, “Uh, speaking of lights…. what is THAT?”<br /><br />We all looked straight above us in the sky to see a brilliant white light lighting up the sky above it. We stared at it a few minutes before the light began to dance. <br /><br />One of the things Todd always wanted to see his whole life was the aurora borealis. Now, two weeks after we said goodbye to him, we stood there and watched it light up the sky. <br /><br />I sobbed. Happy tears, sad tears, and hurt tears. <br /><br />We all ran to our tents and tried to wake the kids up. Not one of them could be roused. So the grown-ups all enjoyed the show together. <br /><br />If I hadn’t gone camping, I would have missed the first time seeing the aurora after Todd died. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this one. <br /><br />The lights danced for over and hour before they faded into the night sky. As quickly as they appeared, they were gone. <br /><br />Todd died in about 10 days. It was so short. But you know what? That’s about how long it took me to start to fall for the guy. We were engaged two months after we met. <br /><br />I know, crazy, right?<br /><br />Ten days was enough for me to see that he was special. It was enough for love to begin to bloom. <br /><br />And like the northern lights, as quickly as our lives began together, it was over. <br /><br />Only our dance was longer than an hour. Our dance was 14 1/2 years. I’m so, so grateful for every step, every turn, every dip. <br /><br />We danced more in those years than most people do in a lifetime. I can never regret a single moment. <br /><br />Moving on is a term I’ve grown to dislike. I don’t want to move on. I was happy where we were. I was happy with my life. I wasn’t ready to stop dancing with the love of my life. <br /><br />Now I feel like I’ve been left on the dance floor without a partner. Though the world swirls around me, I’m standing… wanting to keep dancing but not knowing how to dance alone. <br /><br />Not wanting to dance alone… <br /><br />Camping is therapeutic. <br /><br />I’m so glad I went and got to experience something most people never get to experience. I’m glad I got to sit by the river and cry. I’m glad I got to explore in the woods alone (note to self, make sure people know where you’re going next time so no one freaks out and think you fell in the river). I’m glad I got to see the aurora and be reminded of our dance. <br /><br />I’m so sad and my heart hurts more than I think I can bear, but tonight, I get to be a little glad too. <br /><br />Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677863487462416615.post-11236553426675995292016-05-06T09:53:00.003-07:002016-05-06T09:53:39.083-07:00maybe somedayEveryone said there would be good days and hard days. <br /><br />It’s a hard day. The loneliness and pain are overwhelming. <br /><br />It’s been two weeks since I said goodbye. <br /><br />Two weeks. The world keeps turning. Life continues. We keep on breathing. <br /><br />…Just keep breathing…<br /><br />I sat with Todd and begged him to keep breathing as he struggled. Now I’m giving myself the same reminder. <br /><br />It was so painful for him to take breathes at the end. <br /><br />It’s painful for me now also. <br /><br />So painful. <br /><br />But I keep on breathing. <br /><br />We’re back at the lake house. The water is sparkling. The sky is blue. This is such a beautiful place. But I can’t stay here. I need a plan. A life plan. I’ve had numerous offers of spare rooms, jobs, etc. Nothing feels right. I was 19 when Todd and I fell in love and I’ve never done anything really without him. He’s always been the sensible one who keeps me grounded. <br /><br />Without him, I might not ever eat a vegetable again. <br /><br />Without him, I might end up with 20 dogs. <br /><br />Without him, my heart might shrivel up. <br /><br />I don’t know how to keep going, but I don’t have the option not to. <br /><br />The questions that everyone is asking me are, “What do you need?” And, “What are you going to do now?”<br /><br />I don’t know, and I don’t know. <br /><br />Actually, I need to get a car. I’m a grown up and I don’t own a car. <br /><br />Other than that… <br /><br />I don’t know what I need. A house in the country with room for 20 dogs?<br /><br />Feel free to comment below with life-plan ideas. Be creative. Or realistic. Or whatever. Maybe you can come up with something better than I can. <br /><br />Todd and I always talked about what we would do if we couldn’t be missionaries. We’d make imaginary plans for if we had to live in the US again. I’ve always wanted to be a farmer and so most of our plans included a little farm somewhere. With an airstrip on it. While I don’t have need of an airstrip on my farm, it’s still a dream I have. Maybe someday. <br /><br />My life feels full of “maybe someday”s. <br /><br />Maybe someday I’ll get my farm. <br /><br />Maybe someday my heart will heal. <br /><br />Maybe someday I’ll feel whole again. <br /><br />Maybe someday I’ll understand all the whys. <br /><br />Maybe someday. Cashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13194149278997482366noreply@blogger.com14