Grandma has been cleaning out my closet to make space for your things, sweet boy. I can’t bring myself to let anything of yours go other than your bed. I will sort through your toys and clothes once I am stronger.
She found books in a dusty box. Titles like, “Even This”, “Just Enough Light for the Step I’m On”, “It’s Okay Not to Be Okay”, and “The Broken Way.”
The books must have been in there stored away for almost fifteen years. I received them as gifts the first time my entire world collapsed and grief stole my soul for a little while. You were nine when your father committed suicide. On February 10, 2011 you and Emerson went to school not knowing everything would be different when you walked back through the door into a home shocked and cracked to the very foundation.
While you were at school I found your father in the woods. Not even ten minutes had passed from the time I last saw him to the time I last saw him. I still don’t know why I ran into the woods that day, just my spirit knew I would find him there. The police put me in the ambulance I had initially called for your dad. I was going into shock. Grandpa knelt beside me.
“Stay with me, focus on me,” he urged. “Look at me. Stay here.”
At times he had to shout to get my attention. When I looked at Grandpa I had clarity and the full force of my grief was held at bay. As soon as my eyes diverted from him everything became chaotic and uncertain. The world was literally spinning. Gravity was failing. I was disconnecting from reality. Dissociation led me to the cusp of oblivion. If I only let go I could float to an unknown place. Anywhere would have been better than where I was. I somehow knew if I did though I might not know how to get back. As if an enormous vacuum was trying to suck my soul away my altered mind knew I had to try to stay. I was scared. I did not want to go there yet did not want to be in reality equally as strongly. What was transpiring was much too much for me to handle. My world was being ripped apart both figuratively and literally as I lay in the ambulance looking at my father’s loving, pleading eyes.
“Stay here, the boys need you to stay here,” my father begged.
That was it. One sentence changed everything. It was the exact switch that needed to be flipped and the fear and uncertainty vanquished. I knew I needed to stay. From the moment of conception I loved you more than my own self. When I was pregnant with you, I would care for myself. I would eat well and drink plenty of water. I quit smoking. I could not or would not do any of those things for just me but when my body became a vessel for you I did anything to ensure you would safely arrive into the world. I needed to do anything to ensure you would stay safe in our now rapidly changing world.
I fought back with all my might against the lure of being in the other world where, I believed, I could be numb but where you would not be able to find me. You did not even yet know you lost a parent; I was determined you would not lose both.
The following weeks after your dad died felt similar to where I sit now yet altogether different. Both losses were traumatic and unexpected. Both left me uncertain of what the future holds. Both were excruciating and piercing. Both resulted in a significant loss of my own identity. Both necessitated rebuilding from less than ashes. Both required more than I thought I had.
And during both I praised God through it all.
Burying a spouse has stark differences from burying a child. When your dad died and each moment before and after, every decision I ever made was always keeping in mind your wellbeing before all else. I was strong for you and for Emerson. Grandpa’s words, “your boys need you,” was enough to bring me back to reality and to fight just a little more.
One month ago today you left. Each day I dig deep to empty reservoirs and find my “fight just a little more”. Grandpa is where you are and I don’t have his pleading eyes to remind me that your brothers still need me. And so, I keep my eyes on my Father especially during those moments I am not sure how to live this life without you. You were my whole world. I told you such every single night before I kissed you once more before sleep. My heart is happy I never once forgot to tell you and, more importantly, show you. And you knew.
The full force of grief, however, is not held at bay. It is crushing. It is relentless. It is suffocating. But I am not alone in it.
The books are back on the shelf. Grief settles in our home. She will be staying for a while as she did before. Sometimes she sits quietly next to me on the couch but I can still see her in the corner of my eye. I make no sudden moves. Other times she ambushes me and delivers blows consecutively until I am begging for mercy. She is the albatross that hangs around my neck as I walk through the day trying to be “normal.” I am certain she will accompany me for the rest of my days. From my time with her before I know she can become gentler and maybe even a little kinder. Someday, but not soon enough, perhaps just a nudge to remind me she is by my side still.
Sweet boy, she will not rule me but for a while. I do not know how, I only know God will not let me languish here. I am crawling through the valley of the shadow. I have been here before. It isn’t the same but I see similarities enough to make it a less foreign land. The valley is longer, deeper, darker, and seemingly impossible but my God is still as strong and my dependency on Him even greater.
He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along. Psalm 40:2
He has not lifted me yet but He has not left me. I will keep my arms raised knowing He can and He will.
They say the deeper the love the deeper the grief. I would add the more treacherous the valley. It is a price I willingly pay one thousand times again to have loved you, my sweet boy. For it was and always shall be my highest honor.
Perseverance: continued effort to do or achieve something despite difficulties, failure, or opposition.
Today is a date of remembrance for me and my children. It is a date that has lost power over the last 13 years but will remain, for the rest of our lives, as a date of life altering, horrific, and traumatic importance.
Thirteen years ago today my first husband committed suicide. Now, this day, I remember and am in awe of what I endured and the perseverance it took to not let the darkness swallow me.
Sometimes perseverance isn’t glamorous. It doesn’t happen with some inspirational song playing in the back, sweat pouring from your brow as you conquer the challenge before you. Sometimes, it is just sitting up in bed. It is taking a shower or eating something. It is just staying in one place and not letting the gravity of the situation pull you one inch backward. Sometimes, it is that quiet cry to God to help you sustain just one more minute. Those one more minutes add up to days, then weeks, then months, then years.
And you look at the path from which you came and are so very grateful.
After my first husband died several people said, “You won’t even remember this first year,” as if it was some sort of consolation I had been so traumatized my brain would block it out. So I wrote. I wrote everything down because I wanted to remember. I wanted to never forget all the gigantic and miniscule ways God was there. In every moment capturing every tear, He was there.
I share now some of my journal from that day. Incredible blessings, unexpected, have since come in the form of an old friend who became my husband. It also gut punched me with almost losing Wesley, our sweet son with special needs, during a month long stay in the ICU with all the drama of a television show. My father passed away and with that my protector and life will never be the same.
One of my favorite quotes is from Robert Frost:
In Three Words, I Can Sum Up Everything I’ve Learned About Life. It Goes On.
It does. And I go joyfully, gratefully with it. Yet on February 10, I remember…
Extraordinary Sacrifice
“God whispers in our pleasure, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains. It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” C.S. Lewis
I walked back downstairs into the basement and turned the corner into the theater room. My eyes were immediately drawn to the double door and I noticed it was unlocked. As if punched in the gut, I could hardly breathe and something in me just knew. To this day I still do not know why but I ran straight outside. With no socks or shoes, without a coat, I ran into the cold, heartless February air leaving the door behind me wide open. I ran as I have never run before. I did not know where I was going, only that I was going to find him. My determined feet carried me to the barren spot down the hill in the woods behind our home. There he was, my husband and father of my children, dead.
I screamed an expression I did not know my voice could make. It was a desperate cry that came from a place inside me I did not know existed nor had I ever fathomed to realize. Nothing but that exact combination of shock and desperation could replicate the sound my soul was making. It was not a groan nor was it a scream. It was a unique sound all together and I couldn’t believe it was coming from me.
His eyes stared blankly at the cloud filled, sad sky. His color had already changed to a hue of yellow I had never seen on a human body with legs tucked underneath as if he had fallen backward.
“What happened?!” I screamed and kept screaming as if someone was going to answer. “Oh, God, what happened?” Then I saw it. I saw the small hole through his chest, the same place I had laid my head countless times over the better part of 17 years.
It was not like the movies. There was no blood pouring out or even a puddle beneath him. I could hardly tell where the bullet had penetrated. There was only a pencil sized hole in his favorite blue sweatshirt. Although no more than ten minutes had passed from the time I left him to get dressed to the time I found him in the woods, something in me just knew it was too late.
I fumbled to get my phone out of my pocket. Sliding the screen to unlock it was nearly impossible with hands shaking violently. Finally, I concentrated as much as I could to dial three numbers in the correct order. 9. 1. 1.
“911, what is your emergency?” the male voice began
“My husband shot himself. He isn’t breathing. Please send an ambulance,” I screamed hoping beyond hope he could be resurrected.
“I need you to calm down so I can understand you,” the voice on the other end urged.
“Please. My husband. My husband is dead. Hurry. Send someone. Please,” I collapsed next to his lifeless body. “Is the ambulance coming?”
“It is. Where are you now?” he asked calmly.
“Beside my husband, in the woods,” I began hyperventilating.
“Ma’am, I need you to go to the driveway so the authorities will see you when they pull up,”
I found my way to the drive way.
“Oh God, what will I tell my children?” I cried.
“I am here, ma’am. Let me know when the authorities arrive,” the dispatcher whispered.
Moments later the first police officer arrived and the 911 dispatcher hung up. A very tall man with broad shoulders and dark hair walked calmly up to me.
“My husband. He is in the woods over there,” I said almost hyperventilating.
“Please stay here and wait for the ambulance,” he said with a serious tone as he walked with long and hurried steps to the back yard.
My heart and mind ever so slowly began traversing into a surreal place. As if in slow motion, I saw my parents tan van turn the corner and proceed cautiously to the bottom of the drive way. They had come from Northern Virginia a couple of days before for a visit. Just three hours earlier morning my mother had made us a wonderful breakfast and we all sat at the table devouring it.
They had only gone to the bookstore but returned to caution tape and police cars. I saw my mother running full blast toward me as I cried, “Gary shot himself. He is dead. I can’t believe he left me…”
My mother fell to ground screaming “No, Gary, it wasn’t worth it.” My father’s face turned to rage as he punched the air and simply yelled, “NO!” as if he could command it to not be so.
“I can’t believe he left me,” I repeated. “I can’t believe he left me,” over and over and over for years to come.
As my mother cried and screamed in the grass I felt as if my soul was beginning to disconnect from my body. I touched her back and just stared at the world around me. I saw houses and tress. I saw the grey, overcast February sky as if God Himself chastised the sun and sent it away but nothing was registering. The wind was blowing, it was cold, my mother was screaming but it must all be happening to someone else. This was not, this could not be happening to me.
My father realized my demeanor was changing. My speech was becoming slurred. Like the nightmares I had as a child, I wanted to talk but the words were coming out unformed. He recognized the signs of shock and summoned the police officer. Since the ambulance arrived but no resuscitation effort was made they carried me in to be assessed by the EMTs.
“Stay with me, focus on me,” my father repeated. At times he had to yell to get my attention.
When I looked at him things were clearer and the full force of my grief was held at bay. As soon as my eyes diverted from my father everything became chaotic and uncertain. The world was literally spinning. Gravity was failing. I was disconnecting from my own realm. I was at the cusp of oblivion. There was an intense, real fear knowing that if I let go and floated into that unknown place I might not know how to get back. There was a knowledge that I could somehow control it. For a split second, though, I wondered if it would be more inviting than the reality I now faced. An enormous vacuum was sucking my soul away yet even in my altered mind I knew I had to try to stay. I was scared. I did not want to go there yet did not want to be in reality equally as strongly. What was transpiring was much too much for me to handle. The reality that my world was being ripped apart was both figurative and literal as I lay in the ambulance looking at my father’s loving, pleading eyes.
“Stay here, the boys need you to stay here,” my father begged.
Reminding me that my boys needed me changed everything. It was the exact switch that needed to be flipped. Indeed, from the moment of conception I loved them more than my own self. When I was pregnant with them I would care for myself. I would eat right and drink plenty of water. I quit smoking. I could not or would not do any of those things for just me, but when my body became a vessel to them I did anything to ensure they would safely arrive into the world. I needed to do anything to ensure they would stay safe in a rapidly changing world.
I fought back with all my might against the lure of being in the other world where, I believed, I could be numb but where my children would not be able to find me. They did not even yet know they had lost a parent, I was determined they would not lose both.
I lay on a stretcher wrapped in a blanket. I do not know how long I had been outside barefoot and no coat. I was shaking from cold and fear and death and uncertainty. I was shaking to the very soul of me.
I could physically feel and spiritually sense the presence of all that was to come: as if grief, anger, despair, anxiety, loneliness, and regret, all at levels I had never encountered, were floating above but had not yet pounced. They were swirling, circling, waiting to attack viciously. Indeed, they were eager to devour me. I felt strangely peaceful that they would wait. Instead, I looked at the young woman who was part of the response team.
“Do you read the Bible?” I asked.
“Yes, I am a woman of faith,” she answered.
I whispered with my eyes closed, “How is God possibly going to bring good out of this? My husband is dead. The father of my children is dead.” When I finished my question I looked up at her as if saying “my husband is dead” was safer if said with my eyes closed.
Tears began to roll down her eyes. “It is all right to be angry with God and tell Him you are angry,” she responded.
“I am not angry with Him,” I said, “I cannot face this without Him.”
My spirit made a decision when my mind could not. My brain and heart had suffered an injury of cataclysmic proportion yet my spirit knew I would not survive except by clinging to my Father’s robe. I was the woman in the crowd. I was not pushing through people but I would push through anger, fear, doubt, loneliness, excruciating pain, to reach the hem of my Savior. I would stop at nothing to touch Him. I knew my faith would heal me.
As I sit here 13 years later sharing this incredibly raw and vulnerable moment, I know it did and for that, I am exceedingly grateful.
3. To continue to function or prosper despite. WITHSTAND
I know where I was eleven years ago today. After it happened everyone told me I wouldn’t remember the first year, that it would be a fog. But I wanted to remember so I began writing. I wanted to remember how my friends and family carried me; how my son’s school became my community; how God showed up. I wanted to place a benchmark so that someday, eleven years later, I would look back and with unbelief and in awe commemorate what I survived.
The following is an excerpt from my journal regarding the events that could have destroyed me.
But God…
I walked back downstairs into the basement and turned the corner entering the family room. My eyes were immediately drawn to the heavy velvet curtain conspicuously drawn back. Even more unusual was the unlocked dead bolt on the door leading to the outside. It was as if denial had suddenly grown weary of my company and said good bye in the only way it knows how. Rather than a congenial wave, it balled its hand into a mighty fist to punch me mercilessly in the gut rendering me breathless. To this day I still do not know why, but I ran straight outside. Something in me just knew. With no socks or shoes, without a coat, I ran into the cold, heartless February air leaving the door behind me wide open. I ran as I have never run before. I did not know where I was going, only that I was going to find him. My determined feet carried me to the barren spot down the hill in the woods behind our home. There he was, my husband and father of my children, dead.
The manifestation of the shock, horror, and absolute desperation made its way from the depth of my being and escaped as a sound I did not know my voice could make. There is beneath our interior, a level of excruciating that I never knew existed. The scream coming from my mouth was so foreign it seemed as if it was coming from above and around me, as if the very trees were crying out. It could not have possibly been coming from within me.
I looked at my husband. His eyes stared blankly at the cloud filled, chidden sky. His color had already changed to a hue I had never seen before, a color unrecognizable as human. His legs were tucked underneath him as if he had fallen backward.
“What happened?!” I screamed and kept screaming as if someone was going to answer. “Oh, God, what happened?” My mind raced as I imagined he somehow fell and accidentally broke his neck. It had to be a freak accident. But what was he doing in the woods? Then I saw it. I saw the small hole through his favorite blue sweatshirt. I tiny whole into his chest.
It was not like the movies. There was no blood pouring out or even a puddle beneath him. The gore was in his eyes and in the color of his skin. I could hardly tell where the bullet had penetrated. Although no more than ten minutes had passed from the time I left him to get dressed to the moment I found him in the woods, I knew revival would be impossible. I knew he was gone too far and there would be no heroic efforts to return him to me. He was a physician. He knew human anatomy. In a split second my mind processed that Gary would not have left survival to chance. He would have made certain there would be no resuscitation.
I fumbled to get my phone out of my pocket. Sliding to unlock the screen was nearly impossible because my hands were shaking violently. Finally, I focused my eyes and concentrated with my whole being to dial three numbers in the correct order. 9. 1. 1.
“911, what is your emergency?” the male voice began.
Doubled over I cried, “My husband shot himself. He isn’t breathing. Please send an ambulance,”
My voice escalated as if urgency could somehow awaken a sliver of hope that perhaps he could be resurrected. Acceptance comes slowly.
“I need you to calm down so I can understand you,” the voice on the other end urged.
Asking someone to calm down when their world was imploding seemed impossible to me. But I knew I needed to communicate so I tried again.
“Please. Please. My husband. My husband is dead. Hurry. Send someone. Please,” I collapsed next to his lifeless body. “Is the ambulance coming?”
“It is. Where are you now?” he asked calmly.
“Beside my husband. In the woods behind the house,” I began hyperventilating.
“Ma’am, I need you to go to the driveway so the authorities will see you when they pull up.”
With all my might, I slowly stood up. Looking down at Gary one last time I trudged up the hill and stumbled to the drive way.
“Oh God, what will I tell my children?” I asked half hoping the stranger on the other end could tell me.
“I am here, ma’am. Let me know when the authorities arrive,” the dispatcher whispered. I could hear the sorrow in his voice. My first encounter with the compassion that would be shown to me in multitude by strangers and friends began with the first person to whom I spoke and would not end for years to come.
Moments later the first police officer arrived and the 911 dispatcher hung up. A very tall man with broad shoulders and dark hair walked calmly up to me.
“My husband. He is in the woods over there,” I could barely speak.
“Please stay here and wait for the ambulance. I have to check the scene,” he said with a serious tone as he walked with long and hurried steps to the back yard.
I was there all alone in the worst and most unimaginable moment of my entire life. I collapsed on to the cold, hard drive way next to the trash bin. I did not know until that moment that there was a pain too deep for tears. I grabbed the cross around my neck like it was a life preserver and my only chance at not perishing with my husband.
I began shouting at God. I was accusing Him.
“God, I have been obedient. I have done everything you have asked of me. I pray. I read the Bible. I lead Bible study. I brought in the foster children. I’ve done every hard thing You’ve asked. How could you do this?”
“I did not do this,” I heard Him say as if He lay on the concrete next to me. I knew He was telling me the truth. This wasn’t part of His plan or His purpose. This wasn’t His fault. My outward screaming ceased momentarily. My inner turmoil was only just beginning.
My heart and mind ever so slowly began traversing into a surreal place. As if in slow motion, I saw my parents tan van turn the corner and proceed cautiously to the bottom of the drive way. They had come from Northern Virginia a couple of days before for a visit. Just three hours earlier that morning my mother had made us a wonderful breakfast and we all sat at the table devouring it. They had gone to run an errand and came home to a crime scene.
I saw my mother running full blast toward me as I cried, “Gary shot himself. He is dead. I can’t believe he left me…”
My mother fell to ground screaming “No, Gary, it wasn’t worth it” and collapsed lamenting. My father’s face turned to rage as he simply yelled, “NO!” with a military authority and punched the air as if he could command it to be somehow not be true.
I sat down on the grass by the driveway.
“I can’t believe he left me,” I repeated. “I can’t believe he left me.” It is a disbelief I imagine to carry until my last breathe.
I felt as if my soul was beginning to disconnect from my body. I touched her back and just stared at the world around me. I saw houses and tress. I saw the grey, overcast February sky as if God Himself chastised the sun and sent it away. I looked at my feet realizing I had left the house in such urgency I had no shoes. The wind was blowing, it was cold, my mother was screaming but it must all be happening to someone else. This was not, this could not be happening to me.
My father knelt down and lifted me up. He and one of the responding officers walked me to the rocking chair outside the house. It was explained to us we could not go into the house until the detectives gave an all clear. In Virginia, suicides are treated as homicides until proven otherwise.
When I looked at my father’s eyes I felt a little clarity and the full force of my grief was held at bay. As soon as my eyes diverted from my father everything became chaotic and uncertain. The world was literally spinning. Gravity was failing. I was disconnecting from my own realm. I was at the cusp of oblivion. There was an intense, real fear knowing that if I let go and floated into that unknown place I might not know how to get back. There was a knowledge that I could somehow control it. For a moment, though, I wondered if it would be more inviting than the reality I now faced.
It felt like the suction tool a dentist uses. When it is placed in your mouth it doesn’t show it’s full power until you close your lips. In that split second your lips touch, this tiny tool becomes a force. The patient has the absolute power though to choose to hold on or let go. Only now it would not be mere saliva extracted but my very soul. Even in my altered mind I knew I had to try to stay. I was scared. I did not want to go there yet did not want to be in reality equally as strongly. What was transpiring was much too much for me to handle. I was shutting down. The reality that my world was being ripped apart was both figurative and literal as I sat there looking at my father’s loving, pleading eyes.
The sirens blared as the ambulance came in slow motion up my long, steep driveway. One of the responding officers came out with a blanket and tenderly wrapped it around me. He and my father carefully walked me into the ambulance. I looked again desperately at my dad. The disconnecting feeling was beginning once again and growing stronger. The fight for my soul was not yet over.
“Stay here, the boys need you to stay here,” my father begged.
Reminding me that my boys needed me changed everything. It was the exact switch that needed to be flipped. Indeed, from the moment of conception I loved them more than my own self. I never took greater care of myself as when they were in my womb. I would eat right and drink plenty of water. I quit smoking. I could not or would not do any of those things for just me, but when my body became a vessel for them I did anything to ensure they would safely arrive into the world. I needed to do anything to ensure they would stay safe our now demolished world.
I fought back with all my might against the lure of being in the other world where, I believed, I could be numb but where my children would not be able to find me. They did not even yet know they had lost a parent, I was determined they would not lose both.
I lay on a stretcher wrapped in a blanket. I do not know how long I had been outside barefoot and no coat. I was shaking from cold and fear and death and uncertainty. I was shaking to the very soul of me.
My father climbed in the ambulance. He wrapped his arms around me and kept begging me to stay with him. After a few moments a police officer came to ask him to assist in getting in the house. My beloved black Labrador was standing guard and would not let any strangers enter.
I could physically feel and spiritually sense the presence of all that was to come: as if grief, anger, despair, anxiety, loneliness, and regret, all at levels I had never encountered, were floating above but had not yet pounced. They were swirling, circling, waiting to attack viciously. Indeed, they were eager to devour me. I felt strangely peaceful that they would wait. Instead, I looked at the young woman who was part of the response team.
“Do you read the Bible?” I asked.
“Yes, I am a woman of faith,” she answered.
I whispered with my eyes closed, “How is God possibly going to bring good out of this? My husband is dead. The father of my children is dead.”
When I finished my question I looked up at her as if saying “my husband is dead” was safer if said with my eyes closed. Tears began to roll down her eyes. “It is all right to be angry with God and tell Him you are angry,” she responded.
“I am not angry with Him,” I said, “I cannot face this without Him.”
My spirit made a decision when my mind could not. My brain and heart had suffered an injury of cataclysmic proportion, yet my spirit knew that I would not survive except by clinging to my Father’s robe. I had to be like the woman with the bleeding disorder in the crowd. I was not pushing through people but I would push through anger, fear, doubt, loneliness, excruciating pain, to reach the hem of my Savior. I would stop at nothing to touch Him. I knew my faith would heal me.
I survived. I withstood. I fought. I rested. I never gave up.
That is where I was eleven years ago. Today I am on the backroads going to Harrisonburg with my now husband, Steve. We are fetching supplies for our non-profit food truck. Over the last 18 months we have provided over 70,000 free meals. All the proceeds from our truck goes to helping our community.
God did work it all for good. I see it every time I feel Steve’s hand take mine. I know it each time I look at his face and hear him call me “Queen.” He tended to that which was unhealed from vicious wounds he did not inflict. He tends to them still. And love has won.
It was hell to get to the passenger seat beside him but worth the fight. Some days it felt like swimming through mud but in that near impossible journey my spiritual and emotional muscles were made strong and the floating feeling of my life now was made all the sweeter.
Here it is. A decade has passed since I found Gary in the woods dead from a single gun shot. Time is a strange thing post trauma and I’ve covered a lot of ground since then. The day is now, mostly, an historical remembrance more than an emotional one. For my children though it is a nightmare of a day to get through and that breaks my heart more than anything.
Gary didn’t have a long history of depression. There were no “classic” signs he was going to do what he did. What he did have was a long history of battling addiction.
Ten years before his death he was prescribed percocet for severe tendonitis. As a maternal fetal medicine specialist taking time off to nurse his injury just wasn’t possible. What began as an innocent prescription was, unknowingly at the time, my first step into hell that included driving him 18 hours through the night to rehab where he stayed for three months and ended with me finding him in the woods.
Upon discharge Gary had access to the best group and private therapies. He was followed for five years by the Health Practitioners Intervention Program. What he didn’t have was the freedom to battle his disease in the light.
Shame, judgement, and stigma made that simply impossible. Imagine a boxer equipped with the most advanced protective gear and a heart to win but being put in a ring in absolute darkness. Yet the foe he battles only grows and thrives in the dark. His strength is fed by what the fighter can not share and others can not see.
And so he lost. Many of the people in his group therapy all those years ago lost. My children lost. God lost the opportunity to redeem his situation. And He would have. He always does.
The “addict” is someone’s father, son, physician, teacher, husband. They aren’t as portrayed on television. They are from all classes and many put on a suite and tie or scrubs or a judges robe every day. They love their families. They want to be in recovery. The addict might even be you.
On this day, the tenth anniversary of his death, my prayer is a post like this might bring a little light to the other boxers still in the ring swinging madly in the dark. I hope they hear my voice cheering them on and not the voices of discouragement and judgement. I hope a seed is planted for the person reading this who is fortunate enough to not know addiction the way I do and the seed will grow compassion. Though they may not know it, chances are they love a person with addiction. My prayer is the person fighting who is reading this would have the courage to bear light themselves and help change the notion addiction only plagues degenerates. They would have the courage to say “my name is…and I am an addict.”
They are busy fighting addiction, a formidable and relentless enemy. May we who are not wearing the gloves fight shame, stigma, and judgement for them. May we hold the light and shout words of love and encouragement while they fight for their lives. I am convinced their foe will shrivel in the light if we just have the courage to shine it steadily, brightly, and boldly for them.
May we help change the perception that they are junkies squatting in an abandoned house. They are boxers in the ring. They are fighting. And with our help maybe, just maybe they can win
It has been eight years. Eight years ago today you walked out of our basement door, into the woods, out of our lives and into eternity. Sometimes it feels like eight minutes and sometimes it feels like eight decades. Time is a strange thing when one is grieving. Like everything else, it makes little sense.
It took a very long time for the image of you on that day to leave my mind. For a while it was constant. Each time it appeared I would ask God to show me where He was and He did. Eventually, I was able to focus on the image of Him holding on to me as I screamed a sound I did not know could come from within me. The memory of you lying there became a voluntary one rather than unhibitated and relentless. It was torture.
I know you weren’t thinking clearly when you walked into the woods with your gun and probably didn’t consider that it was going to be me to find you. I went into shock. They put me in the ambulance that was meant for you. My dad’s pleading words, “The boys need you,” gave me something to hold on to instead of floating into that unknown territory called disassociation. They lost you on that day and I knew they could not lose us both.
Our friends, our church family, Community Bible Study, and the Covenant School enveloped us. They brought us food for months. They prayed for us and those prayers carried me. They helped take care of our boys. You would have been amazed by them. I never really knew how much they loved us until the evening of February 10th. We truly would not have made it without them.
Three days after you died I went to church and spoke. I confessed that Satan might have won a battle but he would not have this family. I was bloody and wounded but ready to battle in order to not let him have another victory. I promised God I would do my part to be sure He received every ounce of Glory from our story. It is a promise to which I cling even to this day.
We had to have your memorial at Covenant Church since there would be over 500 people there from every walk of life. It was a wonderful testimony to how you treated everyone equally whether an addict struggling with recovery or a wealthy businessman. It was one of the things I loved the most about you. You treated everyone with dignity and respect.
I delivered your eulogy. There was so much left unsaid and I felt strongly there were things you would have wanted me to say. I think you would have been proud of me. I refused to be the widow crumpled up and crying in the front row. As you knew, that just was not me. God empowered me to deliver your eulogy. My great need for Him compelled me to lift my hands in praise even though I could barely lift my head. There was no other way other than God’s Grace, mercy, and power.
I knew you would have wanted us to celebrate so I added a little humor. My concluding thoughts were:
As the person who knew Gary better than anyone I believe he would want me to tell you this: Hug your children a little tighter. Take time to be with God. Stop and be still. Fight for the things you believe in and never back down. To those who suffer depression and addiction, I believe he would remind you that your disease is relentless and to fight it with all you have. Tend to your recovery like a delicate garden watering it every day and rooting out the weeds immediately. He would tell you to not be ashamed of your disease. People with cancer and diabetes do not feel shame because of theirs nor should you. To his children he would say “I love you. Hold your head high, walk humbly with your God. Know who you are and what you were made for”. To everyone else, he would tell you to ALWAYS… ALWAYS vote republican.
Three weeks after you died an anonymous family stepped in and paid Emerson’s tuition to the Covenant School so that he could continue to attend. I was simply told a “family who loves our son wanted to be sure he could stay.” Of all the things I worried about, losing Covenant, the only school Emerson knew, was the one thing I did not want us to be without and God provided a way. They paid his tuition through graduation and now pay for his baby brother to attend.
I was able to stay in the house which was the best possible scenario for our boys. I would have preferred to move and not have to remember that day every single time I looked out the window or walked in the backyard but with Wesley’s autism it would not have been good for him. The boys needed stability. Their whole world changed on February tenth and I wanted some semblance of consistency for them.
Sometimes Wesley will look up to the sky and laugh and sign Daddy. It’s almost as if he’s talking to you and I honestly wonder sometimes if God allows you a moment to connect with Wesley. I hope He does because of everyone you left, I think I was most angry at you for leaving Wesley. He adored you and because of his profound cognitive impairment he just does not understand why you are not home with us. Sometimes he sees men in the store and will get excited, signing “Daddy” because he thinks it is you. He waits for you to come home still.
I did not get to grieve you the way I wish I could have. See, suicide leaves the us feeling betrayed and abandoned. I’ve spent the last eight years struggling with anger and abandonment and even “struggling” is too light of a word. It was a full blown war and each and every day I battled for my soul. I did not want to let bitterness overtake me though it tried. It is a formidable foe. But God…
To this day I find myself looking around the basement hoping to find a note. I desperately wanted one last goodbye. I wanted an explanation. I wanted to know why. I wanted anything other than nothing.
I have always found great solace that I left nothing unsaid. I am so grateful for the gift of our very last interaction. Perhaps part of your plan was to leave me with that last memory of us kneeling, holding hands, and praying together. I hope it was. We never truly know when the last thing we do or say will be the last thing. I certainly had no idea that saying “Amen” was the last thing we would do together and the last words I would hear you say. Thank you for that.
We had 17 years together, 42.5 percent of my life was with you. We saw time and time again God’s faithfulness and provision. We saw how allowing Him to work in our lives ultimately led to more glory for Him and a life for us that was more than we could have imagined.
Remember the time we closed on our home here? Your malpractice fell through the very next day and we were told you needed $20,000 in three days or you would not qualify. I remember you were in a panic because if we didn’t make the deadline it would be another year before you could get on a policy but we simply did not have that kind of money. We faced a year of no income and a brand new home. But then God showed up. The next day you checked the mail and found the letter from the hospital where Wesley had numerous stays. They received an insurance payment and were reimbursing us in the amount was $21,000. I remember we laughed and celebrated because not only did God provide what we needed, He gave us an extra grand. We trusted Him and believed He had a plan for us.
But not this time. I know with my whole heart that God was going to redeem our situation because that is His specialty. Instead of redeeming our lives He is redeeming mine.
When I married you in May of 1997 I meant the promise that we would grow old together. For a long time after you left I felt cheated. Being a widow at 40 was not what I signed up for and either was raising our boys without a father.
Every special event became bitter sweet. Emerson had some incredible achievements and at the recognition of each I looked at the chair beside me, either empty or someone else’s parent. I have had countless “you should have been here” moments and those moments do not get easier, not ever.
I had to make a conscious decision to forgive you. I would say the words but never really feel like I had forgiven you until now. For some reason this is the year that unforgiveness finally left me. I can’t be sure that I let it go. I never wanted it to accompany me so closely, breathing down my neck constantly. It just wouldn’t leave. I tried to chase it away. I tried to run from it. I laid it at the Cross but then would find it right at my side again. The process of praying constantly finally was made complete and unforgiveness along with anger quietly at some unknown moment left my side.
This is the year that my heart breaks to know that you were so hopeless that dying seemed like a better option than facing the next hour.
I remember when people would ask you how your wife was and you would always reply, “My wife? She is made of steel.” I think you knew that ultimately, I would be all right. You knew my steadfast faith and deep dependency on God. You knew that better than anyone. You were a witness to my life.
I’ve been helping with the Grief Share Ministry at my church. We come alongside those who have lost a loved one through death and hopefully minister and help them navigate this new world of grief. In the program they talk about ambush grief. It comes in the moments when out of nowhere and all of the sudden something triggers the grief and it comes pouring out. After 8 years I still am ambushed by grief, attacked just the other day. I was listening to Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”. You loved that song but only when it was sung by Leonard Cohen for some reason. I’ve heard it a million times but this time when he sang the line:
“And even though it all went wrong I stand before the Lord of song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah”
I became inconsolable crying.
Because even though it all went wrong
and even though our family and an entire community were devastated
and even though your children have been left with a scar that will never fade and never go away
and even though you still had work yet to be done on this Earth
and even though two of your addiction patients died within weeks of you because they could not get the help they needed
and even though terrible things happened to me in the year after you left
and even though the weight of grief crippled me and I still had to carry our children
and even though there were countless times I was sure I would never, ever laugh again
and even though my dreams died with you in the woods
and even though I would cry myself to sleep and wake up crying for a long time
and even though the grief was intractable and unbearable and all consuming
and even though my heart will never be the same
and even though there were days it took everything in me just to breathe
and even though our children have a lifetime of work in order to heal
and even though there were times I hated you
and even though it felt like I was swimming through mud
and even though I will always grieve you and I am not sure if healing will ever be completed
and even though your death caused me to feel a level of excruciating I never knew existed
Hallelujah.
God was and is faithful.
Sometimes the miracle we want or expect is not the miracle we receive but one nonetheless. The miracle is I survived. The miracle is the boys will be alright. The miracle is I now have a fortitude built from dust. The miracle is I discovered for myself that every word about the character of God in the Bible is true. He keeps every promise forever. He is close to the broken hearted. He is my refuge, my strong tower, and my shelter. He is the defender of the widows and father to the fatherless. The miracle is He yields the power to turn tragedy into triumph and He did. The miracle is that I know why Jesus said those who mourn are blessed. The miracle is He gave purpose to my pain. The miracle is I did laugh again. The miracle is even though I am not who I once was I am becoming who I was meant to be not in spite of the tragedy but because of it. The miracle is Hallelujah.
I used get so angry when people would say, “He is in a better place” because you were not supposed to be there yet and I was not supposed to be cleaning up the mess. I would think of you dancing in Heaven with the angels and get furious. You were supposed to be dancing with me and our children for years to come. You were supposed to walk Leah down the aisle. We were supposed to be grandparents together. A lifetime of supposed to’s would never happen.
Now, though, on this day this year I smile. You are at peace. You are home. You are missed and you are loved still.
We are healing. We are carrying on. We hold to the promise that God will work all things, even this, for our good. We have seen that promise bear fruit and rejoice knowing there is more to come.
When I was a child and would ask my father the definition of a word he would never give me the answer. He would present me with another question. “What do you think it means?” he would ask me. I would reply “I don’t know. That is why I am asking.” His next statement was always the same, everytime. “I will use it in a sentence.” After doing so he would pause and after a moment he would ask again “What do you think it means?” I despised this routine. I just wanted him to tell me. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to have to figure it out. I just wanted the answers given to me. But I thought as a child. My father knew that I would learn the word better if I figured it out myself. He knew that he was training my brain to think. Though he could have given me the answer he gave me something even more valuable – the ability to find it myself. When I became a mother and my oldest child first asked me a meaning of a word without even thinking I looked at him and said “What do you think it means?” I heard my father’s voice as I spoke his truth. The awful, wonderful, frustrating tradition continued. When I find myself facing struggles and difficulties I will often ask God what does this mean? Just like my other father, He never just tells me the answer. He doesn’t say “My child, you are to learn to love well” or “I am training you to be strong for something else entirely that I know you will face” or “You need to show this person who drives you crazy who my Son is.”
God sits silent and in that silence I hear Him say, “What do you think it means?” So often in life I am still very much like that child only now my father’s voice is my heavenly Father’s voice. I try to not ask him “why” something is happening. I learned long ago that the answer does not come and even if it did, how would that make any of it any better or the pain any less potent? Why was my child born with special needs? Why did my husband kill himself? Why must I raise my boys void of a father-figure?
Somethings must be born from the struggle. I am convinced struggle is a different soil. When watered with tears and sweat it will bear fruit that would, simply, not come to fruition any other way.
I zero in on the “What does this mean?” and “How will this define me?” and “How can this transform me?” questions. I suspect that God wants me to truly, earnestly, and vehemently learn the lessons that He will bring out of horrible, difficult, impossible situations. Romans 8:28 is a Bible verse we who follow know well. “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose.”
But we often stop at that verse perhaps because it fits neatly on a coffee mug or book mark. However, it is the next verse that, to me, solves the mystery of what I am supposed to learn and exactly why and how God works all things for good… 29 For those whom He foreknew He also predestined to be conformed to the image of His Son, in order that he might be the firstborn among many brothers.
To be conformed to the image of His Son…
He doesn’t work all things for good so that we can have nicer cars or promotions or Facebook perfect lives. The answer to the “what does this mean” question is never something my flesh would crave but something my spirit desperately needs. It is so that I will be more like Jesus. The kicker is, I have to let Him. I have to be willing to zero in on things of eternal import.
Why was my child born with special needs? I do not know. What have I learned from it? Patience, resolve, kindness, perseverance, how to choose joy, unconditional love, and the list goes on. Why did the heartache of my husband’s death pass through God’s hands and why did He allow it to happen? I do not know that either. What have I learned from it? God is faithful. He is close to the broken hearted. He is the defender of the widow. His promises are true. He restores what was lost, perhaps not in the way we expect or desire, but we are blessed by the restoration. That list goes on as well.
I believe that God sits in silence sometimes even when I am the child demanding answers precisely because the answer must be attained so that I can learn it on a soul level. It must be ingrained into who I am so that it is natural for me to take what I have learned and utilize it with confidence because it is mine. I have ownership. I can use it to help others and I can allow God to use it to transform me ever so gradually into the image of His beloved Son. As Christians, that is the ultimate goal after all…to hear our Father’s voice and be transformed, glory to glory.
I was at Topsail Island, North Carolina last week. At the very last-minute, I came across a round, blue home that had not been booked the very week I needed it. The home was half price and right on the beach. It would be our last vacation before my oldest leaves for his freshman year in college and my youngest begins kindergarten. It will be an autumn of change and letting go, in varying degrees, for me.
Listening to the sound of the crashing waves and the ocean air puts my soul at rest like nothing else. I love being places where I can see with utmost clarity how small I really am. Standing at the shore gives me perspective, humility, and awe. It draws me closer to the One who created it.
On our first day here, my six-year-old Nathan was terrified of the waves. I’m sure to a little one they are overwhelmingly large and powerful. Indeed, when I crouched down to his size I could see how much larger the waves appeared. Fearful, he would not go in any further than his shins.
By the second day he went in further but had to be holding on to me the entire time. He wrapped his little arms around my neck as if his life depended on it. It was a balancing act that challenged these old bones but I managed to keep our heads above the water.
On the third day he became a little more brave. We went in where it was above his head and he let go of me but insisted I hold on to him. He began laughing and giggling as the waves crashed over us. Every once in a while he would check to be sure I was holding his life jacket. He felt safe because he knew I was there.
By the fourth day there my little guy found his courage. He began to swim away from me and tackle the waves on his own. For quite a while I stood behind him to be sure he would not get swept away. I watched with wonder as he figured out when to jump and when to dive. As we both gained confidence I could stop worrying that he would not be able to handle the waves. I even began jumping in with him. We laughed and played together. He would make sure I was alright when the waves overtook me. He even began to help me back up.
But the day will come all too soon when he, like his oldest brother Emerson who is in this picture, will face the waves without me. He will use what he has learned to, with daring, go in on his own.
Seemingly just yesterday this man would not let go of me. In 10 days I will take him to New York City to begin his freshman year at New York University. He will face unknown seas. He will push through anxiety and fear. He will learn and adjust. He will find his balance. He will stumble. He will excel. He will live life in a way, up until this point, he has not known.
He is a strong swimmer. He will never give up. I just pray he has the wisdom to know when to jump over, into, under and with the waves. He faces them now with me on the shore, still watching and cheering him on but no longer right at his side. I am close enough to help if he needs but far enough for him to find his own rhythm. He will likely experiment in finding his own way but I know the foundation of what has been taught. I know his muscle memory will carry him even if he doesn’t know it.
As he ventures in, some of the waves will catch him and pull him under but he will stand back up. Life taught him well. He has the strength and endurance because at such a tender age the waves of suicide and grief came crashing in and could have overtaken him but God would not allow it. Though at times we fought what felt like tsunamis, his arms were around me as mine were around our Father’s neck.
So go forth with boldness, my sweet son. Dive deep. Float on your back. Soak in the sun and dance in the rain. Know how and when to conquer your waves. If you are going to be tossed in them, you might as well smile. Choose joy. Choose love. Choose well.
Breathe deeply. Let your heart be soft. Fall madly in love but always come home for Thanksgiving. Be careful with other people’s hearts. Hold them tenderly. Look for those who might need help as they are caught in waves. Take their hands and swim with them. Help them stand. Let them see the hope that they too can be unconquerable.
Be brave. Find your own stride. Make mistakes but learn from them. Everything is redeemable and nothing is wasted. I could never love you less. Come home and rest. Run home for refuge. You are not alone. You are my heart and the bond that was forged before you even knew air shall never ever waver.
To use your own words:
“The life we anticipated wasn’t the one we got, and for a while we were at sea, enduring tempests of abandonment and loss. It is easy to look at us – a widow, a divorced grandmother, three fatherless sons and say we don’t have a home. But we do. We have the same scars, same fears, and the same hopes because we’ve been battered by the same storms, and we all sail on the same tattered but triumphant ship… Home is imperfect people challenging each other’s imperfections because beyond the scars and gnarls and twists, they see something true and beautiful in each other, something beyond what the world has done to them, something that can never be taken away. Home is the shelter of the human soul. We all want to go home.”
You will find other homes. My prayer is that you find your description of home many times in many people. But know, dear son, that my heart is a steadfast home for you. It is tattered but triumphant. It is worn but soft. It is strong. It is your always home until I draw my last breath.
If anyone was ever ready to swim alone, it is you. The world awaits. The world needs you so desperately. Swim, my son. Swim with all your heart and as if you have nothing to prove and nothing to lose.
For even the wind and waves know His Name. And He knows yours. He knows it well.
There are three major events that have shaped me in the last 16 years. Interestingly, all three of these events carry diagnosis that are often whispered about but rarely understood by those not in that world. I write openly about my son’s special needs and my husband’s suicide. My intention for the transparency is to, hopefully, open the lid and let light shine into the darkness. Only heinous things grow in the dark. Shame grows where no light shines. Lies expand. Depression flourishes. The power to destroy depends on darkness.
We shove things that make us uncomfortable into a box. We close tightly the lid and put it out of sight. We don’t want others to know we have labels like that in our possession. But we do. I dare say we all do.
It has somehow become one of my life’s missions to try to erase some of the stigma attached by proclaiming, “It happened to me. There is nothing for which to be ashamed.” Indeed, the true shame lies with the society that allows those with challenges to not only remain hidden but almost demand they remain so.
Yet there is one thing I have not shared even with some of my closest friends. I have held this secret for so many years it just became part of me. However, if I am being honest in my endeavor to bring light to decrease the power of shame then I am being a hypocrite by not writing about the third thing. And so, in my most vulnerable post, I open the third box.
In 2004 my now deceased husband came to me as I sat on the bed. With shaking voice and tears in his eyes he took my hand and said, “I have a problem. I need help and it has to be inpatient.”
His proclamation was preceded by events which I am not ready to share only to say they were horrific. He hit rock bottom and he hit it hard.
A few hours later I packed my children and dogs in the car and drove 18 hours straight to check him into rehab. Gary had developed an addiction to Percocet. A few months before he had been prescribed the medication for tendonitis. As a maternal fetal medicine specialist he performed numerous ultrasounds a day. The repetitive motion caused an injury and he needed medication. It started off legitimately. It did not end that way.
Because of the shame of his disease he could never receive the help he needed. For a while we would drive to Northern Virginia so he could participate in AA and NA meetings without fear of patients, friends, or colleagues seeing him walk into the meetings. He was sure if people in our town knew it would ruin his reputation. He lived with his enormous secret until the day he died. I carried it until now.
The addict is not necessarily the man on the corner with a cardboard sign begging for money. The addict is your spouse, your child, your doctor, your teacher. He is the manager at your favorite grocery store, your pastor, your friend. The addict is someone you know or perhaps love. The addict might even be you.
Our society judges them. We joke about their disease and it is still socially acceptable. We put them in jail rather than rehab. We create laws, as we should, to make getting the drug more difficult but what we fail to do is create a path to make it easier for them to get help. We try to demonize them because we want to put as much distance between “us and them.” For if it is “us and them” we subconsciously believe we can never be like they are. It gives us a false sense of both superiority and security. But the truth is some of us are one pill, one drink, one puff, one mouse click away from being an addict.
For years I thought I needed to protect Gary’s legacy so I guarded and carried his secret. I didn’t want people to think less of him. I have found that committing suicide receives more understanding than being an addict. Most of us don’t think of addicts as they are – normal people fighting a formidable opponent in the dark
Addiction is a disease. Though the addict chooses to use his drug of choice he does not choose to become addicted. It is a complex process and so misunderstood. They say it is a family disease but I believe most chronic, powerful diseases are. Like other diseases some people will respond to treatment and some won’t. Some will die from their addiction and it is just as a significant loss for the family as cancer is.
During Gary’s eulogy I tried to offer words of closure to the various populations at the memorial. He was a beloved member of the community and every walk of life was represented from prostitutes to politicians. In the closing remarks I offered this:
To those who suffer depression and addiction, I believe he would remind you that your disease is relentless and to fight it with all you have. Tend to your recovery like a delicate garden watering it every day and rooting out the weeds immediately. He would tell you to not be ashamed of your disease. People with cancer and diabetes do not feel shame because of theirs nor should you.
I have spent the last fourteen years feeling personal shame while telling people there is nothing for which they should be ashamed. In my quest to bring light to the things we try to force to remain in the dark, I have been disingenous. It is arrogant of me to determine what Gary’s legacy will be. Perhaps it is not of a man with a secret but a person who couldn’t get the help he needed because shame exists where it should not. What if part of his legacy is a cautionary tale of what can happen if nothing changes?
I haven’t allowed God the opportunity to do what He does best. I haven’t made the way so He can redeem the situation and work all things for good. He will not force His way into a situation but waits to be invited. I invite Him now and I know He will use Gary’s truth even if it touches just one person.
I open my third box to expel the shame and darkness. I know with certainty God’s light will grow something else entirely. Just what if my broken down, dingy box is exactly what God needs to grow a beautiful garden?
Tomorrow marks the seven year anniversary of my husband’s death. Between 12:30 and 12:41 on February 10, 2011 he committed suicide. I struggle with words to accurately convey the shock of suicide. Words like excruciating and traumatic fail to give justice to the violent collision of all you knew with death by choice. There was no time to brace for impact. My family was hit head on and without warning.
Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery. To seal the pieces together again gold is used. If a piece is obliterated or lost completely the gold fills in adding to the value. What remains has some semblance of the original object only more beautiful.
When Gary died it felt like everything was broken – my heart, my past, my future, my family, my children’s hearts, my entire world. I couldn’t imagine the pieces would ever be fit back together. Like a bowl falling from the top shelf, I was splattered and scattered into tiny pieces. I was sure not all the scraps would be found and that enormous chunks of me were gone.
Nothing is beyond repair for God. He does not waste anything if I allow Him to use everything. He redeems every single tear in His time. From the moment I found Gary in the woods I have seen the magnificent workings of Him in my brokenness. Time takes time but the unfolding of His work is something glorious to behold.
The metamorphosis from something broken to beautiful is, at times, painstakingly slow. Most of the time I could not even tell it was happening. It’s subtlety was easily mistaken for stillness. But, in that stillness change was occurring. In that stillness is where I am certain God is the busiest.
In my heart’s mind I picture this:
I am in complete darkness but I can see fragments all around me. Some are right at my feet and others are in the next room. I bend down to try to gather them and some of them cut. I bleed and the pain of trying to gather what was once me is overwhelming. Some of the pieces are too small to pick up. Others seem unreachable. I am determined to find as many as I can because my children need me to carry on. And I know that He will somehow work all things for good. I can’t imagine how but I trust who He says He is. I trust who He has been. I know He will not leave me now when I need Him the most. So I carefully hand each fragment I can retrieve to God.
“What is this one?” I ask.
“This is your dreams of the future,” He replies lovingly.
“And this?” I ask handing him another piece.
“This is the promise to grow old together,” He says.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Your memories of the past,” He says carefully taking it.
“This one cut me,” I tell Him.
“This is bitterness. You will not need it and I can not use it. Leave it on the floor,” He commands.
“And these?”
“Your peace….your strength…your resolve…your hope…your certainty…your joy…your laughter…your kindness…your happiness…I will restore them all,” He promises.
“There are some missing” I say somberly.
“I will fill in these. They are trust, security and the ability to love and be loved by a partner but those will take a little longer,” He tells me.
I leave the Artist to work on His new masterpiece. I wait, sometimes patiently and sometimes not. But I know with all certainty the pieces of who I was are in the Hands that created the universe. He can and will assuredly create life from what little was left of me.
On an unexpected day I look to find I am complete. I am more than restored. I am created. There was no big reveal or attention drawn to that moment. It just seemed to be. I am stronger. The cracks give me character and uniqueness. I am beautiful not in spite of but because of brokenness. I am not the person I was nor did I become the person I would have. I am someone else entirely but who I was meant to be nonetheless.
There is extraordinary beauty even in the midst of brokenness because that is where we can be sure God is. At times in the brokenness it is hard to see let alone hope. Sometimes all we can do is get through the day and promises of better tomorrows mean little. But the day will come when all that remains is beautiful and strong and glorious for having endured.
