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Sorting through the muck

This week, several things have been rolling around in my mind. I’m not sure if they are connected or not, but my gut says that they are.  I’ve been thinking about faith lately.  My views of what faith is has changed over the past years, what it can be and how it is lived.  The other thing I’ve been forced to think about triggered by some recent events is those early moments when cancer came knocking on the door of my home.

I found a quote this week on one of the sites I look at weekly;

“Pray as though everything depended on God. Work as though everything depended on you.” Saint Augustine

I was drawn to it because I know that life is a ton of hard work.  I was drawn to it because I do believe in a higher power.  I was drawn to it because of my past life as a minister. I was drawn to it because I want to be a person who serves the greater good. I want to be present to those around me through good times and challenging times…and that can be a lot of work.

If you do a bit of research on this quote from St. Augustine, you’ll find info on Christian hypocrisy. The quote can imply complete submission, reliance on God, but in the same breath demands that I do all the work as if God isn’t really there.  St. Ignatius of Loyola reversed the quote;

“Pray as if everything depended upon you; and act as if everything depended upon God.” St. Ignatius of Loyola

Both look like statements of unshakable faith.  I used to think I had unshakable faith.  Then my husband was diagnosed with a cancer that would kill him and did kill him…quickly, violently, without any empathy.  I begged God to be with him, heal him, save us…I was left alone, abandoned…

I’m a big girl and I realize an answer to a prayer won’t always look the way I hope it will.  I am big girl and I realize that I need to work hard to live a faithful life.  As a big girl my idea of how I live that faithful life is constantly evolving.  I used to look for community to support my faith.  It was a wonderful part of my faith journey.  I felt supported by those around me. My husband died…all my relationships changed.  The faith community that supported me didn’t know what to do with me anymore.  My faith changed.  I had a new understanding of lack of control.  I had a new understanding of suffering.  I had a new understanding of “praying as though everything depended on God.”

So this week, my wounded faith found another reason to “work as though everything depended on me.”  A friend’s wife was diagnosed with a very grim looking cancer. Where is my loving God in this?  Another family drenched with the pain and heartache cancer causes.  As my heart ached for them, I was ripped back to those early moments when cancer entered my home, my heart, and tore my life apart.  I haven’t thought about those early moments in a while.  The moment Dave called me from the hospital and put the doctor on the phone to tell me the news, the moment when I went to pick him up at the hospital and bring him home, moment that it sunk in that my life would never be what it was the day before that,  the moment we told our 6 year old son that daddy was sick and he was going to do everything he could to beat the sickness.  All those moments filled with feeling like I was thrust into an unbearable limbo.

Faith and grief are strange bedfellows.  Some people come out on the side that there is a plan…I really hate that saying, so I guess I’m not one of those people. I came out on the side that God’s plan for me may have heartbreak, but it’s not God’s plan that I suffer…that’s just life.

I believe in a loving God that wants me to feel loved, secure, and to love this God, through loving others.  I believe in a God that wants me to serve through serving others.  Do I believe I deserve special treatment because I do these things? Nope.  Am I spared heartache because I am loving and kind? Nope.  No perfect answer.  No perfect plan…just the present moment.

The only thing I really can know for sure is that my faith, like anything else, is evolving in me. How I practice, pray, and live that faith is as evolving as I am.  So, now as a wounded soul, I may not have as clear a picture of faith as I had, but living with ambiguity isn’t such a bad thing…I’ve lived with worse.

Where I put my faith and how I practice my faith changes daily.  Some days it’s easy to believe in the good, the kingdom, the beautiful, and be in awe of God.  Some days, not so much…

What I am sure of is every day it is my choice to fill my heart with gratitude, forgiveness, kindness and love no matter what the world hands me.  Each day I am able to practice these things is another day in a faithful life…I hope.  Each day I fall short is another chance to forgive myself and treat myself with the same love I would anyone else.  Does it look like the faith I thought was strong and durable? Not really.  It does look like something I can do.  It looks like a faith in process.  It looks like me.  Today, that will do.

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Leaping back into the swing of things

A new year, a new chance, and more new beginnings that propel me further from the life I knew into the life I am to live.  This week has brought many new changes for me.  As the kiddos started back to school after winter break, I began my stint as a student teacher.  I am back to school for the final seminars for my masters and am feeling invigorated to have a direction to head again.  Way back when, even before Dave died, I was a believer that when you’re on your way somewhere and you feel surrounded by peace (mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally) and the roadblocks are few it must be a place I was meant to go.

Over the last few weeks, I have had that experience of peace.  After much concern on my part about where and when my student teaching would happen, I was placed in the school where I already work surrounded by people who have supported me for years.  I am in a place where I will learn, grow and feel safe enough to risk and explore my own gifts as a teacher…peace.

The holidays were good this year too…after many sad Christmas mornings over the years, we woke to who we are and that was all.  Not too much looking back, not too much looking at what we don’t have…we just were.  The kiddos were happy.  I was happy. Peace.

Unexpected surprises took me on a trip I never expected.  I was open to receiving though and guess what? I was cared for, appreciated and felt…well, peace.  I was blessed to have an experience of a lifetime, meet wonderful people, and remember some pieces of myself that I was sure were gone…forever.  Peace.

Today, as I return to the familiar…housework, homework, catching up…I am thinking about jubilee again.  I thought about it last summer, I was thinking this year in my grief journey may be something different.  I was feeling on the verge of something, but couldn’t wrap my head around it.

Every seven years a jubilee…

        Ju-bi-lee (n)  2.  a season or an occasion of joyful celebration

Not wanting the other shoe to drop or to get too far ahead of myself…but, this definition means something to me today.  Maybe, just maybe, I’ve done my work and now can enjoy some of the fruit of my labor…a season of joyful celebration? Peace?

After nearly seven years of navigating a world I didn’t know what to do with, I am feeling more myself again.  I am feeling more capable again.  I am feeling some ownership, not a victim of circumstance.  I have been intentional about the work I knew I had to do when Dave died.  I have been intentional about healing hearts. I have been intentional about who walks the journey with me.  I have been intentional about carefully and thoughtfully sculpting out a life where I can live without him, but not without…well, peace.

So, as I leap into my new experiences, I am once again grateful for this journey.  Crazy as it may sound, I know that I would not appreciate all of it the way I can now without all the heartache.  Without the heartache, I may not have known how special each moment is.  Without the work, I may have been able to remain open and able to risk. Today, I am very grateful for something that has eluded me for a long time…peace.

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Sitting in the fog

chair in fog

When I began my journey grieving Dave’s death, people spoke of fog.  Commonly thrown around in grief circles, “the fog”, refers to those early days, months, even years that we move through after a loved one’s death when we feel lost, confused, well…foggy.  We hear from people in support groups about the fog.  We talk to each other about the fog.  I can tell you when I thought my fog was clearing…it seemed to happen in phases, slowly for me.

This weekend I had a different experience of fog…the real, atmospheric kind. I haven’t seen fog in a while.  I was traveling and woke to a morning consumed by fog.  My mind immediately thought of “fog”…the grief fog.  As I stood out in the early morning air on the balcony, I was only able to see a short distance.  That’s how fog works…I can’t see ahead…kind of how the grief fog works…I felt so broken after Dave died, I couldn’t bear to look ahead.  I can see why the analogy to fog works so well with grief.

Something struck me as I stood in the fog.  I could only see what’s was right there.  I could only see what was right in front of me.  I really wasn’t able see the buildings across the street.  I really couldn’t see how I would survive after he died. Seeing the real fog, feeling the real fog brought another idea.  What if being in the fog is a gift because of just that?  What if looking to the building across the street or a future I didn’t know or couldn’t comprehend isn’t the point?  What if the gift is seeing what is only right in front of me? What if the gift my pain has brought me is the ability to be present in each moment and to appreciate only what I can see, have, or do what is right in front of me?

Before I was a widow I was busy.  I was always running from one place to the next.  When he died, the world stopped.  The world started moving again whether I wanted it to or not…but I was myopic.  I could only focus on the fact that he was gone.  That was ok. That was what needed to happen.  I needed to sit in the fog.

So I sat, I grieved, I survive day to day…but now because of the grief, the fog, the sadness I am more present to the moment I am in.  I really only have this very moment for sure…I want to see it.  I want to be loving, kind, patient, a good parent, and a good friend.  I want to be grateful for what is, not what might be.  I want to stand in the fog, see only what I can see and be glad to see it.

The one thing about fog is that it always clears.  It burns off, it dissipates, and it fades away.  I hope as I continue my journey, I don’t let the fog clearing burn away my gratitude for the moment. I hope I don’t let the ability to see the building across the street, the ability to look ahead again cloud what is right in front of me.  I don’t want to miss the moments, the gratitude or the blessings that being present to now can bring me.

Happy New Year~

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Absence, Acclimation, Possibility

This holiday season has been a bit different for me.  I am feeling ok…even better than ok most days.  The sense that I am beginning to thrive again is sinking into my soul.  Our seventh Christmas since he died, our eighth Christmas since cancer struck, my first Christmas not completely taken back by his absence.  Each year has been different.  Every Christmas growth has occurred.  From the first Christmas when we left town because I knew I would not be able to handle a Christmas morning alone, to the second and third when I marched through dutifully, to the fourth, fifth and sixth when we began our own traditions and tears came less and less often during the day.  He is always missed.  His absence will always be felt. Losing him will always be woven into who we are, but as year seven holidays begin to pass I think we’ve acclimated.

There were no tears yesterday.  There were no children with deep, sorrowful eyes.  There was no mommy running off to the bedroom to cry so the children’s Christmas morning would be spoiled.  There were two joyful, grateful children who opened gifts and said thank you.  There were hugs that meant something deep.  There were kids playing joyfully (without much sib fighting) nearly all day. There was a mommy who rested peacefully. I have mixed feelings about this one…no one said “I miss daddy” or “I miss him so much today”…I know that we don’t have to say things to still be feeling them, but the feelings of grief never bubbled into words yesterday.  In only one short moment before my big boy went to bed, he came to me with some tears wanting a hug.  He said he’s afraid of me getting old…he wants me to live forever…he doesn’t want to be separated from family again.

Acclimated.

We have acclimated.  We have survived.  We have begun to live a life we are accustomed to now.  We know he won’t be here for Christmas, for New Year’s, for birthdays…well for any day at all.  We know he loved us and did everything within his power to stay here.  We know he died.  We know it changed us forever.  We are living in the change.  We have acclimated.

So what about possibilities?

My heart has always been open to possibilities.  First there was the possibility that I would survive this heartache.  Then there was the possibility that I was open to caring for someone again.  Now, I have been given the possibility to open my heart wide again.  Someone has walked into my life from an unexpected place and wants into my heart.  I am filled with trepidation yet he feels familiar.  I am nervous, but he calms me.  He knows my story and he doesn’t run away…he embraces it.  Possibility.  A chance to risk again invigorates me and terrifies me. What if I give my heart again wholly and completely, only to have it land in shattered pieces on the ground again?

What if I give my heart completely and wholly and everything works out? I don’t know which terrifies me more…

What if my boys open their hearts and have them broken?  I don’t know if I’d survive that one…but what if they open their hearts and find a place of peace that helps them heal?

Possibility? Yes, definitely. Terrifying? Yes, definitely. Calming? Yes-all of these things all at once…

Hope. Yes. Definitely.

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Welcoming the morning

Today I woke up feeling…well, dare I say it…happy.  I am! I am happy and so grateful for feeling this way.  Not to say over the years that I haven’t felt happiness.  I have. Today is different though, there is a depth to my happiness that I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Over the past months, well actually over a year, I have been working on a plan.  This plan is to maintain financial health, while maintaining my presence in my children’s lives.  This is not an easy task as many parents know.  For me as a sole parent, it has felt like a mountain of weight on my shoulders.  Several years ago, I went back to work full-time in an administrative position, but it was just too much.  We were all coming home cranky, tired, and I just wasn’t giving my kiddos the care they needed.  I did enjoy the work…I love working outside the home…but as I fulfilled the need to provide for my family financially, I lost footing on the emotional and spiritual support they craved too.

So, I adjusted.  My little one still in preschool, I cut back.  I only worked part-time at a very flexible, low paying job.  I sat in the moment, held on, humbly accepted the generosity of others, and in time, he made it to kindergarten and I was able to work more.  I looked for work that fit into the kiddos daily schedules…not super easy to find…but was open to receiving what was available and in a very short amount of time, part-time work grew into a full-time position in a place I love to work and look forward to every day.  I have been truly blessed in this part of my life.

This lovely job, that I enjoy with all my heart isn’t really enough financially though.  I hold on, I budget wisely and we are not losing ground anymore.  I needed a plan.  I needed work that would provide me with the time for my kids, the financial resources to feed them, and if I’m lucky, provide an outlet for my own gifts and talents. For many years, I have resisted the urge to teach.  I have always felt my calling was to work with kiddos outside the school environment.  I know that I am blessed with the gifts to work with kids, but always hemmed and hawed about teaching them.  I have a substitute teaching certificate, but never committed my heart and gifts to this profession.  I studied theology in the 1990s and became a youth minister working with jr. high and high school kids for a decade.  I loved it.  I worked as an after care director for an elementary school and loved it.  I also ran a preschool, but just never made that commitment to become a certified teacher.

About a year and a half ago, that changed.  I had the opportunity to continue my education and enrolled in a program to earn my teaching certificate and a master’s degree in education.  It was a paradigm shift for me.  The old me, who wanted to be that adult outside of school that provided support for kiddos, became the sole parent who needed to find a way to participate in work I love without forgoing my vocation as parent.  I have been working pretty hard over the last year or so.  I went back to school part-time, did the work, made the grades and now am ready for the final piece…my student teaching. I really didn’t know when I began if I’d be able to complete the task.  Today, I welcome the morning because I made it this far.  I made it through the course work, the homework, the being away from home, the asking for help with the kids…I’m standing here nearly completed with the process and am so grateful for the grace and strength to have made it.

The even better part of the deal is that I get to student teach at the place I work now.  I get honor of working with teachers I admire and kiddos I already know.  I get the opportunity to develop my own gifts and talents in a place where I am loved and I love being.  This is one of the greatest gifts I have ever received.

I promised myself when Dave died that I would take this journey one step at a time.  I did not know how I would survive it.  I knew that I would survive it…even though many days felt like I wouldn’t.  I knew I had to survive…there really wasn’t an option. What I didn’t know was that I would grow so much.  What I didn’t know was that his death would lead me to a place that wasn’t in the plan or familiar, but I knew I was meant to be.  I remember in those early days, opening the curtains and looking out on the morning and thinking…why? Why do I need to be here? Why do I have to continue? Why did this happen? I remember cursing the beautiful sun for making me live my life another day.  I only opened those curtains because I had to…but today, I opened the curtains and something different filled my heart…gratitude that I kept on plugging, gratitude that I took the risk and kept going without him, gratitude for all those lovely hearts along the way that said I could do this…I woke today looking forward again.  Looking forward to something good, looking forward with happiness in my heart, looking forward without pain…and today that feels really, really good.

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Lonely vs. Alone

I have always been one of those people that doesn’t mind being alone. I don’t mind the quiet moments and enjoy solitude.  For the most part I am pretty extroverted so I think some folks might find this out of character for me.  Of course, after becoming a parent, alone time became a valuable commodity.  Most parents know that your children will follow you everywhere…the bathroom, bed, even into a closet if you are desperately searching for some quiet solitude. It was a challenging adjustment for me as I became a parent.  I couldn’t just slip away and I did miss that time alone.  I knew lonely too.  Lonely is somehow different.  For me, there is a hopelessness when I’m lonely…also out of character for me because for the most part, I can find hope in most places.  Loneliness is different for me because many lonely moments are those moments without hope.

I thought I knew loneliness before Dave died.  I thought I had felt loneliness deep into my being. The loneliness my grief brought me was different than the loneliness I had experienced before he died.  It is laced with the finality that only death brings.  That permanent separation brought a deep, penetrating hopelessness to me.  The finality of death, the no second chance, the permanent absence brought a depth to loneliness that I had not experienced before.

So through the years since his death, I sat with my loneliness.  There are moments when I have been overcome with it.  There were really years that I wore lonely on my back like a heavy cloak.  For me that loneliness meant never again.  Never again would I feel him, see him, touch him…well, all those things that many of us know too well. Loneliness was my companion…it was very different than being alone.  I was alone, but somehow that was different.

Loneliness was painful, alone taught me about my strengths, weaknesses, challenges, and brought growth.  Alone taught me about how capable I was.  Alone taught me I was a survivor. Alone taught me I was going to be ok.  As alone taught me, loneliness became less constant.  The reality of my loneliness set in and oddly enough with this reality came the knowledge that somehow loneliness would pass.  I wasn’t sure how this would happen, but my hope kicked back in and tempered my loneliness.

So through these years of grief, I have become even more comfortable with alone.  Remember…I never really minded alone…I love being part of a team, a couple, being in a relationship, but each day alone revealed more to me about myself.  It has revealed things to me that I may have never known without my grief.  This ongoing revelation prompted by my loneliness has taken me on a journey.  This journey revealed that I really can do this on my own.  Before Dave died, I knew he knew I could do it.  He had confidence in me…it was me that doubted. It has taken years of experiencing my grief to lead me to different sense of confidence in myself and who I am becoming.  It took many lonely nights for me to know what I really wanted my life to look like as I move forward. Being alone has forced me to assess my life and look for a different direction. Lonely gave me the depth I needed to make choices with my heart.  Alone gave me strength and competency to face single parenting and make a home for my reluctant family of three. Lonely gave me the strength to face being alone…possibly forever (in my mind at least.)

But, here’s the thing – my loneliness isn’t forever.  My enjoyment of alone time will be with me and I like that.  I have separated the two.  I can see that for me there is a difference.  I can see the blessings and challenges of both.  I can balance them now.  I can feel those moments of loneliness and let them wrap around me, but not engulf me now.  I can appreciate being alone again and all the things that being alone has revealed to me, about me.  Who knew?

So, I will continue to let both be a part of me now and with the me I will become. In allowing myself the depth of loneliness, the really hopeless part, I find new depth and dare I say it – joy– in being alone. With this gift of my grief intact, I move forward toward the unexpected life I never wanted to know.  This life I hope I will experience and participate in to the fullest.

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Ready, set, go…

On a busy day, I can feel it beginning.  I can feel the stress mounting within the walls of my home.  We made it through Thanksgiving, but that’s just the beginning.  The kids and I brace ourselves for the holidays.  I can almost feel them hunkering down, getting ready to maintain and handle themselves as we watch the world move through the holiday season.

I’m feeling different this year.  I’m not as stressed as I remember being in the recent past.  Things are going a bit better for me though.  I have a job I love, I’m nearly done with my master’s (which translates to no school for me right now), and I’m finding myself looking forward to things more.  Heck, I’m actually going to go to the work holiday party and I’m not anxious in the slightest.

The kids don’t seem to be in the same place.  I can feel their stress building.  Their tempers are short.  Their tolerance is nearly non existent.  I know we all grieve differently, but some days, I wish we could be on the same page.  I know this time of year is so hard for them.  They miss their dad.  They see all their friends with dads around and they know something is missing in their world.  They feel it very deeply and that pain surfaces in anger many days, intolerance other days, and just plain cranky behavior throughout the season.

Holiday season is stressful for any kid.  The expectations, the anticipation, the busy schedule all lead to overload.  Add to my kids’ days that they miss their dad, their mom is busy nearly all the time, money is still tight and many days, they just don’t know how all this will play out.  I do my best to keep expectations in check, make time for some fun, provide low stress days and to be present to them.  Some days though they are just so cranky!  I become frustrated and am constantly asking myself…is it their grief?  Is it normal holiday, kid behavior? When do they need intervention and when do I need to let them work it out?  There is always that voice in my head…would it be different if Dave hadn’t died?  Would we see the same behaviors?  How can I help in the immediate situation and help them build the skills they need to work out these emotions and situations on their own?

I think the family member struggling the most right now is my little one.  He’s only seven.  He was six months old when Dave died.  He never had a birthday with his dad.  He was only 3 months old that first Christmas when Dave was still here.  He has no memories.  This frustrates him.  He is discovering what families with a dad around look like as he spends time with friends and is exposed to more at school.  He is very angry and it breaks my heart.  How much of this is grief? How much of this is his personality? I don’t know.  I do know that he is struggling nearly every day.  His holiday season isn’t what he hopes for…he wants more, he longs for more and as much as I try, I can’t give him what he wants most…his dad.

So, I do my best to make sure that he has time with other father type guys.  My brothers spend time with him.  He spends time with his friend’s families who have dads around.  I think it hurts him and heals him all at once.  I tell him stories about his dad.  I tell him how much his daddy loved him and wanted to always be here with him. It hurts and heals all at once…I hope.

There is nothing I want more for Christmas than for my kids to just feel normal again.  My holiday wish is that the hole in their hearts can somehow be filled by the people and love around them. I know that their dad loved them.  I know that the hardest thing he ever did was leave them.  I know that they will be ok, but when the holidays come…it seems like ok is far away.

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Is gratitude a key?

When my husband died and I began my grief journey of losing him, there were a couple things that I did very intentionally.  One of my dear friends was a therapist and I asked her to watch me.  I asked her to be a gage for me and to let me know when I was slipping away too much.  Along with this help, I sought out group support, really all kinds of professional help to make sure the boys and I would be able to deal with our lives from that day forward.  I really didn’t know how I was going to make it and I knew I would need a scaffolding to hold me up until I figured it out.  I also didn’t want my boys to be haunted by their dad’s death their entire lives…don’t get me wrong here…I know it will always be a part of them, but I wanted them to have healthy, loving relationships and lives.  The next thing I did, mostly an internal function, was to practice gratitude.  I knew my life had taken the worst turn I’d ever faced.  I also knew that if I could find things to be grateful for, I would be able to hold on each day.  In the earliest moments, I was grateful he was not suffering anymore.  I was grateful to make my bed in the morning when I got up and grateful to collapse into it at the end of the day.  I was grateful to have the boys.  It was sparse, but I clung to something nearly everyday.  There were days when I was angry, exhausted, defeated, heartbroken and thought that being gracious for something was ridiculous and cliché…I mean really, look at my life! I was left here with these children, alone.  My “happily ever after” was ripped away from me…but, regardless of these intense and valid feelings, I would grasp for maybe one thing I was grateful for…many of those days, I was just grateful the day was over.

As the years passed, I kept getting up each morning and I kept scraping together things to be grateful for.  I was truly grateful for every single one I could muster up.  There have definitely been challenges along the way.  Many days I scream to the heavens, “Really?” I’m guessing many of you have those moments when those lovely phrases fly around you…”God won’t give you more than you can handle”…Really?  “The things that don’t kill you only make you stronger”…Really?  And there’s my all time favorite, “God has a plan”…Really?  I must have really been on God’s shit list to have gotten this plan!

Even with all of this, even with the complexities my sadness brought, even with the exhaustion that sole parenting provides and even with my heart in tiny crumbles on the ground, I searched for something to be grateful for…even when I really thought I wouldn’t think of any.

So, this Thanksgiving, I was reflecting on this habit of mine.  I was reflecting on the fact that although I don’t always feel as blessed as I felt all those years ago when he was alive…I still feel gracious.  Many of the reasons why don’t change.  As Thanksgiving comes and goes so does my wedding anniversary.  This year I marked 15 years…he only made it through eight…I am nearly to a point when I have marked as many without him as I had with him. It’s such an odd thing.  Why do I still count?  I know that the anniversary means something.  I know that I am grateful to have found him and to have had the years together that we had.  I know who I am today is reflects in the fact that I loved him and he loved me…but I don’t know if the counting does any good for either of us anymore…I don’t know if I can wrap gratitude around seven years without him…

What I can wrap gratitude around is the woman I continue to become in spite of my heartbreak and because of my heartbreak.  Certainly, I am different.  Certainly, I am more self sufficient, tolerant (well, most days), and know that I will survive.  I am grateful for the depth of gratitude my heart now feels.  I am not grateful about him dying…don’t get me wrong but I am grateful for the depth of feeling this loss has brought me.   I knew before he died that many times I was more grateful for something when I lost it.  I counted the blessings in my life before cancer knocked on our door.  I loved my children and others before such immense heartbreak penetrated my being.  I didn’t know that walking through my grief, letting my sadness rip through me, seeking out the help and trying to be grateful would lead me to a place where I could feel things in a more meaningful way.  I hoped it would, but I really, really thought that the only thing the heartache and grief would do was kill me.  Well, it didn’t.  It has left me with a redesigned heart.  My heart will always be able to touch the depth of my sadness, but it will also be able to experience the depth of joy in new way.  My heart that once lay shattered on the ground is reassembled…those who dare to look closely will see the wounds.  Those who dare to look closely will also receive the depths of feelings I am now able to experience.  I am terrified of this and grateful for it all at once.  I am who I am today, only, only because he died.  I am who I am today, only, only because of how I experienced his death.  I am who I am today because I choose to be grateful for my journey…no matter where it has taken me…because today, I feel again and it is not only the sadness I feel down to my bones, but the good things too.

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Different roads

If there is one true lesson I have learned on my own journey through grief, it is that everyone, absolutely everyone, grieves in their own way.  As hard as it may be, our journeys’ are ours alone.  My journey is different than my kids’ journey.  Losing my dad means different things to each of my brothers and sisters. Grief is as individual as we are.

Before Dave died, I was much braver in the face of death. I was able to walk beside someone, listen, and just be present to them.  My heartbreak for them was great, but I really didn’t have a clue about huge personal loss.  I was aware of this too.  I knew that I didn’t know how they felt, I could barely even imagine.  Unfortunately or fortunately, however you want to look at it…I met grief before Dave died…as I think most of us have before we have our own loss.

As a youth minister, several young people I knew through ministry died.  I knew each of them differently.  Some I knew well, some I didn’t.  Each of their deaths has touched my life, just as their lives enriched my own.  Losing young people has a distinct sting to it.  Watching other young people mourn and deal with the thoughts of their own mortality is difficult…or at least it was for me.  My heart was heavy for each of them. Many days, I would come home from work so drained I had little left to give my own family.  I’m not sure if every youth minister has similar experiences…but they might.  When you build relationships with others, nurture them and watch them grow…especially with lots of folks, I think the odds are greater that you will have to say goodbye to some of them…forever.

So, even before Dave died, I was involved with and sought out grief resources.  I did this for myself because I was ministering to others.  I did it for those I ministered with, to and for…because, well, I needed a place for them to go when I couldn’t help them.  So, when Dave died I had a strong base to seek out help for myself and my kiddos.  For this, I will be forever grateful.  Those kids I knew and loved, who died too soon, helped me prepare for my own survival of grief and I am forever grateful to them.  I already was grateful for knowing them and their families for many reasons, but for their sacrifice, for their family’s sacrifices, I am profoundly grateful…not for losing them of course, but for the journey with them through their lives and death.  Observing their grief, their recovery, their tears, their smiles helped me put one foot in front of the other through my own heartbreak.

Everyone walks differently through grief…it’s just the way it is.  I find myself much more tolerant and much less judging of anyone’s journey since experiencing my own loss.  Even though my spouse died and maybe your spouse died, we are allowed to do it in our own, individual way.  I have learned that there is no one, right, healthy, expedient or certain way to do it.  Here’s the rub though – even though your way may be very different than mine, we can help each other.  We can be present, tolerant, and listen to and really hear one another’s story.  When I sat with those parents and kids all those years ago, I had no idea how that part of my life would affect the next part.  I had no idea that their loss would help me survive mine.  I had no idea that as I observed a mother as her child was lowered into a grave that it would hold me standing as my husband was lowered into his.  I had no idea that the strong sense of faith that a mother spoke with while eulogizing her son would be mirrored in my own as I eulogized my husband.  I had know idea that while I sat silently with a teenager as they cried and missed their friend that it would empower me to let my own emotions free with another person…but it did. Each step brings me here.  Each tear, my own loss or someone else’s has given me a map of sorts.  I don’t think it happened consciously, but it did happen.  I can see it now.  Did I see it in the midst of my sorrow? No, not every time.  Did I think of those people as I grieved my husband?  I did.  It helped me “walk the walk” so to speak.  It gave me the courage to embrace losing Dave as fully as I could because I knew it was the only way I would survive it.  There were days that I really didn’t think I would survive.  There were days when I truly thought my broken heart would kill me…but it didn’t.  I remembered.  I could playback experiences I had with others…both during the midst of immediate loss and then reconnecting with them years later…and they were still standing.  They were still breathing.  Their journeys inspire me.  Their journeys give me courage.  Our journeys shared are solidarity…in the deepest part of my soul, I believe that it is this solidarity that saved me from my heartbreak.

Different journeys, yes…

Individual grief, yes…

Our shared journey…if we are willing, may be the rope that someone clings to as they face their own tragedy.

I know it was for me.  I know it saved my life.  I know this with every ounce of my being.  So, for all of you, who were brave enough to share your journey with me…thank you…thank you for throwing me the rope I needed to cling to…I survive and begin to thrive again because you were part of my journey…for this I am forever grateful.