She Speaks True Words

Memories.

The long days of abundant sunshine and sweltering heat have officially arrived. For some reason, the first day of summer for me seems to mark the second half of it, and not its starting point. Perhaps because it’s the longest day of the year and the days slowly grow shorter. Or maybe it’s because once the 4th of July hits, summer seems to fly and I wonder where it’s gone.

This year, the longest day has also marked 4 months since Dave passed away, and then Father’s Day. An emotional couple of days. I anticipated this weekend to be hard, but honestly the past couple weeks have been unexpectedly difficult. I accepted a new job for the West Des Moines school district and with it came a fresh rip of the emotional Bandaid.

I think what has been difficult for me is realizing that come August I will no longer be existing in this bubble I’ve been in for what has felt like the longest year of my life. I’ll be stepping into navigating life as a working single mom. A life that one year ago I never would have envisioned myself living.

I had a friend ask me not long after David passed away if I ever thought about how much things had changed since a year ago, and at the time I said no. But as the weeks and months go on, I find myself thinking about just how different our lives were a year ago…celebrating Easter, Memorial Day, the start of summer and Father’s Day together. But then things quickly changed.

I’m sure as the summer goes on I’ll remember how Dave’s symptoms progressed and how we had no idea what was causing them. Reliving the memories is difficult, and I don’t want to let myself dwell in them or wonder about “what ifs” or “if onlys” or any other toxic thoughts. But I want to let myself grieve, too. There’s a weird balance in grief…you want to but you don’t…you want to remember, to feel, to let it hurt…but you don’t want it to consume you.

With the girls, a lot of what I do is remind them of memories or talk about the good things together. They’ve been looking through old photo albums and playing with Daddy’s Legos lately, and I’ve made comments about the stories of the pictures and how Daddy is proud of and watching over his girls. And we of course have talked about how we are going to have donuts together on Father’s Day in memory of Daddy.

It is oh so hard to navigate all of this, and our first Father’s Day without Dave will be difficult. But in the midst of the hard I know we will find good and beautiful things, too. I am grateful for the girls who remind me daily of his best qualities. Hailey has his laid back personality and approach to life, and Hannah is so thoughtful and creative. Both of them have hearts of gold.

Raising these two beautiful girls who remind me every day of David is the greatest gift he has given me. I told him multiple times over his final days that I would do my best to love these girls as well as he loved us. To love God and love them with all of my heart. As I will always love him. My heart is still broken and hurting and yet it is full. Filled with memories and love.

Voices.

I realize that I am one of many voices right now.

I realize that my voice is one that has much privilege. One that I didn’t choose or gain. One that simply is privileged.

I realize that I have a lot of brokenness in me.

I realize that the color of my skin and that of my girls means that I make a lot of assumptions that are deep-seated. Many of them are unconscious but are slowly beginning to rise to the surface.

The events over the past several days and weeks have left an impressionable mark on my soul. It has become abundantly clear that racism is not something that exists in a vacuum. It is not individual acts of horror and oppression. The acts over George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, Eric Garner, John Crawford, Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin…these are not simply acts of violence. They are acts of racism that are indicative of the systemic white supremacy in our society. Yes, white supremacy. And I’m not just referring to extremists or politicians or the police officers committing these violent acts. I’m referring to whites as a race and the racism – whether conscious or subconscious – that we have.

I recently started an online book discussion group on Robin DiAngelo’s White Fragility. This book is shattering me in a good way.

“When you consider the moral judgment we make about people we deem as racist in our society, the need to deny our own racism – even to ourselves – makes sense. We believe we are superior at a deeply internalized level and act on this belief in the practice of our lives, but we must deny this belief to fit into society and maintain our self identity as good, moral people…We can’t challenge our racial filters if we can’t consider the possibility that we have them.”

With my heart aching and praying over the events of this week in addition to my own growing self awareness, I find myself looking to my girls. How can I teach them so much more about the ways they can make a difference? How can we as parents invest in the younger generation to organize in a meaningful way? What can I share with and teach my children now that is appropriate for their ages?

I have so much to learn, so much to unlearn. I’ve heard it said, “When you know better, do better.” I’m definitely not perfect and I want to do better – do right by my girls and equip them to advocate for change. Because we can do better, and we must.

Spring.

Spring has never been my favorite season. I’ve always enjoyed the seemingly endless days of summer, filled with cookouts, swimming and the sweet, coconut smell of sunscreen lingering on the skin. Late nights watching fireflies dance and staring up at the stars, filling my mind with the hope of endless possibilities.

Once I am over the months of sweating profusely, I look forward to fall. Crisp leaves painting the skyline and sidewalks with hues of orange, pink, yellow and red. The smell of bonfires in backyards. The roar and excitement of people cheering on their favorite football teams. Snuggling up in my favorite sweatshirts.

Winter has never been my favorite either, mostly as an adult…because who likes driving in snow? It’s fun playing with my kids in it for about five minutes. And then spring seems almost a nonexistent season most years, as winter lingers into April in Iowa and then it quickly becomes blazing hot, making the frigid days of winter a distant memory.

This year, spring has brought upon a lot more meaning than in years past. The winter was long and hard for obvious reasons, enduring David’s diagnosis and quick turn toward the worse. In some ways the months felt long at the time, facing the giant that we did. Long days at the hospital and then hospice. But looking back, I realize just how fast things progressed. It was a winter of the soul for many of us.

Some days, the memories from the past several months come in flashes, in and out of my mind, as I am distracted by the everyday needs of caring for the girls, and of course, everything going on in the world around me. And some days, I let them in and sit with them, letting the grief be with me. I let myself remember both the hard and the good memories. The girls and I share random things about Daddy on an almost daily basis, the things he would say or do. Many of the stories make us smile.

The girls are doing well considering the circumstances we are in. They play together really well (most of the time) and I am loving seeing their friendship deepen. They find fun in their days and bring much needed laughter and joy to mine. That being said, as the weeks go on, the days can be long and hard. I am feeling my endurance built and am reminded daily of my need to trust in the path and the process. As the season has changed, so have I. Despite the circumstances around me, I cling to the promises of spring. Of hope and of growth.

The weather this spring has been glorious this year. I am thankful we have been able to get outdoors quite a bit. I am beyond grateful for our neighborhood, for wonderful friends and neighbors. They’ve blessed me and my girls in more ways than I can count.

I am realizing more and more that despite my planning nature, I really need to focus on the present. The simple joys and things to be grateful for in each day, whether enjoying a picnic outside with the girls, listening to the girls giggle as they play together or reading a good book (so thankful for my digital library card!).

Though I don’t know what the next days, weeks and months will look like, I am doing what I can to be mindful of what is going on while also trying to not let myself get caught up in it. Making decisions I feel are best to keep the girls and me safe…even if it can be exhausting.

So for now, I am choosing to embrace spring as much as I can. Letting myself feel the blades of grass in my toes and the warmth of the sun on my skin, watching the girls run freely, sing loudly and yell hello to each and every neighbor they see. Because there is nothing more beautiful than letting in the joy that they bring. Along with the promises of hope. Of growth. Of rising up and letting myself be filled with radiance and truth.

Running the race.

I feel like I have started the beginning of a long race without much of any training. My body feels stiff and sore navigating this unfamiliar territory and wants to push through. As I start the race I feel pretty good; I can do this. It’s going to be a little hard but I’ve got it.

But then I push a little too hard and the terrain changes. I start going up a long hill and cannot see the top. I’m in the midst of this hill and I feel myself slipping, with an ache in my side that makes me want to stop, pull off to the side and rest.

So here I sit, gulping in air and catching my breath. Waiting to regain my strength so I can get back in the race again. This time, knowing that I can’t push too hard too soon. Because the race I am running isn’t a sprint. It is a long one that requires me to endure. To trust myself and the process.

I consider myself a pretty self aware person. I know my strengths and my shortcomings. I wear my heart on my sleeve, which shows itself in my passion, my empathy for others and my sensitive nature. I also tend to try to avoid the bigger emotions I feel: anxiety, fear and grief. Great for times such as these. [Sarcasm.]

I tend to ruminate in my thoughts and emotions, while at the same time trying to stuff them down and move on so as to avoid my overthinking nature. Trying to not feel things I believe I ought not to dwell in too much.

Hence, the race I am enduring. Following Dave’s passing, I thought I was doing OK. I was able to grieve but also pick up the pieces. Make plans. Try to move forward. But all that came to a screeching halt just a few weeks following the funeral with COVID-19 and I found myself homebound with the girls 24/7. I quickly realized that I cannot fast forward through the grief process.

When you want to avoid your thoughts and emotions it’s a little hard when you have less to distract yourself with. Yet my current vice is reading all the books. Mysteries are my favorite way to escape reality. But as the weeks go on, I am reminded that I can’t distract myself from the story I am in. As hard as this story is, I have to let myself write it. With the passion that I carry in my heart. With my girls alongside me.

Today marks two months since David passed away. The first few weeks flew by with the busyness. With slowing down and spending time with the girls at home, it has been a much slower pace. One that has caused me to realize that I need to give myself a lot more grace. To not just let the hard feelings come and then try to quickly move past them. But rather to let them in and recognize them for what they are. To then give myself freedom. Space. Kindness. To my very core.

I started doing yoga again this past week after giving it up several months ago. I forgot how good it feels, both inside and out. One of my favorite mantras from the practice is to be kind to yourself. It’s such a simple phrase but one that is so powerful and true. We tend to pour out kindness quickly to others and less so to ourselves.

Believing the truth about ourselves is what helps us to endure. To run the race marked out for us. One step at a time. As I get back into it, this time I stretch my legs. I look up the hill and see that I am running the race with millions of others. My situation is unique and yet I am not alone in enduring hard times. We must keep going, encouraging each other – and ourselves – along the way. Keeping our eyes forward, on the author and perfecter of our faith. Breathing deeply. Staying focused.

As we keep running, the pain will continue to come and go. And what I’ve realized is that it’s OK to stop and tend to it. But to not stop and give up. I can ask for help. For someone to sit with me through it. To get up and walk with me for a bit until I regain my strength and find my stride again. This is what I’ve come to find renewal in. Again and again. I find myself surrendering to the same truths along the way each time I stumble. Finding hope and faith to endure.

Life is painful. Messy. Filled with heartbreak and heartache. We don’t need to ignore it or try to push it aside quickly and move on. We can let ourselves feel the depths of emotions and tend to our inner being. In the deep, dark spaces we squint, looking for light. When we look for it, we find it. Joy and beauty become that much richer. Life begins to make sense. Because it is in these spaces that we find who we truly are. We find ourselves and each other. And run the race together.

An Easter like no other.

This was an Easter I’ll never forget. I don’t have any pictures to document it, but I’m sure I’ll always remember Easter 2020.

A holiday that was defined by social distancing when people across the nation couldn’t gather at churches or with loved ones.

A holiday when the girls and I watched church online from our family room. When we drove to our church parking lot in the afternoon and waved at our friends at a safe distance from inside our cars.

A holiday when I wept in that parking lot with a friend because my soul misses connection with my dear friends that I haven’t gotten to spend time with.

Our first holiday just me and the girls. Missing the wonderful husband and daddy who loved us so well.

“We aren’t made for isolation,” I told my friend from the open car window as pellets of icy rain came through. “It’s not supposed to be this way…This is so hard.” Pretty soon my cheeks were wet and the girls saw me crying. I continue to tell them that I miss Daddy and that it’s OK to be sad.

A holiday not like any other holiday.

The past week, Holy Week, was the hardest I’ve had in a long time. The unwelcome visitor of anxiety has pressed on my chest and in my gut through moments of grief and uncertainty. The weeks at home alone are beginning to widen the gaping hole left in our lives. I’m finding myself trying to take deep breaths through these moments of grief and what I can’t control. By Friday, Good Friday, my soul just ached. I found myself weary and overwhelmed.

This week, this time, has been like no other. Not just for me, but for all of us. We are in a collective grief for what we have lost. We seek a sense of normalcy, comfort, control.

And yet…isn’t grief what Holy Week is about? The grief Jesus felt for what he was about to do. The grief he felt when he was on the cross and was separated from God. The grief God felt when he gave up his son for humanity. And the grief of Mary and John as they watched Jesus on the cross.

We feel alone in our grief…and yet we are not alone. Before he died, Jesus said to John, “Here is your mother,” and to Mary (his mother), “Here is your son.” The significance of this, that it says from then on “this disciple [whom Jesus loved] took her into his home,” is the role of community. How we are to love and care for one another.

Like I said to my dear friend today, we aren’t made for isolation. We are called to bear one another’s burdens. Show kindness and hospitality. Pray without ceasing. Love as Christ loved us.

I see myself at the foot of the cross in surrender. Yearning. Waiting. Carrying a grief that is too heavy for me to bear on my own. The girls and I are missing Dave so much. I feel alone but I know that I am far from it.

The other night at bedtime, on Good Friday, Hannah cried for the first time in a while. I held her in her bed, taking in her sadness, and I cried with her. “I miss Daddy, too,” I said. We sat there for a minute and she calmed down and rolled over to go to sleep.

“If you ever wake up in the night and can’t go back to sleep you can come be with me,” I said to her. “No matter what you need, I’m here for you.”

As I let the words linger in the air, I felt the truth of them on my heart. I felt them spoken to me. From my Father in heaven. This Easter, I’ve made some good memories with the girls, from Easter baskets to multiple indoor egg hunts and yummy food. But those aren’t the only things I’m holding onto.

The resurrection is about hope. Light in the darkness. Receiving grace. Knowing that in the dark of the night, in my heaviest moments, God is waiting for me – for all of his children – to come to him. To find refuge and comfort. Receive unconditional love to carry us through.

Amazing grace.

I weep.

I weep
For what my heart
Aches and longs for
Missing a piece of itself
Broken
Not yet ready
For repair.

I weep
For those who sacrifice
Put their own lives at risk
Day in, day out
Taking every chance
For those suffering
To have another shot at theirs.

I weep
For those in hard situations
Without escape
With barely enough
Fearing just how
They will ever manage
To get through this.

I weep
For the sick
Those suffering alone
No matter the ailment
To carry the burden
Without family or friends
By their side.

I weep
For those who have
Lost a loved one
Unable to see them
In their final days
No goodbyes or funerals
Only tears.

I weep
For the anxious
The hurting
The depressed
The broken
The desolate
The suffering.

I weep for you
I weep for me
God weeps for all of us
Carries our burdens
When we feel heavy
And feel no more tears
Can fall.

Our tears are not
Ever in vain
They make us human
And they connect us
Even in our disconnect
Though we are far
We are closer than ever.

We weep
Collectively
We are not unalike
In our grief
So let’s lift each other up
Carry one another
Love together.

Holding my breath.

Yesterday was a bright spot at the end of a long week that has been challenging for many of us. In the morning we pushed ourselves for a long bike ride around the neighborhood: Hannah impressed me and rode for about a mile, which is exponentially farther than she’s ever ridden in her 6 years of life. Hailey “rode” her bike while I pushed her. Note to self: Find the next tricycle that’s in storage…someday when I can figure out where the key to our shed is.

It was one of those unicorn days where the girls played well together all day with minimal outbursts or tears. I’m trying to let them figure out and solve their own problems and give them the space to work through disagreements with minimal interference…it’s amazing how well this can play out when they actually go along with it.

Then there was the excitement of Hannah losing another tooth—that girl loves to pull out her teeth. We got outside again in the afternoon with a visit to the cemetery. It was the girls’ first visit since the funeral. I’ve been once by myself since, so our time to visit with Daddy was short because the girls were ready to feed the geese at the cemetery pond.

The girls are handling missing their daddy way better than I would have anticipated. Hailey surprises me as she is the one who makes more comments about missing Daddy…maybe because she hears me say that I miss him. We talk about him often and share stories so it’s not that he is far from our thoughts. The girls are handling this with a resilience that encourages me and keeps me going.

To be perfectly honest, this week has brought me more challenges emotionally. While I know I am loved and supported through texts and calls, not having outside contact for the next several weeks feels daunting. I realized that I need to prioritize more time for myself, so yesterday I made myself do nothing on my to-do list so I could rest during Hailey’s naptime.

There are so many details to be figured out and loose ends that still need to be tied up, and I feel like I am adding to my to-do list with each thing I cross off. But I need to give myself time and space to do them rather than feeling like I need to do everything all at once. That’s when the anxiety sets in rather than peace. Anxiety that sits in my gut like I’m sucking in my breath.

I feel a bit like I’ve been holding my breath for the past several months. Not necessarily in anxiety but in this sense of waiting. I’m not sure exactly what I’m waiting for but it’s like I’m holding on, waiting for a return to normal. A normal that doesn’t exist anymore. I’m wanting to exhale out everything that has happened the past few months, the memories that come in flashes in my brain, that pour waves of emotions and tears at unexpected times. I’m waiting to breathe out all of this, to let it go, and to breathe in a lasting peace. Waiting to find a sense of normalcy. A normal that perhaps is what life was like before…before Dave was sick…before the symptoms and the questions…before the answers…before the hospital and then hospice.

I know that our old normal isn’t coming back, but I think there’s a part of me that is holding on and waiting for it. Deep exhale. That was hard to admit. And though I know that we aren’t going to go back to that, I am starting to realize that I don’t have to find a new normal right now either. I don’t have to be in a rush to move on and make my life all put together. I can accept this messy state where I’m at right now. As challenging as it may be. Letting things be what they are. Finding beauty in the midst of the challenges.

If there’s anything this past week has taught me it’s that I don’t need to be ready. I don’t have to rush through grief. I can let it come in waves. I can let the current take me. Holding my breath while under the water and letting myself rise to the surface, breathing in the clean air that fills my lungs. A breath of life that renews me. That gives me strength for the next wave that passes over me. The rising and falling of the tide is a certainty, one that I need to remember. Lasting peace doesn’t come from calm circumstances but from letting myself swim through the waves.

That’s the beauty of life that I’m called to. One that knows that the challenges may overwhelm me at times, but I don’t need to hold my breath and wait for the storm to pass. I can still take my girls out in the puddles and dance in the rain, knowing that one day the sun will shine again.

Blessed are those who mourn…

The other night I was getting Hannah ready for bed when the big question came up.

We were talking about how when her daddy was diagnosed with cancer, we prayed and hoped for the best outcome, for him to be healed and get better.

Then came the question: “Why did God say no?” Her deep brown eyes and long eyelashes looked up at me, pleading for an answer.

I paused, knowing this question was coming. “That’s a good question,” I answered. “I don’t know. God doesn’t always answer prayers the way we want Him to. But God promises us He is with us, He loves us and takes care of us even when it hurts and is hard.”

Hannah didn’t say much; she just listened so I went on. “And that doesn’t mean we should stop praying, either. What I do know is that God is with us when we pray. God wants us to talk to Him and pray and get to know Him.”

I’m not sure how much of this Hannah really took in as she then changed the subject. The big “why” question is something I have pondered even before this…why God allows pain and suffering. From my limited human understanding, and from what I’ve read in the Bible and know about the heart of God, I can see He hurts just as much as we do when we are in pain. I think suffering is a result of the broken world we live in. Why is a big question…and I don’t claim to know the answers.

What I do know is that God is near those who mourn, suffer and are brokenhearted. He sits with us. Brings light to our darkness.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” – Matthew 5:4

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18

This is my truth right now. Mourning…grieving…brokenhearted…yet also comforted and deeply loved. The character and heart of God seem so complex to our human minds, yet His love is so simple and pure. I don’t need to earn it or go out of my way to find or understand it. I just need to let myself rest in God’s love and be comforted. It sounds so simple. Sometimes it is that easy. Sometimes my anxiety or grief take over. And I have to let myself breathe. Rest. Let things be as they are.

I know that my days aren’t going to be perfect. I know that grief is going to be messy. I know that sometimes my anxiety will get the best of me. But I also know that I don’t have to try to figure everything out all alone. I am navigating this brokenness one day at a time…by the grace of God.

I am grieving and brokenhearted.
I am hurting and yet I am hopeful.
I am hopeful in promises and truth.
I am in pain and yet I am comforted.
I am surrounded and I am blessed.
I am blessed because I am loved.

Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

Rise.

As I drove the girls to school this morning, I saw the full moon in front of me, dimly shining in the early morning sky. Its full beauty was stunning, even without the black night sky as a backdrop, simply because of its light, its size, its magnificent presence in the pure blue light.

The further I drove, the more I could see the sunrise behind me, the shimmering golden sun counterbalancing the full moon in front of me. The weight of the moment was absolutely striking. The two edges of the sky told a story.

There is a balance that occurs when we let glory outweigh fear. A balance that holds up the lights that sink in the sky each day. A balance that can hold the weight that sits on our shoulders. That sits in our guts in the name of fear or anxiety.

If I am perfectly honest with myself, I know the busyness of my days since the funeral has been partially to outweigh the anxiety that is buried deep. The fear that is known to come out in stressful situations. I received a card in the mail today from someone who said she admired my strength in the face of adversity. These are words that have never been used to describe me. I am typically far from calm in a storm. That was David’s role much more than mine. He was my rock.

But here’s the thing. Somewhere in the midst of the storm of the past several months something in me changed. I knew that hanging in the balance something far greater depended on me letting go of myself. My need to let control win. My need to overthink, over plan, over analyze. One day at a time has been my mantra since the diagnosis because I knew that is all I could handle.

And that is all I can continue to handle. Yes, I know I am letting myself still plan to an extent. Be busy. I have a lot of dust that needs to settle. But I know that the beauty of balance, of glory, of peace, doesn’t come from me trying to figure it all out right now. I can’t. I don’t want to. As much as everything inside of me is still trying to. I’m fighting against my natural instincts in order to let myself surrender and be free. To let myself truly live and embrace the beauty in each day. To find light in the darkness. Balance in the weight of glory.

One of the many things I admired about David was his ability to let things be. He didn’t overthink. His calming presence was always exactly what I needed. Now, I am trying to carry on what he instilled in me: Embrace things as they come. Life is full of challenges and adversity. It is about how you respond and rise through them, knowing you can and you will. God will walk through the storm with you.

On David’s last day on Earth, I knew that I needed to carry on this legacy for myself and the girls. To continue to let one day at a time be how I put one foot in front of the other. To honor David and give God the glory.

One day at a time. Eventually these days won’t be so hard. So full of emotions. Unknowns. Rising up through this adversity isn’t going to be easy. But I know I’m not facing it alone. By God’s grace and with the love of wonderful people in my life, the weight is not just mine to carry. They are helping me rise and magnify the beauty of the One who fills me with light.

Be Still

Be still
And rest
Take refuge
Be blessed
By the One
Who can cover you
With the hope
That brings peace
Beyond understanding
Or circumstance
Breaking through
The deep sorrow
The piercing sadness
To bring rays of light
Shining in the darkness
Illuminating life anew
Beyond the shadows
That linger
Like a dark cloud passing by
The truth remains
That this is temporary
There is far greater
Beyond comprehension
Yet the soul aches
Yearns, cries out
For healing
For strength
For freedom
Be free
Dear one
Let yourself fall
Float in the river
Of surrender
For it is letting go
Trusting in tomorrow
Finding faith in promises
And the Holy presence
That we find
The weight we carry
Isn’t our burden or pain
What we hold onto
When we let ourselves
Be held
Is the weight
The freedom
Of glory.