grief – She Speaks True Words

Running to what lies ahead.

I went for a run the other day.

I laced up my shoes with trepidation and determination, wanting to know what I was capable of. I’ve endured chronic pain for five years since breaking my foot that is slowly, finally, becoming something that I barely notice in the background of my life. I could write for days about everything I went through to get to where I am today.

Stronger. Wiser. In tune with my body.

It turns out, I’m not as rusty as I thought. I ran over a mile without stopping and I couldn’t have been more proud of myself. My kids were pretty proud of me, too.

Just as my body went through so much chronic pain and I tried to pray over and find my way into healing, my life went through a lot, too. The hardships I have endured have had me crying out for mercy in the midst of the challenges, knowing they were temporary yet choosing to have faith in each day of the journey, trusting that in each step of the process I would find hope and healing.

And just as my body will never be perfectly healed, just as I know I will have to adapt and continually stretch and strengthen my muscles, I will have to keep seeking my own personal growth and healing, too. This healing isn’t linear but rather is a constant learning of oneself. It is accepting life as it is and embracing the gifts in the everyday.

It’s easy to blame everything and everyone outside ourselves when things don’t go according to plan. But really, we may have a plan but oftentimes life throws a wrench in things, reminding us there is very little we actually have control over. We have control over our hearts, our attitudes, our hope and our faith. We have the choice to push ourselves through adversity and know that everything is temporary; we have so much to give and receive in this life if we open our eyes and our hearts to it.

At the end of the day the choice is ours. I can choose to see the pain and heartache and dwell in it, or I can choose to see my potential and possibilities for the future. I can see that God is with me every step of the way. I can trust that he is with me in the pain and bringing me to a place where I can run freely and breathe again.

And that’s what I choose to believe again and again. So I will run and embrace these gifts and let gratitude pour from me for how far I have come and where I am going.

My race isn’t over yet. It’s just beginning.

Almost three years.

The sun is shining as I write this, a rare warm day in the middle of an Iowa winter. I am grateful for the warmth, for the light and life and joy that it brings.

Grief, for me, has been focusing on the light. Letting the darkness exist but choosing to live in the light. Even on the cloudiest and dreariest of days, when everything feels heavy, I know that the sun still shines, and if I look hard enough, I will see the light peeking through.

In just over a week, on Feb. 20, it will be three years since losing Dave, and as hard as this journey has been, I have come a long way. I have slowly peeled back the layers and uncovered within myself a person who I didn’t know was there before. Someone who is stronger than she thought and who is finally living a life that is in alignment with who she is and wants to be, growing into the best version of herself despite the circumstances. It’s bittersweet, really, to see these changes in myself and wish that David was here to see them.

It’s easy to want to replay the journey of grief, to relive the moments leading up to and following Dave’s passing. For a long time I did that, wishing I could have controlled how things happened and somehow thinking that I could have changed the outcome. Replaying the painful memories of Dave’s decline is hard to say the least, and this time of year it’s hard to not go there, but instead I choose to remember the good.

I remember how much he loved making a difference and helping others, often quietly serving behind the scenes, never asking for any recognition or anything in return.

I remember his unwavering faith; no matter what life threw at us, he always trusted that God was with us and would carry us through. Even when he was sick, he never was angry at God, never complained, but he trusted in God’s faithfulness, knowing God would take care of him and take care of me and the girls, too.

I remember how much Dave loved his job, pouring his creative outlets and artistic talent for the people he worked with. I remember how much he loved using his gifts and talents to help others.

I remember how close he was with his family. The love Dave had for his siblings and parents and their relationships with one another was truly special. I am truly blessed to still have amazing relationships with my in laws.

I remember how great of a father he was. David was a natural from day one, constantly showering our girls with love, affection and lots of laughter. Hearing our girls squeal with glee when they played together was truly the best.

I remember what a servant heart he had in our household. He did whatever it took to keep things running smoothly and was always willing to tackle any project and take care of me and the girls. Dave’s love language was acts of service and it showed. I knew he would do anything for us, whether making last minute runs to the store for me when I was cooking or for the girls if they needed medicine when they were sick. He loved us so deeply and took good care of his girls.

I remember how much he loved the summertime, just spending time outdoors in the yard, grilling, playing with the girls. I have a lot of memories just being together, whether making smores, playing with the girls in the sprinkler, washing the car in the driveway in their swimsuits or splashing around in the inflatable pool.

I have so many wonderful memories that I continue to share with the girls. The older they get the more I want to share with them, so they can hold their daddy close to their hearts always. Even in the milestone moments where we wish he was here with us, letting the girls know he is with them and watching over them always.

Three years. The longest shortest years. So much has changed and yet so much has remained the same. I am grateful to God for walking alongside me and carrying me through this journey and the friends and family who have remained faithful and been my tribe. I couldn’t have walked this road without any of them.

It is by the grace of God that I can truly say that I am thankful for where I am at and what lies ahead for me. And I pray for more of that grace and peace each and every day. I trust and believe. One day at a time. God has great and beautiful things in store.

Potential.

I do not have a green thumb whatsoever. For as long as I can remember, I have been terrible at keeping plants alive. I tend to forget to water them, then over-water them when I get around to it. This doesn’t always stop me from attempting, and this year I accepted the challenge when I purchased a beautiful flowering plant for my back patio.

The scorching summer sun has been beating into it, and each morning I try to pour just a little water to dampen the plant, crossing my fingers I won’t drown it or find it wilting the next day. As I stared at my plant with its small pink flowers this morning, I was reminded of something Hannah shared with me earlier this spring. She filled out something at the end of the school year sharing what she learned, and one of the things she wrote was, “It takes time and effort to achieve your goals.” Such wise words for an eight-year-old.

Hannah has been working hard at mastering several gymnastics skills and has grown leaps and bounds since she started the sport a year ago. While it’s a little terrifying to see her tackling such moves with no fear, I am very proud of Hannah. I love seeing her set her heart and mind to working hard and growing, pouring herself into something she loves. She is seeing the reward for the time and effort she puts in, and it encourages her to push harder.

As I look at Hannah tackling gymnastics or Hailey at dance, and as I see the growth of my blooming plant, I am reminded of the potential within myself. The past couple years I have given myself permission to push the easy button in several areas (OK let’s be honest, just about every area) of my life. It’s been a whirlwind, and I have allowed myself to get caught up in it, giving myself grace to simply survive and get through it. And while some days I still feel like I am struggling to catch my breath, needing to hold onto a floatation device to keep my head above the water, I am finally feeling like I can swim on my own.

For too long, I have felt stuck, as I try to navigate my way and look ahead to what’s next rather than focusing on the present. David was so good at simply letting things be as they are, finding joy in the simple moments of the everyday, and it’s something I continue to strive for. Honestly, it’s probably something I will always seek more of, being mindfully present and joyful in the gifts God has given me. In yoga, you are constantly reminded to focus on the breath and practice mindfulness. To acknowledge your thoughts without judgment and release them, coming back to the breath. It is what grounds you and reminds you of what matters. In my breath, I feel focused. I come back to the present; I come back to joy and the gifts God has given me; I come back to who I am.

Who I am is so much more than what I give myself credit for, and I know that. It’s easy to get caught up in the everyday, the to-dos, the what-ifs and the “where is this all going” questions. Who I am is a blooming plant with potential for beauty and growth. Who I am needs nurturing, just like my daughter, just like the plant I am trying to keep alive, both with patience and love. The scorching of the sun and life’s challenges will beat down on me, but I don’t have to let myself hide in the shade or drown in the water. Slowly, I can take care of and believe in myself. I can see the gifts in my life for what they are. I can choose to nurture them and spend the time and effort working on them so I can reach my goals. Daring to dream and believe again feels scary and yet inspiring and joy-filled at the same time.

I started a book earlier this year, and I know my brain is going to tell me to avoid it, to press the easy button or give up, but I know that I don’t want to. Like all good things, it requires time, effort and a lot of self-love, patience and nurturing to achieve my goals.

I see the potential within myself. Not just as a writer but as who I am. I am wired for creativity, for passion, for love, for speaking truth, for encouragement, for reckless abandon. Deep down is the girl within me who sees just how beautiful this life can be when you embrace it, when you let your hair down, when you invite in the beauty of connection and friendships, when you seize adventures and live with less fear and more trust.

That’s the potential for this life I see and long for. And I can’t wait for the ride.

Joy comes in the morning.

Joy comes in the morning. Even after sorrow, even after the depths of mourning. We are promised that joy is there. God’s presence is there. Hope rises and is within us.

When you’ve been in the depths of grief and survival mode for so long, finding your way out feels unfamiliar. It feels like you can’t quite trust it, and you wonder if you will lose it at the drop of a hat. The thing I’ve come to realize about grief is that yes, even though I feel like I have come a long way, it is not linear. I don’t follow a straight path where I’m walking away from my grief. Where I simply can leave it behind. Grief follows a winding path; it takes you on twists and turns you don’t expect.

It’s been over two years since we’ve lost David, and I still experience him in my everyday life: his faith, his playfulness and his love ingrained in me and how I raise our girls. I see him in them every day, parts of his personality and who he was in their eyes and their smiles. The sadness and the ache and the grief still exist, they just change over time. You no longer feel it in the depths of your being and your bones, but your heart still misses what was and what could have been. I miss David and the life we could have shared together, but I also know that he is with me now even in the little things. I know that he wants a bright future for me and the girls and is watching over us.

Today, I feel hope for the future. Hope for what God has in store for me. There’s a sense of guilt in letting go and choosing joy, like I should stay in the depths of grief and mourning forever. But I know that’s not what Dave would have wanted and I know it’s not what God wants for me, either. He wants me to believe in His promises. He wants to hold me and guide me into his good and beautiful gifts. And I know Dave is watching over all his girls every step of the way.

Earlier this year, God brought someone into my life that allowed me to find hope for happiness again. I knew it was a risk putting myself out there, but it was a risk I was willing to take. I allowed myself to fall, to feel, to let myself be on a relationship journey again. And as hard as it was when things didn’t work out, I know that it needed to be that way. It allowed me to hope, to believe in a bright future, despite everything I’ve been through. God continues to show me that he wants what is good and best for me. And I know that I deserve his gifts, to enjoy this life that he has given me.

Today, I am grateful for so many things. I am grateful for counseling for helping me feel more like myself than I have in a really long time. My heart feels stronger and more secure. I feel a sense of peace in the present. I am grateful for the opportunities of new beginnings. Of the possibilities of what lies ahead. The future is uncertain, but it is also filled with so much love and support from those I care about.

Today, I am grateful for hope. For the gift of life. And the joy in what’s to come.

Image by Katharina N. from Pixabay

Happiness.

I turned 40 this year…and while it’s a big milestone, I don’t feel a whole lot of changes or major feelings about it. To me, age is a number, but each year brings about new opportunities, a chance to reflect and look back on who you’ve been and a chance to look forward on who you want to be.

The past couple years have been challenging for sure and have brought about a lot of major life changes that I never anticipated. I have thought that I would be in a different place in my life right now…but I know that I am where I am supposed to be. God has brought me through so much and continues to be with me through everything.

This year has brought about changes already. I keep thinking about the journal the girls got me for my birthday. Thanks to a good friend, they picked out a beautiful journal that says “Be happy” on the front. I haven’t yet filled it, as I have another journal I’m still writing in, but I look forward to filling it with words of hope.

I have chosen to focus on being happy this year…making positive changes and looking forward to what lies ahead. I have been able to focus on taking care of myself and making decisions that have allowed me to be a better version of myself. Accepting that I cannot face the challenges on my own, I have been seeing a counselor, which has allowed me to process more than I thought possible and afforded me the opportunity to have even more hope. To choose joy in the midst of the chaos. To accept life’s struggles for what they are and not dwell in them. To be happy in the midst of it all.

People tell me that I am so strong for what I’ve been through…and while I really don’t like to be told to be strong or that I am strong, I do see that within me. To me, strength isn’t a virtue but a choice. It is a choice to keep carrying on, to put one foot in front of the other, to have faith in what lies ahead. To trust that you are not alone. To seek help when you need it. Being strong means being vulnerable. It means asking for help even when you don’t want to. Strength lies not within ourselves, but in trusting in and surrendering to the process. Trusting that God is with us, that we can do anything through him and he is walking beside us through all of the challenges we face.

Today, I feel strong because I have come a long way. I have faced insurmountable challenges. I have chosen to believe. I have a community of people who have helped carry me through. I am trusting in the process, I am believing that God has good and beautiful gifts for me and my girls. I see the beauty of every day, and I am thankful and happy for what he has given me.

To those who have helped carry me, thank you. I couldn’t be where I am today without you. To those who have prayed for me from afar, thank you for silently holding me up. Your prayers have been powerful and effective in giving me hope. To those who have come by my side in times of need, thank you. For loving me and helping me and giving me strength when I have needed it.

Today, I am happy. Tomorrow might be hard but I will still choose to believe. Despite what might come my way, I can choose joy. I can choose to believe and know that God is with me. I can choose to believe in God’s promises and hope for the future. I look forward to what lies ahead and know that I deserve happiness. I am so incredibly grateful for who God has made me and who he will continue to make me to be. His kingdom has come into my heart and life and will continue to pour out into my future.

The kingdom of God is within us and giving us hope for today, tomorrow and forever. For that, for hope, for joy, for all of it, I am eternally grateful.

Two years: Finding hope.

Two years ago we said goodbye to our daddy and best friend. Our rock and our confidante. Our source of strength and so much laughter. You knew how to be silly and serious and everything in between. It’s true when they say that the first year is hard, but if I’m being honest, year two was even harder. I went through a lot of ups and downs and life changes that at times left me breathless.

I have been grieving not just the loss of you, but also the loss of normalcy as the pandemic hit and continued on longer than I ever imagined it would. I have gone through different stages of grief for in-person relationships, missing them immensely at the beginning of the pandemic and now realizing just how much work it is as a single parent to maintain them. I have grieved the home I left behind, the house full of memories with our children as I moved into a townhome. I have grieved the loss of community with our neighbors. I have grieved the many things our girls won’t get to experience with you. I have grieved so much that truthfully, some days it has felt too much to bear.

Grief, I have come to realize, is multidimensional. It’s not just about the loss of who you lose, it is the loss of everything else you could have shared together. It’s the loss of everything you imagined you thought your life would be. However, it is also about choosing joy in the midst of grief. It is holding onto hope, knowing that there are good and beautiful things in this life that I can enjoy both now and in the future. For me, grief isn’t just heaviness, it is choosing to find beauty, adapting and holding onto truths that guide me one day at a time.

I think one of the hardest parts of grief is that not many people understand it unless they’ve been through it themselves. One of the reasons I share my story and write about you is so that people will learn about those who are grieving and ways they can walk alongside them. I want others to know that they don’t have to fear talking about you, that I need it more than anything. Holding onto memories fills my heart with so much joy and is important for both me and the girls.

Another reason I share about you: for our girls. As I talk with them about you, it is my hope that the girls will hold onto their memories, but I know that in time these memories will fade. I am writing down stories about you—about us—so that someday the girls will know so much more about you. I am hoping that maybe eventually this will all come together in a book.

I also share about you for my own healing. I have been broken, yes, but I also feel myself being made new. I have recognized within myself a strength I never knew I had before. A strength that doesn’t just come from me, but that is a gift from God.

You taught me that strength from your example, holding on and trusting in the face of adversity. You showed me what true courage looks like: You trusted in whatever God brought your way, and you had the faith that He would see you through it. You believed in God’s promises and knew that you weren’t alone in your suffering.

In the same way, despite just how hard it has been grieving in the midst of a pandemic, I know that I am not alone. I felt like I lost my safety net when I lost you, but in reality my safety net has been there all along, I just haven’t seen it. I haven’t trusted in it fully. I have walked the tightrope, wobbling and fearing that I am going to fall into the vastness, into the unknown where I am asked to trust and surrender even when it’s hard.

In reality, yes, life is hard. But the truth is, this space I am in, where I am being asked to trust, is my safe place. I have left my old home, and my new home is a place to build. A place to grow. A place to believe, hope and dream.

Today I remember you, honor you and am so incredibly grateful for everything we shared together. I am thankful for everything you taught me and carry you forever in my heart.

When grief feels lonely.

Today marks 12 years since I lost my dad to cancer. In some ways it feels like it was a lifetime ago, when I was a different version of myself, before I had kids. And in other ways it feels like it was just yesterday I was talking to him on the phone, telling him about my latest adventures. I can still hear his laugh, see his smile, feel his joy, remember just how proud he was of me. Memories of carving pumpkins, playing card games, taking trips to visit family during the holidays, walking me down the aisle on my wedding day—they feel distant yet near in my heart.

Experiencing loss and grief was different with my dad than it is with Dave. The void is much greater. The pain is deeper when I remember the final days and his sickness. My day-to-day life has drastically changed, and I am propelled into this place where I need to be strong while still focusing on taking care of myself.

Grief is different for every loss, for every person. But what remains the same is the need for understanding. For compassion and connection. The need to feel loved and held in the midst of it. To know that in time, the chasm will not feel so wide between my old sense of self and this new place of uncertainty. In time, I will hold more joy in my heart and less sorrow.

What’s not talked about a lot with grief is the void. The place where you feel the absence of your loss, the drastic changes in your life, and the feeling like no one understands the depths of what you are going through. Wondering if anyone could possibly know what it feels like to be lost at sea, the waves crashing over you, knocking you backward and leaving you gasping for air. While no one has had the same experience as me, in ways we have all experienced grief and loss of some kind. And while no one completely understands my pain, it doesn’t mean that I am alone. One of the biggest lies we tell ourselves is that we are alone, or that we shouldn’t burden others with our pain.

It’s easy to feel alone in grief. After a time, people don’t reach out as often. Then the depths hit of what happened. I’ve come to realize that this is the point where we need to ask for help. To figure out a way even when it feels hard. I need to admit that though I may feel alone that no one wants me to walk alone.

I’ve started to recognize that self-care looks like admitting when you need help. I recently started seeing a counselor who has helped me start navigating where I am at, what I’ve gone through, and where I am going. I am starting to feel more like myself again, less anxious, and while the void is still there it isn’t cutting as deep. Slowly, I am adapting and finding my way. Experiencing more joy in the midst of it all.

I share all of this not for sympathy but to encourage those who may be in a place of uncertainty, who may be feeling alone, to reach out. Whether it’s to a counselor or trusted friend. It’s easy to sit in a place of despair and convince ourselves that we are better off figuring things out for ourselves but that only leads to a place of burnout. Of loneliness. Lies and untruths that we convince ourselves are true.

And while some days I do feel lonely I know that I am not alone. I have a wonderful church community, family, friends and colleagues who care for and support me. I am grateful to those who have walked alongside me through this journey and continue to be there for me, whether in person or just a phone call away.

The thing is, we aren’t meant to live this life alone. We are made for community, to carry one another’s burdens. Deep down, I know that people in my life wouldn’t hesitate to help me anytime. These truths are being etched on my heart. Each day I will embrace them, along with the blessings poured out for me.

Today, I am grateful for all of you who continue to pray for me and are there for me and the girls. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Self care takes real courage.

At this year’s Olympic Games, Simone Biles was poised to dominate artistic women’s gymnastics and go home with the all-around gold medal and help win the gold medal for the American team.

Her withdrawal from multiple events last week stunned the world as she chose to focus on her mental health rather than succumb to the pressure to perform when she wasn’t in the right mind. Getting lost mid-air in her vault, Simone realized that she needed to take care of herself mind and body before she could dangerously injure herself.

I can’t even fathom the extent of the pressure she is under as the GOAT, the things Simone has had to endure as an elite gymnast, or the frustration and anger she’s felt from the lack of support by the USA Gymnastics organization for the covered up assault she went through for years. However, I will say this: I applaud Simone for being willing to step up and set boundaries for herself. To recognize that her mental health and safety as a gymnast are more important than winning.

During the all-around competition, as I watched Suni Lee prior to her final tumbling routine before clinching her gold medal, I saw her hands shaking and watched Suni place her hand on her stomach, breathing in and out to calm her nerves before starting her routine. She too felt the pressure and needed to find herself in the midst of it.

Breathing. Finding her center. Both of these women modeled courage in different ways. Courage to listen to themselves. To catch their breath and find what they needed in order to succeed—both on and off the mat. Because their true success is in their strength of character and not in what they accomplish.

What I’ve appreciated about what has happened this last week is the conversation it has started around mental health and prioritizing self-care over self-sabotage, or being true to yourself and what you need.

If I’m totally honest, I haven’t been completely true to myself and what I need this past year and a half as a widow and solo parent in the midst of Covid. I’ve had hard days and easier days and some great days and just days that are longer than long. I’ve grieved but also have let myself “get lost in the air” as I busy myself with day-to-day tasks, parenting, scrolling social media or watching mindless television.

I have mentioned before the anxiety I’ve dealt with, the elephant on the chest feeling, the pit in the stomach that comes and goes. This high functioning anxiety allows me to push through, to tackle what needs to get done, to live in hypervigilance despite the stress and the weight of grief, but I’ve come to recognize that the pressure of the weight I’m carrying is getting to be too heavy. I can’t keep carrying on as I have been. So here I am, nearly 1.5 years after losing David, recognizing that my mental health matters not just for me, but for my girls too, and I’m prioritizing more meaningful self-care. Not the pamper yourself kind of self-care, but I have decided to meet with a counselor to walk with me in my healing journey.

One day at a time. My mantra since the beginning. Healing is a journey and not one that can be resolved overnight. It could be argued that we are all healing from our own wounds. Our own losses. Who’s to say that we couldn’t all benefit from prioritizing our own mental health? We take sick days when we are sick, and let’s be honest, mental health days when we need them (although probably not as often as we should). We go to the doctor when we aren’t feeling well physically and we ought to normalize going to a professional when we feel that we could use the support to get through hard times.

I know that this step is just one of many in my healing. If there’s one thing I’ve learned this past year it is that grief is not linear. You don’t just start and stop over time. Grief changes you and comes and goes in waves. The waves become less tumultuous and windy but they are still there.

So for today I choose trust. I trust in myself and my inner voice that tells me to pause. To pause and to trust in every part of the healing process – even the hard parts. Trusting requires a continual surrender to the path and the process. But trust doesn’t always have to be about martyrdom, either. Trust and faith require me to let go and be present, letting things be as they are. Giving in to the here and now and letting myself be fully present in it.

The here and now is messy and hard and painful but it is also beautiful and exquisite and filled with good things…I just have to be patient through the process and take care of every aspect of myself, letting myself receive fully God’s grace and love. And when I do, that is the true mark of courage, a strength that truly is remarkable.

Stepping out of the boat.

Earlier this year, just after those frigid weeks of subzero temperatures, I wore one of my usual pair of boots to work. It was a typical day, but that day I did a lot more running around than normal than sitting at my desk. By the end of it, my feet were sore and tired. So the next day I retired those boots in favor of my more comfortable pair. By the end of the week, my feet were feeling still a little sore but like they were on the mend.

That same feeling persisted…sore yet not painful, almost tired. As the weeks went on the pain increased. So after a Google search of my symptoms, my self-diagnosis encouraged me to get my feet checked out. Sure enough I had what was known as ball of foot pain (ie inflammation or metatarsalgia). Consequently, I needed to rest. To heal and let myself get on the right path.

At the time when my pain started to get worse, I felt a nudge, hearing God whisper. To stop running like Jonah in the opposite direction as to where I was to supposed to go. To trust in where God was leading me, even if it felt difficult. I felt like I was being led in a direction I didn’t want to, or perhaps was not ready, to go. I was afraid and didn’t want to go it alone. I didn’t know where the path was taking me.

And the voice persisted, to let go. To surrender and trust. To take just the first step out of the boat. I didn’t need to know the whole path. I just needed to simply step out of my place of comfort and into a place far greater than I could have imagined.

Needless to say, I still resisted. I’ve known for the past year that I want to move into a townhome, and yet I have been scared to leave this place of comfort behind. Wonderful neighbors whom I hold dear and have been a rock and comfort for me and my girls. Proximity to close friends and my church. And yet I knew I needed to move, to find my way, even if taking that first step was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

I resisted. I questioned my path. I tried to find the right one on my own and shut out the option that would have made the most sense. The pain in my feet persisted. Finally, I opened my options of moving farther from where I am and closer to work. The door opened to a beautiful place that the girls and I will be moving to this summer.

The same day that I put in the offer I went to the doctor and he tried something on my feet that brought immediate relief. I no longer have any pain when I walk. Finally, I had chosen the path marked out for me. Finally, I stopped running the opposite direction. Finally, I listened to that still, quiet voice that called me to trust and take that first step.

There are so many questions and unknowns and next steps to navigate…and despite the anxiety I have felt the past several months over moving I finally feel a sense of peace. Don’t get me wrong I am still overwhelmed by it all, but I no longer feel afraid of where I’m going.

I had a good cry several weeks ago when I was still uncertain of where I was going, feeling like I was leaving a chapter of my life behind that I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to step outside of the plans David and I had laid out for our future. I didn’t want to leave the home we built and the memories made here.

I haven’t been big on talking to Dave (I’ve been talking more so to God) but I talked to David and felt his comforting presence reminding me that he was with me no matter where I go. That our plans we made together don’t have to determine my future. That the decisions I make for me and the girls, as I seek to honor Dave, don’t have to be tied to what our plans had been. I could feel David telling me that he trusts me and is with me and the girls every step of the way.

So the girls and I are stepping together into what feels like an ocean…a huge tide and yet with calming waters because I can trust in God to be with me and keep the crashing waves from washing over me even in the storms. And I can trust in Dave to show us the ways he is with us in these big and small decisions, no matter where we go.

My feet continue to feel better as I slowly heal. My body reminds me when I need to listen and be still instead of running, to hold tight to God’s promises and listen to his voice instead of trying to go my own way. Though the future is uncertain, I know for certain that I am not alone. I’ve got an amazing community and support system and a wonderful family who has been supporting me through this process. And for that I am eternally grateful.

The Longest, Shortest Year

It’s hard to believe it’s been a year…it feels like just moments ago we said goodbye.

I still remember vividly the details of your last day. The yellow striped shirt you wore. The smell of your skin. Sitting with you and praying for you alongside a couple of dear friends who held me and you in their hearts.

I remember visiting you in hospice every day. Most days it was sunny but cold as I sat in the reclining chair next to your bed and gazed out into the sunshine and snow. The days were not nearly as cold as this winter has been.

Some days you would talk; most days you would try to rest. You were in a lot of pain, so the nurses did what they could to take care of you so you would be comfortable. (Side note: the nurses and staff were nothing short of amazing. I am beyond grateful for them.) Each day when I visited I mostly would just sit with you, share stories with you, and pray for you. I would then come back later after school and on the weekends with the girls. When we said goodbye each night I always wondered if it would be our last.

I remember the girls bouncing around your hospice room, sitting on your bed, receiving your hugs and love. I remember the girls loving the endless supply of snacks in the hospice kitchen. I remember the drive to and from hospice, the girls wondering if they would get to see a train that day. I remember getting the call from your nurse early that last morning after dropping the girls off at school and rushing to see you. I remember my heart being heavy and aching like it still does today and yet knowing you were going to a place far better, without pain.

I remember wondering how you felt and what you were thinking that day. When I prayed for you, I prayed for you to no longer be in pain, for God to take you into his arms, and for you to find comfort and peace and hope in him. I prayed that you would be reunited with your dad and with so many great and wonderful people whom we remember in our hearts.

I feel tightness in my gut as I remember the crying and heartache when I said goodbye. I remember how it felt to hold you in my arms after you were gone. I remember making phone calls, but they are kind of a blur. I remember just how much it hurt even though I knew it was coming. I didn’t want the truth to be real. I didn’t want it to be this way. I knew this story was already written but I still wanted to rewrite it. Most days I still wish I could rewrite the ending.

Grief is hard and messy. Covid has somehow suspended and extended my grief as I feel like I haven’t fully reentered life as normal. Some days the grief cuts deep. Some moments it comes out of nowhere. And some days I just put one foot in front of the other and keep going.

Some days I don’t feel like I’m doing a great job as a parent. When I said goodbye I told you I would do my best to love and protect our girls. And I am but I still wish you were here. Walking alongside me. My companion, my love, my partner. You were an amazing daddy to our girls. Husband to me. You loved us so well, and we love and miss you so much.

My heart can barely take what this life has thrown at me the past year. The longest, shortest year. The year that dragged on forever and yet somehow I blinked and our children have grown up way too fast, and here we are looking at the way life was a year ago before it turned upside down.

It’s been a year of unfathomable changes and anxiety and grief unlike I’ve ever known. It’s been a year of challenges. Of unknowns at every turn. It’s also been a year of hope. A year that, despite the deep ache within me, has brought me closer to God than I thought possible in a time such as this. A year that has taught me what it means to have courage. To put one put in front of the other even when it feels impossible. (Because that’s what courage is in my book.) A year that has shown me that I truly am, by the grace of God, stronger than I think. A year that has provided me deep friendships despite hardly seeing friends in person and instead meeting virtually or talking on the phone. A year that has shown me what grace and kindness look like – from others and toward others and also toward myself.

The longest, shortest year…it’s been a year that has changed me in so many ways that I have yet to know or understand. The ache in me that cries out for you is reminded that when I feel like I don’t have the courage or strength, I do have hope. A hope that doesn’t disappoint. A hope that always perseveres. A hope that holds tight to the truth. A hope that draws from the grace and love of God. From an unfailing love that endures forever.

And for that I am forever grateful.