"The Enemy Comes Like A Thief..." In Broad Daylight

(This is one I've been working on for the last week.  My words still won't come, they still come disjointedly; my thoughts don't flow or always make sense.  I haven't written much in the past few months.  What I have written, I haven't published.  I'm still just trying to make it through.)

I had a moment last week.  Okay, I had a complete breakdown.

And I am still deeply bitter about its intrusion.

In John 10:10, the bible tells us the enemy comes like a thief "only to steal and kill and destroy."  Some say he comes like a thief in the night--but he does so in the exact broad light of day.  He comes to steal and destroy our joy, our families, our livelihoods--and our very relationships with Abba, our faith, our beliefs, the exact foundation of our everything.  The enemy wants our eternal life.  Stealing our eternal life is the enemy's ultimate win.  Let that sink in.

And ohhh boy, has he come hard.  

For nearly the past year, the enemy has been working on my joy and my relationships with my family.  It's a constant, daily, hourly, minute by minute battle.  He has come with a vengeance to steal, kill and destroy everything in my life.  He's doing his best to beat me down--I'm tired, I'm weary, some days I still can't function.  It's been a long road, and the road isn't veering off yet.

I’ve been trying to concentrate only on Ezra during our Wednesday dates.  When you homeschool multiple children, or have multiple littles at home, it can be difficult to carve out time for each child individually.  This individual time is something we believe to be so valuably important for our relationships.  Wednesdays have solidified themselves as our official date day; we drop Avery at class, then head to the store for lunch, grocery shopping, and to watch the train.  He starts looking forward to these days with me on Tuesday nights, chattering nonstop about the next day's schedule.  

But last Wednesday was Infant/Child/Miscarriage Loss Awareness Day, so social media was full of memorial posts.

While I do believe these losses need to be talked about--it's the only way we, as women, as young families, as couples trying to start and continue families, will help those now, and in the future suffering these losses, know they matter--but I had my reasons for not posting about Grace.

Simply put I want to honor my boys, and by honoring them, I honor Grace as well.  I don’t want Noah, Avery and Ezra thinking they play second fiddle to their sister we have yet to meet.  I know her life had--still has--purpose.  I just want to quietly honor her and her purpose now, you know?  She would be fifteen.  I don't feel there's anything to be gained by continuing to bring her loss up, unless someone specifically needs to hear about her.  I don't want to be that person.  While I will always miss my daughter, I don't grieve or mourn her loss the way I used to--does that make sense, or does that make me sound like a horrible mama?  Instead, I smile when I think of her.  I know where she is, and I look on her life with joy.  In honoring my boys, I'm also honoring Grace, her purpose and the lessons she taught us in her short life.  I won't pretend it still doesn't hurt at times, though.

As if that wasn't enough--as my car's playlist rolled through its songs, I was completely caught off guard when "Well Done," by The Afters, began to play.  This was the song from which I read the chorus at my sister's funeral; oddly, even as often as I use this particular playlist, I have not heard this song since before her funeral.  Not in eight whole months.

Oh man, it hit me with full force, taking my very breath.  

I also resented this interruption into my time with Ezra because earlier in the week, a friend reminded me how our God still provides miracles, and oh, how He meets our needs and the deepest desires of our hearts!  In addition, several family members gave me amazingly beautiful and emotional (not materialistic) gifts.  It was shaping up to be an amazing week--I was flying so high!

Then I had my huge meltdown--in front of Ezra, on our date day.  Yay for mom fails!  As I drove, when I parked, as we walked into the store to order our lunch and I tried to be as cheery as possible.  I choked back sobs which threatened to shove their way out.  I leaked tears, constantly rubbing my eyes with my sleeves.  Ezra knew something was wrong.  This wasn't fair to him, dammit.  Even as I type this out, there are still tears working themselves out.  Admittedly, I've been so angry about the outright invasion of these tears, and the feelings and emotions that accompany them.  I don't want to feel them.  I don't want them.  They are inconvenient.  Grief--and depression--are inconvenient.  Why won't it all just go away?

Sadly, there are some deaths that will always hang like a pall over our lives, no matter what lessons we've been taught and no matter the many things we've learned from our loved ones through their deaths--and their lives; no matter how fondly and lovingly we are able to look back on those we considered our other selves, whether they be friend or family, or even both.

It felt like the enemy was pounding on my door, relentlessly trying to tear it down, convulsing with maniacal laughter over the playground that is my mind, heart and soul.

HOWEVER, John 10:10 also reminds us that Jesus came so that we might not only have life, but have it abundantly.  

What a comfort!

Jesus is always my light, my lifeline, reminding me he has not left me, and I never fight my battles alone.  He is at the forefront, acting as my shield.  He is my comforter, my all in all. 

Even on the days I don't want to like him, even on the days I feel furthest from him--Jesus remains my all in all.

Jesus sees me and he hears me.  He knows and feels and understands my heartache.  He sees my tears.  He reminds me these tears, my feelings are not an invasion, not an intrusion, they are, in fact, cleansing and healing-- a necessary release, even a way to honor the lives I've lost.  He shows me how I even need to have these moments, how I need to show my children it's okay to cry, it's okay--it's healthy, even--to grieve, and how to show my children to grieve properly.  Jesus takes care of me, always.  

Even on the days I don't want to like him, even on the days I feel furthest from him--Jesus knows and feels and understands my heartache.  He sees me and he hears me.  Jesus takes care of me.

Sweet reader, if you are struggling as I am--please take comfort.  Jesus sees you, too.  He knows your heartache well.  He will always take care of you.  

Six Months

I feel like I have a lot to say, but the words are still too raw, they still won't come.

My brain is too muddled to make the words make sense anyway.

There are sobs stuck deep within me.  They just won't come.  I'm not sure I can allow them to come. Truthfully, I'm afraid to allow them to come.  What if I can't close the floodgates once they open?

Today is the six month 'anniversary' of my sister's death.  It's been eight months since my sweet friend died.

Most people have forgotten about these deaths, as well as my grief by now.  To that point, even if someone were to ask how I'm doing, I'm not sure I can answer.  Even more, I've gotten better at faking it.  I'm sure most people think I'm doing better because I'm hiding my pain, I'm hiding my grief--so they don't need to ask, even if they do remember.

Missing them has just become a way of life.

Many people also can't understand how my grief can be so deep when I didn't have a relationship with my sister.  What they can't understand is it's double the grief.  I'm not only grieving my sister's death, but I'm grieving the complete and utter loss at any chance of a relationship with her.  I'll tell you--she was my sister.  She was my last link to my family.  My last chance to having any link to my family.  I know there is no chance at all at having any relationship with either of my parents, and I've let go of that.  I'm okay with it.  What I wasn't okay with was letting go of my sister.  When she died, I had to let go of any chance at all of having a relationship with my sister, and having any family at all.  I thought I had more time.  I want a do-over.

They should still be here.

I still cry my way through worship.  I still can't pray out loud. Some days, I still can't pray at all.  I can't write--I even bought a guided journal, hoping to find the ability to put my words somewhere, anywhere--but that hasn't even worked.  I still find myself in tears during the day, at night, waking up.   Sometimes the nights are longer than the days.  Sometimes you go through the entire day, and then the night, and then the entire next day and the entire next night, not even thinking once about your loss.  Then it HITS you out of the blue, slamming into you like semi-truck, knocking the wind right out of you.  You can't catch your breath, the tears pour out of you, and you realize how much you're missing right now.  It's just the mere thought of them being gone.  It's knowing that God has them, the promise of hope, knowing that while their physical lives are over, their spiritual lives have only just begun.  It's the wonder if my sister misses us as much as we miss her, does she have regrets, too?  I have so many questions and so many emotions, but I have to keep hanging to the hem of his garment.  I feel as though I'm hanging on and dragging along behind him, not even the strength to crawl, but I've got it in my grasp.

I'm on the hard-headed side.  I know there's a lesson.  I mean, there has to be, right?  I know there's pain.  I also know I cause a lot of the pain to myself.  I run right at that wall, head first, as fast as I can, smacking right into it.  Over and over and over.  It takes me a couple hundred runs before I finally succumb to the lessons.  I know there's work to be done--seeds to be sewn, all that stuff.  I know if God is quiet, it's not because He isn't here.  When I begin having my revelations and learning my lessons, it doesn't mean I'm not still dealing with grief and anger.  It just means I'm finally working through things.  It means I'm finally settling on the necessary revelations.

My depression has deepened, and I'm still barely functional most days.  I'm so tired.  I'm worn.  I'm weary.  My brain is muddled and disorganized and forgetful.  People are counting on me for things, but I'm so muddled I can't get them done.  I'm so overwhelmed by my emotions that I frequently don't know which end is up.  My husband is the most patient man in the world.  Things are getting done--albeit slowly and when I remember, and my house has the disorganized feel of someone struggling with depression, but I can't remember the last time I did anything with joy.  I can't remember the last time I felt joy, laughed with my kids, played with my kids, did more than muddle through my day.  I have so much to live for, so much to be grateful for, so much I need to teach my children about grieving 'properly,' and yet--here I am.  I have to plan activities to make myself accountable, but the desire to hide beneath the covers is strong. I'm really struggling.  

I don't know how--or even really want--to ask for help.  I don't even know how to talk to my husband or my friends.

Because of the way my sister died, and the lack of forthcoming information, my children and I have undergone numerous tests, with still more to undergo.  We don't know if my sister had an underlying familial medical condition, but my children deserve to know if we are carriers of anything.

It's something that is ongoing.  I don't know when I feel better.  I want more than anything to just 'snap out of it.'  My family deserves it.

I miss my sister.  I miss my friend.  I'm always going to miss them.  There's always going to be empty places in my heart where they belong, and I'm always going to ache.  Eventually though, I'll be able to smile and laugh at their memories.  I hope.

But for now--I grieve.

Sharing the Burden

There was a passage in yesterday's message at church that just struck me to my core, right to my gut, right through my heart.

I don't have it word for word (I will adjust my post once the sermon is posted, if necessary), but the gist of it was, the moment you realize you're lost, but no one is looking for you.

WHOA.

Right?  Pulls you up short, doesn't it?

How many people do we pass every day, do we scroll past on social media, do we ignore via phone call, text or email, who feel lost and are desperate for someone to look for them?

Perhaps we judge it as drama.  Or maybe the situation looks too involved and we decide we just don't have time for it.  Or we decide in our minds that someone else will take care of situation.

But what if it's really a cry for genuine help?  For friendship?  For family?  For any kind of human contact and connection?

Sweet readers, let us do better.  Let us be better.  Let us offer to share the burdens of others.  Let's reach out and be the ones who extend our hands and open our homes in love.

Bear one another's burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ.

--Galatians 6:2

My Words are Just... Gone

I've been trying to write a proper blog about everything I'm feeling for the past several months.  I looked at the log for my drafts, and I have over a dozen started, but not finished.  They are full of random thoughts and sentences, blurbs that don't make sense.  There is no rhyme or reason to them individually; they are merely unsuccessful, messy brain dumps.

A dear friend and I were talking about our grief and anger the other day, and she put words to what I've been struggling to pin down.  "I've lost my voice.  My words.  I don't even know how to articulate my losses.  My woundings," she wrote in the text.

Oh my goodness, did she hit the nail on the head. 

That's it exactly, about being able to blog/write and just simply talking most times--I lost my words, my voice.  I am unable to properly articulate my losses any longer.  I have so much going on in my mind, heart, soul and body that I'm just not able to find my words.  I am completely spent, exhausted by just being upright and breathing. I feel shipwrecked, completely marooned on some desolate island, just wondering when this fresh hell will end.

How much longer until help arrives?

My anger, for the most part, is gone, replaced by shock and silence.

I cannot pray, I cannot write, I cannot even think a clear thought.  Reading has become a challenge, as I often find myself reading the same sentence over and over, while it still doesn't make sense.  I cannot pray--the words simply will not come, they just aren't there.  I've lost the passion I used to have during praise and worship at church, or hearing a good song on the radio.  I cannot raise even empty hands to Him.

It is draining pretending I'm okay, that I'm better.  I've started wearing make-up again, and styling my hair.  I smile and make small talk, I give one word responses to questions I'm still not ready to answer.  I silently pray no one will notice me or ask those questions.  I cannot wait to get home and remove my I'm-doing-great-I'm-not-grieving-anymore mask by changing into yoga pants, removing my make-up and pulling my hair up into a ponytail.

I am so tired.  I am so done.

Without my words, without being able to write down what is exploding inside my brain, I am nothing.  Without writing, I stuff my feelings and emotions and everything else deep down inside myself.

So many well meaning friends have suggested therapy, but I do not have the strength (nor the desire) to talk with a stranger, to explain why I'm there, to rehash the past.  I'm not going to pay a stranger to listen to me whine and cry when I can do that for free in my closet.  The little bit of energy I do have needs to be reserved for being a proper wife and mom.

I really hate this grieving thing.

So here I am, without words, faking it, until it all makes sense.

Embracing Transparency

I talk a lot about transparency.

It's not just talk.

I believe in transparency--as a blogger, as a moms' group leader, as a friend, as a mom, as a wife, as a Christian, as a human.

I know I've said that many times before, but it was challenged again today--my belief was challenged again today--Oh yes it was.  Yes, it was. Yes, it was.

It's a real belief.

Is it really?  Are you sure?  Just how sure are you?

A lot of what I do is transparent.

Just call me a window.  A dirty and smudged window covered in fingerprints that has been repeatedly licked by the dog--but a window nonetheless.

It often looks like a cry for attention, I'm sure, but really, it's called being transparent.  This is why I share my parenting fails, my homeschooling fails, my wifing fails, my friending fails--allll my fails--along with a few of my triumphs.  It's why I share what it's like to grieve my sister and my friend at the same time, while dealing with family dysfunction (dancing backward, in heels, uphill, in the mud...).  It's why I share musings and life with autism, depression and a duck.  It's why I share about infertility, my incredible husband, chronic illness, and boy-motherhood.

I've been accused of being an over-sharer.

Eh.

I do this to help others--so we know we aren't alone, so we can look at a post, or a photo or a sentence and think, or say, "Oh, I'm not the only one who feels/thinks/says this."

You're not in this alone.  Everyone deserves someone in their corner.

Most importantly--Perhaps most importantly?--you're not in this alone, and there's no judgment coming from me.

I will hug you, cheer you on, encourage you, hand you a tissue, offer a simple "I love you, friend."

Whatever it is you need, you've got it.

I'm Not Sure People Understand Grief as Well as They Claim To

A few weeks ago a friend said someone (who knows what I'm going through) commented to her that I "seem sad."  My first thought was, "No shit--how else am I supposed to seem right now?"  My answer though, "Oh, I'm doing fine!"

I've kind of rolled that comment around in my brain ever since, just kind of marveling at the sheer stupidity of it.  I seem sad.  Hmmm.

Yes, I'm sad.  I'm grieving.  I'm mourning.  And I'm not grieving a distant cousin, I'm grieving my sister and my best friend.  I'm also living with a lot of regrets.  I'm LIVING.  I'm still alive; my sister and my best friend are not.  These are not women who lived to 'ripe old ages'; they died decades before what most consider lives well lived.  I have regrets associated with these losses.  I'm the one who has to live with these regrets.  They won't go away overnight. Nor will my grief.  I am living with a physical pain from this grief I would never wish on my worst enemy.  Grief is not a cold.  Grief is not a paper cut, or a broken bone. There is a mental fog that literally prevents me from thinking clear thoughts and putting sentences together.  Some days, just shuffling--and it's shuffling, it's not picking one foot up and putting it down so the other one can then do the same--one foot in front of the other is more of a chore than I ever imagined.  Grief is not merely emotional.  It moves in, camps out, and takes over your life.  And yes, I'm angry and a little bitter--with myself.  I feel like I'm banging my head against the wall trying to explain all of this to people, but here I am, yet again--another day, another blog.

Grief is one step forward, a few steps backward.  Another step or two forward, another few steps back.  And on, until eventually you've moved to a point at which you're able to make peace.  Death is not something you get over, or move on from or ever gain closure from.  The loss is always there.  You have good days and bad days, even decades later.  And that, dear friends, is the hard, honest truth. 

I feel as though many Christians have this--misconception?--about grief; I should be rejoicing, dancing in the streets, I don't know--and it feels as though I'm expected to just get over these deaths.  Your loved ones are now in heaven!  Yay!  God will comfort you!  It's okay to not be okay--but don't be not okay for too long, okay?  You seem sad and we can't figure out why!  Hurry up and get back to normal!  We don't know what to do with this side of you!  This is why people hide what they are going through; months and years later, their friends say, "I didn't know..." and "If only I had known..."  People just don't want to deal with the ugly side of life.  You're a drag, man.  Get over it!  Stop being sad!  I haven't quite mastered it myself yet, but at some point, you get good at faking it.  Life is great!  Life is good!  I'm fine, everything's fine!  You do this to please those who are uncomfortable with your situation.  You find yourself comforting those who are supposed to be comforting you.

Many people have suggestions for you--have you tried therapy?  What about Vitamin D?  Are you on anti-depressants ("Ummmm.... Maybe you should increase the dose...")?  What about therapy?  Are you taking care of yourself?  What about a manicure or a massage or shopping?  Maybe you've taken on too much and you should put your kids back in public school--you seem overwhelmed.  What about therapy?  Have you talked to your doctor?  Ohhhhhh, have you heard about this vitamin infused water that worked for my great uncle's fish's cat's aunt when she lost her husband.... Oh, and have you tried therapy????  You should really try therapy!!!!

I'm so tired of people telling me they're sorry.  Everyone is sorry.  That's great.  You want to know something?  I'm sorry, too.   

I'm going to throat punch the next person to suggest therapy and/or tell me how sorry s/he is.

The other thing about grief is this: it's cumulative.  You may have 'dealt' with past grief, you may have come to a place in which you were at peace, but damn, let me tell you--with a new death, it will come right up and bite you on the ass all over again.  For example: I had a really difficult day last week.  I managed to keep it sort of together (by my current standards), but that night, after the kids went to bed, I opened our pantry and it smelled like my Nan's kitchen.  The scent of coffee was overwhelming, and I just stood there in my pantry like an idiot, just crying, and inhaling the coffee scent over and over, missing my grandmother because I could really use her comfort and words of wisdom right now.  That is cumulative grief.

I went to church last week for the first time since before my sister died, and realized it was still too soon.  Just getting through the doors was a monumental feat.  While some friends understood my body language and kept their respectful distance, I still felt inundated and overwhelmed and could not answer "how are you"; I waved friends off when they asked, I escaped, and choked back the tears, unsuccessfully.  In all honesty, I felt like it set me back a bit in my 'recovery' process.  I did not go this week.  Unless there is a way for me to deflect attention from myself, I'm really not up for it.

I saw a social media post the other day about a woman who had to have her 19 year old cat put down.  Nineteen years old.  For nineteen years, they'd been together, through thick and thin.  When she needed comfort, she turned to her cat.  And on this day, perhaps when she needed comfort the most, her best friend wasn't there.  And I guess that's another point to this post, and the misconceptions about grief--when you need comfort the most, on that day when the person you've always turned to isn't there, what are we supposed to do then?  When we think of that funny joke, or we've had that bad day, or the good day we want to celebrate--that person isn't going to be there on the other end of the phone.  Like my Nan.  Or Shawn's mom.  We need their comfort, their words of wisdom, whatever it is they can offer during these times especially--or we needed to apologize--but it's just a dial tone.

There's still so much about grief I don't understand and I continue to learn as I go.  I suppose I will continue to try to teach as I learn as well, because, well, someone has to--right (hey, let's normalize grief!)?  Admittedly, your grief journey may not look the same as mine, and you may read this, wondering what on earth I'm talking about.  I welcome an open discussion.  If your journey has been easier than my own, good for you.  If I have offended you in the past with my response to your loss, please know I am sincerely, horribly apologetic (yep, I just said "I'm sorry,"--feel free to throat punch me), and my reactions in the future will be vastly different.  I'm horrified with the things I've said to people suffering from grief, the things that now seem so trite, so rote, so--wrong.  And while I meant them to be heartfelt--they were still so wrong to those I said them to.  Friend, I love you, and I have no proper words.

Barely a Whisper

About a month before my friend died at Christmas, I made a post to social media, "Nothing Can Take My Hallelujah," with my comment in all caps, "DECLARE IT."

Oh my friends, up until the recent past, my hallelujah has been so loud, so declarative, I've felt it so deep. My hallelujah was SO. SURE.  I was positive nothing could shake it. I felt it deep in my bones.  I dared the enemy to give it his best shot. I taunted him. I prayed bold, dangerous prayers.  I've sung with my heart open wide, even in the trials with Avery's health and my own and Ezra's heart, even when tears have streamed down my face, I have declared it well with my soul--God is in control, I know on Whom I could rely.  My arms held high in adoration, or across my chest in a hug, I sang to my Sovereign Savior.

And now--now, I can't raise my arms. I can't even stand for worship. I sit in my seat in the fetal position with my arms wrapped around my legs.  I am shaken to my very core.  I silently beg to be made invisible; I want to be there, I know I need to be there, but I cannot handle being there, I don't want to be seen or have to interact.  I can't raise my voice.  I can barely whisper a prayer, the words to songs, even by rote.  I can't choke them out, for the tears that block their way.  I want desperately to feel something, to feel anything, but it's just not there.  I don't even feel anger, I don't feel bitterness, I'm not sure what I feel.  I feel a sadness sometimes so intense it's physically painful and it doubles me over.  Sometimes there are tears, other times, there's just nothing, I'm left feeling empty.  Sometimes I suddenly feel too much and I desperately yearn for nothingness again.

There is no in-between.

I am tossed overboard, clinging to the driftwood that is my Abba.  Clinging to those He gives me during this time as I'm crashed about by the rapids.  Reminding myself that a wobbly walk is better than no walk at all, as my tired, worn out body is bruised and battered by the sharp, slippery, moss-covered rocks and boulders along the shoreline.

My body is bruised and worn out, my mind is numb and all at once racing, my soul feels crushed and spat upon.

My hallelujah may be barely a whisper forming only inside my head, but I know--God is still in control.  He is still the One on whom I can rely, and still my Sovereign Savior.