How About A "Don't Be A Jerk" Project

I'm sure by now you've heard of the Blue Bucket Project, aimed at 'normalizing' the Halloween experience for children with autism.

Don't get me started. 

I have so many problems with this project, I don't even know where to start--oh, but believe me--dear readers, you know me well--I'm going to start.

Yep, here it comes.

Yes, let's single our children out even further--let's further the stigma our children already carry by forcing them to carry a gigantic poster board that screams, "HEY WORLD, I HAVE AUTISM!"

Granted, I can see some pros to this.  As Ezra's parents, we're exhausted with explaining why he's not in a costume.  He loves the idea of costumes, but hates wearing them.  There are some children who are unable to make eye contact, or say, "Trick or Treat" or "thank you."  There are others who don't understand social cues and norms, and may try to enter your home.  There are many reactions a blue pumpkin could help head off and explain to the untrained eye--that is, if the untrained eye is aware of this project.

The public is being encouraged to display blue pumpkins outside their homes to show their support for the Blue Pumpkin Project.  There are even flyers being distributed throughout social media and other internet sites, downloadable, so people can put them on their door to let the world know they are an autism friendly house.  Gag.  

For the parents who will be subjected to amateur diagnosticians, and those who want to talk about your child's diagnosis--I am so sorry.  And really, please feel free to put those types in their place!

The past few years it's been teal pumpkins for children with allergies.  This year it's blue pumpkins for children with autism.  Next year, these social justice warriors will move on to a new cause, and there will be a new pumpkin color.  I want to scream, "GET OVER YOURSELVES!!!!"

So, here's the thing--how about, just don't be an asshole to kids?

It's ONE night.  If you don't want to participate, don't.  Don't turn on your lights, don't hand out candy.

Otherwise, it's so very simple--just be kind to kids.  Have fun.  Let them have fun.

And don't be an asshole.

Gratitude

As we enter this week of Thanksgiving, as well as the season of celebration of Jesus' birth, I'm reflecting on all the thoughts I've had recently, the arguments I've had inside my own brain, and the conversations Shawn and I have had.

Truth be told, I've been dreading this season.  All the anniversaries, the reminders, the memories.  I don't want them.  I've been afraid I'll screw up Christmas all over again for my kids.

I'm trying to be mindful of this, of my emotions, my grief, of my children's reactions and their needs. My children need me more than I need to continue clinging to this hurricane.

I have so much to be grateful for.

I've spent the last year mourning my friend and my sister.  At times I've been angry and bitter--usually with myself.  I've been filled with regrets.  I've had so many this isn't how it's supposed to be moments, which have brought me to my knees and wracked my body with sobs.  I've lost my words, my ability to pray and praise, and my happiness.  I've neglected my family in ways I might chastise someone else for.  This journey through grief is not something I asked for, and at times I've shaken my fist at it and cursed it's very name.  This is not something I would wish on my worst enemy.  It's been a rough go.

And yet--we're surviving.  Maybe not always, every day, but somehow, we're making it through, slowly, hour by hour.

As I look around at the many people God has surrounded our family with throughout this time, I realize--when He says He will carry you, He means it.  Even when I haven't wanted to see it, even when I haven't wanted to like Abba, He has remained faithful.  He has surrounded us with friends who have carried my children, myself and my husband.  He surrounds me with my children and my husband.  My 10 year old, who has shouldered more burden than a child should, who prays over me, holds my hand, senses my needs, and is allowing God to use him in fantastic ways.  My sweet husband, who carries me when I can't function, believes in me, and gently encourages me to the other side.

I wouldn't have made it to this point without any of them.

This season, I'm desperately clinging to the hem of Jesus' garment.  I need this hope.  My family needs this hope.  I am concentrating on gratitude.  My family needs to see me concentrating on gratitude.

Yes, I lost two people I love dearly.

But, mourning them continually, forsaking my own--this is not living to honor their lives.  I can just imagine the lecture my friend would give me right now!  I have to remember, death was only just the beginning for Nancy and Angie--it was not the end!  And I should rejoice in that--my children are watching.  It's okay to be happy, it's okay to laugh, it's okay to play with my kids and be silly--in fact, it's more than okay, it's necessary.  It's okay to get back to what qualifies as normal around here.  It's also still okay to be sad and allow the tears to flow when I need to.

Again, Abba is teaching me gratitude.  He is teaching me to lean on Him--not myself, not the world, not anywhere or anyone else.  He is opening my eyes and my heart, doing some deep soul-work. He is sowing the seeds of something in me.

My children need to know I value them above the memories of my friend and sister.  They need to know they are more important than the regrets I carry.  Not just know, but they need to see, to feel they are more important.  I also need to stop adding to those regrets and get back to living.  My children need that security I ripped out from under them.  They need their Mama back.

I have a family who has not given up on me.  I have three incredible children here, right now, who need me to be Mama.  They need me to be present and whole.  I have an amazing husband who prays daily to have his happy, 'normal' wife back.  I have wonderful friends who encourage me, check on me, love me, pray for me and speak the hard truth in love when I need to hear it.

Yes, I have so much to be grateful for, yesterday, today and tomorrow.

"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.

Excuse me? Hello? *taps mic* Is This Thing On?

Um, is this where I air my family's dirty laundry?  

Because I'm getting damn tired of trying to be the good person, the good Christian, the one who forgives and keeps on going, the one who walks away, the one who sets the proper example for her children.

For years I've done the better part of keeping my mouth shut, of not sullying the names of my parents, no matter what was said about me or to me.  I've never publicly spoken against them, I've never said anything they wouldn't have a chance or reason to defend themselves against.  I've carefully worded my blog posts so as to not drag their names through any indefensible mud.

Forgiving and moving on.  And again.  And again.

Then our mother turned my sister's viewing into her own personal circus.  Wait, I'm sorry--her daughter's viewing, not my sister's, not our cousins' cousin's, not her grandchildren's mother's, not my sister's husband's--to be clear, HER DAUGHTER ONLY.  She was the only one with the right to grieve.  It didn't matter we were all hurting, my mother's 'hurt' took precedent, and she lashed out in true Janet fashion.  And that look she gets on her face when we all know we're in for it, when she's about to go on a tear, and she did not fail to disappoint.  She demanded things from my sister's husband at the viewing that had not been rightfully hers for several decades.  Even if I tried to explain everything to you, you would think I was busy writing a screenplay.  Excuses will be made for my mother's behavior, as always happens; she's a grieving mother, she didn't know what she was doing, she wasn't in control of herself, blah blah blah... Yep.  It's always someone else's fault in Janet's world.  It's her world, we just get to live here.  

Our father didn't even bother showing up.  Didn't even send his condolences or regards. Typical, head in the sand, emotional neglect, in true Paul fashion.

I don't know what I expected.  Well, yes--I do--I expected exactly that from both of them.  Why should they change now? 

But--some still small part of me had some still small stupid hope.

I'm tired of it.  I'm sick of it.  I'm done with the cheerers-on of happy family reunions, the ones who have heard I'm the problem, the ones who genuinely believe they mean well, the ones who have only ever heard one side--one very toxic, sick side--and relentlessly beg me to kiss and make up.  I'm done.  I can't do it anymore. I won't do it anymore.  Unlike with my sister, there is no regret with my parents.  I do not look back, only forward.

I am not the problem.  

I was certainly part of the problem at one point, but I chose to leave it behind me.  I had to.  I couldn't keep getting sucked into it, leaning to every whim of my mother's like a small child, even though I was a grown woman with a family of my own.  It was toxic, it was unhealthy for myself and my family, especially my children.  It was powerfully destructive.  

Working through it, I was shocked to learn what my sister and I dealt with went back for years into our childhoods.  I thought we had lived this great Wonder Bread, white picket fence childhood, until a therapist put a label on it--maternal emotional abuse and paternal emotional neglect.  

I worked through a lot of it, and I even forgave my parents.  I needed to, for myself, and for my family--and again, to lead by example for my children.  I needed to forgive so I could come out on the brighter side, not the bitter side.  Contrary to what many people believe, I do not need to have a relationship with them once I'm forgiven them.  I do not need to continue to expose myself and my children to their behavior.  Part of forgiveness means that I can wish them well, that I can pray them, and hope to see them in heaven.

I lost my sister.  Everyone lost someone the day she died.  Just because we had our differences and did not have a relationship--I don't think we were capable of having a normal, typical sister relationship because of the damage done by our parents; some part of me was able to move on from it, and some part of my sister was held back--does not mean I don't love her.  It does mean I do not intensely feel the incredible pain of her absence.  

I am the one who has to live with the regret of not picking up the phone.  I am the one who has to live with all of the regret leftover from a damaged relationship. There are moments and events and things I won't get back.  I am the one who has to miss my sister for the rest of my life.  I am the one who has to stand up, and not only forgive my parents all over again, but I also need to answer the call to serve as a lesson to those of you who have been thinking about sending that text, or making that phone call, or extending that invitation in a damaged yet reparable relationship.  Do it--and do not wait.  

And if unforgiveness lives in your heart?  Please work on that as well.  I won't preach to you.  I know it's hard work.  But please know you're never in this alone.  

Please--if any good can come from this, along with what I am hoping are newfound relationships with my sister's children--please, allow me to be your example for the best.

Please Don't Ask Me How I'm Doing...

... Because I don't know how I'm doing.

Because I can't handle answering that question right now.

Because I know the many answers swimming around in my head, but I also know that few of you are prepared to hear them.

Last week, two months to the day after my sweet friend Angie died, my sister died.

Yep.

Those words--my sister died.  Just like that.  My sister died last week.  She's gone.  My sister is dead.

I can't say those words without a deep sob of anguish welling up from places so deep within myself I'm doubled over.

WHY?  It's not fair.

No, there's nothing you can do.  I don't know what to ask for.  Please don't hug me.  I don't think I can do meaningful hugs right now.  There is a pile of condolence cards on my kitchen table.  I can't bring myself to read them quite yet.  No, I don't really want to talk about it.  I don't think I can handle it, and I don't know how to talk about it.  I'm not capable of having this conversation right now.  No, I don't want you to pray over me, but what you do in the privacy of your own space is your business.  Really, I cannot handle any of this right now.  So please, if I say I don't want prayer, or I tell you I'm fine, please just take me at my word.  I've been sending Shawn to work.  I'm telling myself I lost her years ago and I'm at peace with this, that I've already grieved and mourned her loss long ago when our relationship ended.  But I don't know if that's really true.  It's a bald-faced lie and I know it.  I'm pissed off.  I lost any chance at ever having a relationship with my sister.  And I'm still grieving Angie.  This is a brand-new wound on top of an already still-fresh one.  The viewing is tonight; I'm going, but I don't think I can go in and see my sister--like that.  We're burying her tomorrow.  I can't even comprehend it.

But I'm fine.  I'm okay.  No, really.  

So please just don't ask me how I'm doing. 

When Grief Overwhelms

When I was picking up prescriptions the other day (without my boys, thank goodness), a women approached the pharmacist and tech, telling them she knew she hadn't seen them in a while, but just wanted to say a quick hello.

Both the pharmacist and tech turned white as bleached sheets, and looked as though they'd seen a ghost.  The pharmacist stammered for a moment, whispering, "Oh my goodness, we thought you'd died....."

The woman broke into a huge smile and began her story.  

Four years ago, this woman's doctors had given her less than 6 months to live.  They stopped all treatments, put her in hospice care, and the cancer continued to spread throughout her body.  Before the six months were up, the cancer miraculously stopped, and she, "... danced (her) way out of hospice care without a trace of cancer in (her) body and not a single cancer drug beating it!"

I could tell she has not squandered a moment of these past four years.  I could tell she knows to whom she owes this miracle to.  I could just feel the immense joy and gratitude rolling off her.  She is healed by the grace of God, and it is a beautiful, incredible, amazing thing.

My lips were trembling. My hands were shaking. I was sweating. My stomach was queasy. The tears were pushing their way out of my eyes.  I was silently willing my sweet pharmacy tech to please just hurry up and finish ringing me through so I could get out of there and get to my car before I completely broke down.  

Noticing my distress, she asked if I was okay.  "Oh! Mmm hmmm," I shook my head vigorously up and down, trying to look as upbeat as possible, responding with what I hoped looked like eagerness, as much as my body and emotions would possibly allow.

Once the tech handed the prescriptions to me, I nearly ran from the store to my car, where I broke down in sobs.  

I rejoiced for this woman and her family--oddly enough, many of my tears were from gratitude and absolute joy for her healing and this second chance she'd been given.  Oh my gosh, can you even imagine?  Just the sheer beauty of it!  How amazing, oh Abba, we praise You!  I could not contain myself and I just overflowed from the emotions I was feeling related to her healing.  

And on the other hand... 

I cannot contain my sadness.  At times, it feels unending. I am just so incredibly sad. And it just hurts.

But I wasn't angry with God as I cried.  I wasn't trying to rationalize anything, or argue with God or wonder why this woman got to live while my friend died.  

I was just--once again--overwhelmed with what feels like selfish sadness.

I just want my friend back.  

It's something I continue to struggle with.  Sadness.  Selfishness.  

Do I want Angie back?  Yes, I would give anything to hug her again, to hear her tell me she's not going anywhere, to just hang on to her as tight as I possibly can and not let go.   

But would I actually take her away from what she's experiencing right now?  Absolutely not.  That is the most selfish thing I could ever possibly do to a friend.      

I wrestle with my emotions so much.  I wrestle with what I know to be true.  I wrestle with the promises given to me by Abba.

I'm tired.  I'm worn.  I'm weary.

And I am just. so. sad. 

The Home Which Built Me

My parents divorced when Noah was a little older than Ezra.

At the time, it was the shock heard 'round our family.  

In retrospect, it should not have been.  All the signs were there.  They had been for years, but I was so self-involved with my own crap, I couldn't see any of them (didn't want to see any of them?).

It was around that time, perhaps a year or so later, Miranda Lambert's song The House that Built Me, came out.  Man, that song rocked me to my core.  It was everything I felt, and more, about the divorce and about losing the family home I'd grown up in.  It also then became about losing my grandmother's home I'd spent summers in, when my mother sold it as well, and losing the vast majority of whom I considered to be my family for my lifetime up until that point (including my parents and sister).  My family imploded, and relationships have been long lost.  

To this day, I still have to change the station when that song comes on.  It cuts so deep, I just cannot listen to it all the way through. The few times I have, I've always completely lost it.

Have you ever had a song (poem, book, anything) with that much power over you?

Tonight, as the kids played and the house was just alive with all of us, I hit play on YouTube for a soundtrack to our usual ridiculousness, and this particular song happened to rotate through.

I started to panic--today has been an awful, horrible weepy day for me.  I did not need this.  My family did not need this.  I did not want anymore emotion today.  I started to reach for my phone.  Turn this off.  NOW.  Make it stop.  PLEASE.  The littles were having fun.  Avery's face had been plastered with a huge grin, nothing but giggles escaping him all afternoon as he'd played with a visiting friend.  Shawn and Noah were messing around in the kitchen.  Ezra was getting in anywhere and everywhere he could.  I didn't want to ruin these precious moments for my family.  Selfishly, I didn't want to ruin these moments for myself.

Then it hit me.  I looked up, and I looked around, studying each person for just a moment, intently. 

The song still played, the words mere background noise to me.

This--right here, THIS is the home that built me.  These people--my beloved menfolk--and God, my friends, our church--it doesn't have anything to do with a building at all!  THIS is the home that rebuilt me. And the rooms in this 'home'?  Filled beyond belief with riches, more than I could ever imagine. THIS is where I found myself.  THIS is where I figured out who Amy is.  THIS is where and how I figured out the path God needs me to be on.  THIS is my home.  THIS is where I belong.

My loves, it has to do with the people! The people who love you more than anything and would do more than anything for you, and you would do more than anything for them, and The One who already has done more than anything for you--THIS is the home which has built you!  If you feel He hasn't, will you give Him the chance?  Will you give Him the opportunity?  Will you open your heart and your mind and your soul to the possibilities?  Please?  People will falter and will let us down--but God, oh my loves--God, and His son--they never will.  Look inside this home which has been so carefully and lovingly crafted just for you, and see the depths of love, and the deep burden which is carried only for you!  Will you please trust me on this one thing?

So tonight, for the first time since that song was released, I listened to the entire song without breaking down into body-breaking sobs.  Rather, I sat back and watched my family.  I smiled.  I laughed.  I gave praise.  And, I loved a lot harder.  

And that song took on an entirely new meaning for me.

And this, this right here?  THIS is the home which built me.

"By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established; through knowledge its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures."

Proverbs 23:3-4

My Husband, My Hero

Y'all, this man.  I can't even begin to tell you, but I'm going to try.

Young ladies, this is what you want to look for in a husband.  Those 'goals' you speak of, this should be one of them.  There's also a lesson in here.  Pay attention.  Young men, you could learn a lesson here as well.

As you know, the past two weeks have been awful for me.  I lost a close friend, and I pretty much ceased being able to function.  Depression and grief have gotten the best of me, and even if I could function, I haven't wanted to.  I haven't even wanted to.

I miss my friend.  Selfishly, I wasn't ready for her to be gone.  I wasn't finished.  I'm not finished being her friend.  I'm not finished with her being my friend.  I need her a bit longer.  I remember how hard I hugged her last time I saw her, and I just want another chance to hug her like that again.  Everyone should be hugged that way.  Everyone deserves to be hugged that way.  I love her so much and I'm just not ready for good-bye.  She is missing from this earth and I'm not ready for that.

Grief has such a tight grip on me, I am living with my head down, not making eye contact, begging people, with my body language, to please not ask me how I'm doing.  I can't ask even my closest friends how they are doing because I don't have the emotional space, the mental space, the physical space to give to them right now--and I feel awful about it.  I apologize to them; this is not the person I am, not the person I've ever wanted to be--I'm the person who helps others, who helps strangers, who is first to ask what my friends need, and suddenly, I can't think or feel beyond myself.  I've let my family and my friends down.  I can't get it together.  I HURT. I ACHE.  There is a deep moan within me I need to give voice to but I don't dare.

Shawn has been my slow and steady rock throughout this entire ordeal.  Everything he has done, has been with the best intentions about my feelings and well-being.  He single-handedly pulled off Christmas for three kids, with three kids, all while trying to keep me from completely falling apart: our Christmas Eve tradition (which I could not take part in because hearing my grandmother's voice would have completely sent me over the edge), the Christmas Day meal (he even made from-scratch gravy), the house cleaning, the stockings, wrapping the gifts and getting them under the tree, and a million and one other details.  That is no small feat.

May I digress for just a moment?  I want to address the many memes and complaints about husbands that littered social media during the Christmas season.  They saddened me, frustrated me, and, most of all, angered me.  If there is a problem in your marriage, social media is the last place to address it--especially in the name of likes, giggles, laughs and social media notoriety.  If you don't feel as though your husband isn't helping enough, or at all, or doing things to your liking, or whatever the problem is--perhaps try communicating?  Or perhaps try praising him and thanking him for how hard he works for you and your family (so you can sit around writing disparaging memes about him....) so you are able to stay home with the children, and/or accomplish the other things during the day you enjoy and want/need to accomplish for your family.  Or couples therapy.  Or anything other than airing your dirty laundry on social media in the form of memes.  Your husband and your marriage deserve more respect than that.  There, I said it.

When Christmas was over, knowing I could look at it any longer, he quickly boxed it all back up and put the house back to right.

On the days I just can't function, he helps me shower, helps me dress and he combs my hair.  If I don't shower and I'm still in my pjs when he gets home from work, and my pillows are the on the couch, he doesn't judge or say anything.  He does it all with love, never once complaining.  He cleans the house, takes care of the kids, cooks the meals, allows me to shut down when I need to.  He makes sure I'm eating, and keeps all of us on our schedules.

I put my head to his chest, just needing to hear the reassuring sound of his heartbeat, steady, strong and there.  I hug him and he holds me and I cry and I thank him for everything he is doing.  I tuck my head under his chin, and I feel safe.

Shawn runs interference for me as much as possible, when and where he can, even taking the kids to school for me, going into work late, so I can arrive late, having to interact as little as possible.  It is impossible for me to answer the question, "How are you doing," so if he is with me, he handles it.  Otherwise, I keep my head down, shake my head and and wave my hand--then I race to the bathroom to either try to stop the tears, or let the tears and sobs flow into whatever napkins, towels and tissues I can find.  Internally, I beg them to just read my blog.  Then, they will know just how I'm doing.

Today, we had to go to a funeral for one of Shawn's family members.  A woman I'd never met.  I barely sat down, read the funeral card--and my sobs started.  We sat in the very back, and I did my best to keep my wails silent into my husband's chest.  I apologized to him later, telling him I hoped I didn't embarrass him.  "Babe, you need to get this stuff out.  I understand.  I know.  I knew it was going to happen.  I knew this would be hard for you.  It's okay," as he squeezed my hand.  He was even willing to go by himself, but I couldn't do that to him.  He sat there, holding me so tight, not saying a thing, just letting me let it all out.

The Sunday after my friend died, we both agreed I needed to be in church, but we sat in the back row, in case I needed to make a hasty exit, Shawn, Avery, and Noah flanking me, protectively.  I barely sat down before my tears started.  It was the day before Christmas Eve; I didn't want to be part of the festivities and the hype and the glow and the decorations and the happiness.  I wanted none of it.  My tears turned to sobs as praise and worship began, and I buried my face in my husband.  My sobs turned to wails as they sang it is well with their souls, and I wanted to scream, "NO, NO IT IS NOT WELL WITH MY SOUL!"  I could no longer hold myself up, and my wails became that guttural wail that is partially noise and partially just absent gasping for air.  My husband held me up as my legs let go, ushering me out of the church, protecting me.  In all of my life, I never have wanted anyone else so strong, physically and emotionally, talking me and walking me through that moment.  Singing that song so fervently and devoutly before, I've wondered what would make it not well with my soul.  I've prayed that through no matter what, God would help me see it well with my soul.  *now I know*  I've always loved that song.

Shawn cannot take away my pain.  I know he would in a heartbeat if he could.  But he is doing everything he can to make sure the pain I'm feeling is the only thing I have to deal with right now. He knows my pain is harsh and cuts worse than a knife, he knows I would give almost anything to stop feeling right now--I'm feeling too much right now and I just can't handle it.  I'm done with it.  I would give almost anything to just be numb right now. He knows the kind of pain I'm going through, the questions and anguish I'm feeling.  He even knows pain worse than I do.  But he has been here for me every step of the way, and will continue to be.  Every plan we've had, he's left up to me whether I want to go, leave early, or do something else entirely.  He has held me close, and not taken it personally when I've pushed him away.  He's talked about hope, and heaven and God and the day I'll get to see my friend again.  He hasn't pushed me to 'get over it,' or told me I need to get myself together.  He knows this sort of thing takes time, and even after the time it takes, it can still come back.  Shawn has done all of this with love, incredible patience, and amazing gentleness.

He knows how deep my wound is, and he's handling me with the utmost of care.