Becoming Refined

I’ve been watching my daughter nurse a broken heart over the last few weeks that has left her feeling abandoned, rejected, confused and depressed. And it has left me feeling helpless, worried, concerned and prayerful. It’s not a boy that has broken her heart, but her close knit group of friends, which in some ways I think can be even more painful. I had a very similar experience in Jr High myself and I can still remember how my spirit and my joy was crushed by an insensitive ‘friend’, so I understand the pain my girl is going through.

My mama’s heart wants to fix everything, but I can’t. So I listen to her, love her, hug her, wipe her tears and mourn with her as she deals with the pain of her loss. And I encourage her, pray for her and remind her that her worth is greater than rubies, that she is chosen, holy and dearly loved, that she is above and not beneath, the head and not the tail, blessed and not cursed, remembered and not forgotten.

We’ve had many talks over the last few weeks since she was ostracized by this group of ‘friends’ and I’m so proud of my daughter. She is strong and brave, she takes constructive criticism well, she continually strives to become a better version of herself, and she holds her head up high even when she is feeling overwhelmed and alone. And so I really want to say a sincere thank you to her former friends. (No sarcasm, sincerely sincere.)

Thank you for teaching my daughter to choose her friends more wisely and more carefully. Thank you for helping her learn how to be a better friend to others, to be forgiving, loving, and accepting and how to build up a friend instead of tearing them down. And thank you for presenting a challenge that is refining my daughter and making her a stronger person. Because of you, she is growing into an even more amazing young lady than she already was. It’s sad you’ve chosen to miss out on that.

And to my daughter, I want to remind you that you are gorgeous inside and out and it is always more than okay to be a continual work in progress. It is a good thing to be under construction, to make your foundation stronger and to work on the things in yourself that need refinement. You are growing into a phenomenal young woman and I couldn’t be any prouder of you!

Reagan Got Shot and I Got Spanked.

My family always had strong political views and shared them freely in our home. As most children do, I listened to my parents views, soaked them in and I adopted my parents' opinions. During the election between Reagan and Carter in 1980, we were very supportive of Jimmy Carter. My older brother Mark even dressed as Jimmy Carter for Halloween, in a tan corduroy suit with a Jimmy Carter mask on his face and at every door instead of saying the typical 'Trick or Treat' he would exclaim "Vote for me!". It was awesome.

As we know, Reagan won the presidency, was sworn in and took office in 1981 and just two months later there was an assassination attempt on his life. At the time, I was nine years old and my younger brother Gerald had just turned eight. When we heard the news, we ran outside and began dancing around our willow tree together, rejoicing and singing "Reagan got shot! Reagan got shot!" with blissful grins on our innocent faces.

I think it was our neighbor that overheard us and told our parents what Gerald and I were doing. And let me just say, we definitely received a proper scolding and sported some red bottoms that afternoon. Our laughter turned to tears and not because we were worried about our President, but because of our punishment. I remember feeling so confused and also quite ashamed. We were told it was not right to rejoice in anyone's demise and that we must respect the office of the President, even if we did not value or agree with the person in that office. 

That afternoon helped shape my current outlook. Since that time, I've understood that the President is the President. I may not like him, I may not agree with him, I may not have voted for him, but he is my President. And because he is my President of the nation that I live in and love, I pray for him and I respect the office that he holds. 

Today I have seen so many posts on Facebook from unhappy or angry people, from ecstatic or even gloating people, from people that have mixed emotions and from people that just don't seem to care. I have my opinions. They might follow after my family's or they might not. They might be different from yours or they might be the same as yours. They might be more grey than black or white. They might not be completely formed. They might be ignorant opinions or they might be researched opinions. 

But they are my opinions. We have the right and the freedom to express ourselves. I rarely express myself when it comes to politics and related hot topics. And that's my right as well. Here's what I will say. We live in a country that gives us the freedom to vote, for some of us that was more hard earned than others. I don't take that lightly and any time I am able to vote, I do so. I mark my vote, my opinion on who should be president and I do my part. 

My vote joins millions of others and they are then counted and we are given a result and it is what it is. We don't have to be thrilled about it. We can even be disappointed. We can be ambivalent or delighted. We can express those feelings, that is our right. 

What makes me sad, so very sad, is the hatred I am seeing. The absolute unbending hatred. And people, it is coming from both sides. My oldest brother Phil's best friend who is without a doubt pro-Clinton, had a Facebook friend in the pro-Trump camp post "Now, I want to go out and start shooting Muslims." This breaks my heart. And I've seen plenty of posts from the pro-Clinton/anti-Trump side too that I won't go into right now, but I'm sure you've seen at least a few negative posts as well, from both sides. 

I'm not going to tell you who I voted for yesterday. It might be who you think I would vote for and then again, it may not. It's my right to keep that private. All I'm saying is I'm sad today. I'd like to see us be 'Stronger Together' and 'Make America Great Again'. I'd like to see if we can be civil and kind to one another and see how we can work together because this is our America. This is our country. This is our very opinionated nation made up of very different people who are all very passionate about our country's future. 

We are an amazing country that has come a long way and still has a long way to go. We are not perfect. There will always be disappointments and failures to face; personally, privately, publicly, nationally. I still hope for our future. And I know you do too. I think it would benefit ALL of us to learn to be kinder to one another, to sometimes hold our tongue, or soften our words, to treat one another the way we would like to be treated. 

We're going to disagree at times. Let's love our nation. Let's be kind to one another. And let's work hard together to make a difference. And to both sides I want to remind you that bullying gets us nowhere. Hatred gets us nowhere. Kindness goes a long way in expressing your opinions and makes a huge difference in delivery and reception. 

Play nice people. 

#ichoosehappy

Some of you in my facebook world may have noticed a hashtag I've been throwing around since day one of 2016. Instead of making a resolution, I pondered on what I wanted to see happen in my life this year and it is simply one thing. To be happy. So I chose this motto for myself in the form of a hashtag: #ichoosehappy

The first year after I lost my husband was such a dark year for me. I struggled to survive minute by minute, day by day. I hid in my room, I ate my feelings, I cried, I slept, I was numb and I won the title of Miss Dreary Non-Personality.

The second year it was as if I was climbing out of heavy waters, draggy myself out of a pool after spending all day in the burning hot sun. I was working full time again, moving from an apartment to a house, trying to do everything on my own, re-disciplining my kids (because for the past year I just didn't have it in me), learning to cook more than just 5 meals and basically becoming human again.

The third year was a bit easier. A little less anxiety and depression, giving more of my time trying to do fun things with my kids, trying to be build friendships, enjoying holidays and cooking my first Thanksgiving all by myself, and trying to figure out who I am, what I want in life and what I want to be when I grow up. Honestly, I'm still trying to figure that one out.

But this year, as I work my way through our fourth year since Donnie passed away, I've approached every day looking for the joy in each moment, seeking the silver lining when the inevitable tough times arrive, being positive and joyful instead of staying dismal and depressed. Choosing happy has made a huge difference for me when bills are looming overhead and one income has been a challenge. It's made me grin and bear it when I'm feeling grumpy or my kids have been stinkers. Choosing happy has made me laugh when I locked my keys inside my house and had to sit in the car waiting for a locksmith. 

Choosing happy has made me say yes more often to my kids' requests and surprise them with new privileges AND responsibilities as they grow older. It's caused me to live in and appreciate tangible moments that are now fantastic memories. Choosing happy has brought more peace to my heart and helps me sleep better at night. And when I look back through the first five months of this year, I realize they have been a very happy, happy five months.

The year 2016 is approaching its halfway point and here I am still choosing happy. It doesn't mean that hard days don't come. I just had three days in a row that were the toughest I've had in quite some time. Anxiety attacks and depression showed up out of nowhere, bad dreams and sad memories overwhelmed me and stopped me in my tracks, made me breathe deeply, stand still and even stay in bed for almost a full day. 

But even in the thickest, heaviest, most wearisome moment of those days I knew that it would pass. I knew I would come out of it. I knew I would feel the sunshine of happy again. 

I love the power I hold in choosing happy. I may not have all the answers, I might not know what tomorrow holds, how I'm going to cross the next to do off my list or even when the next dark cloud might try to cover me, but I know I can purpose to choose happy in the face of those uncertainties. I don't need to have the answers. I just need to choose happy. 

True Love.

Easter Sunday 2014, as I was watching Jesus die on a cross, again, I had a sudden realization that something was wrong with me. As I sat there slightly sunken into my chair with my arms crossed against my chest, totally annoyed with the beautiful yet tragic display of God's sacrifice for me, I wondered briefly what my problem was when the answer suddenly hit me. I was angry at God. 

To be bluntly honest, the words that came into my head with this revelation as Jesus was being nailed to the cross were, "Oh my gosh! I am SO PISSED OFF at you, God!" For the rest of the service I continued shouting this at my Savior, inside my head, over and over again. It was empowering and somewhat euphoric. It was emotion I hadn't felt spiritually in quite some time. And it was anger. At God.

I allowed myself to say it. For the next two or three weeks I walked around repeating those words. Sometimes I would scream them out loud. Sometimes I would whisper them. At times the words were monotone. In moments I wept them. But I had to tell Him, even though He already knew. 

All that time, for the past nearly year and a half (back then) since my husband died, I had no idea I was angry with God. For months I was so numb spiritually. My relationship with God was dormant. I was expressive with my words on paper or via blogging but when it came to trying to talk with God, I could barely get the words out. I would try to pray and nothing would happen. It was like there was a door between us and it just wasn't opening. Until Jesus died on that cross again this year. And then it all came pouring out.  

It was freeing to release it. It felt so amazing to be honest. To be real. To tell God like it was. And to know it wasn't the end of our relationship. He didn't turn away from me. He didn't lock the door. He didn't walk away. He stayed right there, even though I was all up in His face, spewing not so nice words from my lips. He didn't leave me. He didn't forsake me. Instead, He loved me.

In those weeks of expressing and confessing my pointed anger to God, a breaking took place. I reopened the door I had shut. I knocked down the dividing wall I had inadvertently and unknowingly created. My anger which had been explosive, strong, hot, heavy and extreme slowly began to dissipate. When my steam ran out, my anger was replaced with a calming, soothing peace.

I began to pray again and was able to worship more intimately. It started being less about me and what I was feeling and more about Him and how He was moving and what He was saying. I felt more alive than I had in months. I felt there was purpose in my life again beyond just getting through the day at hand and began feeling hopeful for my future again.

And while I still don't have all the answers, I am learning to trust Him again to reveal them in His timing. I admit I still have issues trusting Him. I still battle with unbelief that He will move mountains for me, but I must believe that He will, because He loves me. 

And honestly, even though I'm not angry anymore, I'm still hurt. I miss my husband. I don't like being alone, even if I am getting more used to it. This wasn't the plan. I did not sign up for this. But what I've discovered through this experience of severe, earth shattering loss that I've been through is just how much God loves me. He didn't push me. He stood by patiently until I was ready to talk again. He let me be angry with Him. He understood. He listened. He waited. And He loved me. 

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. ~ 1 Corinthians 13:4-8a

And the Crazy Mom of the Year Award Goes to...

FYI: This blog is written in a wholly sincere tone. Please don't read it in a sarcasm filled, defiant, sassy tone. I can see how it might be perceived that way, but it's definitely not written that way. Thanks... :)

Dear Nice Lady at My Kids' School:

Maybe I'm paranoid, but I'm pretty sure I saw the look of judgement that passed over your face when I dropped my kids off late for their last day of school and they were marked absent for the day since it was past the official tardy cut-off time. I want you to know I get it. I know I'm not mom of the year. I know they've missed more than their fair share of days from school this school year because there were some times I just did not wake up when my alarm went off and I let them stay home to save them and myself the embarrassment of facing school staff in a situation like today's. 

I can understand your raised eyebrow at my hair thrown up in a sloppy attempt at appearing human with my beloved giant hair clip that has saved my life on more than one occasion. I know I'm not the mom who appears at every school function with a batch of homemade cupcakes in  a proper Tupperware poised on my hip. And I realize with a shake of my head that I forgot to run by the store and buy the chips that my son was told to bring for their last day of school spread which I didn't find out about until bedtime 2 nights ago.

I know you're the one who called me twice this year when I didn't show to pick my kids up after school because I slept through my alarm at 3:00 in the afternoon. You know I work nights but I agree it still doesn't make sense that I seem to have selective hearing loss when it comes to my 3 or more alarms I set to get myself up in time to take my kids' to and from school. I don't get it either.

What you might not know is that even though it's one and a half years later, I am still in mourning for the husband that I lost at the far too young age of 42. That although I am doing much better, I still have days that I am unable to function on a normal level because the night before I was struggling to breathe between and during phone calls about passengers' seating misfortunes. That in those moments of sheer terror filled panic I am chanting a mantra of sorts in my head to get myself through each second: "I'm okay. I'm going to be fine. God, please help me. I can do this. Jesus, I need you! Breathe in, breathe out. I'm not dying. Lord, help me. I'm okay. I'm going to be fine."

You may not realize that even though I was able to give away a little time last night and was off work an hour early and went straight to bed because I knew I was exhausted and needed to sleep so I could get the kids up for their last day of school, that when my head hit my pillow, my heart started racing in anxiety yet again and the prickly grasp of panic clawed at my chest and it was all I could do not to scream and wake up my children in the next room at 4:13 in the morning. You don't know that I lied in bed for the next I don't know how long praying, crying, begging God and texting friends 'Are you up yet?' before 5:00 in the morning just so I could hear a human voice and talk myself down from the insanity ledge I found myself dangling from so suddenly.

You and I both have no idea what time I finally cried and prayed myself to sleep. And you don't know the dread and disappoint that filled me when I woke up in a sad sleepy stupor to see it was two hours past the time my children should have been at school for their last day. You didn't see my son crying in the doorway when I told him we were late and he only had an hour or so left with his friends at school if we hurried to get ready and know the reason he was crying is because you failed, again.

You shook your head a little when you asked if I was staying at the school for the awards program and I half laughed to myself and said "No". You don't realize that I've only slept for a few hours and the crazy woman hasn't quite left me yet and sitting through an assembly with other teachers or moms that might look at me the same way you have, terrifies me and my imagination is out of control in one of those thankfully now rare moments of reliving my husband's death and I might end up running out screaming and embarrass my children even further.

Although it has been a whole year and a half since my world turned upside down and you would think I'd be drawing near to the end of my grieving and mourning season, I'm not. I still have these days that overwhelm me and cause me to wonder how I will ever grow beyond the onslaught of emotions that stop me in my tracks and turn me into an inner lunatic that I do my best to push down into a dark little crevice in my heart.  

You see, the truth is there are days that mad woman walks with me everywhere I go. It disturbs me that I can't seem to break away from her. She whispers in my ear when I am laughing with my children. She points at happy couples in ridicule and disgust when she sees them. She pushes against my chest with all her strength until I am gasping for breath and doesn't give me any relief. She rocks herself during songs at church that I led with Donnie and causes me to sometimes clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from loudly wailing in the middle of a worship service. So to take the chance of unleashing her during a school program is for me, absolutely a laughable, 'NO'.

You don't know that this week I've begun two HUGE steps in my recovery. That just last night I met with some people who I am working with to help put on a Night of Worship and that this is one of THE BIGGEST and hardest things I've done to begin to bring myself back to who I am or who I was or who I might be or who I might become or that I'm still iffy about what my future holds and I'm still testing the waters on what God wants for me and trying to learn to trust Him again. 

You don't know that I've had to learn how to worship again when it was second nature to me before. That part of me has been severed and it's like learning how to walk again. That the future I had envisioned was a shared one with dreams that I thought could only be fulfilled with the inclusion of my husband. That I'm terrified of doing this without him because we were such an amazing and powerful team and it's all I have ever known and that leading up to last night's meeting I was such a nervous wreck. Or that sitting there hashing out songs with people I've never worked with felt strange but good and I realized I CAN DO THIS. Or that as I drove home from the rehearsal I realized that I can do this, WITHOUT DONNIE, and that realization hit me with a devastating blow of sadness that I am moving forward without him. WITHOUT HIM. And it feels as if I'm leaving part of him behind instead of him leaving me and that hurts.

You don't know that in just 2 days we are driving back to the area we lived in happily together for five years to the last places I saw him, to go sit in a congregation and look again at a platform without him and hear someone other than him singing and leading worship in that sanctuary where we had experienced such total freedom and liberty as we had never known before. You don't know how nervous I am about seeing people I haven't seen since the few weeks following his funeral. Or that my daughter, who has been so excited about returning there, broke down in my arms the night before last and told me momentarily that she didn't want to go now because daddy won't be there. Or how important it is that we actually return to replace the memories we left with on a sad note, so we can leave on a good note instead, full of fond memories and moments with people we love and who love us.

And you don't understand what it's like to hold your child in your arms not more than a week ago, as waves of grief overwhelm him and he clings to you as tightly as possible pulling back only to stare at you and cry "Mommy!" in desperation and say "It feels like you're not here!" and understand that feeling of void inside of him as the sobs rack his body and he wails and moans and weeps and continues crying "Mommy! ... Mommy!" and you feel helpless as you hold him tighter and closer and repeat over and over "I'm here, mommy's here, I'm right here with you baby, mommy's here.", for hours.

You don't know that after we leave our last home-place together, we'll be driving to Louisiana and the one thing on my mind is through all the fun and enjoyment we will have while we are there, we will also be going to visit his tomb in the quiet sanctuary of the cemetery where his ashes remain. We will somberly stand in front of his tomb reading over his mis-spelled name that they still haven't corrected on the hard marble door that will separate us from him. You don't know how tempted I am to bring a camping chair and just park it and hang out there with him for a while, just to feel close to him again and hear the birds singing while I'm smelling the thick bayou-scented air and watching my kids run their fingertips over his engraved name as I look over all the chalky-white painted tombs.

So I'm not angry with you. Not at all. And maybe I'd judge the same way if our roles were reversed. Maybe I wouldn't understand either how some moms just can't seem to get it together. But the funny part is 'this IS together' for me. I am doing so much better than I was a year ago. I have come so much farther. I am taking huge steps that tend to knock me off balance and push me backwards but the important thing is that I get up and keep pushing myself and keep moving forward, even when it hurts, even when it's painful or becomes tormentive. 

Even when I have to watch my children endure the stages of grief and continue to gently push them forward. Even when people look at me like you looked at me with reasonable disapproval and judgment, I have to keep moving forward. Because even if it doesn't look like it from the outside looking in, we're making progress. So I'll take that Crazy Mom of the Year award or the looks of disapproval like a badge of honor. I've earned it. And I'm proud of it. 

Oh, and I forgot to tell you when I left because I was still wiping the sleep out of my eyes and also being a bit self-obsessive, but I really do hope you have a great summer. ;)

Sharon, the Joyous Giant.

I was stalking the page of a fairly well-known worship leader the other day, reading her posts, watching her videos and I was floored by her joy. She exudes it. It pours out of her eyes, her mouth, her smile and her voice. She's like a big bright ball of sunshine that's so blinding you have to shield yourself from looking directly at her because the rays are just busting out everywhere. 

She is full of wonder and peace and joy and excitement over Jesus' love. She gushes on and on about Him. She is effervescent. And as I read her words and watched as she giggled and laughed and exuded this joy, I wept. 

Great, I thought, another thing to mourn. I have lost my joy. I listen to CDs of fantastic worship and half the time I am numb. I move my lips to sing and the words fall off my lips and feel strange and forced and foreign. I watch other people as they worship and tilt my head to the side in wonder as they so effortlessly offer up their praises and their words to the Father. I marvel at how easy it is for them to push through to that deeper level. 

Because that used to be me. It used to be. And now, I feel like a shell of a human. I'm half the woman I used to be. Half the worshiper. Half the leader.

Remember in The Little Mermaid, when Ursula turned Ariel and King Triton into the shriveled up mer-people and how pitiful and desperate they looked and sounded in that state? That's how I feel. Shrunken, tiny, minuscule and weak. But even though I am in this malnourished state where my growth has been stunted, I am still reaching out for bread and water. I am hungry. I am thirsty. I have been starving and although I am hesitant and mistrusting because I am wounded and broken, I want to be fed, I NEED to be fed and I MUST drink. I want to live again! I'm dying to live again!!

So I am striving. I am diligently pursuing my Father. I am finding His bread of life and I am drinking His living water. I am sipping and nibbling because it is so overwhelming. And I am finding my insatiable hunger and thirst is slowly coming back. I know that soon I will be devouring every morsel and drowning down every drop just to be reaching out for more!

And now, I have a secret to tell you. I've only told a few people this and you might laugh, it's okay, I don't mind. There's something really cool that happens to me when I worship. When I really, really worship with every fiber of my being, when every little part of me focuses in on giving my self completely to God and lavishing my love on Him and accepting His love for me, something happens to me in THAT moment. That moment when I've given Him my all and I am worshiping Him in absolute reckless abandon.

I become a giant. I'm not kidding you. In my spirit, in that moment I am no longer 5'2". I see myself rising taller and taller and taller until I am so tall I am nearly to the ceiling! It is such an amazing feeling, so euphoric, so heady, so rich and I am so, SO tall! I know that sounds funny. It is. It's weird. My spirit man is tall. For always having been a shorty, let me tell you, that feels really, really good. But man, when I worship God with all that is in me, I'm telling you people, I literally become a giant. 

I miss that. I miss my joy. And I miss my worship. And I'm so glad I'm getting it back. One bite, one sip, one song at a time. Oh how I love my Jesus.

Verbal Vomit.

I so did not want to go to our grief counseling this week. We hadn't been to the past two meetings because four weeks ago I was sick with the flu and two weeks ago I received news just before we were getting ready to leave that our former Pastor's father was about to pass away and it hit me and threw me into a basket case-crying, I can't breathe and I sure can't drive and sit in a room full of grieving people and hold my composure overwhelming hot mess mode.

So this Wednesday, after missing a couple of sessions, I felt anti-social and was just not in the mood to sit in that room with the other adults. But the kids wanted to go. It means so much to them to be able to sit in a room full of other kids their age and hear them expressing the same feelings they have about losing their parent and being able to talk about their daddy. They had missed going and looked at me with those pitiful, pleading eyes as they asked me "Mommy, are we going to The Warm Place tonight?" I told them "Yes, we'll go but only because I love you so much."

I have a serious love/hate relationship with our grief counseling. I hate introducing myself every other week and telling everyone who I lost, when I lost him and how I lost him. It pisses me off when half the adults there were already separated or divorced or whatever and so they don't feel the loss as deep as I do or at least that's the way I feel. It makes my heart beat fast before I have to speak and I feel like I can't breathe and like I need to run out of the room screaming. I hate feeling like that.

I put off speaking until I absolutely have to when it's my time to share because I am such a mess. Then I open my mouth and verbally vomit all my feelings. I choke up and pause and everyone is staring at me, listening to the un-edited, non-eloquent words as they pour out of my mouth, revealing my weakness, my anger, my fear, my horror, my loss, my frustration, my annoyance, my bitterness, my desperation, my hopelessness, my angst, my rage, my anxiety and my loneliness.

I stop and I say I'm done and they look at me with understanding and nod their heads and wipe their eyes after crying with me. And I realize this is why I still need to go. As much as I hate it. As much as I detest sitting in that room and hearing everyone's pain and feeling their anguish as we go one by one around the room describing our loss or our feelings, I need to be there. In that room, I feel abnormal and normal at the same time. Awkward and accepted. Angry and forgiven. 

I love going there. I hate going there. I have to keep going there. 

Oh Christmas Tree.

I just took my bedroom Christmas tree down and I can't tell you how good it feels to have it all boxed up. I was excited to put a tree up in my bedroom again. It had been six years since I had put up our bedroom Christmas tree, decked in pearls, off-white poinsettias and a gorgeous variety of blue ornaments. I couldn't wait to enjoy the lights from my desk while I was working at night.

As I opened each ornament box it took me back to seven Christmases ago. Some of the ornaments had never been used and still had their tags on them from the after Christmas sales we had hit that year. With each layer of ornaments I added to the tree my sadness deepened. I finished decorating and stepped back to look at our tree, Donnie's and mine. 

Instead of bringing warmth and fulfillment, it brought me heaviness and weighted pain. The soft glow emanating from the corner of my room was like the ghost of Christmas past staring at me with droopy tear filled eyes. It reminded me of hushed conversations we held after putting the kids to bed, planning out their gifts and stocking surprises. How we would gaze at the lights as we cuddled on the bed or how I gave him his gift early because I just couldn't wait anymore.

I didn't realize the tree would throw me back so far or bring me down so low. That's the funny thing about grief. You just never know what is going to trigger it and in such an instant moment you are left breathless as if you've been sucker punched in the belly or pinned beneath an anvil like Wile E. Coyote.

At our grief recovery meeting this Wednesday, our adult group was given Play-Doh to use as part of our activity. We were asked to make something to show how we feel now that the holidays were over. I made a little Play-Doh man with X's for eyes and his mouth gaping open and with the rest I made a boulder. When it was my turn to share, I dropped my boulder on the man and flattened him. Everyone laughed, including me, but it was true. 

I have felt flattened by this Christmas. My apartment has been in chaos. My laundry needs washing. My floor needs vacuuming. Everything feels and looks like a wreck. Except for my beautiful, perfect Christmas trees. 

So tonight, after I put the kids to bed and took some down time for myself, I looked once again at my bedroom Christmas tree, sighed and started to dismantle it piece by piece: ornaments, poinsettias, pearls and branches. Now it sits in boxes where the tree was standing and to be very honest; I know this doesn't sound like me, being the Christmas lover that I am, but those boxes are just the most beautiful thing I have seen in a few weeks. Well, that is besides my children. 

One tree down, three to go...

Pushing Through

I don't know why some days are harder than others. Or some weekends. Or some weeks. I just know that when I'm in the midst of a challenging week, day or moment, it becomes overwhelming. It wears on me. 

And even while I'm telling myself I'll get through this, I'm going to be okay, or this is only temporary; I am still consumed with the hugeness of the emotion that has incapacitated me. It becomes difficult to move forward. It feels like I'm being shoved backwards. It halts my train of thought. It crushes my motivation. It disables me.

I stop and take evaluation in the moments that become frighteningly immobilizing. Am I okay? Am I going to be okay? What's wrong? What will make me feel better? What do I need? Should I call someone? Should I go somewhere? Am I fit for public today? Am I too fragile to be around people?

I pop some argentum nitricum. I make some green tea. I call my cousin, my brother, my friend. I hug my children tighter and longer. I watch a movie that shouldn't make me cry and I end up crying anyway. I reminisce and I pray and I hide.

Some days are just harder, darker, more dismal than others and require some diligent effort to push through. But I have hope for tomorrow which is a lot more than I had several months ago. 

This is only temporary. I'm going to be okay. I'll get through this.

I miss him big this weekend. 

The Aftermath, Part 6: Moving Forward

As time stretched forward over the last 10 months I found myself in moments of standstill when I could not fathom even imagining a future without Donnie in it. Being his wife, his ministry partner, his co-worship leader, his companion and his caretaker consumed every moment I had. The future I envisioned was one we had planned together. We were going to conquer kidney failure and overcome illness. We were going to write more songs and record music together. We were going to move into our own home and raise our children there, in one place and finally be settled. But when he died, all of those dreams died with him. 

I can't say it never crossed my mind. When Donnie faced severe illness time after time, there were a lot of 'what if's' circling through my thoughts. When my sister-in-law Amy lost my brother Gerald, I thought "That should've been me" because we had come face-to-face with death more than once already. I wondered where would I go, what would I do? How would I take care of my children? And then I would shrug off the questions, shake off the concerns, face life in that moment and do the best I could for that day. But when he died, the questions flooded back again.

I always had Donnie to turn to when I was undecided or confused about what direction to take. He was my sounding board and my advice giver. He encouraged me and made me see things in ways I never did before. He taught me how to dream and imagine because I always second guessed and limited myself. He made me feel valuable, smart and talented. But when he died, I felt small, abandoned, afraid and incapable of planning a future without him.

Over the weeks as I began to grow accustomed to the unexpected ebb and flow of my grief and anxiety, I found I could open a window now and then and catch a glimpse of myself and the kids actually living life again. Sometimes I would slam that mental window shut because Donnie wasn't in the picture. But in other moments I would lean out just a little and stick my head out of the window ever so slightly to feel the warm breeze, breathe in the air and realize I wasn't suffocating anymore. 

Now that I've realized my life is not over, I've slowly started answering the questions that never had opportunity to land. The dreams that had unraveled are beginning to take new form. And the future, although I still don't know what it entails, does not look nearly as bleak and dismal as it did. It's hard to learn to walk again on my own, without Donnie. But I am. My feet are taking small, hesitant but sure steps. 

I've started attending music rehearsals again. I'm not quite ready to sing on the platform, but I'm slowly getting there. It may not feel the same, but my worship is raw and true and constant, and I know that pleases my Abba. 

I've started writing again. Donnie always wanted me to write stories, books and songs and I was always scared to because when I write, I write real and vulnerable truths. It's not without tears and I'm showing all my ugly open wounds and scars, but it feels right and it gives me hope. 

And in just a few days, I'll start working again. It's been five years since I worked full time. I'm nervous. I feel like a kid preparing for the first day of school; not knowing who I'll eat lunch with or if I'll make friends. But I'm confident it's what I need to do because God answered my prayer so exactly in this position. 

One of the songs Donnie and I used to lead was Israel Houghton and Ricardo Sanchez's 'Moving Forward'. It's lyrics have been echoing in my head the last few days. 

'You're the healer who makes all things new.' 

'You have given me a second chance.' 

'You make all things new and I will follow you forward.' 

I'm so thankful I have a Healer who makes all things new and Who has given me a second chance. I'm glad to be moving forward. And I'm relieved that I don't serve a pushy God. He is gentle and He is kind and He is patient with my slow, small, faltering steps. 

Monday's blog: What To Say To a Grieving Person - And what not to say...

Addendum: Just wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who's been following my blog the last two weeks. Now that I'm starting back to work, I expect my posts will decrease some, but I will continue to try to keep the blog going a little more consistently than I have in the past. Thanks for all your encouragement about my writing, it means a lot.

The Aftermath, Part 5: The Agony of Anxiety

One of the greater struggles I've had since Donnie passed away is dealing with crushing, overwhelming, out of control, debilitating, terrifying anxiety. Over the years I have dealt with occasional anxiety attacks that started in my mid-twenties. They've never been a walk in the park, but they have been subdued to just once in a while struggles I've only had to deal with from time to time. However, in working my way through my grief, the anxiety I've faced has been astronomical compared to what I've experienced in the past. 

When Donnie first passed away, I had great difficulty sleeping. A large part of the reason was as much as I tried not to, I couldn't help reliving the night of his death. The sound of his last breaths being exhaled were constantly in my ears. The confusion I felt when he didn't respond to me replayed through my emotions. The frustration with the 911 call that I won't get into here would continually upset me. The memory of Emelia walking in the room and being horrified when I was trying to do chest compressions on him haunted me. Hearing the Doctor's confirmation at the hospital filled me with dread over and over. Facing my children and telling them their daddy was gone clawed at and crushed my heart. The series of those moments and emotions helplessly repeated without cease in my mind. I would lie down to sleep and face his side of the bed, the very spot he died in and it would start and not end.

When I did sleep, I had nightmares. I kept dreaming that he was alive again, somehow; but he was still sick and in the dreams I had knowledge that no matter what I did, no matter what anyone did, he was going to die AGAIN and I was going to have to face his death AGAIN and go through all of those emotions AGAIN. It was torment. I would dream different scenarios each time, horrible, awful varying deaths often involving a fall of some kind. Each time a different dream with the same result. And then I would wake up and have to tell myself out loud, "He's gone. He's not coming back. He can't come back. He's dead." I had to make myself believe it because the dreams were so real, it felt like he had really come back. It was like being told over and over again that I lost him. Pure torture.

It took 4 months for the dreams to finally stop. I was visiting my Aunt Julia in March and I shared with her my torment. She prayed for me that night before we went to bed. I haven't had a dream like that since then and I've been able to rest better. It took about 7-8 months for the replaying of his death to slowly diminish during my waking hours and finally come to a stop. Since then I've had more peace and slept better and longer.

My anxiety was crippling and happened more often during those days of waking and sleeping torment. I would sometimes go a few days without an anxiety attack and be relieved, just to be blown away by one unexpectedly. My heart would start beating fast, I would find it difficult to breathe, I would feel like running and escaping or crawling and hiding. I felt like I was going insane. I didn't want to see anyone or go anywhere and yet I would have to talk to someone so I knew I wasn't crazy. It was terrifying.

I would also get overwhelmed easily by simple tasks like doing my laundry or going to church, things that were normally second nature to me. I would hyperventilate at the thought of driving further than taking my kids to school. I would wait until I had no food left in the house because just the thought of going to the store for groceries freaked me out. I would be talking with a friend about Donnie and suddenly feel light headed like I was going to pass out. Just thinking about taking a trip somewhere in a car by myself would set me off. If I had a particularly busy day planned in the week, all week long I would dread it and be anxious. Any task that brought about minimal nervousness or fear or anything that took me out of my comfort zone and would normally just make me a little uncomfortable would trigger an agonizing anxiety attack. 

I also found myself facing my own mortality and developed a horrific fear of dying. After I would tuck the kids in bed at night, I would feel overwhelmingly alone. I would think of how quickly Donnie had died and I was so scared the same thing would happen to me. The fear of dying would just overtake me and I would suffer through the nights between that and missing Donnie and grieving for him. It was as if I was waiting for myself to die at any second. I worried the kids would wake and find me dead. I worried about them having to deal with my death on top of Donnie's. I worried about them facing life without parents. I worried about who would take care of them. I just lived in perpetual fear.

Often at night I would be blindsided by an attack, consumed with the loud silence and feel utterly alone and abandoned. I called my dear friend Lisa at 3:00 AM one night to come and sit with me because I was so frightened at how I was feeling. Sometimes an overbearing sense of dread would take me over and my chest would feel heavy and I couldn't think straight. I've had my sweet Aunt come spend time with me as well in some of my more severe episodes, even as recent as a week ago, Monday morning. 

Sometimes I call a friend or a relative and just talk for a while. If I talk to someone and have a sane conversation, it helps me know I'm not insane. It's such a strange sensation. I feel as if I am a balloon, being batted about in a stormy wind, about to drift away forever. But if I have someone here, or if I can talk to someone for a while, it grounds me somehow and calms me, like someone would be reaching up and grabbing my string and pulling me slowly, safely down to earth until I feel like my feet are back on the ground again. 

Thankfully, I have found some things to help me through my struggle with anxiety. I use a daily homeopathic personal blend of Bach flower essentials that my friend Chelsea makes for me. It helps keep me grounded on a daily basis. I also use another homeopathic remedy called Argentum Nitricum. The kids call them my 'chill pills'. They are teeny little sugar balls with argentum nitricum layered in it and they're held in a tube that looks like chapstick. When I feel an attack coming on I just place one or two under my tongue until it dissolves and it helps stop my anxiety attacks quicker, and sometimes completely heads them off at their beginning. Early on I was going through a bottle of the argentum nitricum weekly. Now I can make one bottle last nearly a month... So the severity and frequency of my anxiety attacks have greatly decreased.

My other methods vary, depending on what works in that moment. I breathe in my nose and out my mouth. I tell myself I am not in pain, I am not having a heart attack, I will be okay. I drink hot green tea flavored with mint and hold the warm mug in my hands or close to my chest and let the heat seep inside my body. Or sometimes I drink ice cold water. I turn the air cooler or put the fan on and it helps me feel like I can breathe better. I stop what I am doing and I clean something or empty the dishwasher. I cuddle with one of the kids so I don't feel so alone. I call someone to talk or on those rare occasions I can't stand to be alone, ask someone to come over. Or I get dressed and call someone and ask them if I can go see them. 

I get under my covers and go to sleep. I plan something fun to do with someone I care about so I have something to look forward to. I make a list of my worries or concerns so I'm not carrying them all in my mind. I put on some music and worship. I listen to my Bible ap read scripture out loud when I need to hear another voice and can't reach anyone or don't want to bother anyone. I have a good cry. I listen to Donnie singing or I look at his pictures or videos. I watch Andy Griffith on Netflix. And of course being the Christmas freak I am, I also like to watch Christmas movies on Netflix and usually play free cell at the same time on my phone. 

Why am I sharing all of this? Because for me, this has been one of the more horrific aspects of dealing with Donnie's death. Because I know I'm not the only person in the world who has suffered from anxiety attacks. Because I'm proud that I am slowly conquering them and they have become less frequent and less severe, most of the time. Because I have this personal paranoia thing about not using prescription medications unless it's absolutely necessary and honestly side effects freak me out and I really don't think I need another thing to freak me out, do you? Right. Crazy Sharon is signing off. Nanoo Nanoo.

Tomorrow's Blog: The Aftermath, Part 6: Moving Forward - The final blog in this series. Sort of.

The Aftermath, Part 4: Crazy Little Thing Called Grief.

I mentioned in my last post that grieving is a process and that is exactly what I've learned and am still learning as I go through my grief over the loss of Donnie. When I lost my mom, I grieved for her. When I lost my brother Gerald, I grieved for him. But they were both entirely different than what I've experienced in grieving for Donnie. 

With my mother, I miss many things about her and I've expressed some of that in past blogs. I still miss her often and think of her daily, but in the wake of grieving Donnie, my grief for her has surprisingly become somewhat renewed and at times more intense than what I went through when I initially grieved for her. I think partly because of 2 reasons. 

1. I think Donnie was kind of a buffer for me. I grieved for my mom and it was difficult, but I had him here to comfort me and hold me and help absorb a portion of my grief and bear part of my burden.
2. Without Donnie here, I naturally long for my mother's comfort in my grief. When I ache for Donnie, I ache for my mom to comfort me, talk with and run to when I have difficult days. So in a way, without Donnie here it's almost as if my grieving for my mom has begun anew. 

I was watching a marathon of Tabatha's Salon Takeovers a few months ago and wailed and cried over my mom through two or three episodes. It reminded me so much of my mother and my involvement in her world when she did hair and worked as manager at Regis Hairstylists in the Mall back home. I realized how special those memories were and how much I took her for granted. 

With my brother, I grieved losing him, but even more so, I grieved for the loss that Amy, Alana and Ian had to endure. I knew I couldn't comprehend it and yet, dealing with Donnie's illnesses over the years and facing uncertainty more than once over his life and health I could only imagine what she must have been going through. And really, I had no idea. Losing Donnie, has devastated my world. In so many ways. I feel as if I have been crippled, like I have lost my legs and I'm learning to walk again. When I lost him, I lost so much.

In the 12 and 1/2 years we were married or 13 years we were together, my whole life changed. I stepped into full-time ministry and I learned how to sing all over again because let's face it, I had a full time vocal coach hounding me every moment. (Those of you who have worked with Donnie will understand that, haha! "Open your mouth! Pronounce the words! Swoop that note! Put some groove in your voice! You sing like a white girl!" LOL) We worked in various churches over the years and went through so much and learned so much together and refined one another. 

What was at first a semi-uncomfortable task for me to take on the role of being a Pastor's wife and being considered a Worship Leader instantly, over the years became second nature. We learned each other. I could feel where he was going in a worship set beyond the list we had prepared, he could tell when God wanted me to lead and it became such a natural exchange, an intimate dance before God of worshiping together. It was crazy, it was powerful, it was rich and it was an extravagant pleasure to worship and to lead worship with him. When I lost him, I felt I had lost that opportunity. Every time I heard worship or tried to worship, I grieved for him, because I knew I may never have that kind of intimacy with someone again. 

I didn't know who I was anymore. Who was I? I was no longer a wife. I was no longer a worship leader. I was no longer a caretaker. I just, was. I was lost. How could I even consider a future? Without him? My way of life for 13 years was gone. Who was I without him? My entire world revolved around him. I couldn't figure out my purpose. 

In many ways, I felt like my life was over. I literally felt as if my life had ended with his. I had no hope and I lived in gloom. After we settled in DFW and I had unpacked everything, I walked around in a Zombie-like stupor from room to room, not knowing what to do with myself. I took the kids to school and would come home in between and feel like I was going crazy. 

For the last several years, my days and nights had been filled with caring for him. I was so busy taking care of him and the kids that even in my relaxed moments, my mind was always filled with pre-meditations of what I needed to do next: fix his medicine, cook dinner, drive to dialysis, make a doctor's appointment, pick up his medicine, bring him something to eat, get his clothes ready for church, plan to leave early enough that if I have to stop for him to vomit on the way there we still wouldn't be late for rehearsal or church, make sure the kids homework was done, drive to church, prepare for rehearsal, enlarge the charts to fonts about 

10 TIMES the size of this because he couldn't see it otherwise. 

And so on and so on. It sounds boring and mundane to type it out, but my life  was full of non-stop activities that kept me extremely busy and focused on him, because he needed me and I didn't mind being needed. Most of the time. Oh I had my moments when I would get in the car to drive to the store and scream and cry and yell at God and wonder why my life had reduced me to a nurse. But I loved Donnie through all that and given the chance to go back, I wouldn't change anything that I did for him, not a second. I loved that man, no matter what.

But without him, I truly felt as if my life was over. For months I asked God what to do. And the answer I received was to simply, grieve. So I poured my time into grieving. I did whatever I felt like I needed to do in whatever given moment I was in. Whatever emotion came over me I let it out, I cried it out, I sang it out, I screamed it out, I cleaned it out, I prayed it out, I freaked out. I hid in my room under my covers. I watched Andy Griffith on Netflix all night long. (Sometimes that was the only thing that made me feel better.) 

I ate chocolate. I drank green smoothies. I worshiped. I sung Bon Jovi. I jumped in the shower. I wouldn't wash my hair. I gave the kids cereal for dinner. I made them steak and baked potatoes. I went out for lunch with my aunt or my friend. I stayed inside for a week like a recluse. I read books and  books and books. I watched TV and Netflix for hours. I talked about getting a job. I didn't look for a job. I did a little retail therapy. I watched my pennies and held them tight. I wrote a blog. I didn't write again for months. I journaled 3 days in a row. I ignored my computer for 2 weeks. 

I would go for a few days of feeling okay and then the world would crash down on me again and immobilize me for a week. I would have a week of feeling pretty good and then I would suffer through a weekend of severe anxiety wondering how I could ever live life again. I would be having a good day and then someone would ask me how I was and I would fall apart. I didn't want to talk to anybody about anything. I told the cashier at Aldi my husband died. I called and texted people in the middle of the night just to feel human and not alone. I still call and text people in the middle of the night just to feel human and not alone. 

I was crazy. I am crazy. I lost my husband. 

I lost my husband. 

I. Lost. My. Husband. 

I take the kids to The Warm Place (a grief recovery center for kids who have lost someone they love) and they go to their separate classes geared towards their age bracket. I attend the group with the adults who have brought the kids. We go around the room one by one introducing ourselves at every meeting, kind of like they do at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. I can never make it through my introduction without crying. "Hi, my name is Sharon. I bring with me my son Kellan who is 10 and my daughter Emelia who is 8. We lost their father, my husband Donnie on November 22, 2012, Thanksgiving Day to 'cardiac arrest' after a long illness, a quick fall and an unexpected blood clot to the heart." 

We talk about our children. We talk about ourselves. We talk about our lost loved ones. Half the people are in tears and sometimes we laugh together over the absurdity of a shared moment, but we are all grieving. Grief is a process. It's like an ocean. The waves roll and crash, they rush and they recede, the tide comes in and the tide goes out, but it always comes back again. Sometimes it takes a few days, sometimes a few hours, sometimes a few weeks, but it always comes back in big waves or in little waves. And it hurts every time,  whether the waters crash over you and make you lose your balance or whether you're just wading through ankle deep water. It still hurts. I'm still grieving. It's getting better. But I'm still grieving. 

Tomorrow's Blog: A Love Story - A break from The Aftermath series to share my love story. Get ready to laugh.

The Aftermath, Part 3: My Grieving Children

The next few weeks of February found us settling into our new apartment. During our Christmas week in DFW with family, I had found a little 2 bed, 1 bath apartment in the same complex my mom used to live in and decided to move there. I unpacked boxes and found places for everything, started decorating and by the end of February had everything pretty much where I wanted it.

The kids settled into their new school, which is a great school by the way and they made new friends, fell in love with their new teachers and were doing well adjusting and maintaining their good grades. The first few weeks in DFW were somewhat exciting for them because of all the newness. But by the end of February after we fell into a daily routine and everything was just about done and set up in the apartment, it hit us all about the same time that this was our new life. Their daddy was gone and wouldn't be joining us here. It was just us and we were on our own.

Emmi started having a hard time at night again. Going to bed was difficult because that's when everything seems to come into a sharper focus for her. She always cuddled with her daddy before bed and gave him goodnight hugs and   kisses. Sometimes he would even go lay down with her in her bed to help her  fall asleep on restless nights. That comfort was gone now and her hero, her love, her protector and her cuddle-master was missing. She began drawing, journaling and writing songs and stories about Donnie. She tends to naturally channel her grief in healthy ways.

Kellan, who would rarely talk about Donnie unless Emmi or I started a conversation about him, began speaking out in some unexpected ways about his daddy. He brought up questions or comments about his death at very inappropriate times. He sang a silly yet disturbing song at the dinner table one evening about the night Donnie died. He told me when I kissed him goodnight  and tucked him in that he didn't want me to die. It took me a a few seconds to  gather myself and comfort him in those moments.

I am very open with them at all times and encourage them to talk as much as they want to about their daddy and share any memories, ask any questions and say anything they want to say. I've assured them that it's okay to cry when they need to and anytime they feel like doing so. I've held them in their tears and they've held me during some of mine and then we've discussed how it's good to feel your feelings and not keep them inside. 

We laugh together about funny moments we had with Donnie. One of Emmi's favorites to recount is one night when we were out to dinner after church. We  had eaten at IHOP and were about to leave, when Donnie saw an untouched sausage link on Emmi's plate. Emmi LOVES meat, just like Donnie did. It is rare she leaves any morsel of meat on her plate, but this particular time she did because she had dropped the sausage on the floor when Donnie had gone to the restroom with Kellan. So when he saw it, he grabbed it for himself in a teasing way from Emmi's plate. Emmi and I said 'Wait! NO! Don't!' ... but he had already placed the sausage in his mouth in a funny, possessive way and chewed it vindictively while staring at Emmi with an evil grin on his face! Then we told him what happened and we laughed and laughed and laughed. We all laughed and giggled the whole way home; it was so, so funny. 

We talk about the night of his death and I answer the same questions over and over for them. We discuss our sadness at losing him and our love for him and how we can't wait to one day see him again in Heaven, where we believe we will be reunited. We watch the funny videos he made on his phone, we listen to his voice singing and worshiping, we look at pictures and sometimes we just hold  each other because we need to.  

And we've started going to a wonderful grief recovery center for kids (and the adults who bring them) called The Warm Place. It's the same place Amy took Alana and Ian for 2 years after Gerald passed away. Kellan, who still finds it difficult to share his feelings about missing his daddy at times, has really taken to the atmosphere they have there. He will tell me several times a week he wishes it was time to go back to The Warm Place (we meet every other week on Wednesdays), so it's encouraging to me that he is able to talk and share there in a safe place with other kids who have been through the same thing.

Our emotions have evolved and processed somewhat and it's easier now to talk in some ways but grieving is such a process and for every person, it is remarkably different. Emmi is open and ready to share or ask for help if she needs it. Kellan is guarded and limited in what he chooses to say and only reaches out for help when he is absolutely overwhelmed or afraid. And I have had my own ways and difficulties of dealing with my grief which I'll share later, but the important thing is that we are making progress, little by little, which actually adds up to a lot.

Tomorrow's Blog: The Aftermath, Part 4: Crazy Little Thing Called Grief - An honest portrayal of my grief as it unfolds.

The Aftermath, Part 2: The Move

Over the next few weeks as I prepared for Christmas, I came to a decision that we needed to move. Although we loved our church family and they loved us, it was too painful to stay there without Donnie. We still went to church weekly on Sunday mornings but it was extremely difficult, especially for Emmi. Our morning worship service always included our youth and children and when worship ended they would release the youth and kids to go to their classes. Emmi was used to standing in the congregation every service, worshiping with her daddy as her worship leader. He was always there on the keyboard, singing and worshiping. And now he was not.

We would enter just after worship started to avoid awkward moments with people before service. I would stand and try to worship, but Emmi couldn't bear to look at the platform. She would turn to me and bury her head into my body, place her arms around me and weep, which in turn would cause me to weep. Then Kellan would join us as well sometimes silently crying, sometimes just looking sad. So I would sit and hold them through the worship service. It was strange, sad and weird. 

The kids didn't want to move away, especially Kellan. He didn't want to leave his friends at school or church. And our Pastor's family was like family to us. It was difficult for all of us to imagine not being near them. But I couldn't stay in that house, it felt so empty without Donnie. And because we lived 45 minutes from our Pastors, we only saw them on the weekends briefly at church and sometimes for lunch afterwards (after Donnie's death I could only bring myself to attend one service a week instead of our normal 3 services). All week long I would face an empty house while the kids were at school and when they were home, it was still strange because we as a family were always together with Donnie. We went everywhere together, did everything together and were never without one another, ever. So even though my Pastors were like family, I still felt alone because our lives were in different cities, nearly an hour apart except for a brief time once a week.

I decided to move to DFW, TX. I had family there. I had friends from old workplaces there. I had church support there. I knew the area having lived there before and it just felt like the place we needed to be. So after Christmas when I began packing up the Christmas deco, I also began packing up our home. I purged A LOT of things. I threw away tons. I gave away tons. I put tons aside for a massive yard sale. I packed nearly my entire household by myself over the course of the next 3 weeks. It kept me busy which helped a lot since any moment of stillness was torture for me. By the end of January, and with a lot of help from our church members, music team and from our Pastors and their extended family, we got it done. I had everything packed by the last Thursday of the month, had a major yard sale on Friday, loaded up a truck on Saturday and moved on Sunday. 

When the house was empty after loading the truck on Saturday, I walked through one more time by myself to make sure nothing had been overlooked and to say goodbye to the home we had lived in for nearly 5 years. That was the moment I began to lose the control and resolve I had been living on the last few weeks. I crumbled. Life here was over. We were leaving for good. And it felt like I was saying goodbye to Donnie all over again.

When I had to say goodbye to my Pastors, my heart broke some more. I grieved over saying goodbye to them, to losing them as my Pastors, to leaving them as my friends, as my family. They were so good to us. They never complained about Donnie's illnesses over the years we were with them. They never shunned us or made us feel guilty when he was incapable of making a service due to being sick for one reason or another. They never held his health against him or made him feel like less of a person because of the inconveniences his health caused. They always prayed for us and over us and encouraged us and lifted us up. And they treated us like royalty. They were Jesus in flesh to us. Uncondemning, loving, unconditional, kind, generous, protective, sacrificing. (Thank you Nathan and Cyndee Fleetwood.)

It was difficult to leave and to say goodbye not just to the friends and members at Victory Life Church where we had served for 5 years, but also to the life I had known with Donnie for 13 years. To leave our ministry behind, relationships behind, history behind. My sis-n-law Amy (my brother Gerald's widow) and her then fiance/now husband Darryl drove up and helped me by driving the truck, towing my car and letting me ride worry free from Silsbee to DFW. I was exhausted and full of mixed emotions, relieved and yet heartbroken. I left part of myself there. I lost part of myself there. I gave part of myself there. I suppose in a way I can never fully say goodbye.

Tomorrow's Blog: What NOT to Do If You Work For a Funeral Home - An amusing detail of some rather inappropriate situations I encountered when dealing with the Funeral Home for Donnie's Memorial Service.

The Aftermath, Part 1: The Surreal Whirlwind

Thanksgiving day 2012, I was sitting in a funeral home planning out my husband's Memorial Service with a stranger and my friend who also happened to be my Pastor's wife. Only a few hours prior to that, I had to tell my children what a Doctor had just told me; that their daddy, who they had just cuddled with only a few hours before, was dead. My mind was reeling as I sat in front of this strange stranger discussing numbers and services that were mumbo jumbo to me because what was really ringing in my ears were Donnie's last breaths.

Although looking back it feels like a whirlwind, I remember every little moment of the next few days. I didn't black out or block out any details from my mind. I didn't live in a fog or go through the motions. I very intentionally got things done, lived by a list and crossed off items one by one. I slept very little and ate very little. I made hard decisions, I cleaned up the mess the EMT's left behind, I met with friends to plan Donnie's service and I held Emmi each night as she cried herself to sleep on her daddy's pillow, saying 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy' over and over again in her broken sobs.

I was overwhelmed by emails and phone calls and instant messages and texts. I was asked: "What happened? What can I do? What do you need? When is the service? How are the kids? How are you holding up? Will you stay there? Where will you go? Have you thought about what will you do?" Some questions I could answer and some I could not. 

The next day was Emelia's 8th birthday. We had a small party for her at the church along with a meal that was prepared for friends and family coming in and for those who were helping me plan out Donnie's service. There's a picture or two of Emmi with a plastic crown on her head and a small smile on her face. Her eyes were still swollen and she was quiet and subdued, just not at all herself. 

His service was on Saturday, 2 days after Thanksgiving and 1 day after Emmi's birthday. My family and some close friends of ours were able to gather together with Donnie for an hour before the service. I couldn't afford to have him at the service just a quarter mile down the street, so we spent time with him there. It's not the way I would have chosen, but it was my best option at the time. 

It was different. He was on a table with wheels and they had covered him with what I would call hospital blankets because I couldn't afford to place him in a coffin even for just an hour. Despite the weirdness of the table and being able to see the wheels peeking out beneath the blanket, he really did look great. I had picked out his favorite suit and a baby blue shirt and some funky socks that he loved. But the blanket was crooked. And it was driving me crazy because it would have driven him crazy. I should have straightened it or asked the strange stranger to do it, but I just sat there and stared at it off and on for an hour. 

The memorial service at the church was amazing. We had a large framed photo of him in front of the church and honored him in several different ways. We laughed and we cried, shared memories and sang songs. It was just the way I wanted it. We had another similar service a week later in Louisiana at his home church. I was told by someone they had never been to a Memorial service like that before, which made me feel good. I thought it was fitting for Donnie because there was no one else like him. 

The second service which was held in Louisiana was more difficult for me. I guess because I was surrounded by the people that knew him best and with whom he had spent most of his years and also because this time, his remains were there. And maybe also because the kids weren't there (they didn't want to go through it a second time) I didn't feel I needed to be quite as strong as I try to be when I'm with them. The emotion was more raw and it was much harder for me to keep myself together. 

The internment was short and sweet in a beautiful Louisiana cemetery filled with white tombs ornamented with crosses, angels, Jesus's and Mary's. A few words were said and then a prayer was spoken. We stood a few moments letting the finality, that strangely didn't feel final, settle in and as I walked away from the family tomb he was placed in, I knew when they closed the door I would be separated from him, this time for good. It was surreal.

I spent the next few days with my family in North Louisiana and then headed home, back to our house, back to the kids' schools, back to church. Pulling up in our driveway without him made me sad. Walking in our front door and seeing the EMT's jacket and glasses that had been accidentally left behind made me sadder. The kids and I brought in our luggage and I put them to bed and then watched some TV while they slept. 

It was 3 weeks until Christmas.
  


This video was shared at both services. It's a collection we compiled from videos we found on Donnie's phone. It's 12 minutes long, but it's a fun ride when you have a few extra minutes. He was such a kook. :)

Tomorrow's Blog: The Aftermath, Part 2: The Move - Why I decided to move to DFW & How I did it in one month's time.