Backpacking Through Joshua: Week Three

I'm tired and my face hurts. (Pregnancy-induced cystic acne. I hate it.) My son hasn't been to school in two weeks between personal illness and snow days called by the local school district. I've had out of state company for five days this week. I'm exhausted. But I will post for Week Three if it's the last thing I do! (covers head and waits for lightning to strike)

I seriously considered just doing the reading and not posting anything for this week for all of the above reasons, and then some. But after reading Joshua 3 and the "Putting It Out There" questions, I realized, This is easy -- I got this! The only problem will be limiting this to a bazillion words or less... I'm super excited about the questions, the answers that I have to give, and better yet the glaring proof in the pudding that is the Joshua 3 text. Let's dive in.

"Putting It Out There" Questions:

1) Are there some areas in your life in which you allow God to lead more than others?

2) Tell of a time you followed God's lead into an unfamiliar territory. If you don't have particular experience, talk about why you think that may be.

Oh man... rubs hands together Mr. Miyagi-style...

1) This is a hard question to answer. I'd love to say, "I live my life in complete submission to the Gospel and to God's will for my life." Even if that were true, I'm not even sure I would know if it actually was the truth. Being such a tightly-wound, Type A personality, it's hard to allow God to lead me. I've actually struggled with this for much of my life, but more intentionally over the last six or seven years. I earnestly pray and try to allow God to lead in areas of decision making. This can be tricky in my marriage, but I also understand that I am to treat my husband as a Christian husband regardless of whether he is or not (i.e., we are not praying together over a decision, but I am definitely praying over the decision to be made and how we will come together to make it, if it's a situation that involves both of us). I am very excited and driven when it comes to music ministry. I have to slap myself with the humble stick on a regular basis to remind myself that a) this gift is not mine to own but is a blessing from God and is God's to use, and b) if it becomes about me, my interests, my "territory", things have gone way off track and I need to step back, humble myself, and refocus on Who, why, etc. Those two areas seem rather broad, but those are really the parts of my life that are the most apt to derail away from God. I am constantly trying to keep myself in check so that I don't find myself trying to take the reins away from God and act like I have a clue of how to run the show, so to speak.

2) Here's the question I've been waiting for!

First of all, Joshua 3 is one of the examples of why I love to read the Old Testament. It is fraught with symbolism and ritual and outlandishly amazing examples of God's master plan unraveling in the history of the world. This is big-deal stuff, everybody!

Paraphrase: Joshua addresses the Israelites and says, "Get ready. You are going to be stepping out of the box -- again -- but the cool thing -- again -- is that God will be standing in front of you, and you are to physically walk behind God. Don't worry about the fact that you have no idea where you are going. You've got the God GPS fully charged and functioning. All you have to do is prepare yourselves and keep your eyes open. Let's go!"

How many times in our lives have we gone into unchartered territory in our lives? How many times have we prayed, cried out, worried, fretted, prayed some more, consulted wise friends and family, prayed a little more, and then stepped a little toe in the direction we thought we were supposed to go? Was God behind this choice? Sure hope so. Sure think so. I mean, I prayed about it, right? But is this one of those situations where God says yes, no, or remains silent? Can someone please just tell me what to do?!? Or maybe your reaction is one of, "Never mind! Forget it! This is too hard/weird/uncomfortable/etc. I'm staying right.where.I.am."

Can I admit something? I just want to say that I'm jealous of the Israelites. They knew they were on a journey of extraordinary importance and that there was plenty of unchartered territory. But they had, in their belief, the physical presence of God walking directly in front of them. They were, essentially, walking in God's footsteps into the Promised Land just like I used to do as a kid. My dad and I would go on these wonderful long walks on my grandparents' farm through really tall grasses (tall for a kid who was probably only four feet tall). He would walk in front of me to make a path through the brush, grass, or thorny mesquite trees. All I had to do was put my foot on the exact same place where his had been, and I would have a perfectly clear passage through the central Texas wilderness. Joshua tells them, " 'When you see the ark of the covenant of the LORD your God being carried by the levitical priests, then you shall set out from your place. Follow it, so that you may know the way you should go, for you have not passed this way before...' Then Joshua said to the people, 'Sanctify yourselves; for tomorrow the LORD will do wonders among you.' " (Joshua 3:3-4a, 5; emphasis mine). The Israelites believed the God physically resided in the ark of the covenant, so this is a huge deal for them to have God leading the way so physically and symbolically.

Unfortunately, our lives are not quite this simple. We find ourselves in wildernesses or being forced to step out of the box, whether or not we want to. Almost like being shoved out of a door completely naked, only to realize you are on stage at Radio City Music Hall with the spotlight on you. This is soooo not where you want to be right now, but there is no door knob to turn and you have to stand there and deal with the situation in which you have found yourself.

My story is a long one, which I can relate in a later post because it really is worth telling, and no doubt many of you have heard it. In a nutshell, my unfamiliar territory came on November 29 and 30, 2005. That was the day my late husband, T., was involved in a motorcycle accident, and he died the following day. I was 29 years old. My daughter was 2 1/2, my son was 9 months old. We were given no choices. He suffered a ruptured carotid artery, the pressure in his brain soared, and he was gone. Just like that. Talk about a wilderness.

As overwhelming an experience as this was, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Everlasting God was present that day. There were no levitical priests carrying God in a box showing me how to handle myself, my grief, or anything like that. I just knew that I could collapse in the arms of the Father, and he would be there to catch me. In fact, God would take it a step further. God would carry me when I needed it, and when possible, God would prop me up on these shaky legs and encourage me to take baby steps on my own, much like we do with our kids when they learn to ride a bike without training wheels. I laid face down on a bathroom floor in LSU Medical Center in Shreveport, Louisiana, and my entire body and soul wept. I begged God to take this burden from me, not as I willed but as God willed. I begged God to take it from me because I could not bear it on my own. I somehow got up off that floor, faced the doctors calling time of death, brought my babies in to tell their dad good-bye, arranged the organ donations, and began the journey back to Fort Polk to begin the process of burying my husband and soul mate and figure out how to live a life without him. Every single day since then feels like unfamiliar territory. Then again, unfamiliar territory and existing outside of the box has begun to feel familiar to me. Regardless, I know that God has been here every step of the way, and as hard as it has been to follow, I fully appreciate and understand that there is truly no other way to handle it.

Favorite verse for Week Three: " '...Sanctify yourselves; for tomorrow the LORD will do wonders among you.' " -- Joshua 3:5

Five Years

Dearest T.,

Five years ago we had a change of plans in our lives, didn't we? Saying goodbye in a Shreveport hospital room was not something either of us had remotely thought about or planned for -- you were supposed to be going to Afghanistan, we were planning what to get the kids for Christmas, and I was concerned you might deploy before Bud's first birthday. We had barely finished the Thanksgiving leftovers; in fact, they might have still been in the refrigerator when the kids and I packed up to follow the helicopter that would take you to better medical care north of our home at Fort Polk. I always thought that, if you knew that you died in Louisiana, you would've been mad that I hadn't insisted that you be flown to a hospital just over the state line into Texas -- not really angry, but you really didn't like Louisiana. I guess none of us have any control over when these moments in life occur, do we?

Five years ago I was bracing for Afghanistan, our first deployment not just as a couple but as a family with small children who were going to miss Daddy. I was wondering how we were going to remember to work you into our daily routines in absentia, how to keep in touch with you so that the distance would be easier for all of us, how to make the house feel like you had only just walked out the door instead of realizing you had been gone for months and months. I was bracing, like all military spouses, for the possibility that the last time I saw you could be the last time I saw you. I attended the briefings about Casualty Assistance, knew who to call for emergencies, and things like that. I was trying to prepare our home and my heart for the worst but hope and pray for the best.

Five years ago I was a frazzled, tired mother of two toddlers. You were all that as well as the first commander of a brand new company in a fledgling battalion. I have to chuckle when I think about all the characters in our company and all the drama you and First Sargeant had to deal with, especially the infamous Tylenol Kid. From FRGs to the dreaded Christmas wrapping volunteering at the PX (remember, that was our last phone conversation?), from two times the dirty diapers to being sick of eating spaghetti, our lives were busy. Happy, but busy.

Five years ago Li'l G was two and a half -- definitely a Daddy's girl who had you wrapped around her chubby little finger. Bud was only nine months old but a very active little guy who you predicted would be walking by Christmas. Did you ever get to see him walk? Turns out you were right -- he took his first steps two weeks after you died.

Five years ago you lost the fight for your life, but not the way you might've thought, off on a dusty, cold, windswept mountain plain in Southwest Asia. I think I felt you slip away. Maybe you were trying to tell me goodbye, but I can't be sure. But something woke me at 6:40 that morning, and time stood still. Only when we got to the hospital hours later did they tell me what happened during the 7 AM shift change. Was that you? I cannot help but think that it was, and I am so thankful for that experience. It has been such a precious memory these last five years.

Five years ago I watched the doctors perform the last tests to see if you were still alive. I watched as they moved quickly from one to the other, each time with no response from your body. The last thing they did was turn off the breathing machine. I watched quietly, but inside my head I was screaming at you as loud as I could: "JUST BREATHE! ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS BREATHE! IN AND OUT! JUST BREATHE!" It was then that I realized that was the one thing you could not do. I was not used to seeing you fail at something. You would make up your mind you were going to do something, and almost every time you were successful. Remember how you had just started training for a marathon? Why couldn't your strong, young body do this one thing? I remember looking at you and thinking this wasn't real and not really happening, but then again, it was happening.

Five years ago your brother and sister lost their hero. Your mother and father's hearts shattered into a million pieces. My family lost another son and brother. Your buddies lost a fellow Rough Rider. Your soldiers lost their commander. Your children lost their father. I lost the love of my life.

Five years ago you arrived, in a robe washed white with the blood of the Lamb, at the foot of the throne of grace. The pain and struggles you endured in this life scattered like leaves in the fall caught in a whirling wind as you took your first steps on heavenly feet. I know Grandpa was waiting for you with a huge smile on his face. Have you felt warm rushes wash over you like gentle waves at the beach? That has been the love I send your way each time I think of you and miss you.

Five years ago it felt as if my life had ended, too. What were we going to do? We needed you. We had nothing without you. Lost. In a word that is how I felt. As I lay prostrate on the bathroom floor and begged God to take this cup from me, not as I willed but as God willed, I, too, felt scattered to the wind, out of control, flung out a window and falling like a rock. That's where I was five years ago.

Five years has gone by, and I hope and pray that God has allowed you to see some of the steps we've made forward from that point in time. There are still some days where I can't believe you were here and now are gone, still so surreal. Then there are days when I feel as though we are face to face once again in a twinkle in Bud's mischievous grin or in the lifted eyebrow of Li'l G. I look at the shape of her hands, the toes and arches of his feet and realize you are there in the very DNA of our children. They both love your mom's pumpkin bread, too, and Bud has always loved hot salsa just like you. And Bud has most definitely got your sense of humor -- he is the jokester of the family.

Five years has gone by, and I hope and pray that it didn't break your heart to see me move on. It has been no easy task. It has been incredibly painful to love you and him at the same time, differently but similarly. I want him to know that I am his wife now, but I will always love you, too. I want you to know that you have not been replaced in my heart or my life. I have been so very blessed to have you both in my life. I hope you approve of how we are raising the children. He loves these kids and does a great job of being a father.

Five years ago I'd have never thought I would be writing you this letter. The pain of losing you will always be a part of me but is somehow evolving over the years. I hope and pray that you won't forget me, the kids, your friends and family who carry precious memories of you close to their hearts. We have not forgotten you.

Love Always,

Kim

P.S. -- Remember our song? Still a good one, Schmupps. :)

Beauty Will Rise

I have just deleted the blog I had intended to publish today, but strangely enough I think the title needs to stay.

I have been awash in emotion today. I awoke to yet another day of rare, pristine fall weather that I have not experienced in this part of the country in a number of years. I rose from slumber feeling at peace, happy, fulfilled, purposeful. Then I came into my office and sat down to listen to my latest download, Steven Curtis Chapman's, "Beauty Will Rise," which is the griefwork put to music of the Chapman family after the loss of their sweet little five year-old Maria over a year ago. When I heard the words to some of the songs, I immediately felt a pang of identifying with the bittersweet sentiments of intense loss and a holy grief, one that is observed by many people but privately lamented and deeply mourned. And then the panicky, sick feeling as the events at FT Hood unfolded this afternoon. The scrambling for information, contact with loved ones, waiting, uncertainty, and the undeniable stench of death.

I was so struck in many ways by the Steven Curtis Chapman CD that I was moved to devote an entire post to it; as luck would have it, I got busy and had to walk away from the post, saving it for completion at the end of my day hours later. How would I know what events would end up ruling the day and taking priority in my mind?

As of this post, the latest numbers and information is staggering: 13 dead, at least 30 wounded. The shooter's smiling face has been plastered all over news channels, and the assumptions and foregone conclusions are swirling like a Kansas twister across the networks. No matter what finally emerges as fact or fiction, this entire event is beyond sickening in more ways than one.

Being a creature with selfish tendencies, I internalized today's events in such a different way than most. I was immediately rushed back to November 29 and 30, 2005. I felt the numbness again in my arms and legs that I had felt upon hearing about T's motorcycle accident, driving past the wrecker loading up the demolished bike, the ambulance in the bay, the swath of trauma personnel hovering around him in the ER, the thwocking of the medivac rotors as they waited to rush him off to a trauma center in Shreveport, the waiting in uncomfortable waiting rooms for a shred of information, wondering what shape he would be in when I finally got to see him, wondering if he would be in the hospital for a month or if he was going to die. Then I remember hearing my Casualty Assistance Officer's voice on the phone, going through the steps of making final arrangements that seemed so surreal. This is really happening? To me? To him? What?!? But he was getting ready to deploy -- this sort of thing doesn't happen until the guys are deployed. He was only coming home from work, we had just gotten off the phone -- are you sure you got this right? What am I supposed to do now?

How many new widows are there at FT Hood tonight? How many people saw a soldier in a Class A's show up at their door with a commander or a chaplain? How many people now know what a Casualty Assistance Officer is going to help them do over the next couple of weeks? How many parents are finding out that there will be one less table setting at Thanksgiving three weeks from today? How many kids get to celebrate Christmas next month without their parent? How many babies are going to be born into a single parent family?

I don't even have to be up at Scott & White trauma center to feel the tension pulsating from the hearts of these families, waiting on pins and needles to hear news, any news at all about whether their soldier will make it or whether they have been shoved through Door #2 without their permission, a door which locks after you pass the threshold and has no doorknob on the other side. It's a one way ticket to a life you never thought would be yours.

The fact of the matter is this: tomorrow is not promised. Not for me, T., Maria Chapman, or any of the soldiers who died today. Not for you or your loved ones. I've said many times that, as military spouses, we brace ourselves for the possibility that our loved one may not come home to us alive from a deployment. We do not prepare ourselves for something like what happened today, or like what happened to me. And why not? Who knows. Any number of reasons I guess.

I can only hope and pray that these new Gold Star families will draw close to one another and to God as they grieve and struggle in the days, weeks, months, and even years to come. And I hope that we can all give them a wide berth to do so and to unconditionally love them through this process. I hope that they will find the tiny pieces of grace and hope in the ashes of their lives and use them to weave a new tapestry, one that will blend together their past love and the new life toward which they will have to move, just as even I daily move toward my new reality. The title song on Steven Curtis Chapman's new album is about this exact topic -- how beauty can rise from these tragic, astoundingly painful situations. It is a lifeline to cling to when you are sinking, just praying that what you're going through won't swallow you alive. If you can hold onto the idea that God will redeem this pain and use it to God's glory, then just maybe something beautiful can emerge that you would have never thought possible as you were going through it at the time.

I wanted to embed this song from YouTube but it doesn't want to cooperate. To be blessed by this song, I implore you to download the album or listen to it here. Even in the midst of absolute pain and grief, I truly believe that beauty will rise.

+ May the Holy Spirit encamp around the ones who are hurting tonight and give them rest and peace for the difficult days to come. Amen.

9/11 Remembered

Life stood still eight years ago at almost this very precise moment at which I'm typing to you. I remember sitting there in my classroom with a husband who had just left days prior to go to the National Training Center (NTC) in California, thinking about today being his birthday, and then the harsh reality of the news of the day. I was terrified that his unit would deploy immediately to Afghanistan from NTC and not even get to come home first. I wasn't ready to face the fact that I could lose him. And yet, look what so many others had already lost.

For so many of us, 9/11 is simply part of our American history. We have passionate feelings about the events of the day and those that followed. But for so many others, their lives were ripped apart. To try and understand the loss felt by the husbands and wives, children, the unborn, the moms, dads, and siblings, and other lives touched by those we lost that day is futile. The best we can hope to do is grieve alongside them and shed tears "on behalf of a grateful nation."

We didn't just lose people in the twin towers of the World Trade Center. We lost people in the soft, plowed fields of Pennsylvania, where our forefathers likely trod as they fought bitterly for our independence from England. We lost people in the labrynthine Pentagon as well, some of our brilliant military and civilian thinkers who have dedicated their lives and careers to the job of defending our country. We had a huge gash ripped out of the rich, colorful tapestry of America. Rather than trying to repair the gash and pretend it never happened, thankfully we have all gathered 'round it to look at its hallowed, jagged beauty to remind ourselves of each person borne into the arms of God that day. Their lives hold meaning to this day and will not be forgotten.

I cannot hear this song without weeping. Like coming across a precious memento of a loved one lost, "Where Were You When The World Stopped Turning" so poignantly captures the sweet sorrow of those days spent huddled around the television, watching the news crawl across the bottom of the screen for breaking news. It gives me permission to cry with its gentle melody and simple words. At the beginning of the song I feel simply rotten, but by the end there is hope, an important point that we all miss each day. Faith is great, hope is wonderful, but we must love. Unconditionally. And intentionally. As Christians, Jesus commands us to do this. If you are not Christian, showing love to another person is simply treating another human being with the same respect and dignity you expect to be shown. How different our world would be if we humbled ourselves to truly love one another.

Soak in 9/11. Remember. Allow yourself to take that walk back in time. And keep moving forward in love.

Rage Against The Dying Of The Light

I'll be honest. I have never been a huge Farrah Fawcett fan. In fact, when I heard that she had a documentary showing her journey through cancer, I must admit it ticked me off a little. I mean, why should we care about this? Millions of average joes are diagnosed with and fight cancer on a daily basis. This whole "let me use my celebrity to put a 'face' on cancer" business just irritated me like a pebble in a shoe. The 'face' I put on cancer is that of my friend, Jenster. My grandfather. Li'l G's German oma back in Georgia. A hardcore Army wife. These are the real faces of real people that have been faced with cancer and kicked it square in the face and said, "Not today; not on my watch." Thanks anyhow, Farrah -- already have a meaningful association here without Hollywood attempting to create meaning here.

And then I watched her film, "Farrah's Story."

And then I felt like a jackass.

What I saw was not some blonde chickie who was famous in Hollywood. What I saw was a child of God, looking with eyes of bewilderment at life, at creation, and how death is not near as far away as many of us might think. I saw in her eyes fear, hope, caution, exhaustion, delight in simplicity, wonder. What I saw was a fellow human, trying to navigate her way in this sea of the uncertain human experience.

I was so touched. True, I really don't need to watch a movie to have an epiphany on the effects of a disease on a person, but in an age where we all drool like Pavlovian subjects at the mention of "reality television" or infidelity between Jon and Kate, this was reality. I believe the Discovery channel calls it "actuality." We do not need films like "Farrah's Story" to make cancer, alzheimers, or children with autism finally seem real to us; we need them to retain a sense of connection during very human experiences -- life, death, birth, love, grief, affliction -- all these things which God calls us to yoke alongside one another and experience in community.

I do not know if NBC will replay "Farrah's Story;" however, if it is rerun, do yourself a favor. Turn off the "Jon & Kate" episodes you DVRed and watch. It is a shining example of how one woman refuses to give up on herself, and those around her cannot help but love and support her and her tenacity. May we all go down fighting.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

--Dylan Thomas

C.S. Lewis: Narnia? Not Quite...

Let me lay the ground work; then, we'll get to the comments about C.S. Lewis...

So I've embarked on this journey of trying to gird my brains with information this summer. Information that will hopefully be a resource as I attempt to piece together a care giving ministry at my church. When my pastor initially discussed this with me, I was surprisingly excited about the task at hand. My normal reaction would be one of, "Oh, no, not me. I'm not qualified/ordained/organized/"holy" enough..." So many times I would be tempted to back out of leading such an effort, but this time I met his gaze with some enthusiasm. It's an area of ministry that I would have never picked out to be involved with, much less coordinate or lead others' efforts. So hopefully that's a seed of God-planted affirmation.

My second reaction was, "Uh oh. I am really not qualified." I graduated from an informal, two year training of "average joes" who want to step up their involvement in their church and congregation. I am not any sort of professional counselor, pastor, etc. When my pastor left in late January, I saw a need to pick up a neglected ministry and fulfill a need. I began visiting with and taking communion to the sick and immobile people who cannot make it to church anymore, and I have received enough positive feedback to know that my efforts are appreciated. However, this should not and cannot be a pastor-centered ministry. There are too many people, both in our congregation and the world at-large, who need this type of one-on-one ministry. It's called care giving. My favorite way of putting it: ministry of presence. A ministry of presence is something that we're all qualified and called to do as believers. My job will be to gather a dedicated group of volunteers and connect them with those in need of this intentional fellowship.

So it occurs to me that the only experience I have is that of being literally plopped into people's homes and apartments, praying that God would be amongst our fellowship and keep me from doing or saying anything stupid. If I am to serve as a servant leader, I need to have some resources. Essentially, I need some tools in my belt. Out of all the books I have chosen to read, this is the one I have finished first:

"A Grief Observed," by C.S. Lewis. I had heard about this book and wanted to read it for some time but had forgotten about it. Having lost a spouse, I am able to relate on some level to those who have also gone through this type of loss, but I'm constantly trying to find a way to express thoughts, glimpses, wrestlings with God that I have experienced to those who have not had to go through this. This book gives a voice to those of us who have been down this road but can't quite put a finger on how to describe it. If you have been through the death of a spouse, please read this book. If you are married, please read this book. C.S. Lewis, like myself, had to do some serious restructuring of how he perceived death, marriage, eternal life, Heaven, God, and so forth. For us, we had to go through our grief as we navigated these murky spiritual waters. Do yourself a favor now and really take a hard look at how you answer some of these questions:

1) What is the role of death in a marriage?
2) Regardless of what my religion tells me, do I expect to be reunited with my spouse and/or loved ones?
3) Where, geographically, is Heaven?
4) What type of awareness does one have after death?
5) Do relationships continue on after death?
6) What is the point of enduring pain?

Most of the people I know who read my blog (if they haven't given up on me yet! haha!) will have a Bible verse for each of these answers. I encourage you here: put away the Bible. Step away from the reliable comfort of the Word and go into a graduate level application without your notes. Close your eyes, and picture your spouse gone. Their smell, gone. Their snoring, gone. Their companionship, gone. The heat of their body pressed against you as you sleep at night, gone. And not deployed, either. Gone. Imagine forgetting the sound of their voice. Imagine wondering if the way you remember him/her is really the way he/she was at all. All of these factors, and many more that we cannot perceive ahead of time, weigh heavily on a person's heart and affects the answers to those questions. The type of relationship you have with God prior to an event like this significantly affects how you navigate grief and loss, but the experience itself gets equal billing in the decision making process of someone left in the wake of their absent mate.

Clive Staples Lewis (yes, that's what C.S. stands for) apparently never intended to publish these four journals, now chapters, that he penned after the death of his wife. Writing being his mode of expression, he worked out his grief ponderings on paper and left us a gift therein. What you witness is a man desperately in love, desperately lost, wrestling with himself, God, and the "grief process." His words are tender, raw, scathing, sorrowful, hopeful, realistic, searching, disturbing -- he is real about what he is experiencing. You will not find theology in this book. There are no fictional allegories about Aslan, no floral writing about "glory to God" or "let it be Thy will." Instead, you will take a peek into the mind of a one who has had part of him amputated and realizes he must somehow survive.

From the first paragraph of Chapter One, Lewis hits the nail on the head: "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness... At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed." Chapter Two is not for the faint of heart. Here is where he gets to the dirty work of wrestling with God, reality, and eternity. He speaks at length about one's faith being like a rope and the level of trust we assign to our beliefs. Sure, we trust a rope to keep a box tied shut. There is no stress on its fibers. However, "suppose you had to hang by that rope over a precipice. Wouldn't you then first discover how much you really trusted it?" (p. 23) He also muses over how our beliefs and our faith is like a delicate house of cards that, however carefully constructed, is easily demolished. He comes around in Chapter Four to a beautiful change in perspective about his house of cards, demonstrating that this type of spiritual questioning and challenging is necessary to prune our spiritual bushes in order to stimulate healthy growth.

One of the most profound observations he made was regarding death and marriage. For many of us, we see these two concepts in perhaps one of two ways:

1) We marry. We live together in marriage until one of the partners dies. When the second partner dies, the relationship continues, almost as if it had been paused in the meantime. We're reunited, walking hand in hand for eternity; or,

2) We marry. We live together in marriage until one of the partners dies, at which time we are free to search for a partner and remarry. Wash; rinse; repeat. Reunification in heaven, maybe yes, maybe no.

In other words, we see death as either a cosmic pause in our relationship, or the finite end to it. Lewis believes that "bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience of love. It follows marriage as normally as marriage follows courtship or as autumn follows summer. It is not a truncation of the process but one of its phases; not the interruption of the dance, but the next figure." (p. 50) I felt as if someone had taken my hands out of cuffs the minute I read that. How freeing! For me, this makes marriage possible -- I don't have to fear death as being the unknown or the end. It is part of the process, the natural cycle of life and love, put into place by Life and Love Himself. It certainly does not remove pain, as pain is part of the natural experience of living as much as happiness or love. For some reason, it helps to make sense of pain to me.

I know this post may seem a little academic, and in a way, I would feel guilty reviewing C.S. Lewis and not paying closer attention to some of his details. I think this book was a great starting point for me, both personally and "professionally." Personally, I'm always in search of connecting with others who "get it." Professionally, I'm not a professional anything, besides maybe a speculator, but this is a great tool to hand to others who have not had this experience firsthand. It is a great tool for those going through a similar circumstance. Rather than preaching to people about what the Bible says about death, no more tears in Heaven, God will be your husband, and all the other ridiculous crap people have thrown my way, however well-intentioned it was at the time, I would rather hand this book to them and encourage them to see it as a conversation with a real person, looking realistically and practically at life, death, and love through a holy lens.

Class of 2021

It's hard to fathom, as you look at your squirming, bewildered newborn, that they will not always be tiny and helpless. Making a connection between this little stocking-capped person who can curl up in the crook of your arm and the lanky teenager smelling up your house isn't one easily made. And while my children are still quite young, the ways in which they have grown both delight and depress me. Simply put, they are growing up, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Case and point: Kindergarten graduation. Seriously, who came up with this? Someone who exacts emotional revenge on parents of five- and six-year olds, that's who. Is the growth chart on the bathroom wall not enough of a reminder that this precious, chubby person would rather watch High School Musical than Backyardigans, which WAS her favorite show until she left the soft, sweet cocoon of preschool? Do you just enjoy watching me in pain?!?

All drama aside, Li'l G did, in fact, graduate from Kindergarten today. Given the recent events in my family, as you can read from the previous post, my emotions have been maintaining the red-line area for a couple of weeks, so I was determined to keep it together for Li'l G's sake if for no other reason. This was actually quite simple to do, as I was shooting her daggers with my eyes since she and the little girl sitting next to her were giggling and pushing for the majority of the occasion. But, as per usual, I was struck by several precious moments during graduation that pressed through the floodgates and tore me up good.

After each student had walked the stage and received his or her awards and diploma, all of the Kindergarteners gathered on the stage to sing their sweet, innocent version of that song that says, "The world is a rainbow, made of many colors..." This song puts into simple language, that even they can understand, the concept of living in harmony with people who are different from us. What a profound Kindergarten concept with which we adults continue to struggle! What I saw on their faces: joy, opportunity, promise. I wanted to cherish that space in time for each of them, a time when children genuinely care about the well-being of every student in their class, a time when they know that, if only for that eight hour span of time at school, the adults in their lives love them and want to help them succeed. I watched each child walk across that stage, and I wondered what they would look like at high school graduation, if they made it that far. I watched the kids I knew well from Li'l G's class and cried because I was so stinkin' proud of each of them. These precious little people.

At the end of the gala event, yet another sadistic person had put together a slide show, a poignant compilation of pictures and song that captured each class and showcased the kids doing what they do in Kindergarten. Of course, the only dry eyes in the room belonged to Bud, who was begging to go home by this point in the show. All the while, I was literally willing myself not to cry. As the lights lifted and children were dismissed to accompany their parents back to their respective classrooms is when the bomb dropped on my house.

Li'l G was upset. She was crying, had apparently been crying for several minutes during the slide show. At first, I assumed that the events of the day had caught up with her and she realized she would miss her friends and teachers during the summer. (Keep in mind this is the child who weeps over sad books, cartoons and movies like, "Velveteen Rabbit," and, "Little One.") I asked her why she was so sad and was mentally preparing the salve for her little breaking heart when she said, "I'm sad because I miss Daddy."

Of course, this same thought had been playing in my head during all of graduation. We have reached the beginning of many milestones in life that will come and go without the presence of T. by her side to cheer her on and be her Number One fan. It's a day I have dreaded since November 30, 2005. The mother in me grieves for my children that they will experience their loss over and over again every time something like this comes up. As wonderful as today was, there was no denying its bittersweet aftertaste. The Christian in me reasons back at Grief, reminding me that death has been conquered by the Risen Christ and that the connection between T. and his children is still there and remains forever, albeit behind a gossamer-thin veil that is just opaque enough to always leave room for them to doubt his eternal love of them and how proud he will always be of who they are. In the end, we just sat there, Li'l G and I, and had a good, ugly cry, the world of happy mommies, daddies, and grandparents swirling around us, completely oblivious about the little girl with the broken heart huddled with her mother who could do nothing but quietly cry with her.

What Li'l G and I experienced together was only part of what occupied my thoughts. After I thought of what a loss it was for T. not to see his children grow up, blossom, and move through life, I thought what an opportunity this would've been for R. to have been here today. If we are ever going to transition to being a blended family, R. will have to be there for these milestones. What I have learned thus far, and will no doubt be doing graduate-level research on this summer, is that the transition time of learning how to blend a family makes the milestones less bittersweet. R.'s presence, be it simply in our lives or physically being there, is tangible evidence of the cycle of life, continuing to grow and change into a new person or a new situation. R. brings continuity to a life that has felt like the pause button was pushed almost four years ago. His presence does not erase the pain; rather, it demonstrates that it can be survived and that life, most assuredly, goes on.

The date today is June 2, 2009. I've got 12 more years of living and loving to prepare for Li'l G's next big step into the world. Congratulations, Little Lady. I'm so proud of you.

"I thank my God every time I remember you... he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." -- Philippians 1:4, 6

Quick Reflection

"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." -- II Corinthians 4:18

This is the Bible verse on my desk calendar for November 30. This is a date that is etched on my heart forever. For me, it is my 9/11. That is T.'s birthdate into heaven. Really, I struggle with that day and the day before, which is when he had the accident on the motorcycle, but that's a completely different blog. This verse really captures my view of what happened that day in the surgical ICU in LSU Medical Center in Shreveport, Louisiana, and it's something I need to remind myself of more often.

I didn't blog anything on November 30, not because I was avoiding it or dreading it or planning some uber-emotional tribute. We were out at the cemetery laying a wreath that day, with the cold, damp late fall wind whipping our hair around, musing about how long it had been, how fast the time has gone and yet how it has seemed to go so slowly at the same time. I'm learning that, as Heath Ledger's widow has lamented, the longer T. is gone, the more I miss him. Strangely enough, it hasn't kept me from embarking on a deep, sweet love with R., which is God's working in and of itself. In fact, when R. showed up for the holidays, I could just feel every muscle in my body relax and my blood pressure go down. It was so comforting to see the continuity in my life that he brings and how he allows me to both go on loving T. but yet move forward with my life with him. As stressed out and emotional as I get, I know that all my complexities can be exhausting, but he loves me through it and comes back for more.

But back to Shreveport, 2005. I didn't have the extensive mental Scripture file that some of my friends have, but I knew this verse. I couldn't have told you the book, chapter, or verse, but I understood this truth in my heart. When I realized that T. was gone, not breathing, not going to open his eyes any more, not going to sit up and complain about having to eat spaghetti one more time, or fight back to good health, my thinking had to shift immediately from temporal to eternal. To consider the temporal without T. was to want to reach into his chest and pump his heart with my own bare hands to make it work again. I could not dwell on this because I would have begged for death myself. Instead, I know that God had already planted the seed of eternity in my heart -- I instantly had to look beyond where I was, standing over the body that no longer contained the soul and let him go. I actually had to tell him this, that he needed to go. In looking back, he was already gone and I would realize this when piecing together details after my brain was functioning somewhat normally later on. But for me, I had to put him into that eternal context to keep from caving in on myself.

Flashing forward to Advent 2008, I reconnected with a college buddy last night on FaceBook who had not heard of T.'s passing, and it obviously came as a real shock to him. I remember telling my friend Marily about this last year, and she was completely speechless as well. And even just last week, HisGirl was watching Super Nanny and was just floored by the episode involving a widow with a two year-old and a five month-old, which is almost exactly the ages Li'l G and Bud were when T. died. It was a real eye opener for her on what our reality is like, especially with such little ones in the picture. What's amazing to me is that I have come through any of this, and now this feels normal, if such a bland, descriptionless word could ever be used in this context. I have no idea how I have made it this long, and still have no idea how any single day in the future will transpire. All I know is this: having an eternal perspective has everything to do with it.

Consider this: Our economy is as fragile as a glass Christmas ornament. Terrorism is a constant threat. People die every day in tragic ways, and more still are diagnosed with terminal illnesses. Millions of people in our own country sleep under blankets of cardboard in sub-freezing temperatures. Children starve and are abused. In my own life, I have certain ideas on how I'd like things to play out, but there are no guarantees. To live with our focus on the temporal is overwhelming, at least to me. Even the wonderful glimpses we get of beauty and love are not enough to get me by. To live with an eye on the eternal is where I draw my strength and my hope. It helps me to get past all of the pain and hurt in the world, in my own life, and to keep walking toward the One I know to be faithful, the One constant in a world filled with variables. "How do I know this?" I have been asked countless times. To be honest, you can read your Bible or not; I don't really care about that. All I can say is that God has been there for me, revealed to me in real and tangible ways that honestly speaks louder to me than Scripture. Hang me up to dry if you want. I read my Bible as often as I can and revel in its words, but there is absolutely nothing like experiencing, really experiencing, the peace which passeth all understanding in real life. There is nothing like knowing that the same God which brought his people out of Egypt and cared for them in the wilderness for 40 years is caring for me in the midst of my wilderness. There is nothing like knowing that the same God who bodily resurrected my Jesus has my sweet T. in his care right now and has made him whole, healed his broken heart and body, and is guiding the kids and me all at the same time. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I've not read any passage of Scripture that says he will take away our pain if we just pray or come to him. What God does promise is that he will never leave or forsake us. He is there if we keep our eyes on the eternal and don't let the temporal distract us.

As I prepare in my home and in my heart for the birth of Jesus, I think of Him in a tempral perspective, and it brings a lump to my throat. This precious, soft, sweet child is our sacrificial Lamb. Those tiny little fingers and toes will end up bearing Jesus' physical weight and the spiritual weight of our sins on the cross someday. How sad! How tragic! But in an eternal perspective, it inspires awe. This baby boy, through the love and nurture of his earthly parents, grows up and maintains His obedience to the Father. The story begins with the stirrings in the womb, continues through the labor pains, infancy, toddlerhood, life as the son of a carpenter, radical ministry that ends with His death on the cross, and is still continuing at the right hand of the Father. Why wouldn't we want to focus on the eternal in this picture?

This may sound crazy and hair-brained, and I'll give you that, but it has everything to do with how I understand my world, how my perspective has changed and continues to do so. I have got my eyes fixed like a laser past the end of my temporal existence to one that is eternal. It gives me hope and strength to march on with purpose in situations where I cannot comprehend uncertainty, grief, suffering, or even evil in the world. And even as I try my hardest to speak light and life and live what I believe, I still pray constantly, "Even so, come, Lord Jesus!"

May that also be our prayer as we journey toward Christmas and, ultimately, Resurrection Day!

Step By Step

"Hope does not necessarily take the form of excessive confidence; rather, it involves the simple willingness to take the next step." -- Stanley Hauerwas

I woke up this morning and had to remind myself it was Saturday. Then, being the number-obsessed person that I am, I was groggily trying to figure out what that made the date on the calendar. ' October 4th. Oh my gosh -- October 4th!' And then I lay there with a smile for a minute.

Twelve years ago today, after some "pre-event festivities" in the dorm, the juniors in the Corps of Cadets at Texas A&M formed up behind Duncan Dining Hall, just behind the band. They milled around with their dates, if they had one, looking around nervously for seniors who were looking to smack them on top of their heads and rattle their bonfire pots (helmets). The rest of the attendants of Midnight Yell practice that night were already assembled at Kyle Field in the student section of the stadium, straining to hear the distinct thud of the bass drums echoing throughout the massive east Texas campus as the procession of the Fightin' Texas Aggie Band and the following entourage would make their way through campus and onto the football field.

Upon walking into the stadium and onto the sacred green grass, the crowd cheered wildly as they did every other time. The yell leaders roused the assembled group into a maroon frenzy as they led the yells (not cheers at A&M; that's for sissy schools with female hussies cheerleaders). Finally, after the "Beat The Hell" yell, as per usual, the lights were turned out at Kyle Field and the smooching began! For about three minutes, in the electrified darkness of the football field, those with dates got to kiss in keeping with Aggie tradition. When the lights came back on, a few more yells were done, everyone proceeded out of the stadium, and we probably don't want to know how the night ended for those in attendance...

If you could've been in that crowd looking down on the field at a dashing, young man in a red Company L-2 t-shirt, you would've seen him look sheepishly down at his date, give her a grin, and have his first kiss with her, a kiss that would begin almost a decade of love, children, the military, and end so quietly on November 30, 2005, in Shreveport, Louisiana, a kiss that can still be felt even today. You would've seen a ditzy blonde who had had one too many margaritas (I think; can't remember!!) who had been swept off her feet by this tall, dark, and handsome boy and had waited for over a month for him to finally ask her out. That's where it all began, folks, and the rest, they say is history...

I usually remember and celebrate this date, but I must admit it snuck up on me this year. I will always remember it, however, and I know it will always make me smile and chuckle a little at how young we were (and how stupid I was to drink all those margaritas!) and all of the good times we had, especially in college. It's a good memory.

I immediately fast-forward to the first summer after T. was gone. He had died 8 months earlier and I was realizing that I would probably want to have another relationship. This brought me no guilt; perhaps it should have. T. was a man of his word. He had told me more than once that, if anything should happen to him, that I should remarry. I, of course, told him that he was bound to me for eternity and, should he remarry, I would haunt him and the heffer he was with, so he'd better not chance it. At any rate, I was interested in men but was very nervous and insecure around them. Basically, they scared me to death. I hadn't dated in ten years -- had things changed that much?!? (Answer: more than you know!)

My first "relationship" after T. was weird. I tried the online dating thing, too, and all of my friends and family (who, conveniently, were married) freaked out at the thought of me going on a date with a perfect stranger met via these sources. It was a liberating feeling knowing that I was able to attract people, but I was also very afraid of letting them too close to me or the kids. There were many, many times where I figured this was my cross to bear, like it or not, and I was destined to hell on earth be alone forever. My friends would get to prattle on about their husbands, complain about what a drag it was to "have to" have sex with their husbands, get to be invited to things for couples, find out that they were pregnant (again! tee hee!), go out to dinner and watch a movie together, etc., and I would get to watch from the sidelines. My bonus prize for being a widow? Getting to hang around married people. Getting to hear moms complain that dads would rather take a nap or go hunting that help out with the kids ("I swear -- it is so hard to do everything by myself! I mean, he really does not know what I go through!"). Have to pay double to stay at a resort or go on a cruise because the rooms are meant for double occupancy. Eat alone at a restaurant. Go to the movies. Alone. Mow my yard, install and repair things in the house, maintain the vehicle, teach my kids to fish, fix broken furniture, etc. Alone. While the married couples rolled their eyes at each other.

I remember where I was when I realized that I was created for companionship. I was sitting at church, and my dear friend and pastor at the time was preaching about adam and eve (not capitalized on purpose; that's a whole other blog). At any rate, it is "right and salutary" that we should desire relationships and connection with others, especially male/female relationships and marriage. I guess I was waiting on a green light from God, and I felt like I had it.

There are scores of people who have lost a spouse that are, for whatever reason, unable to reach even this point. They dwell in the safety and comfort of that relationship, and for some it is all they say they desire. I would venture to guess a couple of things here:

1) The pain of losing their spouse is overwhelming, and eventually, the pain they feel becomes their companion. To be rid of that pain of loss would be akin to the complete absence of that person. They would rather hold on to the pain because, in an indirect way, it keeps that person close.

2) The number one reason that you hear (and honestly I question): issues of fidelity. Personally, I blame this on the modern, western concept of heaven. People romantically envision their spouse waiting patiently for them at the pearly gates, where they'll join hands and walk into the light to spend eternity together. *insert chirping birds and release the white doves on cue... To give one's self to another man/woman, even emotionally or romantically, much less physically, is to violate their marriage vows. They have become a cheater just because they didn't want to be lonely. How selfish of you. Bad widow/widower!

3) Maybe their marriage was less-than-ideal and they are finally free from emotional or physical bondage. To enter into another relationship seems like opening up a raw wound. Why would I want to let history repeat itself? they might ask.

4) They risk being hurt again, and quite frankly, they have checked off the "personal tragedy" box, thank you very much -- no need to ask for a second helping there. I think I myself fall into this category, but I didn't necessarily fit here at the beginning of my journey. My fellow heartbroken peeps just don't know how or if they'll survive a break up, a cheater, etc., in addition to having lost a spouse. The griefwork they already have to do is a heavy task, so why add to the load?

5) They perceive factors that should keep them from being "on the market" again. This could be age, appearance, children, and a kajillion other things. I most definitely fell into this category at first, although I have moved past it. My biggest factor was my children and their ages: Li'l G was 2 1/2 years old when T. died, and Bud was 9 months old and still nursing. Who was going to want to raise two small children with me? Or worse yet, who was going to find a stretched out, post-partum body attractive? T. was still attracted to me, but he saw my body when it was young and perky and watched it change with time and maternity. I was beautiful to him, but not in a single guy, lemme-put-dollar-bills-in-your-thong sort of way. You know what I mean.

And let me interrupt the blog right here to talk about plastic surgery for widows. If anyone out there wants to get upset that some of us do this, let me invite you to go sit on a pincushion. HARD. The perception is that, now that they roll naked in billions of insurance dollars on a daily basis and plot ways to throw away blood money, all widows go get themselves a pair of knockers because they've got "all this money to spend" now. Please, feel free to go stand on a subway track at rush hour and report back on how that felt. Most of the people (usually women) who do this, like me, feel completely undesirable and embarassed at how they will be perceived by a potential mate. If these people can do anything at all to restore a shred of confidence in themselves, then I say go for it. As long as they aren't snorting nose candy or becoming abusive alcoholics (which happens WAY more often than you'd think) and neglecting their kids, let these people get on with their lives without criticism. Chances are you wouldn't last a day going through what they go through.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog post. Where was I? Oh, yes. It is such a huge step to take back on to the dating field after loss. Terrifying. Worrisome. Stressful. I won't even lie. I'm in a fantastic relationship with R. and even then I still worry about things. But I have found that the risk has been worth it. I have learned lots about myself, but probably more about other people. I have learned that I'm really in this on my own. I know three other people, out of the scores of friends and family I'm blessed to have, that are in my shoes, one of whom is another military widow we served with at FT Riley. No matter how I explain things or look to my married friends for advice, sorry guys, it's just not working. We operate in such different spheres. I have to switch into my once-married brain just to be a part of conversation with them and function, much less not get my feelings hurt. It's not their fault they are still married, be it happily or not. And I'm so very thankful they cannot understand what my life is like; if they did, geez. Beyond terrible. Don't want to think about it.

I'd love to talk about how rewarding my relationship with R. is, but at his request, I try not to mention him on the blog. As I've said before, that's hard because I feel like I could really be sharing valuable insight and experience with other people, like me, who feel like they're all alone in this weird journey. All I can say is that every step has been important, and I have learned so much along the way. I was so scared that I'd never feel love again, as in, never have the capacity to love like that. (And it's hysterical at what a big deal the marrieds make out of the whole issue of sex, too. There are so many other things to worry about, but I digress.) I was scared about making myself (and my kids) vulnerable. I didn't realize how much "dirty laundry" in my heart I had to do until I was in the throes of my relationship with R. He doesn't realize it, but in needing to open myself up to him, I realized I was hanging on to unfinished business with T. In order to fully make my heart available to him, I needed to have some closure on those issues. It has been real work, let me tell you! But sooo worth the risk involved. And it has all been one HUGE opportunity to learn about trusting Abba.

One of my favorite verses I found recently was Psalm 116:5-8, and I keep it posted on the mirror in my bathroom:

"The LORD is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion. The LORD protects the simplehearted; when I was in great need he saved me. Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the LORD has been good to you. For you, O LORD, have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling."

I have needed reminding all along the way that I can rely on God, that he is consistent and faithful. It's an easy lesson to forget.

I don't know if most or even half of all who lose a spouse ever decide to take that next step in their lives toward loving again. I can tell you it's worth it, if you are someone out there in this position and wondering. (I can tell you NOT TO BRING THIS UP IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FUNERAL or even for the first six months if you are someone trying to console a person who has lost a spouse.) After all, as Stanley Hauerwas said, the simple willingness to take the next step may be the biggest step you take of all.

Among God's best gifts to us are the people who love us.

Today's Verse: Psalm 68:4-6, 20

"Sing to God, sing praise to his name, extol him who rides on the clouds -- his names is the LORD -- and rejoice before him.

A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.

God sets the lonely in families, he leads forth the prisoners with singing; but the rebellious live in a sun-scorched land...

Our God is a God who saves; from the Sovereign LORD comes escape from death."

I came about this passage quite ironically. A precious friend of mine who I know through a local support group for local clergywomen and other women involved in (career) ministry recently shared a few passages from Psalms that spoke to her during some devotion time. I've since deleted the email and been kicking myself for it because I've felt an urging of the Spirit to get back into the Word, and particularly feeling a pull toward the Psalms. (Hey, some people call Ghostbusters when there are strange, vexing events in their lives; I, however, resort to Psalms. Go figure.)

Anyhoo, at the same time, I've been doing some recreational reading as per usual during the summer. I've been putting off projects for PLMA, again as per usual, and I have to say, I heart Donald Miller. If you flip through my bookshelf over there on the right of the blog, you'll see two of his books there. I read, "Blue Like Jazz," last summer and was simply blown away by it. Miller takes something so profound as Christian spirituality and puts it into such grace-infused, simple, loving language that you just want to sit back and say, "Yeah, man...!" when you finish reading it. So, um, yeah... Oh yeah, summertime reading... So the other book on there is, "To Own A Dragon," which is Miller's look at what his life has been like as a result of growing up without a father. It really jumped out at me because of my life situation. I'm constantly wondering what impact our family tragedy will have on the kids as they mature and grow, and in particular I have a special ache in my heart for Bud. T. died when Bud was 9 months old. The word "dad" means something but not what it means for those of us who grew up in a household with a biological, or even adoptive (I suspect), father who was a positive, loving presence in our lives. I realize the word "dad" might make many people's skin crawl. In our situation, though, I envision Bud being on this lifequest to find out "who" he is because he lacked the love and presence of his dad and never really finding it, thus leading him down a dark, miserable path for years of his life. (I can't/won't comment on any future male influence for him and the impact that I suspect it could/would have. It would be pure speculation at this point, but it is my sincere prayer that it will, in fact, come about on the Lord's timing and be exactly what all three of us need. But I digress...)

So! Psalm devotion email + Donald Miller book = Psalm 68?!? OK, here's the connection: Miller lived with a friend and his family for a number of years. It was at this time that he was going through a lot of identity crisis and finally dealing with the hurt caused by his father ditching the family when he was quite small. He was incredibly isolated and lonely, even amongst friends. This hole in his heart really consumed him. He specifically mentioned v. 6a: "God sets the lonely in families..." He believed that God was teaching him something about fathers and sons and love by allowing him that intimate time living under the same roof as this close, loving Christian family.

I really identify with this passage on many levels. It's nice to know that God doesn't forget about those going through hard times, even when others seem to have. The hard reality is that life goes on, and no one else's life stops just because you have a crisis going on in yours. You haven't been forgotten, but it can feel like it. I don't necessarily believe that the scripture is specifically and singularly dealing with orphans and/or widows in v. 5. I think the concept being presented here is that He gives guidance, love, and direction to everyone, even and especially those who have none other in their lives. He ensures justice for those who can't defend themselves. Widows during Biblical times were strapped for survival from what I understand. They didn't have support groups and childcare; their only source of income was gone. During wartime, entire cities could have been left with no men around to provide a living. Entire generations and families were completely wiped out. If you were lucky, maybe you had a smelly, unattractive, single shepherd brother-in-law that inherited you. Otherwise, it was just you. Good luck! It's nice to know that, when the daily task of survival had to be attended to, you had God in your corner. Didn't make survival any easier no doubt, but at least maybe, for part of your day, your sense of isolation might not overwhelm you.

I know that having my children around has been my saving grace through everything. Yeah, there are days when I call them by their "pet" names, Heckyll and Jeckyll, which they find hysterical even though they haven't a clue what I'm talking about. But as lonely as I have been in various ways since T. went Home, I have had two reasons for living that have kept me sane: Lil' G and Bud. He set me in a family, a blessed burden which I love so dearly and will never feel as though I've ever deserved.

I love the praise imagery in this passage, too. To see Adonai riding on the clouds -- no doubt with His beard flowing like that of a gnarly old Harley rider -- is way cool. And v. 20 is such hope for anyone of any circumstance: death can mean so many things here. 99% of you will no doubt say, "God sent Jesus to die for our sins; he saves us from death and the grave." Thank you, little Susie, here's your gold star. Would anyone else like to give an answer? Perhaps step out of the box?? What about other forms of death besides physical or spiritual death? What about that nasty black funk we get into when we're going through crisis? As the "normal" person we were before is shed as we molt our exoskeleton and lie there as a wet, defenseless new creature, looking pretty beat up and pathetic? What death have you experienced in life? Death of a spouse/child/parent/friend/etc.? Divorce? Infidelity? Getting fired? Bad test results or a diagnosis? Abuse? Depression? Significant problems with your teenage child? How long could this list really get?!? There are things probably every day that could lay us out, save the grace of God. He doesn't just swoop in on that Harley-Davidson cloud of His and carry us off into glory. But I believe that, by having a relationship with God, it saves you so much heartache. You can't prevent these things from happening, but you do have a way to make sense out of something that seems incomprehensible. I love that Natalie Grant song, "Held," which starts off talking about a 2 month old baby, dying as his mother prays for him:

Two months is too little
They let him go
They had no sudden healing
To think that providence
Would take a child from his mother
While she prays, is appalling
Who told us we'd be rescued
What has changed and
Why should we be saved from nightmares
Were asking why this happens to us
Who have died to live, it's unfair

This is what it means to be held
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was that when everything fell
We'd be held

This hand is bitterness
We want to taste it and
Let the hatred numb our sorrows
The wise hand opens slowly
To lilies of the valley and tomorrow

This is what it means to be held
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was that when everything fell
We'd be held

If hope is born of suffering
If this is only the beginning
Can we not wait, for one hour
Watching for our savior

This is what it means to be held
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was that when everything fell
We'd be held

I think that's what the word "saves" means here. God can't keep all the bad things from happening in our lives. What He can do is hold us, be there with us, number our tears, and give us the promise that He really does love us and will dry each of these tears. He is truly sovereign over these things and is faithful to His word.

Maria Chapman

What a beautiful family. My heart literally explodes in black, foul grief when I think of the little face that won't be in the next family picture that Steven Curtis Chapman and his family take. The little girl sitting in his lap, Maria, just turned 5 years old less than 10 days ago. And now she is gone.

HOWEVER! Victory over the grave is still given to those with the name of Jesus on their lips. Praise our Almighty God for this provision that makes times like these not crush us with their pain and magnitude.

If you click on the title of this blog, you will be redirected to SCC's website that gives information. But the best part of this site is the page where you get to "meet" Maria. What a darling little girl! I have several friends who have adopted "China girls," as they have decided to be called. I wonder about Maria's birthmother, what she went through as she went through her pregnancy and delivery, and finally the last time she laid eyes on her beautiful baby girl. One of my friends whose daughter is Chinese said that there are "drop off stations," unofficial places where the orphanages know to check constantly where moms leave these babies. We won't even talk here about orphanages. How amazing is it, though, in God's plan, that He chose for this little girl to not fall through the cracks of a governmental system, but to end up in America with a family that loved and cherished her! Think, again, how many women in our own country have children that they never wanted to begin with, have many kids they treat terribly, and then those whose arms ache for children but can't even conceive one.

I wonder what went through SCC and his wife's minds as they held her for the first time, all of the "firsts" that come and go so quickly that we barely get them documented in their baby books before high school graduation. I wonder what each of their other kids thought as Maria became one of the family and what their dearest memories will be of her.

And even though I've been through deep personal loss, I do wonder what raw emotions they are going through right now. Just because one person has lost a spouse, parent, child, etc., doesn't mean that they have the FOGGIEST idea of what another person experiences in crisis. Just in case you're ever wondering what to say in moments like that, let me tell you that less is more. Just a physical presence, and even silence, can be more comforting than a well-chosen thought or Bible verse.

I can't think of any better way to end this blog than in SCC's words in the song, "Cinderella." I think of how close Lil' G and T. were and how R. fits into the future picture every time I hear this song. I also remind myself to live in the moment more with my children.

I give you, "Cinderella."

Dearest Tom...

Dearest Tom,

I don't why I feel compelled to write to you tonight, but I do. R. just came out for a weekend visit and returned home tonight. The kids and I had a great visit with him, and it means a lot to the kids that he made a special trip out here just to spend time with them.

It's so weird. I understand and oftentimes accept the thought of moving on for myself. It has been a different story for the kids. Most days are pretty routine for them, but some days or moments strike their hearts and they long for you. (In that respect, all three of us are a lot alike.) Then they, too, meet R. and fall in love. They still (and always will) call you and know you as, "Daddy," but the love and admiration in their hearts for him just makes my heart ache. Sam thrives on his approval and masculinity. Grace curls up in his arms and unabashedly lays her heart in his strong hands, just the way she used to do with you. It breaks my heart that you're not here to experience this, but it uplifts me to see how God has provided fatherly love for our kids.

How is it possible to love and to mourn simultaneously? To move forward and yet bring part of the past along with you? To yearn for the love torn so quickly out of our grasp, yet not desire for anything to be different, lest the precious new love be lost forever?

This is where I live -- in a garden of vibrant colors under a veil of thick, grey fog. There are more and more moments where the fog breaks long enough to reveal colors so intense and beautiful that it almost hurts my eyes to behold. It is the light of God's goodness and love shining down on His unimaginable blessings that I know I'm experiencing, that I thought I'd never experience again after that fleeting moment in which you were gone. That fog turned the colors of my landscape to shades of grey. It is only now, two and a half years later, that those colors have returned...

...I am so blessed and so lucky to have found you both. I just can't wait to tell you all about it someday. But, then again, I bet you already know...

Article: "When A Baby Is Destined To Die"

I just read this on MSNBC.com and haven't cried that hard in a long time. Wow. So much strength and beauty in that story, and God so clearly evident as well.

For those parents who go through the loss of a child like that, I can't even know what to tell you. I won't pretend to have sage words of wisdom just because I've been through personal loss of my own. All I could ever muster up is to say how sorry I am that things like this happen, and that you are not alone, although you might feel that way.

If you've got your Kleenex ready, click on the title of the blog to read the article...

Heavenly Angels In Need

As I sit here screaming at Sam to quit stealing food out of the kitchen (read: candy), and praying not to be swept away by tornadoes today (it's a typical spring day in Central Texas), I am catching up on my blogs. I noticed that Raising Arrows has a couple of new posts, and what I saw on there was so amazing that I must put a special link on my blog today.

Long, painful story made short, this woman lost her 7 month old daughter several months ago (less than a year, but I forget how long ago). She has beautifully chronicled what is churning in her heart about her sweet Emmy, as well as how her hubby and Emmy's siblings are progressing through the days and months since losing Emmy. It's a hard blog for me to read, but she is such a strong, beautiful woman that she blesses me every time I hit her page. Anyhoo, the cool thing I found today was the memory box she received from an organization called Heavenly Angels In Need. Please take a minute to check out this non-profit organization. If you are looking for a worthwhile place to consider for making a charitable donation, if you have baby items you can donate, or even if you want to contribute your wedding gown to make burial clothes for infants, please keep these people in mind. They provide all sorts of help and materials to families grieving the loss of infants at no charge.

"A Town of War Widows"

FYI -- Just wanted everyone to know that the article is out! "Why, what article do you mean, GGG?" Oh, only the ARTICLE FOR WHICH I WAS INTERVIEWED BY GLAMOUR MAGAZINE! Coolio!!

By clicking on the title of this blog, you can read the article online, which is only part of the experience. The picture you see of all of us standing there is a full, two-page spread on p. 332. I am towards the back due to height discrimination. (Yeah, all of us tall girls always get crammed in the back where no one notices us...) It's a great picture. It was taken at the new Central Texas Veteran's Cemetery (is that the right name? Not sure...) on a blustery day in January, and we were all popsicles by the end of the shoot. Thank goodness I had done my research and watched several seasons of "America's Next Top Model" and knew how to "bring it" and "look fierce" even in subzero temperatures. (OK, it was really only about 50 degrees, but for a Texan w/ no coat on in the wind, that's a fair assessment of the weather...).

Turning the page, the picture at the top of the page reminds me of my reaction to being at this photo shoot. This cemetery is very peaceful, near FT Hood, but far enough off the beaten path to be quite serene. The rolling hills and excellent view of the central Texas landscape are quite fitting for soldiers of all ages and walks of life who have gone to that AA in the sky. (For all you non-military types, "AA" isn't what you think -- it means, "Assembly Area." That's a phrase Tom used just before he died.) Anyhoo, this cemetery has barely been open for 2 1/2 -- 3 years. I was instantly struck by how many graves there already are; it simply took my breath away. Then, as we all emerged out of our cars to await instructions from the crew, it further wrenched me as I looked at all of us and realized what it meant. For every woman there, there was a man who wasn't. They represented entire families who will walk around for the rest of their lives with this scar tissue on their hearts that will be like the remnants of a tattoo that's been removed: you can't see its details anymore, but you can see where it was, and the scar tissue may heal over time, but the outline of the tattoo is never completely gone whether or not you want it to be...

If you look down at the bottom of pp. 334-335, there are some pictures of our guys. There is a picture of Tom standing in water at the beach holding our son when he was 4 mo. old on our one and only family summer vacation to Destin, FL. He is right on the crack (how fitting! haha!!), top row, on the left of said crack. He would just die if he could see himself in a nationally circulated magazine w/ no shirt on! hahahaha!!!!!

While I wasn't mentioned by name, I did actually get my own paragraph, but it doesn't sound very good. My paragraph is the one that begins, "One widow, in her early thirties with two young kids..." The guy that wrote the article didn't accurately relate what I was trying to convey about how my faith has played into all of the events post-11/30. He says that I mention that my faith has allowed me to, more or less, gloss over stages in the grief process, which couldn't be further from the truth! I told him that my faith has helped me to navigate my grieving process more smoothly than some. I also said that I never really had that angry, "I hate God; it's all His fault," feeling. I also never felt the need to question why this happened; it was enough to know that God had a plan and that all things work for good for them that love God (Romans 8:28). To add a rotten cherry to this funky dessert, he paints a picture that everyone sitting there at the table is making faces at me or rolling their eyes or something. Didn't happen! What I told him in the interview was that some people, especially some at FT Polk, didn't buy what I was trying to tell them about how God was getting me through every day and so on. Now all that talk about the plastic surgery IS true; we sat there and talked about it for quite a while. Out of the 20+ women there, I would bet that at least 50% or more of us had breast implants. But that's a whole other blog!!!

It is a loooong article. For the most part of what I have skimmed, the guy who wrote the article did a pretty decent job. I think my part was a little botched, but then again I don't always say things the way I'm thinking them, so it's possible I wasn't a very good communicator. I was very disappointed that one girl got so much press time, but I won't say anything here that is negative. I'll just leave it at that. I do think, however, that I came away with the overall feeling that military widows are hung on their late husbands and can hardly move forward after their loss. They feel all this guilt, they drink a lot, they crave physical contact with men but are unwilling to date again because they feel it's too soon or they worry that others think it will be too soon. I have to say, I feel NONE of those things. I wonder if that makes me a terrible person, to be quite honest. On one hand, I consider myself one of the better adjusted of these people and am incredulous that everyone else hasn't grown a spine yet. On the other hand, I worry that my progression through my own grief journey is viewed as irreverent and like I never loved Tom. I certainly don't begrudge these women their own time to work through things. I do believe that sometimes people bog down and allow their new status to define who they are, and I find that to be massively unhealthy. As for myself, I know better than anyone besides God just what all I've been through, what I have sorted out, prayed about, sought guidance about, what things about which I cannot talk about to others for various reasons, what things will always break my heart regardless of passage of time, etc. I answer to God alone. Case closed.

So, for what it's worth, read the article and let me know what you think!

Raising Arrows

There are times when I get so frustrated with my life, feel completely judged and scorned, and just want to say, "Don't you people understand what I've been through?!?" And then I read some thing like this and it really humbles me.

**Let me warn you: this is an eloquently written blog of a mother who just lost a child. If you don't want to cry today or have your eyes really opened up, save this one for another day. But I guarantee that you will be so blessed by reading it...

Socks

For those of you who haven't read my blog on MySpace, this is one dug up from my archives. Every now and then I get a creative burst of energy and come up with something that I am proud to share with the public that really expresses how my thoughts flow. This was one such blog. So here it is, back by popular demand... I give you, "Socks," written on June 20, 2006...

As moving day nears, and I begin to get the house prepared for movers to come and pack and rifle through everything I own, I've been trying to get rid of stuff. Clothes that the kids can't wear that aren't nice enough to hand down to friends' kids, the millions of baskets people gave loaded with candy at Easter, and the other quirky things that accumulate under the kitchen sink and the likes. I evaluate which things will go where, and then I come to his drawers...

OK, so I have this theory about the married couple living inside my head. The woman is very sentimental about every thing; the man being the practical side of my thoughts. These two are constantly in conflict over what they think I should do in every situation, and it wears me out. I usually err on the side of the man in the argument here, since I am usually a practical-minded person; however, the woman wins some of the bigger feuds, and I guess the score somehow remains even.

Back to the issue of the day. Socks. Tom's not using them anymore. They're taking up an entire drawer in our chest-of-drawers. Yet, they are his. Here's the drama ensuing in my mind:

Woman: Are you insane? Get rid of them? But he has touched them. They used to protect his feet, carried him many a mile on those infantry roadmarches, and there was something special about his feet.

Man: Oh good grief. They're just socks.

Woman: But by moving them out of the drawer, or completely getting rid of them, you are moving him out of your life. It has begun. You are no longer in love with him.

Man: They're just socks.

This goes on and on. I look at the socks, many of them beginning to be threadbare and a few with a hole or two. I think of the hard times we endured financially. It was an easy choice for us when I became pregnant with our first child that I would stay at home with the kids. However, it was not the easiest choice to endure. Having a family of four with big bills on one income, being a soldier no less, was no picnic. Those socks symbolized to me all of the things that Tom went without so that his wife and children would never want for anything. He had more integrity in his little finger than anyone I've ever known. (Don't get me wrong -- he had his moments, as do all of us...)

I moved the socks from his drawer to the bed, pairing them all up, wondering what to do. Rather than toss them onto the bed like I usually do, I laid them out gently and softly like a little girl lays her baby doll in a cradle. They're just socks, but they were his.

I got rid of Tom's socks today.