Year Six

I remember so many things about T. and our family as it was six years ago so clearly, and yet there are many memories that have faded like construction paper figures in a sunny window. I get through the year with relative ease and have even found happiness and joy in Thanksgiving once again. However, this year the days have aligned to be on the same days of the week as they were the year T. died, and for some reason that has made a difference to my heart. Today I just want to pause the day so that R. and the kids will stay at school and work a little longer just to give me time to be still and quiet in the house. You would think that six years later things are easier. In some ways maybe they are. I’m starting to think that in many ways this grief journey will be woven into the path I’m on for the rest of my life.

I remember I had just bought the new MercyMe Christmas album that year, and I was so moved by the last song, “Joseph’s Lullaby.” We naturally think so much about mothers during pregnancy and childbirth, and Mary definitely is the focus of plenty of contemplation. What I loved then and still love about this song is the tenderness I hear in the words of a father to his infant son. In this case, Joseph knows that the little man in his arms is no ordinary baby, but aren’t all children little miracles? As I was listening to this song today, I held Baby S. in my arms as I rocked her to sleep for a much-protested nap. Her little blue eyes sparkled up at me as she reached a plump hand toward my face to touch my chin. I remembered Li’l G and Bud being this age and how long ago it feels it was since they were so little. And my heart just broke anew.

In the song, Joseph tells Baby Jesus, “Go to sleep, my son…You’ve got a long road before You, just rest Your weary head… Does the Father guard Your heart for now so You can sleep tonight?” I think of Bud, just nine months old when T. slipped away into Glory. I’ve always felt such a heavy burden for him and Li’l G, but especially him. I remember his sweet, chubby cheeks, his adorable mischevious smile. So sweet and innocent, so happy and trusting. He has had such a long road before him ever since he was such a little guy. In many ways I feel like he was robbed of having a normal life when all this happened. How would Bud ever know the love and nurturing of a father? Who would love him and dote over him, guide him down the road of life and help mold him into a man? Who would know what a precious little boy he is and be able to love him through the times growing up when he will be hard to love? Bud lost more than he could know when T. died.

Something I overlooked until recently is how beautifully this song parallels my own life. As much heartbreak and longing I feel when I hear this song, there is promise and hope in it as well. Joseph walked into such an awkward situation with Mary and Jesus, and yet God knew what He was doing when He set this plan in motion. No other man but Joseph would love Jesus as his own. No other man but Joseph would look down on this little man and see his own son in Jesus. No other man but Joseph would have tenderness in his heart for a child he did not help conceive. And yet, the words to this song reflect the sentiments of a man who will raise Jesus as his own son, be there to father him and care for him without reservation or hesitation. And in the words of Joseph I hear the voice of R. singing over Bud.

Why, God? Why was all of this allowed to happen? I can’t imagine my life without any of the people in it who have been in it in the past and who are in it now as I daily greet my future. I cling to them all with a ferocity that burns in my heart and sends hot tears streaming down my cheeks. This confuses me, destroys me, encourages me, and uplifts me all at the same time. No matter how many years pass by since the last time I heard T.’s voice, I will still never quite recover from the trauma of having him ripped from our lives. The hole will always be there even though the edges are less frayed and jagged with time. I will always have bitter tears for my children’s loss and what this meant for them. But alongside it I will always be wrapped in the tender, doting love that R. brings to my life and the fullness of life I enjoy again as a result of God bringing him into my life. I will always hear the song of a loving father being sung from the heart of R. over Li’l G and Bud, a song that no one else but he could sing. And in the sparkling eyes of my Jeremiah 29:11 baby I will always see God’s promise to be El Roi, the God Who Sees, in my life -- the promise of never walking away, of never turning a deaf ear towards me, of counting each tear my heart has cried along the way and holding them in the palm of His hand.

So I will mark, during the hustle and bustle as well as the quiet still moments, the two days that changed me forever. I will cry, remember, smile, and finally emerge exhausted by the range of emotions I go through each time November 30 rolls around. I will treasure the memories I have, faded though some may be. They will be pasted into the collage of my life with the vibrant colors of my present and the not-yet-defined colors that await me in the future. And so will pass another year.

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. :)

Ho! Ho! NO!!!: Why I Won't Skip Past Thanksgiving and Start The Christmas Season Early

I don't know what got into me, but for some reason I felt led to post this status recently on my FaceBook account: "I boycott [the] Christmas-before-Thanksgiving movement." The first response posted to that was, "Where is the dislike button?" I knew there would be more of those type responses than not. I wasn't trying to provoke people or judge those who put up trees a month or two early or listen to Christmas music the day after Halloween. I can even hear the argument coming that we should be focusing on Christ's birth, so what, then, is the harm in extending the Christmas season a little longer than just the month of December?

Many of you who know me personally or through this blog know that I lost my first husband just days after Thanksgiving. This year will mark five years that he has been gone. We were married for five years and four months. I've been without him almost as long as I was married to him, which seems so odd to me, but that is a whole other blog. It has taken a while for the joy of Thanksgiving to seep back into my heart, but I think it's definitely getting there. Last year my new husband proposed the night before Thanksgiving. He said that he knew that this time of year was not easy for me, but also felt that this was the right time to propose and begin happy memories together. As hard as this time of year always feels, he was exactly right -- we have started to reclaim this time of year as a time of love, happiness, and togetherness as it always had been in my life.

Why, if this holiday and this time of year has so much anguish and bittersweet associated with it, do I want to anticipate it so singularly? Why would I put myself through the torture of facing this hailstorm of emotions, simultaneously sweet and sorrowful, each and every year? Why not focus on the coming King, the Christ child? Why not put others' needs and delights in my crosshairs to keep me in the Christmas spirit?

I believe that to grieve the dead is a holy honor, a duty, a labor of our love. And I cannot only think of T. here. I think of the roll call of people I love -- not loved -- who no longer share this meal with me each year. I think of T.'s easy laughter when I would be flustered about some kind of drama with the family or preparations of the day. I think of seeing the ivory-colored Ford truck pulling up to our house hours before the meal was to be served, before my mom had brushed her teeth or bathed for the day, and my grandparents getting out and coming in to a house that smelled of roasted turkey. I remember the straw hat and blue coveralls my grandfather would wear, how loud the television would be so he could hear it. I can remember my grandmother walking in with more than one dish of her dressing, the crowning glory of our feast. Remembering this day, these people takes me back to a time when life was simpler, straightforward, and I felt safe and loved. Why, for the love of all things sacred, would I be in a hurry to gloss past this? When I think about the blessing that these people were to me then and how they continue to be now, I cannot imagine giving this holiday second billing.

Thanksgiving is also a time for humility. Am I the only person these days who can still comprehend the first five or six letters in the name of this holiday?!? How could I not want to stop to take the time and bless my family with a meal prepared in love, thanks, and humility when they are such precious gifts to me from God? How could I possibly want to fast-forward past one more opportunity to tell my God thank you for not forgetting me, for lifting my head when I was too weak to lift it off my heavy chest, for blessing me with love and life, for ministering to me through children, parents, and friends?

If I could rewrite the calendars, I would more than likely emphasize things like Advent and Lent -- seasons of reflection and preparation -- over their culminating holidays. Christmas and Easter should be something we celebrate and partake of every single day of our lives as Christians. I can buy someone a gift any time; I don't need Toys R Us or Barnes and Nobles to remind me to remember others. I won't get into a sermon about how materialistic our society is. I think we all have a good grip on the world in which we live, and how we, too, regardless of how much we like to rail against it, are just as guilty of falling into this trap to various degrees, myself included. I just wish that we would be in less of a hurry to "get past" Thanksgiving some days. Thanksgiving isn't just a holiday or a meal. It is an orientation of the heart.

The Changing of the Seasons

Ever feel like you've sailing along in life and then, all of a sudden, notice that you had a massive shifting of the very ground under your feet? Almost like the kind of earthquake that can completely alter the path of a mighty river or change the polarity of the earth. I knew that this summer would bring about such changes for myself and my family, but I had no way of truly knowing just how different things would be -- and just how different I would be -- by the time the summer began to wind down and we could finally see the start of school and fall on the horizon.

Let me give you a head-spinning timeline so you can see what I've been up to instead of blogging: got married, bought a house, packed up my children and all of our belongings, drove the 2400 miles to our new home, visited R. a couple of times in yet another state while he was working there, settled two separate households-worth of belongings into our new home, got pregnant (!!!), have kids settled into extracurricular activities, been "church shopping", and now R. is home for good. In five months time I went from being a widow and single parent to being an Army wife (again), with kids who seem to have grown up overnight and trying to figure out what being pregnant in my mid-30s is going to be like.

Don't think for a minute I haven't been blogging in my heart this whole time. I have some incredibly precious memories from this summer. My family all gathered for a goodbye meal just before we struck out on our transcontinental drive. Despite how extended family can make you happy and crazy at the same time, I realized as I looked at each smiling face what an important part these people have played in making me who I am, how they have supported my family through thick and thin, how they have grieved alongside me through the really hard stuff. To top it off, my grandmother, recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's, who has struggled with significant health issues over the last year, spoke those blessed words from Numbers 6:24-26 to me as we were preparing to depart. It has been particularly hard to leave her because I know that it could be the last time I lay eyes on her this side of eternity. While I understand that as an adult, the child in me sees my grandmother and doesn't want to let her go. I know as a Christian that this world is not our true home, and if anyone longs for her true home it is most definitely my grandmother, but thinking about my world without her voice, her smile, her laughter in it just shatters me. (As I write this she is actually doing just fine, praise God!)

Leaving my church was no cakewalk, either. I was blessed with the opportunity to serve in so many unique ways with this body of believers. There were so many times when I felt out of place or exasperated with some of the painful things going on there. But through it all, as much as I considered tapping out sometimes, it was God working through some of the people there that sustained me in ways I am only just now realizing and appreciating. Similarly, the friends we visited along our journey are some of the most precious ones I've ever made, and while I have always appreciated how they have gone out of their way to love me through thick and thin, I think I love most how they are so steadfast, unchanging in their friendship and support across the years and the miles. They are all truly Godly women that I adore and admire so much.



I think I have most enjoyed spending time with my children this summer. They are at an age now that they are fun to hang out with AND they still want to be around us! From the long road trip and all of the cool sideshows along the way, to learning how to ride bikes without training wheels and swimming, I have noticed that we've moved to a new season in childhood for them, too. With Bud starting Kindgergarten this year and Li'l G in second grade, they will both be off on the bus each day, off on their own adventures. It makes me miss them being little and needing me more. Their need of me doesn't go away, of course, but it changes as they grow and mature. I think I would rather take the needs of diapers and naps over boy-crazy friends and playground politics, thank you very much, but I digress...

As I was unpacking and putting R.'s things away, my thoughts drifted back to a day that seemed as though it had taken place in another life. I was remembering the day I left the housing quarters I had shared with my late husband and deciding what to do with his socks as I was supposed to be finding room for all of my new husband's clothes in the home we now share. Words escape me to properly describe the feelings flooding through my heart and mind as I thought about what I was doing, what it meant, the path my life had been on to get me from Point A to Point B. There are some days where I literally feel as though I could be living someone else's life, or am dreaming. Don't get me wrong -- we have a very human marriage, very human children, etc., but for me to hear this man introduce me as his wife, to hear the children scream, "Daddy!" at the top of their lungs when he walks in the door, nearly sucks the air out of my lungs each time I hear it. To really contemplate how God has blessed my family and me leaves me breathless.

As amazing as all this is, I can't help but feeling kinda lost somedays. Isn't that weird? I think it is. I know that some of it has to do with the dangerous levels of hormones coursing through my veins these days. "Who am I?" is a question I consider many days. I knew who I was back when I was T.'s widow. But now I add to that identity R.'s wife. My status as a mom has not changed (regardless of what TRICARE says, but that's a whole other story), but now we're having another baby. How will this pregnancy go? What will the family dynamic be like once #3 gets here? Will this baby be healthy? Will I miscarry? I've never been pregnant in my 30s, and things feel a little different this time around, but not too bad. How will my energy hold out for Li'l G and Bud as I progress? Where, oh WHERE will we go to church? Where is the right group with which we will worship? Will PWOC work out this year? Will I ever get to be on a praise band again?...ad nauseum...

Overall I'm not terribly worried about all these questions. I trust that God will answer them in time. Or not, which is in itself an answer. I don't like uncertainty in my life; then again, who does? So many things have changed in our lives in such a short amount of time. Everything I had figured out about who I was and the world around me has been flip-turned upside-down, and once again I find myself untangling the proverbial knot of coat hangers that have been jumbled together after the move. I do know that God created me to exist in community with others, so I am most anxious to find a church home and make new friends. Other than that, I just want to sit back and savor this changing of seasons, in my family, in my heart, in my home, and take it all in.

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace." -- Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Transformation: Becoming An "SP" Again

Wow. Here it is, already April, and life is moving so fast once again. Spring brings about recitals, team sports, and class programs if you have school-aged children. It also brings about much hustle and bustle for anyone involved in a church as you move from the reflective season of Lent into the shining glory of the empty tomb on Resurrection Morning. In my family, add to all this a slew of family birthdays and anniversaries. Tired yet? TOO BAD! Because now my life has spun back into action as a new wife. And not just any wife, the wife to an active duty soldier in the Army. One who is making a transcontinental move in, oh, about five days. In what took the ID card lady about 10 minutes to change in her omnipotent computer system, I went from being a "URW" (Unremarried Widow) to being a "SP" (spouse) again in a few keystrokes. What those keystrokes symbolize absolutely blows my mind.

It's crazy to think about where my life was six months ago, a year ago, five years ago, etc. R. and I recently married (see S4J and His Girl for some hysterical footage and on-the-go vlogging), and with the wedding/life planning process there came a lot of opportunity for reflection. I would be remiss if I glossed over all of this, so I need to document it now while it is still fresh in my mind, before my feeble brain is clogged with other details that need more immediate attention.

WEDDING PLANNING

This is, in the minds of some, like childbirth: something amazing to experience, painful while going through it, yet you only remember the good stuff about it, although you pray to the good Lord to never have to do it again and swear to pay off your children so that they elope when the time comes. Also, there is this misconception that there is an "appropriate" amount of time to be engaged or that it takes at least a year to plan an amazing, wonderful event. To quote John Pinette, "I say 'nay-nay'!" We were engaged for just shy of four months. In the first three weeks I was able to secure an amazing florist, our reception site which handled our food and beverages, a wedding cake, buy my dream gown, and order my invites and paper goods. I didn't exactly cut corners, but I also didn't want to break the bank. I did all that in three weeks being a single parent, albeit I don't work outside the home. Folks, it can be done.

I happened upon some really great vendors who are skilled at their craft. As the days dwindled down, both my groom and I were able to enjoy looking forward to our big day without having to put out fires and come up with lots of scatterbrained contingency plans last minute. Overall, I'd say we got what we wanted and the whole event was even better than we could have dreamed.

THE ROAD TO THE CHAPEL

As lovely as all this is, wedding planning for me was not just about procuring the perfect flowers, dress, or menu. Wedding planning was another step in the grief process. It was about really learning what it means to join with this person and become one. That is hard to do when it means completely cleaving yourself from the one you lost and can take time. There is no room for three people in a marriage. It was, for me, one of the most amazing, surreal days of my life.

I know this may sound really confusing to some of you. I will attempt to describe what was going on in my heart over those months, but I just don't know if I can do this justice or not. I promise not to be unduly dark or sarcastic (aww, maaaannn!), just telling it like it was for me and trying to put you in my brain as best I can.

If you are married, picture yourself back on your own wedding day, exuberant and brimming with love for this person you married. Think over some of the best days and worst days of your marriage. Think about the children you have had, or something over which you have both bonded. Think about some of the dreams and goals you have set for your lives together. Take one last look at your spouse now. Remember every minute detail that you can, because this will be the last look you ever get. Touch them, smell them, feel the warmth in their skin before it is gone. That's gonna have to last you a while. Now turn around and walk out the door. Once you leave, you can never go back -- it's a one-way ticket to your new life.

Now imagine you, your children, all of your things, and put them in a different state. Take your friends, your church, the things you see during your daily grind, and erase those from your daily landscape. Put a new, pleasant but unfamiliar environment outside your door. You can have as many pictures and artifacts of your spouse as you want. You can pretend to talk to them on the phone, set a place for them at the table, whatever you want, but you will never see them again. You still feel like a family waiting on someone to come home from a business trip, but that traveller's key will never turn in your door again. Do this day in and day out. Oh yeah, and keep your chin up while you're at it.

Let a few years pass. The feeling finally comes back to your body and your heart, slowly as if you are thawing from a hard freeze. The shock and pain has worn off, and you no longer feel as if you are waiting for missing link. You've developed a new sense of normal. Normal relative to you. You might look at the lives of others and wonder what it was ever like to be a traditional family. Ponder what effect your life events will have on your children as they grow up, fall in love, and decide whether or not they will marry. Scarier still, ponder what effect your own grief has had on your children and how much time and money they will have to spend in therapy! Now that you're pretty much done thawing out, you have a stark realization: you want to step away from the one you lost into the arms of another.

Maybe you will take that step, maybe you won't. For the sake of our narrative, let's say you do. How will you handle telling a love interest about the significantly ginormous, neon flashing sign on your head that says, "WIDOW" or "WIDOWER"? Will he/she ask about it? Will you tell? Will you say something before they have a chance to ask? Will they freak out about it? What about if you cry? Will they freak out about that? Will they accept the situation or not? How will you handle this with your children? Will you listen to advice from married friends? Family? Other single people? Other single parents? Your religion? What is appropriate and what isn't? Left or right? Up or down? Black, white, or nuanced shades of grey? I'm so glad you don't have anything else going in your life so you can devote all your time to figuring out these questions... oh wait a minute...!!!

Now do you guys understand why this blog is called, "One More Thing"?!? :)

Let's fastforward to your wedding day. You have taken innumerable careful steps leading up to this day. You've come a long way from still feeling like a spouse who's waiting on their other half to return to them to a completely separate, independent individual who is strong and evolved enough to know when they are ready to fall in love and bond with someone again. Thinking about a life and a future without your newly betrothed spouse is unimaginable, and you marvel at how lucky you are to have found this love and acceptance in this person. You have wonderful plans of raising children and growing old together when something begins to stir, almost like the beginnings of a sneeze deep inside your head, but this is in your heart. You think, "Wait a minute, this sounds familiar..."



What you've done is transformed: you have felt like this squishy, awkward caterpillar feeling its way around a garden, trying to find some sustenance upon which to survive. You gathered your strength, spun your cocoon, and emerged as a completely new creature -- beautiful, graceful, and free. You don't feel bound by such gravity any more. You are light and basking in the warm sun.

THE BOTTOM LINE(S)

It was one thing to decide I wanted to date again. It was another thing to actually go out and date people, socialize, put yourself in an emotionally vulnerable position. It was one thing to meet an amazing man that put a smile back into my heart. It was another thing to completely give it over to him and trust him not to break it after coming through so much. It was one thing to tell T. goodbye and soldier on these last 4 1/2 years, knowing we would high-five each other again in the presence of the Lord. It was another thing to allow myself to fall in love again and not worry about feeling as though I was betraying T. It was one thing to say "yes" to R. when he proposed and get excited about making wedding plans. It was another thing to look into R.'s sparkling, gentle blue eyes, say my vows to him, slip the ring on his finger, and become his wife. When I walked with my sweet Dad down the aisle, praise Jesus, I did not feel as though I was walking away from T. I felt like I was running full force toward R., and that right next to him was exactly where I belonged. Standing there looking at him, I wasn't aware of anyone else in the room with us -- all I could see was soft light coming in through stained glass windows and flickering on candles, framing his sweet, smiling face. As the kids clambered between us and and we had our nuptial smooch, I felt like I had something new, yet something I sort of had all along: our family.



I started noticing something the day I picked up my gown. Real love is not to be taken for granted. It is a rare and precious thing. I hear R.'s voice on the phone, or I say something to someone about "my husband," and I'm reminded of this. I pray that it's something I never forget. I also hope I never forget where I've been, the hopelessness and lonliness I felt, the awkwardness and feeling disconnected that set in sometimes. I wasn't completely pessimistic about my life, but it's hard to be truly happy in life when things just aren't right. I hope I never forget the kinds of advice not to give. I hope my friends and family will know someday how thankful I am that they didn't give up on me even when I was feeling fairly tormented at the time. I hope I haven't damaged my poor, sweet children, who I know are gifts from God that have given me purpose in life. (Embarassed? Yes, and I'll likely do it again. Damaged, hopefully not!)



NERVOUS NEWLYWED?!?



I'll be honest. This all seems too good to be true. Is that pessimistic or negative of me? Does it communicate a deep-seated distrust of God and therefore underdeveloped spirituality? Maybe, but quite frankly I'm not interested in a psycho-theological explanation here. I remember I was completely stressed out with breastfeeding with my second child because of dire complications I had with my first. Until we got past that point I was a stress bucket. After that it was smooth sailing. My neighbor/friend/consultant also did a great job to reassure me and restore some of my confidence.



I think this is where prayer will prove quite helpful for me. My nerves began to fray a little bit, admittedly, on our honeymoon. We were preparing to fly over to see some friends the following day before we came back home. Some of these friends are some of the most precious people I've had the privilege to know, having come alongside me and ministered to me through music, laughter, and friendship during losing T. After I got off the phone with one of my friends and started remembering all those tough times she loved me through, I nearly had an anxiety attack. What had I done?!? I went off and got married again!!! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Don't you know all this is going to happen again and you're going to be left with a twice-broken heart?



I just stuffed it and put it out of mind. We had a great time the last couple of days, came home, and started back into the daily grind. But the night before R. left to go home, I just couldn't hold it in any longer. I cried almost as hard that night as he just held me as I had the day T. died. I will admit: it almost makes me throw up spontaneously to think about R. dying and being gone. I have come through so much to be at this point in my life. My understanding of life and love is so much more profound than it was ten years ago. At the hotel I had looked at his shaving items there by the sink and heard him talking on the phone in the room and then envisioned it all gone, and I just wanted the earth to swallow me up.



I know I won't always be this panicky about him dying. God has proven to be faithful to God's word time and time again to me. I hate being worried at a time of renewal in my life, when so many great things are starting to happen for us. I hate that grief is like an ugly tattoo that is with you, whether or not anyone else can see it. But I do love him and can't imagine not being his "SP". What is most important to me is that he loves me as I am, crazy and worried and energized all at the same time. I just want to take each moment, with God's help, and cherish it -- with him, with our children, with each new step in life. I could waste away my days in tears of this thing I fear so much, or I could choose to take advantage of the time we have. I will not lose heart; I choose to be of good courage.



"I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait on the LORD; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart. Wait, I say, on the LORD!" -- Psalm 27:13-14

Legacies

I have had a million things on my mind about which to blog: an unbelievable show I watched recently about Amish teenagers, some of the lessons I've been learning as my involvement in ministry grows and changes, personal updates, etc. All of that came to a screeching halt on the Friday before the Memorial Day holiday weekend when my grandmother suffered an acute gall bladder attack that nearly took her life and left my family completely rattled.



The circumstances of how things began are nothing short of miraculous. Any other day of the week, she would've experienced the beginning of her symptoms in a quiet, empty house as my grandfather ran his usual errands around town. (Although he is an octogenarian, his energy and drive puts many of us whippersnappers right in our place. I have definitely inherited some of his "ADD"-like behaviors, haha...) At any rate, my grandparents had company -- my uncle from California -- who was able to get her quickly to medical care. Had he not been there, all of us would hate to put together the picture of how this story could have played out. At any rate, the random timing of his short visit didn't seem so random after seeing this happen.



As I write this, we have had many ups and downs with my grandmother's physical and mental condition. The life-saving surgery she requires is too risky at this point, so the best thing for her is to rest and regain her strength; however, in the back of my mind, I'm wondering how long until we see a repeat of her extreme pain and agony if this flares up again before she is strong enough for surgery.



Something that has frightened some family members is her willingness to go Home. As far back as I can remember, my grandmother has made very clear to me that we all have important work to do "in the highways and hedges" for the Lord until we are called Home, which is where our hearts should ultimately be pointed. When we have talked of injustices and violence going on in the world, especially in regards to children who are abused or starving, she is always moved to tears, her spirit grieving for the Lord to return and bring His own unto Him. While I would love to see her make a full recovery and return to her St. Francis of Assissi-like love and care for her birds and squirrels at her home, as well as her music ministry at a local nursing home, I know that both physically and mentally she is exhausted and weary. I know that she yearns to see Jesus and add her voice to the chorus of those worshipping at the throne. I will be honored to see her through whichever journey God sees fit to send her on, be it here or there. But what moved me to tears was thinking about what she will leave behind.



"Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for awhile and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same." This quote by Flavia has always been a profound truth for me. Especially after T. died, I could really relate. But what I think about today is the legacy my grandmother leaves behind, what each of us will leave behind. We hear a lot in today's media about presidents and their legacies, how they have shaped the nation in various ways during their time in office. In our own personal lives, we each leave behind a legacy. I've also heard the analogy that children are like glasses, and parents leave behind some kind of indelible fingerprint on the glass, while some parents crack or completely destroy this fragile material. The way we act, think, dress, virtually everything about us impacts those around us and leaves a lasting impression, hopefully a good one if we're lucky.



The legacy my grandmother has already created was so easy to see on the faces and in the hands of my family over the last week or so. There were eight to ten of us waiting to take shifts and sit with her, feed her, or console her at any time during the day or night. The sense of family connection in the ICU waiting room was virtually palpable. But consider who we have learned this from: this is a woman who has hardly sat still a day in her life to eat a complete meal. She is the most selfless serving person I have ever seen, somehow being both Mary and Martha at the same time. Even as she worked hard alongside my grandfather to care of five children of her own, she also tirelessly cared for the sick and elderly in her neighborhood, worked around the clock to care for her own ailing mother and mother-in-law. She lived through the Great Depression as the daughter of a widow and still manages to have a song in her heart and a smile on her face. She is kind and gentle to animals and children alike, and is a prayer warrior to make Mother Teresa look like a complete slacker. She wears her "Good News" pin everywhere she goes as a conversation starter so that she can tell people about Jesus when they inquire about what her pin means. She is Jesus in the flesh.



Her legacy lives on in me as well. Many people firmly believe that, unless you have a "come to Jesus" moment, then you have not really accepted Christ into your heart and made your choice for Him. (Which I have a massive theological difference with, but we'll just save that for another blog...) I was raised with Jesus. He has been a constant presence in my life, as much as my own parents and siblings. My grandmother has everything to do with that. She also frightened me to death about what Hell was going to be like, but again, that's another blog. I have never questioned: a) that Jesus loves me, b) that He is always present with me, even when I feel abandoned and alone, c) I could never stray so far away from Him that He will not always love me, d) that He is the one true Son of God, e) that He died on my behalf so that I might be forgiven of all my sins, etc. You can see where this is going. She didn't cram a bunch of scriptures down my throat and tell me I couldn't listen to pop radio in the '80s or that I had to wear long dresses and never cut my hair. She simply modeled what it means to be a Christian in a fallen world. She explained things to me, sang with me, prayed with and for me, taught me to love others and to be kind. She taught me to bring my faith in a meaningful way to others, not through pleading or judgment, but through example and service. As I embark on care giving ministry at my church, I feel like my life has come full circle, in many ways because of the tiny seed which she planted thirty-something years ago.



As I wrestle over what it's like to watch someone fighting for their life, possibly dying before my eyes, I'm realizing that growing older and aging can be a scary thing, but not the frightening experience I once envisioned. It can be a brave, graceful experience journeying slowly back to God, one that I am humbled and honored to be a part of. I only pray that He loans her to us for a little while yet -- there is so much I feel I have left to learn before she is gone.



"For God so loved the world He sent His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have eternal life." --John 3:16

A Soldier's Prayer

"I asked God for strength, that I might achieve,
I was made weak, that I might learn humbly to obey...
I asked for health, that I might do greater things,
I was given infirmity, that I might do better things...
I asked for riches, that I might be happy,
I was given poverty, that I might be wise...
I asked for power, that I might have the praise of men,
I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God...
I asked for all things, that I might enjoy life,
I was given life, that I might enjoy all things...
I got nothing that I asked for -- but everything that I had hoped for,
Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.
I am among all men most richly blessed."

-- An Unknown Confederate Soldier



"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." -- John 15:13

Communion, Cats, and Coconuts

Bum bum BUUUMMMM!!!! I'm baaaackkk!

Yes, I've been away for, well, a little while. Some Many of you have noticed that it's been almost three months since my last entry. Several reasons for that:

1) As mentioned in the previous entry, I've been concentrating time back in the gym. I realized that the holiday pounds were sticking around, and I was already back from my spring break trip with the kids -- in March. I've kept up my committment to pilates and stepped up my cardio to three days/week. I ended up scrapping the CrossFit because it was really bulking me up. I looked like a ghetto girl sans ghetto, bootily speaking. Wasn't pretty. Had to drop weightlifting altogether, and my joints were happy to hear the news.

2) My former pastor officially left at the end of February, leaving me to stand in the gap for a crucial area of ministry that had been neglected -- fellowshipping with and taking communion to our shut-ins. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, a "shut-in" is someone in ill health or has any sundry other reason(s) why they are unable to come and worship with us at Sunday services. Many times these people are in nursing homes or assisted living facilities; other times, they are simply home-bound and it isn't safe for them to venture out of the house or be around crowds of germ-toting people. This item right here is an entire series of blogs that have been simmering in my heart like rich, hearty gumbo -- it's worth blogging about, but I will have to be careful to be confidential. So so so many things I want to share that I have learned while serving in this capacity. Needless to say, since we have not had a full time pastor, I'm the one making hospital visits and making sure these people are not forgotten during times of transition.

3) Spring break came in March, and we braved the wet and cold to spend time with R. These trips are so much fun. The kids are old pros now at navigating airports, long lines at security, and moving walkways. Flying through Denver feels like stopping at an old friend's house at this point.

4) We had to find a new home for the cats. This was a significant emotional event at my house. I spent many a sleepless night in prayer, which may seem silly considering what a burden and source of annoyance Newman in particular has been (the white one), but they have always been family nonetheless. Blog forthcoming on this topic for sure.

5) The month of April is a nightmare some years. This year really wasn't too bad, church-wise. The lenten season brings with it extra fellowship opportunities during the week, as well as contemplative worship time. Unfortunately, extra rehearsals for church musicians can wear out small children and their already-worn-out parents. My nephews also have birthdays two weeks apart in April, so we are always pulled in many directions this month. Went by in a flash.

6) We just went to Hawai'i for eight days and partied our coconuts off! We came home feeling like solar panels for the lush, tropical sun. We made sure R. wasn't lonely over there as he worked, and we also made sure that the beaches and pools were well-supervised. I was repeatedly hit on by a homeless diabetic man who wore a wool beanie to the pool and claimed to be Sean Connery and wanted to spread the Good News of the gospel. Apparently, God had only called him to spread said Good News to women in two piece bathing suits, so poor R. missed out on the fun.

The bummer of this trip is two-fold. Readjusting to the time change, which for us is five hours this time of year. The kids, as per usual, did fine. I was dragging for a couple of days. But I came back to a calendar with nothing on it, and I was so bored not having R. around. Also, switching from having someone with whom to share your time, even the mundane everyday sort of stuff, to being a single parent who sits in a quiet house alone every night is nothing short of bizarre. And even though there's always conversation over the phone, nothing beats having a shoulder to curl up next to as you laugh hysterically at "King of the Hill."

Am I sorry for the lag time here? No, not really. I have missed all the people that read my blog and leave comments. I will confess: I haven't actually been keeping up with my bloglines. I'm sure the post count is well into four digits at the rate most of you guys blog. But to be quite honest, I love working out. I love the smell of fresh-cut grass and something cooking on the grill. I love hanging out with 90 year-olds who are raging against the dying of the light or have served proudly in WWII and Korea. I love chaperoning field trips (sometimes). I love ripping weeds out of my yard and re-discovering my flower bed. I love watching the sun set as I drink a frozen sangria-swirled margarita while the kids chase bugs and watch the boats go by at one of my new favorite restaurants. I love spending time, even if we don't speak with words, with my sweetie. I love rescuing garden snakes from being run over in traffic. I'd trade real life for a computer screen any day of the week.

Empowered For The Journey

I have taken up a new hobby of sorts. It's insane and brilliant at the same time. I have become a little bored with my regular gym routine ever since I decided a year ago to reclaim my health at the beginning of my thirties and start making it look good. It's called Crossfit. I blame this latest addiction on R., as he was the one who began doing this last spring, and I completely scoffed at it. Me, do a pull up?!? Uh, yeah, what prescription medication are you abusing? You surely have me confused with someone who cares about more than Cheetos, Double Stuff Oreos, and sleeping in at every possible opportunity.



I did eventually roll my bones back into the gym and have been pretty hooked on it ever since. R. should be a personal trainer because, not only does he have an endless wealth of information about physical fitness and the human body, but he's a great motivator. The times we've hit the gym together have been great. I need someone to cheer me on and hold me accountable, and he's my Number One Fan. Or at least does a great job of making me think so as every cell in my body is crying, "Mutiny!" and begging for me to stop and rest.



With his encouragement, my disgusting vanity and competetive nature, and the knowledge that I'm actually caring for the temple entrusted to me by my Creator, I feel empowered to do things and experiment with activities that I would have never even considered five years ago. It makes me feel more productive, and I also like setting this example for my children of caring about being active and taking care of myself while I am in good health. God empowers us, too, and helps up to develop our spiritual fitness that will serve us in the future when we need to rely on it during hard times.



In Mark 9:2-13, we read about Jesus' transfiguration. Some miraculous things happen that are more than a little confusing to the disciples, and likely a little terrifying to boot. The voice of the Father commands them to listen to the "beloved Son," and afterwards the Father has empowered the Son for the next stage in his life, that of his active ministry, an intense time of movement and preaching that begins a sort of countdown to his eventual death and resurrection. In short, Jesus has one heckuva journey ahead of him.



Many theologians, from the days of the Acts 2 church until our own present time, like to debate Jesus' humanity versus his divinity. Was he really a human, true flesh and blood? Is it possible for him to have actually been God? Is it conceivable that he was actually fully both God and human, or some weird combination? I'll leave that argument to the true theologians. My personal belief is that Jesus was fully human and fully divine, "God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten not made, of one being with the Father," as we read in the Nicene Creed. This is the understanding from which I work. That being said, the way I understand this passage is such:



Jesus had a mission during his time among us, and like all things, God had a perfect time during which Jesus would serve out obediently that purpose for which he was sent. This was it -- showtime. Jesus didn't go around speaking in parables and working miracles as a toddler or a teenager, although we know that he was raised in a way that had him in and around the temple and discussion of the books of Moses. This was a new journey in his life, and God gave all power and glory to Jesus so that he would have the tools he needed to go the distance.



As I heard these words in church yesterday, I thought about all the people I know and the different journeys they are on. Some are embarking on journeys of physical healing and recovery, some are journeying into the realm of the unknown after having lost jobs in this crummy economy. Others are tentatively dipping their toes into the scary, deep pool of dating after divorce. Yet others can see the next journey that God is calling them to take, and they are hesitant to take that first step into the unknown. Personally, I'm embarking on a journey of service in my church to minister to those who are ill or elderly and cannot attend Sunday services. No matter what road we are all on in this life, God is standing on the sidelines cheering us on and empowering us to continue moving forward. God is the source of our strength, not our own mental fortitude or best efforts. By surrendering that control to God, we allow God to completely fill us with the skills, insights, patience, endurance for the journey ahead. Like R. cheering me on to do that last painful set of pull-ups or squats, God is there to see us through and knows what we need to keep us going.

Holiday Hope

"There is a past which is gone forever, but there is a future which is still our own." -- F.W. Robertson

I just have to take a moment to gloat a little. Today is my rockin'-est day of December yet. Got kids off to school this morning, had my hot coffee in hand. We woke up to a day that was already 30 degrees colder than predicted. Seriously, I think our high temperature yesterday was 79 or 80 degrees! Who needs Hawai'i for Christmas when you could take a gamble on Texas?!? At any rate, I got home, put on all my uber-cold weather gear, wrapped my pipes, pulled all of the old, mostly dead plants out of my garden and built a fire in the fireplace. Even as I sit here with my steaming cup of homemade apple cider, I can hear the crackle of the dry pecan wood over the Amy Grant Christmas CD playing. The high temperature for the day was 39 degrees, around 0730 this morning. Temperatures have been dropping slightly all morning, and you can just tell that the thick, grey clouds overhead are pregnant with moisture. What I wouldn't give for some snow!

Speaking of which, this winter storm charging across the midwest reminds me of our first Christmas at FT Riley, Kansas. This Texas felt as if surely Christ were hovering above the horizon, threatening to return -- it was just ungodly cold and snowy for what seemed like years (really just four solid months -- but still!).

I digress. Christmas cards got sent last week. Three out of four PLMA papers have been typed, proofread, and submitted as of today, the original deadline. I've got chili simmering in the crockpot, and I just finished making cookie dough so that the kids can help me bake and decorate our cheap economical Christmas gifts for teachers. I've got all but one last Christmas gift bought and paid for, but I still have wrapping left to do.

Either way, I'm unusually chipper for this time of year. What's up, GGG? Did you put a little Captain Morgan's in that "apple" cider? This just isn't like you! No duh -- I've even surprised myself! Hahaha...

I've actually been mulling over this post now since 10 DEC. I was in the kitchen over at the sink, and looked up long enough to read the quote on my "Home Sweet Home In Family, In Nation, In God" calendar. The quote I fell upon, posted up above, really struck a chord with me, and I wanted to pay that forward to you, The Readership.

We won't even get into all of the problems in the world. I started a short list in my last post that couldn't even cover the tip of the iceberg. When I read this quote, however, I didn't think about anyone else's problems. I selfishly thought of my own. Of course, my thoughts naturally jumped right to losing T. As anyone who specifically loses a spouse, you grieve not just the loss of your mate, and hopefully best friend as was my case, but you also grieve the loss of your future together -- you grieve raising your children together, rediscovering your romance once the nest is empty, seeing each other through health scares and taking care of each other as you prepare to look Homeward. You grieve the loss of children you will never give birth to. For me, I also grieved the loss of the military lifestyle and watching my husband work diligently to earn rank and change jobs and grow as a father. You grieve the loss of being grandparents together. Am I making my point? There are just so many things you can't even think of until you're a little down the road and they smack like big juicy bugs on the windshield of your life. Then you just look at it, crestfallen, and think, "Crap." I'm sure that people who lose children grieve the loss of seeing them grow up, find careers, fall in love and marry, and watching them blossom into the adults you always prayed they would be. I cannot know for sure since that has not been a part of my life. Either way, memories are bittersweet and can cause as much anguish as they do laughter and nostalgic smiles. All you have is the past -- you no longer have a future with this person.

Then my thoughts jumped to my extended family situation. Maybe many of you have been in this position. My grandparents are having issues associated with growing older and reaching a different, difficult stage in life that affects everyone who knows and loves them. There is a lot of musing about how quickly things have changed, how things used to be, and what on earth the future will look like. The grief process has likely begun for some in my family who live far away and see the changes more starkly because they cannot be around to see the gradual progression of life. For them, I think an entire chapter is over and another begun, not necessarily one that is pleasant but rather is part of the natural course of human life. For those of us who live locally, we see the pages turning one or two at a time, but to others who live further away it might seem like reading the first few pages of the chapter and then skipping fifty pages to the next chapter. For all of us, it makes us realize how blessed our past has been with these two precious people and how we long to return to those days when we were all younger, vital, and thriving. But the fact remains that we can't regress to the past.

No matter if you grieve the loss of a loved one, if you have lost your job, if you have fallen out of love with your spouse or you are awaiting news from the doctor regarding your health, there is a past which we all might look back on and realize that it slipped right by us. This can be oppressive at the holidays. No wonder suicide statistics are higher at this time of year. We all need to allow ourselves to take time -- time for rest, time to eat well, time to reflect and pray, time to cry or be angry. These are things that are necessary, not only to keep us sane, but even to keep our bodies healthy. However, it's easy to get stuck there and bog down. We've got to allow ourselves that time of addressing our burdens, a time of healing, and a time of moving forward.

C'mon, GGG, what about Jeremiah 29:11? Don't you know that's the perfect verse here?? Yeah, whatever. That verse used to give me fits. "Oh, really? God has a future and a hope for me? Mmm, yeah, he's got a jacked up way of showing that." As terrible as that sounds, I needed to get to that dark place, the bottom of the pit of despair before I could not look any lower -- I could only look Upward. Only then could I really appreciate how God could act in my life and come to treasure Jeremiah 29:11.

As I wallowed in my muck for a little while, I recalled something I had heard Thelma Wells of Women of Faith fame talk about at an old conference. She gave a personal testimony about a long string of hardships she and her family had endured through the years, and she turned it around with Lamentations 3:22-23:

"22Through the LORD’s mercies we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not. 23 They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness." (NKJV)

Or better yet, read how The Message paraphrases vv. 22-24:

"God's loyal love couldn't have run out, his merciful love couldn't have dried up. They're created new every morning. How great your faithfulness! I'm sticking with God (I say it over and over). He's all I've got left."

After I claimed that as a promise, then Jeremiah 29:11 was less of a bitter pill to swallow. There was, indeed, a future ahead of me, a future I could pursue and take hold of, own for myself. If I already knew God to be consistent and faithful, why would he not uphold this promise, too? I had to come to terms with the fact that the future and hope I had originally envisioned was gone, but that didn't mean that there was not another, completely different, completely wonderful future ahead of me.

The past is just that, and we can't live there. We can dust it off and revisit it, but there is a future ahead of us. It may not look like we planned, but there is a tomorrow. That future waits for us to get up, get moving, and claim it with God's help. That is my Christmas gift to you -- to encourage you to move forward, one small step at a time.

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!