Wishing you this.

Somehow, we have moved through another entire year. How well did we move? Was it with peace, with anxiety, with anger, with joy. Did we move with hope? Did we move forward or back, or some of each? Was it full of grief? Was it grueling and yet filled with grace? Was it scary? Did we dance, did we laugh, did we move faith forward? 

It was a year of so much change in my life. I never do things in a small way. Although my desire is to tip-toe gently in, often I find I jump in and then wade through the fallout. Finding our way is like that. Fallout is a necessary part of life. Living is necessary for fallout. You can't have one without the other. 

Accept a new job I thought, pull up roots I thought. I am ready for this I thought. Let go of all that is familiar and start again.  Discover all the changes you asked for are harder in more ways than you could ever have imagined. Grieve deeply for the past. Grieve deeply for a place that was a beloved home for many years. Grieve the life changes that made all of this come to fruition. Pack up and move twice in six months. That was a beast of an endeavor. But you know what feels like home and what doesn't. If you have to move more than once to find it do so. Then thank those who helped you repeatedly make it happen.

It's been a year of uncertainty, and of discovery. What would I do different? I'd reach out sooner for help when I needed it. Sometimes we are slow learners. I'd lean in closer to the love available. I'd let go of anxiety and breathe in certainty. I'd trust deeply that my needs will be met. After all, doesn't the big guy upstairs promise me that?  I don't have to do life by myself. I'd trust more, worry less. I'd understand mistakes are simply human moments  and stepping stones for growth. I'd be gentle with myself. I'd accept that other people don't have to like me, but I do. I'd cry a lot, maybe more, if possible. Crying is cleansing and healing. I'd anticipate good things.

I walked the dogs daily, beginning mid-March, and have only missed three days. Not going the count the number of poop bags I used, but can I just say Layla donates regularly on our walks. That's a personal record for consistent exercise for me. Granted we use the stop and sniff method. For the dogs stopping to use their nose is an important part of the process. I particularly like when this happens on big hills. I reached out to others who walk the path of survivors of suicide loss. I hope my experience and encouragement finds its way to those struggling.  I helped Hobbs gently cross the bridge when it was time. I helped Gunther through a couple of health issues.  And this, this is a big one...I didn't give up. Lord knows how much I wanted to give up.

So here I am at years end. Weary, grateful, stronger, wiser, softer. I have a much deeper understanding of our need for connection. So I wish you these same things...loving connections, strength, gratitude, growth. May the path be easy, and if not, may it be traveled with faith, family and good friends. That's who and what gets us through the hard parts. That's who laughs with us at the absurdities of life. That's who celebrate's the victories big and small. That's who wipes the tears and gives us courage to move forward again. Wishing you this, so much of this.

This And That

It is completely okay, to not feel the Jolly in the Holly Jolly. To not feel the Merry in the Merry Christmas. To only feel the la-la-la, in the Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la. 

It is part and parcel of life to be completely blessed and still feel sad, or lonely, or any of your other very valid feelings. This has been such a grieving season for all of us. Loss of our sense of normalcy, as well as other losses in life. Some losses we see coming, and can understand to some degree. Some losses will surface, and resurface and never make any sense at all. 

There are times we may think, I 'should' be happy because I have this, this, and this. The have's don't always zero out the haven'ts. Truthfully, some people only dream of the lives we have. The jobs we have, the roof over our heads, the food in our pantry. Some of this reads contradictory. We are blessed, we are blessed beyond belief. And, we have losses to grieve and sorrows to bear. We can feel joy and anticipation one moment, sadness and heartache the next. The common denominator? We feel.

Whatever you are feeling in this season of life, this season of the year, it's valid. And, you are valuable. Feel it, bless the feeling and release it. Because it's okay to be both this and that. 

In The Midst...

I make it a point to sit in my little family room to eat dinner. It is one of the few moments daily that I slow down, am fully present and enjoy. I also do that so I am eating at a table without clutter, without technology (although sometimes I cheat on that), even without a book. Sometimes I struggle with finding the joy in eating alone. But today, as I looked around this little room, I discovered something very important.

In this little room with brick walls and a wood burning stove, hang antlers from the deer my Dad shot many moons ago. There is the Christmas tree with the first ornaments I bought as a newlywed in 1980. There is the ornament I crocheted when I was pregnant in 1983. There is a mistletoe ornament. One doesn't take chances missing out on kisses under the mistletoe. But there is more. There is a board salvaged from the junk pile behind a flower shop I managed. It's been repurposed into a sign that says Together Is A Wonderful Place To Be on one side, and Believe on the other. Painted with love by a friend I had the privilege of working with. There is a old barn door I bought with another flower shop friend at a one-of-a kind sale. One of us was going home with that door, I was the lucky one. There is the collage of pictures from my rural home of sunsets, storm clouds and the creek. There is the winter picture painted in a class with the women's group from my little village of 42. It says All Is Calm, All Is Bright. Nothing in my life was calm or bright at that time. There are pointer pictures I collected over the years, finally hung in a gallery setting. There is the metal pointer silhouette gifted from a friend in Canada. There is the perfect chair I found at the GoodWill, because I am a thrift store kinda gal. There is so much past and present in that room. So many answered prayers. So many memories of life, family/friends and love.

I discovered I am not alone at all in that room. In the midst of all the busyness. In the midst of viruses, fear, stress and worry. In the midst of lost dreams and answered prayers I am surrounded by love. In the midst of this season of life, whatever it consists of, may you be surrounded by love. May you Believe. Look past the messes, the challenges, and see the blessings. The truth is that you are not alone. And...You are oh so loved.

Changed But Not Diminished

As a survivor, of any sort of trauma, each new life experience is filtered through the "if this hadn't occurred, I wouldn't be right here, right now". Even the really good stuff is shadowed by the knowledge that bad things happened propelling that person on to a new life. One didn't happen without the other. 

The same applies at the other end of the spectrum, really terrific things also lead you to places and experiences that wouldn't have come to pass without them. Life is complex.

I just want to share that I am a bit frayed around the edges. Have been for some time now. Scarred, altered, battered if you will. I am also softened, stronger and more me than I ever was. Things don't have to be pretty to be beautiful. Things can be raw and rugged and be entirely blessed beyond measure. 

We're entering the holiday season a bit bruised and tattered. It's been a hard year. It continues to be a hard year. We have been challenged. We have been stressed. Life does not look like life as we knew it. We've had losses, and we grieve them. We will always grieve them. We've scaled back, hopefully, to the essence of what we truly value. Finding at the heart of it what carries us through, what we hold dear, what matters.

 

But this, this says it all for me. Now truth be told, long long ago one of the dogs got a hold of this ornament and gnawed on it. It was altered, it was traumatized, it was changed. Little did I know how symbolic this would be. All I knew back then was that it was still beautiful in my eyes. I loved the dog, I loved the ornament, I forgave the dog, I kept the ornament.

The message is the same whether it's on spun gold or chewed wood. Personally, I'll take the chewed wood. We kind of resemble that this year, I know I do. A little worse for the wear, but His light and love shines through. Changed by our circumstances, but because of our faith, not diminished by them. 

Finding gratitude and joy, on a holiday week, in a pandemic.

Holiday weeks can be hard. For the grieving, or the lonely. Or the lonely and grieving. For those whose family is far away, sometimes even for those whose family is in the same room. Then add in all the stress of the pandemic.

So, how to find the grace in a situation we never saw coming, and won't see leaving soon. Perhaps, I have an advantage of some sort having experienced an unexpected tragedy that will always affect me. There aren't many wins that came from that loss. However, if I dig deep I can find a few things that would never have evolved without the loss. Things that brought growth, compassion, understanding.

We are facing a week normally full of family, feasting, football, and other festivities. This year we face uncertainty through a face mask, and may likely spend more time with hand sanitizer than family. It's not what we want, it's not what we ever expected, it's not going away soon. It's tragic. 

So we will have a lot of feelings this week. Sadness, loss, fear, uncertainty, worry, and many others. We will be challenged to connect in different ways to embrace the thanks we are usually giving this week. There are still many things to be grateful for. Even in the midst of worry, we can slow down and find blessings. I'm not saying it will be easy. I'm just saying it can be done. Holidays are always poignant reminders, full stop. Whatever your reminders are, know you are not alone. 

If you are struggling let someone know. If you have gifts of encouragement or service, offer them. If you are in need, ask. If you can, pray. If you can put your wants and desires aside for the health and safety of others do so. Do not, however, forget to find ways to celebrate, to connect, to give and to give thanks. This season of life may not look anything like you want it to. It may suck beyond belief, it may seem never ending. It won't always be like this, keep the faith, trust there is a bigger plan and know, know you aren't alone. Know it's okay to give thanks in all circumstances, in fact it's recommended. 

 

A Light In The Dark

Every day we build our life. We have new experiences, we learn, meet new people, develop relationships. There is a relationship in my life called grief. If we live, and we love, we will also grieve at some point. Grief lurks in the background sometimes, other times it jumps out front and center. We can say we make peace with it, but I'll admit to struggling with it. 

Many years ago I was in a vehicle that went backwards off a cliff from a one lane road in Hawaii. When the vehicle stopped, all four wheels were off the ground. A boulder stopped us from rolling. Thank God for the boulder. None of us suffered serious injuries. All of us were changed. I can only speak for myself, but I had to wonder, and still do why we walked away. Medical personnel told us no one walks away from these types of accidents. Yet, we did. So I have to believe there was something in the bigger plan that I was meant to do. 

I'd also like to think the bigger plan was not to be a survivor of suicide loss. Thing is, I didn't get to pick the plan, I just have to navigate through it. The "what if's" go on and on. What if this, what if that. The further down the road of grief, the less these thoughts plague you. Sometimes though, like around the holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, plain old uneventful days, rainy days, sunny days it all surfaces. Am I meant to bear witness to faith, to survival? Am I meant to lead others who struggle by owning my truth? Am I meant to boldly say mental health issues are nothing to be ashamed of? Can I say survivor of suicide loss enough times that it breaks down even a tiny bit of the stigma? 

When I changed jobs this year, my "story" which most people only know pieces of preceded me. People love to share pieces and feed the stigma. People didn't treat me different, make me a source of gossip, whisper about what happened when I was in an accident. People have accidents. Accidents are unfortunate, even tragic, but "acceptable". Suicide is another thing. And you know what? Suicide is not acceptable. Treating someone different because of it is not acceptable. Feeling shame because you struggle with mental health is not acceptable. Giving up entirely is not acceptable. Being afraid to ask for help is not acceptable. Losing precious lives to mental health issues is not acceptable. 

So, as another birthday that cues the grief is days away, I wonder if my bigger plan was/is to be a light in the dark. Time will tell. Even being a tiny light is a gift. May we all be tiny lights, or big bold bright lights. Tell your story, own your truth, trust the process. Open the doors to acceptance, heal some pain, diffuse the stigma. So know and trust...that it is no accident that you and I are here, right where we need to be, to make a difference some way, some how. 

Own That

 I had a friend tell me "so, very few people could do what you have done this year. Weaker souls woulda just given up." She also said, own that. Cuz it is amazing. My immediate response was smarter people wouldn't have tried it. I'm still trying to digest this, to accept this.

Funny how hard it is to acknowledge a life truth, to accept a compliment, a reality. Reality is hard, reality is poignant, reality holds moments of joy, and reality can rip a scab right open. I'd be remiss if I didn't own that so many times this year I have wished I'd made other choices. Wished I had not pulled up roots. Wished I was back in my old life. Except, growth required me to seek a new life. 

I am not the type to move repeatedly. I am a home body. I struggle with change. I stress over not knowing the when, the where, the how. This year has taken any idea of when, where and how and thrown it to the wind. I gave up one home to return to another, only to find out it didn't feel like home there any more. Letting go is hard. Moving triggered so much grief. Owning something and feeling it are sometimes two different things. We need to do both.

I don't believe I've done anything all that amazing. I took a leap of faith. The rest was beyond my control. As always, I'm guided exactly where I need to be, and my needs (even ones I was unaware of) are amply met.

Does that mean it's been easy? Nope. Nothing good comes easy. It involves a huge portion of faith, and unfailing optimism. Okay, I'm fibbing there. Sometimes optimism wains. It does, and then, it recalculates like a GPS program. I don't have all the answers, I muddle through just like everyone else. Some of my muddles have been enormous. Eh, they happen. 

While it can be hard to accept a compliment, it is also okay to do so. We need affirmation, we need encouragement. We need to be able to give it to ourselves, and to others. So listen up. You've done good. Listen up,  I've done good. Take the leaps of faith, and move into the life meant to be yours. Struggle with it, wrestle with it, embrace it. Love it. And...in my friends words, not mine...."I know it's not the path you would have chosen...but it is paved in grace, and beauty in spite of it." Own that. 

#462

 Every experience has a "take away". I'd like to share take away #462. 

You see, I bought a house last week. This is the seventh house I've lived in and the first that is on a number street, not a name street. For some reason that seems significant.

If you look back at life experiences, even the really difficult ones, you see the path you are led down. If I hadn't gotten married the first time, I wouldn't have been blessed with three terrific kids. If my first husband hadn't left me, I wouldn't have learned that I could raise kids mostly on my own. Mostly alone, not entirely alone, because we are never really alone. Unless we choose to be. That's a whole different blog. We basically have a complete support system that works entirely in the background. God is that good, how cool is that?

If I hadn't married a second time, I would never have moved away from the big city. Granted, doing that at age 50 was no easy task. If I hadn't move away from home, I'd have never found my country girl heart and experienced how wonderful rural America is. I didn't know I longed for a rural life. But that support system that works in the background? It completely knew.

Out there, in the middle of corn fields, in the middle of nowhere, a tiny community adopted us and became our family. Yes, they thought we might be members of the witness protection program, but still they embraced us. They too were part of the bigger plan.

As rural life grew to be home, so too did struggles and hardship. No one goes without hardship. Without hardship there is no growth. Without hardship life does not evolve. The support system in the background? It's all about support and evolution. It supports us in joy, and it supports us in tragedy. Without the tragedy of becoming a survivor of suicide loss, I would not have pulled up roots and returned to the city. Funny thing is, when I got to the city I discovered I couldn't live there any longer. I am not a big city girl. And, that is okay. 

So according to the greater plan, which of course I have no control of, I found my way to a smaller community. I'll work in the city, I'll be close to my city kids. But I'll enjoy the quiet of a smaller town. So back to the take away, in case you thought I forgot. I hired a local moving company to move my furniture and appliances. A group of guys who are fire fighters by trade, and move people on the side. They see a lot of life on both jobs. They probably see stuff that would make us cry. When they finished moving my stuff, including way too many flower pots, cement bird baths and planter pots, random really cool rocks, a hydraulic wood splitter, and a riding mower that would not start. In the rain, did I mention the in the rain part? I pulled them aside and shared the take away. They are #462 on my list of 1000 graces. Without all the other life experiences, without marriage, childbirth, divorce, remarriage, moving, love & loss, moving back to the city and then out of the city again. I would not be here, they would not have shared this day in my journey. Giving thanks for #462 on my list of graces, for my new home and the bigger plan that guides and unfolds before me.

Home

There is, I believe, always going to be a longing for my old life, even as I embrace my new life. Life is a mixture of bitter and sweet. Easy and hard. Empty and full. 

I am beginning a new chapter, putting down new roots. And, yes, I cried. You would expect no less from me. I didn't let you down. In the midst of joyful anticipation, I will always be reminded exactly why I am where I am. It is okay. It is part of my journey. It is both joyful and sad, I can embrace both.

I've been in transition for quite some time. We know transition is uncomfortable, we know it can be painful, we know good comes in the end. It's just the hurdles we cross to get there that are hard. Hurdles are not my strong suit, but moving towards them, launching over them, sometimes stumbling over them and moving beyond is what I've been led to do. I may have fallen a time or two. Strong hands of faith and love always pick me up.

I am excited. That has been a long time coming. I've been blessed, I've never doubted that. I have been guided even when I've struggled with how life has unfolded. Yet every step of the way has been planned, and every place I've landed met, and often exceeded, my needs. I found family in the big city, family in little villages, family in friendships, and family in faith.

I'm moving again and am going to unpack, really unpack. See what is in all those boxes. See what fits, see what needs re-homed. I planted today. literal roots and figurative roots. I planted my first perennial in my new yard and I planted roots of a new life. And....I cried. Because even good change is hard. I cried, because love surrounded me. I cried for the past, and I cried for the future. 

I prayed as well, in gratitude for all who've walked this journey with me. You see, I've packed you too. All my parts travel along, all my parts make up the whole. My parts, the broken, the beautiful, the cracked, and the mended. Help define me, help me grow. Help me begin a new chapter. I believe I'll call it Home.

I'm Finding

I'm finding myself. I'm finding my way. Sometimes with one foot planted in the past and the other trying to move into the future. It takes a while to get anywhere like that. Growth, like healing, is a slow process. Don't get me wrong, there are dazzling moments of clarity and boggling moments of uncertainty. Admittedly the dazzling moments are few and far between. Mostly we plan and pray the road opens up in ways we'd like. We are hesitant, and questioning. On a path that is sometimes rocky and obscure. 

If it was easy, if it was obvious, it wouldn't propel us forward. Life is what happens between point A and point B. It's messy, it's heartbreaking, it's beautiful. I had this vision of what it would be like moving back to the city, back near my kids. I thought it would be full of social opportunities. I didn't anticipate social distancing, and a pandemic. For a while I was deeply alone in a place that didn't feel like home. I was used to alone. Alone in a place you feel at home in is a different kind of alone. Alone in the unknown is painful. Through this I've learned not to fight being alone. 

The few I interact with socially are family and dear friends. Even then visits are few and far between. I know I'll see less of them in the winter months. Because of this communication takes on new meaning.This pandemic has pushed us to condense our interactions to the bare minimum. For the record it sucks. It's necessary, but it sucks. It does not, and cannot, erase our connections. They are sacred. Some are connections we've grown up with, some are newer. Some help us find our way when we get lost, share our laughter, bring us gifts that build our faith. Some share our passions, and some are vastly different. Some understand our pain, some love us in ways we can't love ourselves.

I am finding my way. Never in a million years did I dream I'd be here, now, as I am. I could not anticipate the losses, the grief, the growth or the blessings. I'm finding alone is okay (as long as I have dogs) and people I love near. And...."near" is not defined in miles but by interaction, investment and connection. Would I prefer things to be different? Perhaps in some cases, not at all in some situations, absolutely in others, and possibly in a few. But, here is filled with grace. Here is part of a journey, not simply a destination. Here is an unfolding. So I trust in the process even when I don't understand it. I work to accept the now, and find myself in small ways and large. 

Are You Dying Alone?

 I was pondering life today. Actually, I was thinking about those who die due to illnesses, physical or mental. And...those who die alone. I think, in a way, the stress of the pandemic makes us all feel a little bit like we are dying alone. Which made me think of my husband's life and his suicide. 

I think he spent more days dying alone while he was living, than he did while he was trying to die. I know that's hard to wrap your head around. Believe me, I wrestle with it daily.

Here's the deal, we can actually live the life we are given, or we can try to shut it down all the days of our life. I won't pull any punches, it's hard, it doesn't work out how we imagined. Sometimes it's better than we dreamed, sometimes it's a nightmare we can't even begin to fathom. We have to push ourselves forward, hold ourselves back. We have to own our mistakes and learn from them. We have to celebrate our successes. We have to ask for help and accept that we need it. We have to learn to forgive. Often we have to forge a new path seemingly on our own. We have to acknowledge the fear and push through it. We have to invite in the joy and embrace it. We have to plant seeds of faith, tend and harvest them.

He lived with a deep ache inside him, and in the end he let go. In his case, in spite of trying to die alone, he died physically and emotionally surrounded by people who loved and cared for him. In that regard he got lucky. 

Here is the hard question. Are you living each day, or dying alone each day. Are you making mistakes and learning from them? Are you challenged by a messy life, and blessed by it? Every day we have the opportunity to begin again, to make new decisions, to change our path. 

I will never understand his choice, or the depth of his pain. He chose not to share it, own it, heal it. In taking his life he transferred his pain to us. We have to chose how to handle what we are given. Each of us has pain and opportunity. Are you living in yours, or dying in it. 

For Them We Speak

Three years ago life changed. A man let go of his tenuous hold on life, and we were left wondering how, wondering why. And....what could we have done differently. You know what? There are no answers to that. 

We weren't included in his decision, just changed by it. He struggled. We all struggle at some point in life. In the struggle we have the opportunity to grow. We face strife and mind boggling disappointment. We learn to adapt. We lose things we love, we certainly lose our way. Most of us find a new way. 

I know from struggling with depression what a slippery slope mental health can be. It can sneak up on you and you don't realize how sick you are. I know also that you have to own your struggle, own your truth. You have to dig deep to reach out for help. There is no shame in that, in fact, there is much to admire about that. 

Three years ago he made a choice and the horizon tilted for those who knew and loved him. Everyone's experience with him was different, so each loss is profoundly different. Some feel just the loss, some feel the loss and the stigma of his choice. Some have fond memories wrapped in sadness. Some feel torn by both good and bad memories. Some withdraw in sorrow and never speak of it again. Some unwrap it, examine it, and share it to make an easier path for others who follow.

My husband died by suicide. Even when you live that reality, day in and day out, it is hard to speak that truth. It is hard to speak the words to the world, because it is painful to do so, and because the world doesn't want to hear them.The world is willing to judge, question, and whisper about those who die by their own hand, and those who survive them. But the world also wants to think, wants to believe, it could never happen to them. It is a scary truth. Shhh, Don't talk about it openly. Instead talk in secret circles about it creating layers and layers of isolation. Because of his choice, I have never been more visible and invisible in all my life. Therein lies the grace. His choice changed me and I will speak of my experience. I will speak of the sorrows, the truths, the stigma, because in real life mental health issues and suicide are still taboo subjects.

No one chooses this path. No one chooses to struggle with mental health. No one would chose this kind of loss. Some fight the battle, some lose the war. For them we speak...

 

Merging....

Having become a country girl rather than a big city girl, I have to say driving in the big city makes me nervous. I've been told I drive like an old lady now, and that "you" country drivers are way too polite. Truth be told I probably do qualify as an old lady, and I am polite.  

I have to say, though, that merging stresses me out. I always pray, Dear Lord protect my merging.... In the country there wasn't much merging, and if it happened it was much slower and everyone waved. I miss the waving part.

Merging happens in so many realms. We merge onto the interstate, we merge our lives, we merge our attitudes. We merge on the job. We merge our faith base. All merging intending to get us safely from one place to another. It means we take turns, we make room, we adjust ourselves to allow for others.

No wonder it can be scary. Merging involves confidence, and trust. It requires diligence, observation and patience. Most things in life can be scary, require confidence, trust, diligence, observation and patience. Growth fits into this description, grief does as well. Some merging happens at 60 mph. Some merging, such as healing from trauma or loss, happens in small moments over long periods of time. Sometimes it is imperceptible. Still it happens. 

It's okay to be scared of merging. It's okay (more than okay!) to pray your way through the process. I will most likely still pray when I merge, Dear Lord protect me....from that other car. Protect that other car from me. Let me safely in, Lord. Let there be space, let there be light, let there be a place for me to move with the flow. 

Every Day A Choice

Just about three years ago my husband chose to end his life. So September is a hard month, a time of great reflection. This is what I have learned about life. Every day we have a choice. A choice that nurtures life, a choice to hold steady without growth or regression, a choice to let go of life in tiny increments or in singular acts of destruction. All of those options require enormous energy. So I have to ask, where am I putting my energy? Where are you putting yours? 

I know at the core of things, we have to be able to ask for help. Is it easy? Oh hell no. Not many of us are comfortable, and/or fluent in asking for help. That he was unwilling, or unable to ask for help is part of the tragedy. If we could love someone enough to keep them alive we would. We can only do so much and the rest is up to them. 

I have been vastly changed by his decision. It's taking time to find my way in life again, it's hard for me to be open with people I don't know. It's hard to trust that good things will come. I hold things closer and observe more deeply. Okay, let's just say I overthink things. I am always aware of the stigma and isolation that comes with being a survivor of suicide loss. I know my story often precedes me. I know it will always define my life. I've lost relationships because of his death. I've doubted, I've wondered, I've asked why. I will never know, nor will I have the capacity to understand, how profound the pain was that death was the option he chose.

I look back at journal entries from when he was struggling, when we were struggling. I see how many times I prayed for his safety, for my safety, for healing.  And....I know those prayers were heard. I know they were answered in the way they were meant to. Not how I asked, but according to a bigger plan. The loss of a loved one forces us to examine life, to sift through our regrets, to sort out what was mine and what wasn't. In their moment of despair, their moment of choice, they have no clue that when their pain ends, the family and friends pain begins.

So we deal with the fallout. Every single day. In a myriad of ways. Grueling baby steps, and down the road, easier strides fueled by faith and hope. And....God willing, we make choices that nurture life. We ask for help, we accept help, we find ways to help others. We never forget, but our story isn't over yet, so we press on. If you are pressing on, still writing your story, know you are not alone. Be not afraid, ask for help, know you are loved. 

Uprooted, Transplanted

Sometimes you have to dig deep. Sometimes you have to be willing to be uprooted. Sometimes your Plan A gets delayed and you have to resort to Plan B. Being the sentimental type I get easily attached. I have a plant of my Mom's that was her Mom's before that. It exists on minimal care and maximum neglect. It rarely gets fertilized. I need to give it more love. Who of us doesn't need a little more love?

Today I want to talk about Ralph. Ralph is a plant that goes where ever I go. He was a gift from a dear neighbor...you guessed it, whose name was Ralph. My Ralph came from Ralph's Grandmother's yard on the East coast many many years ago. He's traveled all across the US like a 3 dimensional Flat Stanley in plant form. I've moved four times with Ralph. He's always thrived. When I dug him up in June I put him in a pot and promised him a place to put down roots later this year. I've tended him all summer. He's looking a little forlorn.

It occurred to me I'd have to let him go for a while for his own good. We have to do that sometimes. I'm not good at letting go. Maybe none of us are. He's not thriving. So, Plan B became the only option. We let things we love go sometimes so they can go, or grow, the way they are meant to. We often don't much like it. Sometimes we get them back, sometimes we have to wish them well and leave them behind. I'm counting on going back for Ralph somewhere down the road. I'm trusting he will thrive in the meantime. 

We too need to thrive in the meantime. Our "meantime" can be a time of uncertainty, of loss, of grief, of hope, of growth. We have to examine our "meantime" carefully for signs of growth, for signs of despair. Take it out, hold it gently, and if necessary plant it somewhere safe. It may not be in the place you hoped. And...sometimes that just has to be okay. 

So I tucked Ralph in today with some of the dirt of his past, in a safe place and I'm willing to let go for a while. 

Being uprooted is hard, being transplanted is hard. Letting go of the outcome is hard. All of these things are part of the bigger plan. The one we pray is a gentle plan. The one we know can be unexpected and impossible to fathom. I longed to plant Ralph in a yard of my own. I'm releasing that dream for the moment. And, in this meantime, this time of growth, I'll let go and let God. God will provide for Ralph and I. In ways yet to unfold.

Alone

 Have you ever pondered how many alone's there are in life? I never had until recently. Living alone, in a pandemic, brings alone to the surface where your brain rolls it and rolls it around and attempts to sort it out.

Now, alone isn't all bad, or all good. It is a part of life. Some journeys can only be taken alone. Part of loving yourself can only be learned while alone. Alone is a blessing, and a challenge. Alone is comfortable sometimes, and a piercing ache other times.

Growing up feeling alone was uncomfortable, it was the absence of love and support. It was scary and nothing about it felt tolerable. It is a long journey to feel comfortable being alone. One must develop strength of self confidence, faith, and self care to be comfortably alone. Yet, we long for connection, so the comfort of being alone only goes so far. As it should.

There are so many alone's.....the peaceful alone of a new Mother feeding her precious infant. There is the alone of the elderly wondering what is left to life. There is the alone of the widow/widower at a wedding with other couples celebrating the sacrament of marriage. There is the alone of a painful period of growth. There is the alone of offering tough love to someone in transition. There is the alone of contentment, when all your needs are met and you pause in gratitude. The alone of a scary diagnosis. There is the alone of betrayal, and the alone of reflection. There is alone within relationships. And, alone without relationship. There is the alone of knowing you did the best you could and still life imploded. There is the alone that is a communion with nature. I like that one a lot.

So many alone's. So many opportunities to count blessings, look within, and extend grace to our solitary self. Alone is a process, and a promise. And....there is the truth that we are only as alone as we chose to be. 

Which part of alone do you find yourself in? Can I walk a tiny part of that path with you so you know you are not completely adrift and, you know..."alone"?  Can I share I've struggled with being alone, and fought with the reasons it happened? Can I own each day is a new alone. Happy alone, angry alone, lost alone. Comfortable alone, lonely alone and peaceful alone. We all have our alone, and we grow from it. May your alone's be as short as possible and as long as necessary. And...may you embrace the gifts that come from the process. 

Putting Down Roots

For so long now I have felt lost. Dreams planted and grown were gone. Life as I knew it changed, love was lost, and bit-by-bit I've had to reassemble a new life. Starting a new life is something you begin over and over. It's not a one and done thing. It's a commitment. We all know commitments require, you know, some pretty intense commitment. 

The hardest part of starting over is the starting part. And the middle part, and the will this go on forever part. I have no doubt a blessing this part of life gives me is that of solitude. I say that, because I find it the most difficult. Solitude is hard for me. I crave connection. There must be a gift in this struggle. I just have to figure it out.

We all want to get the rough parts in life over as fast as possible. Make it quick, Lord. Make me a fast learner of hard life lessons. Let me be a quick study. Let me grow fast, instead of at a snails pace.

And....while I'm feeling lost, struggling, trying to grow, hoping to heal, let me also have a grateful heart. Let my faith be strong even if I don't feel strong.

I want to put down roots. I long for a place that feels like home again. You know, that sacred place you choose that feels right, uplifts your spirit, that houses your stuff and soothes your soul. This place I am in is temporary. It's not where I was, it's not where I want to be. And...I go through the motions here. I've planted patio pots and hope. I'm growing tomato's and dreams. I'm in between and trying to embrace that place. Truth be told I wrestle with it. I wrestle with it daily. Let me add I'm not a graceful wrestler, but I'm digging deep for the grace. 

I have things to plant in my new place, I'm holding space for them. I have some rhubarb, and a perennial hibiscus. I dug an old rose bush from my country yard in the hopes it would thrive, but it didn't. I have the sad branches of that rose in a bucket. Even in it's barren state I keep the faith I will have this particular variety of rose bush in my yard again. Sometimes we are just in that barren place. It's a hard place to be. It sucks, we all know sometimes it sucks. We've all been there, and if you haven't, God bless you your time is coming. 

So we commit to this moving forward, this building of a life that nurtures us, sustains us, so we in turn can nurture others. If part of that for me is this journey of solitude so be it. If it is dreams of my own sacred space, guide me steadily toward it. If it is a lonely process shower me with hope. And...when the time is right let me sink down roots again in a place that feels like home. 

Truths

I have written a lot about the personal pain of losing a spouse to suicide. I've written of the unending questions, the why's, the what's ifs, the I wish I had's.  I've written how impossible it is to comprehend this tragedy even as I walked through it. Even as I continue to walk through it. 

I read other stories of suicide loss. All are traumatic events.  None of us ever thought we'd have to navigate an experience like this. Some stories look so much more horrifying in terms of the death itself. Some look less complicated if makes any sense. The unbelievable loss is still there, the experience involved in it is different.

While I often speak of the pain of it, I have never spoken the truth of it. The truth is mental illness changed the man I married into a completely different person. Looking back, I believe he suffered from mental illness for years. It manifested in many ways including the inability to retain employment, relationship issues, depression, anger outbursts, procrastination, road rage, a sense of entitlement, a negative attitude, bitterness. In the later part of our marriage the disease brought out passive-aggressive behavior and emotional abuse. 

Most people never saw this side of him. Some saw small glimpses but not the full picture. For a long time I never saw the full picture. In between he was active, involved, entertaining, loving, had friends he cared deeply for, children and grandchildren he adored, was interested in local and world events, was able to BS with anyone and never missed an opportunity to do so.

Very few knew, and in many ways I never owned or shared the truth of it. Like mental illness, the reality of living with someone suffering from it, is rarely spoken of. Sometimes it takes years to put the pieces together and realize what you're dealing with. In the meantime act as if everything is okay, don't speak of the bad parts and carry on. 

I am choosing not to hold the silence. In retrospect I can see the downward spiral. I can see the changes mental illness made in him. The pieces which seemed random and out of place over the years, tell a story now. It cost us our marriage, and it cost him his life. His story ended brutally and tragically. He chose to end his pain, and take it out on me. 

We can't change something unless we own it. I am owning it, and sharing because my story isn't over. I am sharing it for those who hold on to the facade that all is well when things are far from well. For those afraid to own that their spouse, or a friend, parent or child is not okay. I am sharing for the people suffering in the hopes they reach out for help. There are lifelines available. Some come in the form of medication and treatment. Some come in the form of truths like mine. 

Walking Faith Forward

I am not sure which takes more strength. Holding on or letting go. I will say it is mentally and physically exhausting. Of late, exhaustion is the name of the road I've been on.

Now I could define lately as the last 6 months, the last 3 years, or even longer. I have been in flux for a long time. My health has suffered for it, and depression has weighed heavy. Sneaky thing about depression, when you are in the midst of it you can't tell you are in the midst of it. There is no shame in owning your battle. There is relief in opening it to the light. There is hope and joy on the road ahead.

I am pretty sure I've been simultaneously holding on and trying to let go. At best it has been counter productive. I've been fighting the process rather than embracing the process. I have been looking back instead of looking forward. Let me tell you looking forward is scary.

Looking back does offer some insights. It is a chance to count past blessings, see how grace unfolded in ways you couldn't have imagined. It allows you to rejoice in the good things, and to grieve the losses. Life is hard. Not exactly a news bulletin right? 

Today we moved the last of my belongings from the country to the city. Now, I will always be a country girl at heart. This country girl owns way too much garden stuff. If that is humanly possible. Take that as a rhetorical question. I'm trying to find my place in this life of mine. It involves letting go, cherishing the memories and healing deep sorrows. It involves walking faith forward so I can embrace what is. 

Growth is hard journey. Grueling and sometimes lonely. But only as lonely as we let it be. Struggling to feel and be healthy has made it even more difficult. But, and there is always a but, it is necessary, possible and grace filled. May I say, it's okay to not be okay and owning it helps heal it. I am giving myself permission to lay down the weight of both holding on and letting go. You can to.

Simply Look Up

I miss the simplicity of life. For a while there simplicity included being married, sharing the day in and day out. Having someone listen, to laugh with, to love. Not to glamorize it, because there were challenges and days of struggle. In the end nothing was simple, and I struggle with the complexity of the outcome.

I'm having trouble finding the beauty of the "here" in my life. Finding some routine that isn't filled with anxiety. Some comfort in the midst of massive change. I miss knowing where I belong, being able to recognize where home is and what it looks like. I miss being connected. My "people" were just a phone call a way. I know my "people" are still just a phone call away, but I deeply grieve the losses, the changes, the huge shift in the landscape of my life. 

I don't do well with isolation. Life as a survivor of suicide loss is fraught with isolation. Some of it due to stigma, some to being/feeling different than others because of your experience. Some due to the very nature of tragic loss. Some of it is the self being afraid to be open and trust again. Yet, my soul longs for connection. I know I made changes in my life with solid logic. Then the whole balance of the world tilted with the pandemic. I rather thought I was moving toward more connection, more social opportunities, more belonging. I am not where I fit before, and haven't established how I fit in where I am now. And....it's lonely. 

I've been gently reminded of other times in my life when there was great change. Where my center of balance was challenged. Of how I survived them, found joy in the process, and a multitude of blessings along the way. The Lauren Daigle song, Look Up Child hits home. "Where are you now when darkness seems to win. Where you now, when the world is crumbling. I hear you say, I hear you say, I hear you say look up child." Sound advice (no pun intended) and an affirmation of faith. Plus a little musical styling while we look up can't hurt either. So...Look Up Child, Look Up Child.

Wrestling and Releasing

I'm wrestling these days with how to move forward in life when I keep missing my past life. How does one do that? How do you release one to embrace the other. One would think I'd know how since I've made some serious life changes in the last three months. Let me own this, I feel clueless. I wonder if I'm where I'm supposed to be. I wonder if I'm answering my calling. So if you ever wonder that same thing, please know you are not alone. All I know is change is hard, so very hard. 

I recognize too, that my past life had struggles too. Yet, they were familiar struggles in a place that was home. At present, I have unfamiliar struggles in an unfamiliar place that doesn't feel like home. It's kinda an icky place to be in. Intellectually I know this is temporary. I wish my intellect and my emotions would have a come to Jesus moment and get on the same page. They are miles apart.

I feel kinda lost and alone. I feel uncertain. I feel like there is more unknown than known in my life. I know that sounds full of drama. I try to hold fast to verses of comfort and encouragement...be still and know....be not afraid...ask and you shall receive. Still this is a time of great adjustment, great transition, great growth. 

Wouldn't it be nice to know all the answers? Maybe, maybe not. Wouldn't it be nice to know how it will all unfold. Wouldn't it be nice to know this desert-like period will yield green pastures? Yes, yes it would. Oh Lordy, yes it would.

All this calls upon faith for the journey, trust in the process. And yes, it's hard. I've gotten a lot of practice at hard. Frankly, I'm sick of the hard stuff. Part of moving through this is breaking it down into small pieces, taking it one day at a time. I have to change my thought process from when will this end, when will I find comfort, to being open to each day's beauty and understanding tomorrow is another day. I only have to do today today. I only have to feel what I feel right now, own it and release it. I do have to breathe. I do have to let go and let God. And...then...having done all this I shall rest.

Strength For The Journey

I haven't written specifically about grief for a while. It tends to come and to go, sometimes like a small nagging reminder, sometimes like a huge flood of pain. Truth be told it never goes away. We learn, day-after-day, to live with it. In that process we rebuild a new life.

Granted, it's never quite the same, because we evolve along with our grief. As we change, so does our grief. They say the first year you are mostly numb. As you get further down the road, you wish you could go back to the numb. In the middle of the numb you just do the best you can with whatever brain power you have to work with. Then they tell you the second year is harder than the first. So much for any hope of a reprieve. I'm well into the third year and find it's taking some hard jabs at me.

I still struggle with the stigma of being a survivor of suicide loss. I still try to wrap my head around the reality of it. I still lay in bed and wonder how can this be, how did this happen, what could have been done differently. I still find myself both visible because of it and invisible because of it. People sometimes don't hesitate to tell me of other suicidal tragedies, and sometimes I don't have the strength to carry that additional pain. 

I also know, that having chosen to speak of the journey, people expect a certain strength from me, a dedication to the process, a life mission of sorts. It's there,  some days I can carry the load and articulate it. Other times the tears force me to hunker down, to feel and release the pain. Both the strong days and the grieving days serve a purpose. 

This I know. We all grieve losses at some point in life. They come in a million ways, shapes and forms. Some come early in life, some mid-way through, some late in life. They come in the shapes of illnesses, pandemics, divorces, job losses, and other tragedies of the heart. When they do, know you are not alone. Know the tears are part of the healing no matter how wretched they feel. Know that it's okay to not be okay. Know that asking for help is a good thing, a smart thing, an important thing. 

Then remember we only have to do this one day at a time. Sometimes one minute at a time. There is grace in taking it bit-by-bit, moment-by-moment. Growth, like grieving and healing, is a slow process. So cry when you need to, surrender to the process, have faith in the outcome. We'll get through this, trust me on this. 

Holy Thursday, Holy Each And Every Day

If only we remembered to find the Holy in every Thursday, not just on Holy Thursday. There is a lot more holy going on than we take notice of, give honor to, give thanks for.

There is holy in the joy of an new baby. There is holy in the mundane chores that keep our household going. There is holy in the grief that changes our life and the person we are. There is holy in those who serve the sick, who minister to the faithful, who teach our children, who repair our cars, who sack our groceries. There is holy in the farmer who tends the fields, and the garbage man who takes our trash and the chef who feeds the hungry. Holy surrounds us. 

I know, right now, holy can feel far away. We're challenged, struggling, and lonely for the life we used to know. People we love are staying away in the name of safety, people are sick and dying. People have lost jobs. We're shaky at best, we're afraid.

And...we are holy. We have the capacity to give of ourselves even in the midst of these losses. Everything feels impossible and we long for what used to be our reality. Here is the deal, every loss holds the opportunity for growth. Growth of the holy, growth of strength, growth of our hearts. What is growth you might ask? It is when our shells crack, light is let in, and let out. The cracking part hurts, oh so much. It's hard, sometimes lonely, often overwhelming and always holy. 

Whatever is cracking your heart now, know that light and love will somehow accompany it. Even if it is not evident at this moment. It will come. So if you need to cry in the process, cry. If you need to rest before you go on, rest. If you need to wail, then wail. All of this is holy. All of this. 

Sometimes I Wish...

Sometimes I just wish I could go back. Back to life before grief, back to life before being a widow. Back to life before moving, back to life before pandemics shook the world. I'd like to go back and have more days with my dogs Mickey, Mr. Hanky, and Hobbs. I'd like to go back to when my kids were little and held my hand while crossing the street. Back to when the hard choices were what to have for bed time snacks and which book to read them. Because some days it just all feels so hard. I feel like I've given up everything, and yet, I know it's not true. I have gone through a lot, lost a lot, made lots of changes. With that comes feelings which are intense and overwhelming. Luckily they are also fluid and transitional.

This is a hard time in life. Uncharted, with no clear end in sight. And...I am, we are shaken by it, emotional because of it. So naturally, I look back some. Because I know what that looks like. Even when it is full of longing, full of pain. It's hard to know, at this time in life, what to look forward to. The struggle is real, and we have to accept that it is. 

It's okay to be exceptionally weepy. I, known for being a world class weeper, find myself in tears daily. It's okay, it's just where I am in life. I find myself worrying more. Do I need to? No, I know there is a larger plan in motion. I know I will be blessed beyond measure. Yet, in this time, I worry because I am human. This season in our lives is full of human moments.

You may find you can't sleep, or can't eat. Or can't stop eating. You comb the news for information, and are appalled when you find it. Or you stay away from all the news because it is just too overwhelming. You may pray unceasingly, or struggle in finding comfort in prayer. 

I look back because, compared to now, those were simpler times. We need some simple in these complex days. We need faith more than ever, we need hope in both tiny doses and in large increments. We need to trust that this is temporary.

So I tend the grief, of both the past and the present like I would nurture a small child. With tender arms to hold her, with acceptance that whatever she feels is valid and needs some light to heal it. With a gentle hug, and an I love you no matter what. A soft blanket of love to curl up in and a reminder it won't always feel this way. Be kind to yourself, we're going through a hard time. It's okay to not be okay...and this too shall pass.

Messy Is Okay, I'm Okay, This Won't Last Forever

How are you feeling these days? Scared, exhausted, uncertain, a bit lost? Okay, perhaps a whole lot lost. Are you feeling out of control, or afraid of the future? Do you feel alone? Is it an alone, alone? As in no one cares? Or is it an okay alone? There are many kinds, you know.

I'll admit to feeling all of the above. The worries of the world feel ginormous right now. Rightly so. So the question is this, how and where do we find some comfort in the chaos?

Jump in with the answers, because I do not know for sure. My guess is, though, that we/I/you/me may find some comfort in the very small things that grace our lives. If we dig deep enough we can find the blessings, the grace, the poignant moments that bring tears to our eyes and confirm the best life has to offer. 

It may be be the gentle snoring of an old dog taking up most the space on the sofa. Snoring never sounded so good before. It may be that life has slowed us down to the point we are eating meals every day with our family. It may be that flowers seem to take on new beauty because everything else seems so dark in comparison. It may be the giggles of children playing. It may be leaving care packages on the porch of a friend. It may be asking every day what are the wins of your day, what are the worries. Then sharing them, because sharing increases the blessings and divides the burdens. 

It may be digging deeper into your faith, knowing, and remembering that God is holding you. It may be releasing the need to have it all together and embracing that life is messy, we are messy and that is completely okay. 

Maybe this is the key, messy is okay, I'm okay, God is holding me, this won't last forever. I, for one, forget that this (what ever this you are dealing with) is not forever. And...in the mean time, I am here for you. Because, life is made up of a multitude of things, messy things, brilliant things, sacred things, even scary things, that create the whole. When looking at the whole is overwhelming, look for the little things. There is grace in narrowing our focus. So I remind myself, again and again...messy is okay, I'm okay, God is holding me, this won't last forever. Trust me, it won't.

You are not alone.

Turmoil, uncertainty, fear, stress. Faith, patience, trust, blessings. 

What I've learned from the last 2 1/2 years of adjusting to life after trauma is this. Do the next right thing. It's not going to be easy some of the time. Other times it will be easier than you think.

You are not alone. Ever. If you are it's a personal choice. Personally, I'd say choose being connected. Even in this time of great disconnect for health reasons. Choose to reach out, choose to ask how someone is doing. Find the small wins, own the struggles, and share them both. 

I do not have all the answers, but I do have faith. I've cried way more than I've laughed recently, but I believe in laughter. I know it's part of who I am, and it will return as surely as flowers in the spring. 

I've made huge changes in my life recently. Dang, they have been hard. All of life is temporary I've learned. Temporarily fabulous, temporarily hard, temporarily funny, temporarily heartbreaking, temporarily heart warming. It is a mix of them all, each day offering a different view. Some views last longer than others. Find the grace in all of them. 

Count the blessings. Now, I'm not known for my mathematical ability, but my blessings far exceed my ability to count them. I'm not saying that because I suck at counting. I'm saying it because it's true.

It's the little things, really it is. Trust me on this one. We get lost in the big picture, frightened by it. Overwhelmed by it. Take a deep breath and embrace the little things. We'll get through this. Yes, we'll come out different. We'll have losses, but we'll have huge growth spurts too. Slow down. Find your faith, know you are loved. Know you are not alone. 

This Is For You

This is for you...the you barely getting by. The you, wondering when the tide will turn. The you, wondering where you lost your joy and when you will find it. The you who wonders if you will always feel battered and broken.

This is also for you, who got the good news you were waiting for. The you, who achieved that goal. The you, who found your way through the darkness into the light. The you, who was blessed beyond measure.

This is for the you in the middle of new adventures full of light and love. This is for the you in the middle of new adventures that feel tumultuous at best, and horrifying at worst. This is for the you celebrating milestones and living the dream. This is for the you that is finding joy in the moment.

This is for the you that is grieving. For those rebuilding the very foundation of their life, piece by piece. Praying that each of those pieces finally bring some peace.

This is for the very young you, and the very old you. The you that is learning, the you struggling to learn. This is for the you who is waiting. Patiently, or not so patiently in times of great uncertainty. This is for the you who is lonely, and trying to find some bit of contentment in that time alone.

This is for the you who laughs. The you who cries. The you who does both in succession.

This is for the you who's roots of faith run deep, and the you who is just setting down those roots. This is for the belief it takes in either of those situations.

This is for the you who is a mixed up, confused, combination of all the above. We are all the messed up, and the messenger, depending on the day or the situation.

All of this is you (and me), the awesome and the imperfect, the broken, the healing. It is both the gift and the grace. This is for you.

Hard Things, Great Grace

You learn way more from the hard things. I can't tell you how much I want to add that sentence. To refine it, to define it, to expand upon it, heck even to soften that reality. But truthfully...those eight words say it all.

Here is what I've learned. Loving deeply is what we are called to do. Loving deeply hurts some of the time. Life, and love, will bring times of loss. Loss changes the essence of us. Perhaps not a bad thing. But it's definitely an excruciating process. I wouldn't wish the tragic loss I've experienced on anyone. And...I will admit to envying those whose loss came in other ways.

A dear friend of mine told me recently that I suck at asking for help. I was not offended. I looked at myself, and said "self she'd be right". Asking for help taps into our vulnerability. Who wants to feel vulnerable? That's one of those feelings that makes us all squirm. So I've been pondering why I struggle with asking for help. Nothing feels safe after a tragic loss, so asking for anything feels like risky business. I/we try to stay the course, to not rock the boat, to get by, to make due. We want to keep things in "control" even when we know nothing is in control. Can you sense the irony there? Isolation, which I find to be one of the hardest things to deal with as a survivor of suicide loss, is not at all what the good Lord, and our friends want for us. They want us to lean in to their strength. They want to be there for us. They can be, if we let them.

Letting them in is the hard part. First there is that whole control/no control issue. Then we often don't know what we need. It is hard to let someone in to what we ourselves can't define or understand. Some are quick to judge, so we know we need to keep our distance. Stigma keeps others away. Some walk our path and challenge us to keep moving forward. Some even tell us what we suck at, in the most loving possible way. Some remind us (daily!) that we can do hard things. We can, we do, and we learn the most from them. Therein lies the grace.

Less Alone

Little-by-little, if we are willing to let them, people will step in to walk alongside our pain, or our joy, our hopes and dreams. Everyone has pain, joy, hopes and dreams. Life has it's seasons of each of these. Sometimes we keep it deep inside until we can't hold it any longer. Until the pain is unbearable. Or, until the joy can't be contained. Until our hope is shaken and needs bolstering. Until our dreams need a voice to come into fruition. These things are meant to be shared. 

Funny (not funny really) how hard it is to share the things that weigh so heavy on our hearts. Joy? That's easy to share. Hopes? Sometimes easy, sometimes hard to share. Dreams require a certain level of safety, of comfort to share. Grief is so very personal that it can be extremely difficult to share. Grief has a different face every day, and people may or may not have the life experience to empathize with it. And...that's okay. Sometimes we can walk down parallel paths and get it. Sometimes we need to be on the same path to understand. Sometimes all we need to do is reach out, even if we don't completely understand. Sometimes wanting to understand is half the battle.

I've been sharing lately my struggles, my grief, my uncertainty. I, who thought the heaviest of grief happened long ago, have been taken aback. By the depth of my grief, and of the volume of your support. One extreme to another blessed by love and grace. Holding it in does no good. Sharing it divides it, and opens us to love and support. It also, I hope, sets something free in you. Opens up your heart to feeling, to sharing, to understanding. 

The irony of all this, is that for years I never used my voice. Never used it to say how I felt, to set strong boundaries, to own my feelings, to speak my faith. It was never safe to use it, express it, share of it. I've come a long way and have a long way to go. And...it's hard. And...sometimes I stumble. And...sometimes I get confused. Sometimes I forget how to use it, until I remember how again.

Maybe my words help you discover something of value, something that needs healing, something that needs sunlight and warmth. Perhaps that is exactly why I write, and you read. For mutual growth, for understanding, so we each feel less alone. Less alone is a very good thing. Let's push for less alone. 

I Am In Need

I am in need of some strength, for the journey is hard. I just don't know if I can do it. I'm not feeling very strong. I've been strong for so long, I need someone else's for a while. Will you lend me yours?

I need to borrow some faith. I know "let go and let God" in my head, I need to open it up in my heart. I feel shaken, and while I know the answers are up ahead, at this moment I need some reassurance. 

I need a big box of Kleenex. This week I had to put my beloved Hobbs to sleep, and the tears won't stop. Who knew a gnarly old pointer could take up so much space in my heart?

I need less change, and more consistency. Who knew when I started this journey how hard it would be? I was hoping for more adventure, less stress, more smooth transition, less uncertainty. Who dropped the ball on smooth transition??

Somewhere I misplaced my sense of humor and my confidence. Along with my appetite. I'll find it somewhere and when I do I'll have two pieces of Texas Sheet Cake and extra potato chips. And cheese, lots of cheese. And, wine, duh.

In the meantime, I'll need some patience as I wait for the right path to unfold. Let the record reflect I suck at patience. Waiting is hard. I'm not comfortable with not knowing. Yet, who of us really knows? I've been urged to settle, because it's only temporary. Boy do I wrestle with that concept. Of all the hard spots I've been in life, this feels the hardest. Is it really the hardest, or just a combination that is triggering everything? I'm gonna vote it's a combination of angst and uncertainty. Multiplied by the challenges of letting go. That sums it up.

I'm guessing I'm not alone. That we have all been, or are, or will be in between a similar rock and hard spot. So I'm gonna own my need to lean in on you as I grow. I trust you will hold me and I'll rest while you support me. I will do the same for you some day. It's what we do.

Permission

I've found myself saying lately...I didn't anticipate how hard this would be. Or, my expectations were not realistic. I didn't plan well enough. In a way I was blaming myself for not knowing what I didn't know. Or, could not have known without the life experience to back it up.

I think that's rather harsh, and who needs harsh in their life? I need a big dose of gentle, with a side of simple understanding, and a huge scoop of grace on top. In fact, I need to give myself permission. So I sat down today and wrote a whole list of things I'm giving myself permission for. I gave myself permission to heal, to feel hopeful, to grieve my losses. I gave myself permission to say no, and to say yes, to make mistakes, and to make different choices as needed. I gave myself permission to rest. Wow, that's a big one. I gave myself permission to forgive, to laugh more, to love again. I gave myself permission to learn as I go. I gave myself permission to weep from frustration, fatigue, sorrow and hurt. I gave myself permission to draw strong boundaries and use my voice. I gave myself permission to ask for help when I need it. I gave myself permission to look forward with joy. Sometimes I/we/you struggle with that. Past trauma and loss makes it hard to expect blessings beyond measure. It's easier to look back, at what may have been a desolate place in life, than to look forward to what can be a beautiful new beginning. I gave myself permission to grow and share my faith. I gave myself permission to have moments of weakness. I gave myself permission to be strong and beautiful.

One might think everyone understands these things, and permission should be a given. It's not, though. For the hurting, the wounded, the lost, the healing we need to find these graces. When you get right down to it, in some ways we are all the hurting, the wounded, the lost and the healing. We are imperfect people having human moments in need of tenderness and compassion. We start by giving ourselves permission. With permission comes growth. The growth is blessed by grace, which softens our hearts. Softer hearts sounds like a winner to me. I give myself permission to be okay whatever my circumstances are...I hope you will to.

Accepting The Grief With The Growth

I had no idea how much moving would trigger my grief. I was achieving a goal to be closer to my kids so it had to be all good right?

Grief is funny that way. I believe it gets triggered during times of joy, and of sorrow, and during major life events. It floods in without warning, uninvited and takes our breath away. I grieve letting go of the home we shared together, and it hurts to be forging a new life that is so different. At times I resent having to do this all alone, and feel short changed because I have to.

I have had a tiny glimpse of just how overwhelming life in his last days must have felt. The loss, the fear, the uncertainty, the frustration, the impossibility of it all. Then I imagine that it must have felt doubled or tripled in his mind. I grieve for that too. One might think the further out I get, the less I would struggle with this. Fact is I will always struggle with this and life changes will always open the flood gates.

Now I can see these struggles are temporary. Sure, I wish I knew the definition to just how temporary, this temporary is. A crystal ball might come in handy for that. I have the skills (and utilize them) to work my way through. I lean in to my faith and the Word of God. I reach out to my friends and allow them to hold my head above water. I can share my worries and struggles and others help me carry them. I was blessed by a Random Act of Kindness group recently who are supporting me daily in prayer and with a lovely gift of generosity. It's humbling to receive such a precious gift.

It is hard to own your struggles, but own them we must. It's difficult to look forward with anticipation and look back in sorrow simultaneously. To know embracing one thing, leaves the other further behind. In a perfect world I could have this job, in that location, with my kids close by and not have to leave so much of what I love behind. In a perfect world I'd still be a wife and not a survivor of suicide loss. But it is not a perfect world. There are, however, perfectly blessed moments in the midst of growth and grief.

So I accept that grief will be my partner as I move into this new life. No, it's not easy owning that. I might just as well hold sorrow's hand rather than try to fight it off. I can't leave my story behind,  pretend its not baggage I carry or ignore it. It needs to be told. So I share it openly. In the hope that my journey somehow eases yours. Take a piece of my story and use it as a needed. May it bring hope and comfort.

Transition

There is something to be said for pulling up roots and moving into a new adventure. I believe crazy comes to mind, insane and stressful. I'll admit to feeling very displaced lately. Home isn't where it was and isn't on the horizon yet. I've heard those voices of self criticism whispering...you have no idea what you're doing, you gave up something you knew and loved for the unknown. See, even here loneliness and tears follow you. Even here, some of the stigma finds you. Ahhh, those voices. Don't tell me you don't hear them too, even if your message isn't the same as mine.

I'm going to own that it's hard. Yup, part of it sucks. But not all of it, so I try not to lose sight of that. We all go through massive life changes. When I got married nine years ago I gave up my house, my job, the city I'd lived in all my life. I was a weepy mess. Almost 2 1/2 years ago the upheaval of Gordon's death threw me into a tail spin. That's been slower recover from. Not that one ever really recovers. Eventually you just pick up the broken pieces and reshape your life. Rather ironic that reshaping my life again involves giving up my house, my job and a town I grew to love.

I've been a little remiss in reminding myself I am doing hard hard things. That I'm going to be okay. That I don't have to get everything perfect. That I'm not alone. That patience and faith will bless me down the road. I haven't reminded myself to breathe nearly enough. I've forgotten I can encourage myself and others. In fact, it's mandatory.

So in the midst of the hard I offer soft words of support. In this displacement I will count blessings and know I'll find my balance. I'll try to not be overwhelmed by the vast changes, and hold tight to small comforts. And...as needed I'll let the tears wash away the losses and strengthen me on the other side.

Tears

I am a weepy woman. Owning it is the first step. Understanding it is another matter. I have to think, perhaps as a child, I didn't cry much and I have years of tears to make up for. Or perhaps I didn't feel much, and all those feelings are seeping out in the form of tears. Seep out they do. At the drop of a hat.

In a perfect world I'd always get it right and never feel the need to cry. In a perfect world I'd never have to let go, process regrets, grieve, or say goodbye. I often cry simply because the feelings are so deep they touch my heart. Sometimes we cry out of sheer loneliness. Or shame, or from pain held on to for too long. We cry because strength is growing inside us, and something has to give in order to get. We cry sometimes when we laugh, and laugh and laugh. I love those tears. The line between crying and not crying is so fine sometimes.

Lately I've been crying because change is hard, and to change one must grow. Growth is hard. It hurts and pulls at our heart strings. And, yes, in the process we become stronger, softer and wiser. Still it is a rugged journey that includes releasing tears, dreams, relationships, lifestyles and expectations. It involves saying yes to the unknown and trusting all will be well. It involves faith in a path that is obscure and still developing. Sometimes you have to look past the challenges of the present into the blessings of the future.

So you cry as needed. It's okay to weep. It's okay to wonder and to worry a little. It's human nature. Then as you are able brush away those tears with hope, dust them with acceptance, and embrace them with faith. And, know all is unfolding according to plan.