Category: hope & grieving

How to Help Your Grieving Friend  7

When we hear the news that someone has lost a baby or a child or someone close to us has gotten a “diagnosis”, we immediately want to do something.  It’s just human nature . . . and yet it’s often difficult to know what to do.

You’d think I’d be an expert on this, but I’m not.  I struggle, too.  Just this morning I stood with another Mom who got a phone call from a concerned doctor regarding her daughter, and I didn’t know what to do.  I prayed the most confusing, awkward prayer with her, because I didn’t have the words.  It’s just never easy.

So.  I don’t have a magic formula.  But I have been on the receiving end of good and bad help.  And I want to help  you to be able to navigate the waters when you find yourself wanting to reach out to someone who is facing a season of grief.

Here’s my short list:

  • Don’t shy away from using names.  You know, I say and hear each of my kids’ names dozens of times a day . . . except for Annie.  And that makes me so sad.   When someone talks to me and uses her name, it is deeply meaningful to me.  
  • Be a brave friend.  It’s risky to approach a Mom who’s just buried a baby or who spends her days pacing the halls of a hospital and ask how she’s doing.  But it’s always worth the risk.  People have told me that they didn’t want to bring it up because they were afraid of making me sad on a day I was doing better . . . but honestly, still she is never far from my mind.  Knowing that others are checking in on me has always encouraged me and strengthened me.  
  • Do your best to remember.  I’m only four years into this grief thing, but as the years go by, there are less people who remember the day Annie was born and the day she died.  And I totally understand.  There are countless people in my life that I wish I remembered their anniversaries, but I just forget.  But I will tell you that when someone remembers now, it means the world to me.  Also?  There are other days that may be hard for your friend.  Mother’s day is bittersweet to me and my own birthday is sometimes hard, too.  Also?  I’ve learned that remembering later on is fine.  I used to beat myself up if I forgot to send a card right away.  Now I know that the first days of grief are intense, but surrounded by others who are praying.  Once that intensity dies down it’s easy to get depressed and discouraged.  So a card or an invitation to coffee a few months down the road was a needed reminder that I hadn’t been forgotten. 
  • Don’t forget the men.  You know, I think women do a great job at surrounding one another, encouraging one another, creating a support network . . . our husbands, not so much.  I can remember one particular Sunday when I stayed home and Peter came home to tell me how many of my friends had asked how I was doing.  He was happy about the support I received, but crushed that they hadn’t acknowledged his grief, too.  So don’t forget men grieve, too.  
  • Be specific.  I received so much help those first few months– meals, babysitting, books, money, etc.  and it was all so great, but it was really overwhelming, too.  When someone came to me and said, “I want to do something for you.  How can I help?”, I had no answers.  I felt so paralyzed by the smallest decisions.  It was much easier for me to hear, “I’d like to bring you a meal this week.  How about Tuesday?” (Freezer meals were good, too, when I was especially overwhelmed). 
  • Let go of expectations.  Don’t expect a thank you note or take it personally if you leave a message and don’t get a call back.  I desperately wanted to send heartfelt thank you notes to everyone, but I just didn’t have the energy.  I’m telling you, these small things can seem like the biggest obstacles when you’re grieving.  Those who set me free from these expectations lifted the biggest burden off of me.
  • Make sure your advice is Godly and Biblical.  I cannot tell you the number of people who felt led to tell me something that God had told them to tell me.  It disturbed me, because a majority of the time, I was presented with some sort of feel-good advice that had absolutely no Biblical basis.  Things like “God will only give you what you can handle” when I felt like I was drowning in grief.  When you feel God pressing you to share with your hurting friend, please, please make sure it’s sound Biblical advice.  Tread very carefully.  When Annie died, I felt like I had to reexamine my life and look at everything through this new lens.  I was so vulnerable and I didn’t know what was true anymore.  I didn’t have much capacity to sort through what was truth and what wasn’t.  This can be so dangerous.  You, as a friend, have a big responsibility to help others who are hurting by giving them Truth. (I have a list of resources that helped me right here)
  • Be wise in giving space.  One of the most confusing things to me was what was comforting.  I had one friend who sat and talked to me at my house every Wednesday night.  I had a really hard time in crowds of people, so Church for the first year was quite difficult.  She saw my need and she was there for me.  But there was another older, well-meaning lady who hovered around me for the first six months.  It was as if she thought I would break into a million pieces at a moment’s notice and wanted to be there to sweep me up.  It was unnerving to glance over my shoulder and see her there all. the. time.  Now it’s comical.  But then, I just wanted her to go away.  It’s good to be available for your friend, but trust that she’s going to be okay.  Pray through your actions.  God promises to give you wisdom– so use it!  And if you sense that she needs some space, don’t take it personally.  Pray for her and realize that she’s traveling an unknown path.  
That’s my list for today.  Now, I know that some of you have your own things to add to this list.  So feel free to add them in the comments.  
The thing about grief is that it doesn’t escape any of us.  So wherever you find yourself today, know that true healing is possible through Jesus.  He doesn’t waste your pain.  

 

Our Favorite Christmas Tradition {the jesse tree}  0

One of our favorite traditions in our house is our Jesse Tree, which we started the Christmas after Annie died.  We filled one journal and we’ve started another.  The kids love to look back to see what they wrote in years past.

My favorite journal entry is the day that Kate asked Jesus into her heart.  Every year when we get to that day, tears come to my eyes.  Our original intent of the Jesse Tree was to use Annie’s life to point others toward Christ.  We began it as a way to fill her stocking during Christmas– an empty stocking is so horrible. So when Kate responded to one of our devotions by saying she wanted to pray, it was like God was whispering to our broken hearts, “See, I can bring good out of your sorrow.  Watch it unfold before your eyes!”

Every year, I have friends tell me they’d like to start a Jesse Tree of their own.  So here is some info to get you started:

Here’s the original post I wrote about it (with some links of the devotionals we use)

Here’s a post that I read this week and the way her family does the Jesse Tree.  She has a lot of great details and explains it much better than I do.

My advice?  Give yourself grace.  Each year, we get busy and there are many nights that time slips away from us.  Usually it’s Easter before we get done.  And that’s ok.  I want this to be a special time with our kids, not a hurry-up-we-have-to-finish-before-December-25.  So we take our time and we refuse to feel guilty about having a Christmas tree up in February.

Also, for now, we read our stories out of the Jesus Storybook Bible or one of the kids’ Bibles so it makes it easy for them to understand.  They are much more engaged that way.  And while we read, we let them draw a picture in their journals.  They each have their own journals, after two years of fighting over who got to draw first (!) and it works out great.

For us, this has been a great way to celebrate the coming of Jesus.  It’s amazing to see the progression of the Bible and the expectation of a Savior  . . . and to teach that to our kids.

I’d love to hear if you start a Jesse Tree of your own, if you have other resources you use, or if you have any other great traditions that your family does to celebrate the birth of Christ!

Four Years.  1

You know, our grief has been heavy, but it has not been lonely.  And for that I am so thankful.  Last week marked four years since we last held Annie in our arms and the anticipation of that anniversary date weighs on us all.  Each year we wonder how much we should say and how much we should share.  This year we were more silent.  I’m not exactly sure why– it just seemed more exhausting somehow.  So those who anticipated the date with us were a blessing to us.
Our great friends, Kirby and Christa, came to spend the weekend and it was so special.  Their family is one that has carried us in so many sweet ways, and we were blown away that they would come and spend time with our crazy family.  William was so pumped to have them at his first soccer game of the season.  They encouraged us, laughed with us and played many, many rounds of Apples to Apples.
On Sunday night, several of our friends came to our house and we released balloons.  It was sweet in the way that grief is with children– moments of sad drawings, followed by shrieks of laughter and running outside to play.  
 And then, the next day, I cut my Sweet Annie.  This gift from God amazes me and humbles me every year.  
In some ways, four years ago seems like so long, in other ways it seems like a blink of an eye.  I simply cannot believe what God has brought us through.  I feel like I’m in a different place in my grief than I’ve been before.  It’s more thoughtful, more internal.  Now that grief no longer overwhelms me, I find myself just processing more, trying to articulate my thoughts and feelings.  
Last week, Peter closed our service with Peacemaker, a song that we played at Annie’s funeral.  As I cried my way through it, I realized that four years ago, I was begging Jesus to be all the things that the song declared Him to be.  This year, I found myself replaying all the ways that He has revealed Himself to me.  It humbles me beyond words.

Grief and Gardening {our weekend in nashville}  2

I’ve spent a bit of time the past few days cleaning out my garden beds.  Every spring I cannot wait to get my hands in the dirt, to uncover all sorts of little surprise living things.  What I assume is just a patch of brown dirt and leaves suddenly turns into little bits of green everywhere.  It really is ridiculous that I find so much pleasure in it, since it’s the same thing every year.  

This last weekend, Peter and I went to Nashville, where we met with a few old friends, like David and Nancy Guthrie, and about 60 new friends, all of whom have buried a child.  About six months after Annie died, Peter and I were blessed to go to one of the Respite Retreats that David and Nancy host, and this was a reunion for all the couples who had previously attended.

I ran into a friend a few days after we returned home and she looked at me and asked, “So does it REALLY help, or do you feel like you just sit around and cry?”

While it may seem like sitting around with others who have such deep grief would be sad and overwhelming (and it is a bit), I would have to say that what it did for my soul was exactly what I’ve been doing to my garden beds.  I’ve needed a little reassurance that my life isn’t just a bed of dead dirt.  I was beginning to think that I was stuck in my grief, instead of doing the work of uncovering all the little green plants that are struggling to make it up out of the ground.

I watched closely the smiles on the faces of so many who spoke and I listened to their words of hope.  And I realized that those smiles and words were in my heart and on my face, too.  I saw just how far I’ve come.  I still have a long way to go in my healing, but what I have done in the past (almost) four years has been hard fought and it has been good.

David and Nancy had an amazing weekend planned for us and I sat and drank it all in.  They arranged for incredible people to come and talk to us on the sovereignty of God and the challenges facing our remaining children.  Nancy talked to us about Heaven and challenged us to remain true to what the Bible says and not to get caught up in the hype of so many popular beliefs– she confirmed so much of what I’ve thought, but put it together much more coherently.

On Sunday morning, we had our own Worship service.  I couldn’t help the tears that flowed as I listened to us sing the words.  Singing has been one thing that has taken on new meaning since Annie died.  It’s been so emotional for me to declare words out loud because what has been taken from me has been so precious.  So to sit in a room, filled with others who are staking their hope in Christ at such a high cost was sacred.

We made some great new friends.  We reacquainted with some amazing old friends.  I told David and Nancy that we would gladly travel wherever they asked us to go– they have been such a catalyst to us in our healing.  What an immense blessing it is for us to call them our friends!  We talked with a few of their friends one night, who had come to make and serve us dinner.  They told us how they had all of our pictures on their fridge and had been praying for us.  I was amazed at the sacrifice that so many made for us.

This community that we are a part of may be full of sorrow and heartache, but it is also full of hope and renewal and hard fought JOY.  And though we may be in what one called “the mess in the middle”, we are still fighting to bring God the glory in it all.  

So, my garden.  As I’ve been snipping off dead branches and raking out dead, wet leaves, I’ve been thinking and praying.  His mercies are new every morning.  It’s true.  Just when we think there’s nothing left in our life Jesus in His mercy shows us that He is still working in us to bring beauty out of our ashes.

P.S.  My new friend, Jess, wrote about our weekend, too.  She made a great list of people we listened to and books they wrote.  Click over to her and check them out.  So good.

Marching On.  1

I made it.

March is over and I have marched my way through it.

Most days this month were filled with the mundane.  We also tossed a few extras in there:  vomit, double ear infection, pink eye, days and days of high fever, more earaches, and a case of the hives.  I spent most of the month stuck in the house, looking out the window, longing for a sliver of sunshine to break through the clouds, both literally and figuratively.

Have you had those months?  The ones that you had great intentions and you were going to do amazing things . . . and then it all just crumbles around you?  When things are just okay, which is fine, except this was your month to be big!?

A mysterious package arrived at my doorstep a few days ago.  It was a new book (from my amazing friend, Lisa.  If only you all could be so blessed to have a Lisa in your lives!) by Jerry Sittser called A Grace Revealed.   Jerry lost his mom, wife, and daughter to a drunk driving accident and has written some super thought provoking stuff, as you can imagine.

So the past few days I’ve been pondering how God redeems our lives, how He continues to write our stories during the good times, the bad times, and the normal, everyday times.  He can use it all– He does use it all– and we get a front row seat as we seek to know Him more.

He says, “God is using ordinary people to make the world whole and healthy again.  I wonder how that might be true . . . for you and me?  How might the little story of my life and your life contribute to the bigger story of the world’s redemption?  It is hard to see from day to day, largely because our own stories seem so trivial, meaningless, or random.  We race through life, enduring tragedy, laboring on the job or at home, doing routine tasks, often so distracted by pressures and responsibilities that we lack the time, energy, or even interest to think much about the possible significance of our life story.  We seem like workers on an assembly line who have forgotten to consider the high-end product we are helping to make” (p. 68)

And I am convicted and inspired all at once to use the one life I’ve been given to use the tragedy of my life, the amazing blessings in my life, and all the little nameless, forgettable things in between.  Because more than anything, I want God to redeem my story through His.

Sigh.  Goodbye, March.  Hello April.  It sure is good to see you.

How Grace just Keeps Giving  2

I am MARCHING through March (see why here).

Even though we usually march looking forward, I’m inclined to look back a lot.  I think it’s essential to see how things fit together, how the pieces slowly fall and I can nod my head a bit, understanding a little more than I did yesterday.

I’ve been struggling to name the good bits of Annie’s death.  You know, the things that have happened as a result of our gut wrenching pain.  I don’t always know how to categorize those things very well.  When I hear of someone who is changed as a result of Annie, I find myself caught in a mental list of pros and cons.  I wonder, will the pros ever outweigh the one con: Our empty arms? And then my Pollyanna tendencies take over and I pep talk my way into counting blessings, because it really is quite amazing to watch God work in the midst of our sorrow.  Back and forth I go, around and around in my head.

Which is why I loved stumbling on this article this week: The Sightless, Wordless, Helpless Theologian by Marshall Shelley.

It’s not that he stopped the ping ponging in my head, but God used him to bring the ping ponging under control.

When Peter and I were in Ecuador with Compassion International, one of the first places they took us was to a church with the Child Survival Program, filled with Mamas (very young mamas!) and their babies.  As we pulled up and started to unload, I was filled with emotion.  Our guides told us that it was important for us to love these people– to hug them and hold their babies and show them that we valued them.  And I responded with quick tears in my eyes.  I didn’t understand my reaction, it was surprising to me, but nonetheless, I walked through the line of these Moms and I hugged them and kissed the babies and I couldn’t help it . . . I saw Annie in each little face.  By the end of the line I was sobbing.  I could not hold it together.  I had a firm conviction that God was putting some pieces of the puzzle together, but it was a mystery.

I have to tell you that God has been working on my heart and I have been doing a lot of pondering on the word Grace.  What is it?  What does it mean?  What is the scope of it?

John Wesley did a lot of writing on grace and he had a term he called “prevenient grace”, or “the grace that goes before”.  Specifically, he was talking about the way that God is leading a person as they draw closer to a relationship with Him.  The work that Christ does before the salvation experience, if you will.

But I’ve been thinking about that phrase, “the grace that goes before” and I shake my head when I think of all the ways Christ works in my life when I had no idea.  I see such a small slice of my own life, and sometimes I forget that He works in the bigger story.

How else do you explain my reaction of tears on that day four months ago when I walked through that line of young mothers and babies?  I was overcome with grief.  All day I was a mess.  And I couldn’t really explain it.

That is, until a few weeks ago when Peter got this email from the leader on our trip.  We had asked him to do a bit of detective work for us.  When Annie died, we set up a memorial fund through Compassion, but we didn’t know specifically where the money had gone.  It wasn’t until the trip that we realized we could probably find out.

Sorry to fill up your inbox.. but I was able to track down the information you requested. Your First Giving webpage is actually still live. To date Annie has raised $4320.00 for the Child Survival Program. Her legacy lives on in the lives of moms and their babies and one day we will all rejoice to see all the lives that her life touched.
You, Sarah and family are loved and admired!
Sean

Just reading that again causes tears to stream down my face.  Because I flash back to those Moms and I see the hope in their faces, a hope because of Jesus.  I see them having a purpose in their life and joy.  I see those children and I feel their sticky little skin.  And I know that there are moms and babies who are  alive today because of gifts others gave in honor of my girl.  I cannot believe that we get to be part of their story.

I have no doubt that on that day my tears were a gift.  Grace that went before my knowledge of the whole picture.  How is it that I have been so blessed to see so much of this?

We like to package up life in neat little boxes, tied with bows.  We love a good, happy ending.  Yet we all know life isn’t like that at all.  So I’ve hesitated to share this story, fearing that it could become the quintessential story we all long for . . . because the truth is that I will always long for my baby and wish that I had her in my arms.  And yet it doesn’t negate the redemption to this story.

Marshall Shelley says in his article,

“We had no easy answers [regarding the death of my daughter], but for all these questions, the only answers that came close to making any sense at all were spiritual: God’s unexplainable but eternal purposes, a new understanding of what’s truly significant, the hope of the resurrection, and the strength that comes from God’s people.We began to see the power of the powerless.“

The power of the powerless?  Annie.  As a six month old, she was all that the world sees as powerless. And yet, I have a front row seat to see the ways that Christ can use her.  My own Wordless, Helpless Theologian.  That, my friends, is the grace of the bigger story that God has allowed me to live.  
And because of that I MARCH. 

Welcoming March  2

March is a hard month for me.

It was March 1, 2000 when I found out my sweet Grandma had cancer.
It was March 15, 2002 when I got the call that Lauren, firstborn of my best friend Jamie, had quietly slipped from this life.
It was March 16, 2001 when my dad called me and told me that my cousin Heidi had been in a car accident and was killed along with one of her twin babies, Jasmine.

And it was March 9, 2009 that we welcomed our second sweet daughter, Annie Jane into the world.  She lived six months.

When the calendar turns to January, I feel myself tensing up.  February comes and my chest tightens and I start remembering more– some good things, some not so good.  I start to notice all the four year olds around me and I try to imagine planning a party, hearing her sweet voice proudly proclaim that she will be four!  March hits me and I just want to curl up into a ball and not open the curtains until April.


Four.  Such a long time since I held her that very first time.  Since I looked into her deep blue eyes and took her in, studying her from head to toe.  Since I watched William and Kate fall in love with her. I work so very hard to remember the days she was with us, to memorize my memories and yet as each year goes by, I find it more and more difficult.

This morning I got up and decided that March may have been named for me.  Because this year, during this hard month, I’m going to MARCH through March.  I’m going to be thankful and I’m going to remember God’s grace in my life.  I’m going to claim the truth.  And I’ll probably cry a little more than usual, too.  But I’m going to MARCH.

Mulling Over Expectations.  3

  It started when I posted this picture on Facebook.

I like this picture because it’s all sweet and cozy.  But it bugs me.

It bugs me because there are only three stockings there.  And it killed me to think that someone would see it and think I was leaving Annie out.

So I moved her stocking from the living room, tied it up with the others and took another picture later.  Then I didn’t post it since I couldn’t come up with a good one-liner to pair with it.

The truth was that her stocking is filled with our Jesse Tree ornaments, and we gather at night to get a new ornament out so that we can reflect on the way that Jesus has been leading us to Him.  I wasn’t leaving it out of the picture– it was serving a purpose somewhere else.  And by the way, did anyone even care besides me?  Probably not.

It’s never easy to grieve.  Still, three and a half years later, I’m second guessing myself.  I don’t have it all figured out and it’s a struggle to know just how to work through this stuff.  And I probably won’t sort it all out in this lifetime.

 I shared this week with a group of ladies about how my high expectations for myself tend to get in the way, especially in my grieving.

I remembered sitting in the hospital room, the fresh news that the baby in my arms would not travel life with us washing over me.  I had a two year old and a four year old and I fully realized (and am still realizing) that their very first memories of life are going to be those horrific moments of death.  At that point, I remember resolving to grieve in a way that would lead them (and me) into a closer, deeper relationship with Christ.  I was determined that if Jesus was going to ask me to travel this road, by golly, I would do it right.  I would prove to Him that He could trust me with this.

It may have been an okay resolution, but in the classic Sarah way, I put a lot of pressure on myself to get it perfect.  After a few years of feeling the intensity in my heart, I just couldn’t keep it up.  It was at that point that I finally heard God telling me to rest.  To let up on myself.  To quit feeling the guilt and to allow Him to heal me with His favor.

It’s working.  Slowly.  Just as we struggle to know how to be the right parents to our children who run through our lives each day, I struggle to know how to be a parent of my sweet girl who is safe in the lap of Jesus.

We all get caught up in the guilt and expectation, don’t we?  Honestly, there’s no end to the things that I could do better.  Some of them are easy for me to let go of.  Others not so much, especially the things I hold so close in my heart.

But Jesus doesn’t ask us to prove anything to Him.  He doesn’t throw something our way and then stand back with His arms crossed, waiting to see how well we can take it.

Instead, He hears the desires of the afflicted, He encourages us, and listens to our cry (Psalm 10:17).  And before we know it, our strength is renewed, He gives us a new hope and power.  We remember what it is like to run and not grow weary, to walk and not be faint (Isaiah 40:29-31).

Whatever it is in your life– don’t let your own expectations get in the way of God’s favor for you.

Close to His Heart  4

September.
I breathe in the fragrance of my very favorite patch . . . of Sweet Annie (yes!  that’s the real true name!).
Is it a coincidence that it’s at its peak during the very hardest month for me?
Or does God just care for me that much?
Oh!  He is good!

He tends his flock like a shepherd:

                                                                                                                  He gathers the lambs in his arms

and carries them close to his heart;    
He gently leads those that have young.
Isaiah 40:11

p.s.  Sweet Annie is the tall, green ferny stuff (technical term) with the tiny yellow balls on the end (The flowers are zinnias mixed in). It is actually considered a weed, but I choose to ignore that fact.  ðŸ™‚  It smells wonderful.

p.s.#2  Also?  There’s nothing special about me.  Pray that you will have eyes to see the Gifts Jesus longs to give you.  You will find so many ways that He cares for you, in the same way that He has cared for me.  I can say that with confidence because I knowknowknow it will be true.

When the Fog Lifts  4

I’ve been thinking a lot about fog lately.
I have vivid memories of riding the bus to school on those early fall Indiana mornings.  I was one of the first ones on the bus in the mornings and the bus would be nearly empty as I made my way down the aisle.  In the loudness of the engine and the jostle of the wheels that magnified each bump, I would lean my cheek against the window and look out over the fields.  And on many mornings, we would lumber down a hill and find ourselves in a pocket of fog.  For just a few seconds we would be enveloped in the mist before we would ascend the hill and it would disappear.
After the hot summer winds, when the coolness of Fall begins, I love to stare out the window, coffee in hand and watch the fog slowly disappear.  There’s a hush on those mornings and things seem to slow down somehow.  The heat of the summer, along with the fun of late nights and busy-lazy days, is giving way to something new and unknown about the new season.  I fight fall because it means my kids are getting older and the unscheduled summer will soon give way to the over-scheduled school season, but I love the mornings when I can slip away and feel the fog.
How vividly I remember taking my sick baby to the emergency room, knowing that something was desperately wrong with her.  When they moved us from the curtained room to the private room and I looked up to see the doctor with tears in her eyes and I heard the door click shut, I felt myself sinking into a deep fog.
And when, a mere week later, I watched the truck pull into the cemetery to dig a hole meant for my Annie, I thought I would drown in that fog and that I would never breathe normally again.
Shortly after Annie died, we took the kids to the doctor for their annual check-ups.  Our doctor took our hands and he prayed for us and told us that the human brain will only process what it can, as it can.  Eventually, the mind-numbing tragedy would become clearer.  The fog would slowly lift.
As that mound of dirt over her body slowly sunk until it was ground level and then grew grass, I experienced some of the richest times I’ve ever had in my relationship with Christ.  He enveloped me and gave me peace.  The words of the Bible rang deep and true and brought comfort.  The notes and cards and “I’m praying” reminders were daily.  The unimportant things in life were stripped away and were strangely hard to see.  In my deepest pain, I was most sure of who I was.
When you lose a baby, or overcome an obstacle that most people have nightmares over, they will often tell you that you are strong.  Only you will know that the total opposite is true as you feel like you’re dangling off the edge of a twelve story building with your fingers slowly slipping.
Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.

2 This I declare about the Lord:

He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;    
he is my God, and I trust him.

3  

For he will rescue you from every trap    and protect you from deadly disease.

4   

He will cover you with his feathers.    He will shelter you with his wings.    
His faithful promises are your armor and protection.
Psalm 91:1-4

When my fingers failed me, and I found myself tumbling down, down, down . . . He caught me.  He gave me a refuge, a shelter, a fog.


I nestled into that fog, I wrapped it around me and breathed it in until my lungs hurt.  I sat on the couch during nap time and I just stared out the window.  I went to bed each night, simply relieved that I was one day closer to Heaven.  My sadness scared me, my grief was overwhelming, and I’m sure Peter wondered if he’d ever have his wife back.  But in the midst of it all, I had Jesus.  And I knew that somehow I would be okay.

Saturday marks three years since The Day My Life Changed.  This summer, well, it’s been the hardest season yet since the days immediately after Annie died.  Because the fog finally lifted.  I was forced to deal with some things that I had stuffed down deep, thinking they would disappear (p.s.  they don’t disappear).  I’ve felt so fragile this summer . . . coming to terms with my identity now that the fog has lifted.  

Dare I say I miss the fog?  

But today is a new day.  The season is changing and I know, know, know that the promises of Christ are still my armor and protection . . . just in a new way.  A dear friend told me, “You’ll never get over losing Annie, but you will move forward.”  That’s what I’m doing, slowly but surely.  

A step at a time, I’m breathing in new air, filling my lungs with the sweet freshness of His Grace that goes before me.