I am convinced if we asked God how to make a personal difference, He'd tell us.
And I am convinced if we did what He told us to do, it really would make a difference.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Today, I Really Miss You
Dear Rob,
I miss you.
Tomorrow is Robert's birthday, and he's nervous. He's afraid your not being here is going to make him sad. He's right. And I'll do the best I can to walk with him through the pain and anger because he doesn't understand. What he doesn't realize is even if he did understand, it wouldn't help.
I understand a lot about us, about the separation, about your dying, and I've still spent the day in tears and angry.
Last night I rolled over and reached to your side of the bed to feel where you were so I could scootch up to you. I still miss the feel of you, the smell of you. I miss how I wrapped my arm around you and you would wrap your hand around mine and hold it to your chest.
Pretty silly, huh? I mean, it's not like you'd be here anyway.
Still, I miss you.
It's March Madness, and I printed out the brackets, but I haven't watched a game. It's not quite the same when I don't have someone screaming, "Did you see that?" with me. I miss your arms flying up in the air and your yelling, "OH MY GOSH!" when that last second bucket hits and overtime is either created or avoided. Your whole face lit up. I have never known anyone who could get so excited about teams they cared nothing about.
Flowers are coming up in the front flowerbed. I keep looking at the zinnia bed. I need to work on it, but I can't even make myself walk over there. In fact, the very idea of working in the yard at all exhausts me.
The kids and I do clay and paint a lot. Never was big on the clay, but even less so now. I really miss playing games, but that is something the children strongly associate with you, and they aren't ready. I understand, so I either pinch a piece of clay and just chat with them or I read. Of course, they miss your reading to them. Me, too. I liked your voice. Your reading was always so soothing, especially when you read Winnie the Pooh. :-)
Robert decided he doesn't want streamers and balloons for decorations this year. Honestly, I'm sort of glad. You always did such a good job with the decorations. I would have done them, but it would have been so hard. Sort of like when Meg Ryan is talking to Maverick, and she says, "Goose would have flown without you. He would have hated it, but he would have done it." I would have hated it, but I would have done it.
And, yes, I know. It's not like you would be here. Not like you would be with me. But there are things we really got right. The children and letting them know they are special and important and amazing...we definitely did well there. We certainly knew how to celebrate them, didn't we?
You were a wonderful dad.
You were a wonderful man in a kazillion ways...and today, I really miss you.
I miss you.
Tomorrow is Robert's birthday, and he's nervous. He's afraid your not being here is going to make him sad. He's right. And I'll do the best I can to walk with him through the pain and anger because he doesn't understand. What he doesn't realize is even if he did understand, it wouldn't help.
I understand a lot about us, about the separation, about your dying, and I've still spent the day in tears and angry.
Last night I rolled over and reached to your side of the bed to feel where you were so I could scootch up to you. I still miss the feel of you, the smell of you. I miss how I wrapped my arm around you and you would wrap your hand around mine and hold it to your chest.
Pretty silly, huh? I mean, it's not like you'd be here anyway.
Still, I miss you.
It's March Madness, and I printed out the brackets, but I haven't watched a game. It's not quite the same when I don't have someone screaming, "Did you see that?" with me. I miss your arms flying up in the air and your yelling, "OH MY GOSH!" when that last second bucket hits and overtime is either created or avoided. Your whole face lit up. I have never known anyone who could get so excited about teams they cared nothing about.
Flowers are coming up in the front flowerbed. I keep looking at the zinnia bed. I need to work on it, but I can't even make myself walk over there. In fact, the very idea of working in the yard at all exhausts me.
The kids and I do clay and paint a lot. Never was big on the clay, but even less so now. I really miss playing games, but that is something the children strongly associate with you, and they aren't ready. I understand, so I either pinch a piece of clay and just chat with them or I read. Of course, they miss your reading to them. Me, too. I liked your voice. Your reading was always so soothing, especially when you read Winnie the Pooh. :-)
Robert decided he doesn't want streamers and balloons for decorations this year. Honestly, I'm sort of glad. You always did such a good job with the decorations. I would have done them, but it would have been so hard. Sort of like when Meg Ryan is talking to Maverick, and she says, "Goose would have flown without you. He would have hated it, but he would have done it." I would have hated it, but I would have done it.
And, yes, I know. It's not like you would be here. Not like you would be with me. But there are things we really got right. The children and letting them know they are special and important and amazing...we definitely did well there. We certainly knew how to celebrate them, didn't we?
You were a wonderful dad.
You were a wonderful man in a kazillion ways...and today, I really miss you.
Monday, March 14, 2011
When Silence Speaks Volumes
My friend Michele sent me a sweet message last night asking my forgiveness for her silence. Except, she hasn't been silent. She just hasn't been talking to us. Instead, she's been talking for us, and that is exactly what we needed.
Jerri,
I just read your blog post and wanted to say...
Over and over again, I think of the different ways you have lifted me up - and I have no idea how to do the same for you. I have prayed for you, Anna, & Robert and I'm sorry that is all I have done. Truly. You are precious - to God, to me, and to so many others. You remain in my prayers and please forgive my silence.
My response:
Sweet friend,
A multitude of thanks for the prayers. Prayers for us are EVERYTHING.
Truly. I am not just saying that to make you feel better. God's faithfulness, despite my screaming pain and rage, is obvious. I know He is answering others' prayers because I do not even know what to pray now.
Do not be sorry that is "all I have done". Change your sentence around and hear the power in it. "All I have done is pray." When all you're doing is praying, all you're doing is walking into the throne room on behalf of my children and me and saying, "Lord, God Almighty, Ruler of the entire universe who holds every second, every breath, every answer in Your hand, let me ask of You for my in desperate need friend Jerri and her children."
Oh, my friend, stand in the throne room for us! Stand there! Cry out for us! Seek Him for us! Ask of Him for us!
Michele, I have no words. I somehow wander into the throne room, fall to my knees, stare at Him, and simply lift my hands in empty questions. I do not know what to ask. I have simply sat in His presence and hurt and sobbed.
Speak for us. Put words where I have none. You are doing exactly what we need. Thank you for your faithful intercession. Thank you.
"...and I have no idea how to do the same for you." Oh, my friend, simply saying that does wonders for my soul. Simply saying, "Jerri, I can't imagine the pain and have no idea how to get near it, but I'm with you," is balm.
"...Forgive my silence." Michele, what is there to say? Really? That you are stunned? Shocked? Yep. Me too. That God lvoes me? Believe me, if He didn't, He would have squished me like a bug already. That He has great plans for me? A whole email in and of itself. That...what? This sucks and you can't believe how much has happened in 9 months? Yes, it does, and I can't either.
I'm learning that sometimes silence isn't abandonment or rejection or ambivalence. Sometimes silence is the only way to acknowledge how truly HUGE the impact of something is. Sometimes silence is the only honest response...and sometimes it is the most healing because it validates the immensity of a situation for the person going through it. Silence says this is unlike anything you've ever seen before, and nothing remotely compares.
Losing my mom and Rob dying suddenly within 3 1/2 months of each other is big. Statistically, you don't hit that very often. Throw in the separation, and that shrinks it further. Toss in that our divorce would be final tomorrow, the 15th, and that really knocks it down to tiny number, and for fun, let's mix in a whole slew of details that aren't public domain, and yeah, I have pastors who are friends telling me they are walking in unchartered territory because they have NEVER heard of anything close to this situation.
Yeah, silence because nothing remotely compares...sounds like the perfectly validating response.
So, dear one, walk in freedom. You are doing exactly what you need to do. You are recognizing a situation that is FAR beyound human ability to do anything about, so you are taking it all to the One who can do anything we need.
You are doing EXACTLY what we need you to do. Please keep it up.
And if Daddy shares any words with you, please share them with me if He says you can. :-)
Love you dearly! Sending you huge hugs!!!
Jerri,
I just read your blog post and wanted to say...
Over and over again, I think of the different ways you have lifted me up - and I have no idea how to do the same for you. I have prayed for you, Anna, & Robert and I'm sorry that is all I have done. Truly. You are precious - to God, to me, and to so many others. You remain in my prayers and please forgive my silence.
My response:
Sweet friend,
A multitude of thanks for the prayers. Prayers for us are EVERYTHING.
Truly. I am not just saying that to make you feel better. God's faithfulness, despite my screaming pain and rage, is obvious. I know He is answering others' prayers because I do not even know what to pray now.
Do not be sorry that is "all I have done". Change your sentence around and hear the power in it. "All I have done is pray." When all you're doing is praying, all you're doing is walking into the throne room on behalf of my children and me and saying, "Lord, God Almighty, Ruler of the entire universe who holds every second, every breath, every answer in Your hand, let me ask of You for my in desperate need friend Jerri and her children."
Oh, my friend, stand in the throne room for us! Stand there! Cry out for us! Seek Him for us! Ask of Him for us!
Michele, I have no words. I somehow wander into the throne room, fall to my knees, stare at Him, and simply lift my hands in empty questions. I do not know what to ask. I have simply sat in His presence and hurt and sobbed.
Speak for us. Put words where I have none. You are doing exactly what we need. Thank you for your faithful intercession. Thank you.
"...and I have no idea how to do the same for you." Oh, my friend, simply saying that does wonders for my soul. Simply saying, "Jerri, I can't imagine the pain and have no idea how to get near it, but I'm with you," is balm.
"...Forgive my silence." Michele, what is there to say? Really? That you are stunned? Shocked? Yep. Me too. That God lvoes me? Believe me, if He didn't, He would have squished me like a bug already. That He has great plans for me? A whole email in and of itself. That...what? This sucks and you can't believe how much has happened in 9 months? Yes, it does, and I can't either.
I'm learning that sometimes silence isn't abandonment or rejection or ambivalence. Sometimes silence is the only way to acknowledge how truly HUGE the impact of something is. Sometimes silence is the only honest response...and sometimes it is the most healing because it validates the immensity of a situation for the person going through it. Silence says this is unlike anything you've ever seen before, and nothing remotely compares.
Losing my mom and Rob dying suddenly within 3 1/2 months of each other is big. Statistically, you don't hit that very often. Throw in the separation, and that shrinks it further. Toss in that our divorce would be final tomorrow, the 15th, and that really knocks it down to tiny number, and for fun, let's mix in a whole slew of details that aren't public domain, and yeah, I have pastors who are friends telling me they are walking in unchartered territory because they have NEVER heard of anything close to this situation.
Yeah, silence because nothing remotely compares...sounds like the perfectly validating response.
So, dear one, walk in freedom. You are doing exactly what you need to do. You are recognizing a situation that is FAR beyound human ability to do anything about, so you are taking it all to the One who can do anything we need.
You are doing EXACTLY what we need you to do. Please keep it up.
And if Daddy shares any words with you, please share them with me if He says you can. :-)
Love you dearly! Sending you huge hugs!!!
When Silence Speaks Volumes
My friend Michele sent me a sweet message last night asking my forgiveness for her silence. Except, she hasn't been silent. She just hasn't been talking to us. Instead, she's been talking for us, and that is exactly what we needed.
Jerri,
I just read your blog post and wanted to say...
Over and over again, I think of the different ways you have lifted me up - and I have no idea how to do the same for you. I have prayed for you, Anna, & Robert and I'm sorry that is all I have done. Truly. You are precious - to God, to me, and to so many others. You remain in my prayers and please forgive my silence.
My response:
Sweet friend,
A multitude of thanks for the prayers. Prayers for us are EVERYTHING.
Truly. I am not just saying that to make you feel better. God's faithfulness, despite my screaming pain and rage, is obvious. I know He is answering others' prayers because I do not even know what to pray now.
Do not be sorry that is "all I have done". Change your sentence around and hear the power in it. "All I have done is pray." When all you're doing is praying, all you're doing is walking into the throne room on behalf of my children and me and saying, "Lord, God Almighty, Ruler of the entire universe who holds every second, every breath, every answer in Your hand, let me ask of You for my in desperate need friend Jerri and her children."
Oh, my friend, stand in the throne room for us! Stand there! Cry out for us! Seek Him for us! Ask of Him for us!
Michele, I have no words. I somehow wander into the throne room, fall to my knees, stare at Him, and simply lift my hands in empty questions. I do not know what to ask. I have simply sat in His presence and hurt and sobbed.
Speak for us. Put words where I have none. You are doing exactly what we need. Thank you for your faithful intercession. Thank you.
"...and I have no idea how to do the same for you." Oh, my friend, simply saying that does wonders for my soul. Simply saying, "Jerri, I can't imagine the pain and have no idea how to get near it, but I'm with you," is balm.
"...Forgive my silence." Michele, what is there to say? Really? That you are stunned? Shocked? Yep. Me too. That God lvoes me? Believe me, if He didn't, He would have squished me like a bug already. That He has great plans for me? A whole email in and of itself. That...what? This sucks and you can't believe how much has happened in 9 months? Yes, it does, and I can't either.
I'm learning that sometimes silence isn't abandonment or rejection or ambivalence. Sometimes silence is the only way to acknowledge how truly HUGE the impact of something is. Sometimes silence is the only honest response...and sometimes it is the most healing because it validates the immensity of a situation for the person going through it. Silence says this is unlike anything you've ever seen before, and nothing remotely compares.
Losing my mom and Rob dying suddenly within 3 1/2 months of each other is big. Statistically, you don't hit that very often. Throw in the separation, and that shrinks it further. Toss in that our divorce would be final tomorrow, the 15th, and that really knocks it down to tiny number, and for fun, let's mix in a whole slew of details that aren't public domain, and yeah, I have pastors who are friends telling me they are walking in unchartered territory because they have NEVER heard of anything close to this situation.
Yeah, silence because nothing remotely compares...sounds like the perfectly validating response.
So, dear one, walk in freedom. You are doing exactly what you need to do. You are recognizing a situation that is FAR beyound human ability to do anything about, so you are taking it all to the One who can do anything we need.
You are doing EXACTLY what we need you to do. Please keep it up.
And if Daddy shares any words with you, please share them with me if He says you can. :-)
Love you dearly! Sending you huge hugs!!!
Jerri,
I just read your blog post and wanted to say...
Over and over again, I think of the different ways you have lifted me up - and I have no idea how to do the same for you. I have prayed for you, Anna, & Robert and I'm sorry that is all I have done. Truly. You are precious - to God, to me, and to so many others. You remain in my prayers and please forgive my silence.
My response:
Sweet friend,
A multitude of thanks for the prayers. Prayers for us are EVERYTHING.
Truly. I am not just saying that to make you feel better. God's faithfulness, despite my screaming pain and rage, is obvious. I know He is answering others' prayers because I do not even know what to pray now.
Do not be sorry that is "all I have done". Change your sentence around and hear the power in it. "All I have done is pray." When all you're doing is praying, all you're doing is walking into the throne room on behalf of my children and me and saying, "Lord, God Almighty, Ruler of the entire universe who holds every second, every breath, every answer in Your hand, let me ask of You for my in desperate need friend Jerri and her children."
Oh, my friend, stand in the throne room for us! Stand there! Cry out for us! Seek Him for us! Ask of Him for us!
Michele, I have no words. I somehow wander into the throne room, fall to my knees, stare at Him, and simply lift my hands in empty questions. I do not know what to ask. I have simply sat in His presence and hurt and sobbed.
Speak for us. Put words where I have none. You are doing exactly what we need. Thank you for your faithful intercession. Thank you.
"...and I have no idea how to do the same for you." Oh, my friend, simply saying that does wonders for my soul. Simply saying, "Jerri, I can't imagine the pain and have no idea how to get near it, but I'm with you," is balm.
"...Forgive my silence." Michele, what is there to say? Really? That you are stunned? Shocked? Yep. Me too. That God lvoes me? Believe me, if He didn't, He would have squished me like a bug already. That He has great plans for me? A whole email in and of itself. That...what? This sucks and you can't believe how much has happened in 9 months? Yes, it does, and I can't either.
I'm learning that sometimes silence isn't abandonment or rejection or ambivalence. Sometimes silence is the only way to acknowledge how truly HUGE the impact of something is. Sometimes silence is the only honest response...and sometimes it is the most healing because it validates the immensity of a situation for the person going through it. Silence says this is unlike anything you've ever seen before, and nothing remotely compares.
Losing my mom and Rob dying suddenly within 3 1/2 months of each other is big. Statistically, you don't hit that very often. Throw in the separation, and that shrinks it further. Toss in that our divorce would be final tomorrow, the 15th, and that really knocks it down to tiny number, and for fun, let's mix in a whole slew of details that aren't public domain, and yeah, I have pastors who are friends telling me they are walking in unchartered territory because they have NEVER heard of anything close to this situation.
Yeah, silence because nothing remotely compares...sounds like the perfectly validating response.
So, dear one, walk in freedom. You are doing exactly what you need to do. You are recognizing a situation that is FAR beyound human ability to do anything about, so you are taking it all to the One who can do anything we need.
You are doing EXACTLY what we need you to do. Please keep it up.
And if Daddy shares any words with you, please share them with me if He says you can. :-)
Love you dearly! Sending you huge hugs!!!
Sunday, March 13, 2011
When You Don't Know What to Say, Just Say...
One thing I have heard over and over in the last month is, "I don't know what to say." I totally understand. I want to share a few things people have said that really helped me.
"I have never felt more helpless or useless as a friend than I do right now."--My friend John when I called to tell him Rob was gone and I didn't understand the last eight months at all.
"I am here."--a simple text on my phone the morning Rob died. I laid it on my pillow so I could try to rest and not feel so alone.
"I can be on a plane tonight. I want to be sure you are okay."--Kevin when he offered to take time off from the Army and fly from El Paso to be with us during the funeral and the few days following.
"Reason I'm trying to locate you geographically is 'cause...I was going to see if they had a non-stupid person who might check in on my behalf."--Kenneth, a pastor after God's own heart.
"sits on ground next to you. *sighs* picks up a rock and throws it away aimlessly"--sometimes there are no words, only presence, even if it is half-of-Texas away
"Don't you think Joy and I would have been there already if the Teleporter was working?"--Yes, Kenneth, you would be.
"Ugh! (Sorry--that doesn't sound very pastoral or spiritual)."--No, but it sounded like you understood, and I needed that more than anything.
"Silver in forms...Gold Medalist in sparring..."--Two texts that allowed me to feel like I was part of a regular life. It was nice to be Jerri and not just somebody dealing with tragedy.
"Jerri, it's really okay."--It wasn't just Greg's words. It was his tone, the look in his eyes when he said it, and the subordinate truth that I was okay.
"Yes, I can."--Raeetta when asked if she could stay with the children and me the week of the funeral.
"I'll take care of..."--the list was huge, but Chris did take care of all of that, the children, and me. When he said he would take care of something, I never gave it a second thought. It would be done, and it was.
"Okay, here are three boy toys to start...And if you want to rob the cradle, I mean be a cougar..."--Debra had me laughing out loud! And it felt good. :-)
" :-) Smile"--Bilal, just checking in.
"Just checking in on you. Love you, Dan."--Love you, too.
From Sharilyn--A picture of a car with a grill line that looked like a big smile. In my mind, I could see the tongue lolling out. I rolled
"Understandable: watch out for toxic rain."--Pam's response when she asked how I was, and I said the train hit was rough, and the big crater made by the 747 when it crashed into me was hard to climb out of, but the mushroom cloud pretty much said it all. So nice to be understood. :-)
"When do you want us?"--Debra, who knows life and grief comes in waves.
"We are with you."--Stacey, when lunch after the funeral felt like Everrest.
"I've got you, and I'm not letting go."--Stuart, when he held my hand and led me to his truck after the funeral.
--
Posted By Blogger to Jerri Kelley at 3/13/2011 03:43:00 PM
"I have never felt more helpless or useless as a friend than I do right now."--My friend John when I called to tell him Rob was gone and I didn't understand the last eight months at all.
"I am here."--a simple text on my phone the morning Rob died. I laid it on my pillow so I could try to rest and not feel so alone.
"I can be on a plane tonight. I want to be sure you are okay."--Kevin when he offered to take time off from the Army and fly from El Paso to be with us during the funeral and the few days following.
"Reason I'm trying to locate you geographically is 'cause...I was going to see if they had a non-stupid person who might check in on my behalf."--Kenneth, a pastor after God's own heart.
"sits on ground next to you. *sighs* picks up a rock and throws it away aimlessly"--sometimes there are no words, only presence, even if it is half-of-Texas away
"Don't you think Joy and I would have been there already if the Teleporter was working?"--Yes, Kenneth, you would be.
"Ugh! (Sorry--that doesn't sound very pastoral or spiritual)."--No, but it sounded like you understood, and I needed that more than anything.
"Silver in forms...Gold Medalist in sparring..."--Two texts that allowed me to feel like I was part of a regular life. It was nice to be Jerri and not just somebody dealing with tragedy.
"Jerri, it's really okay."--It wasn't just Greg's words. It was his tone, the look in his eyes when he said it, and the subordinate truth that I was okay.
"Yes, I can."--Raeetta when asked if she could stay with the children and me the week of the funeral.
"I'll take care of..."--the list was huge, but Chris did take care of all of that, the children, and me. When he said he would take care of something, I never gave it a second thought. It would be done, and it was.
"Okay, here are three boy toys to start...And if you want to rob the cradle, I mean be a cougar..."--Debra had me laughing out loud! And it felt good. :-)
" :-) Smile"--Bilal, just checking in.
"Just checking in on you. Love you, Dan."--Love you, too.
From Sharilyn--A picture of a car with a grill line that looked like a big smile. In my mind, I could see the tongue lolling out. I rolled
"Understandable: watch out for toxic rain."--Pam's response when she asked how I was, and I said the train hit was rough, and the big crater made by the 747 when it crashed into me was hard to climb out of, but the mushroom cloud pretty much said it all. So nice to be understood. :-)
"When do you want us?"--Debra, who knows life and grief comes in waves.
"We are with you."--Stacey, when lunch after the funeral felt like Everrest.
"I've got you, and I'm not letting go."--Stuart, when he held my hand and led me to his truck after the funeral.
--
Posted By Blogger to Jerri Kelley at 3/13/2011 03:43:00 PM
When You Don't Know What to Say, Just Say...
One thing I have heard over and over in the last month is, "I don't know what to say." I totally understand. I want to share a few things people have said that really helped me.
"I have never felt more helpless or useless as a friend than I do right now."--My friend John when I called to tell him Rob was gone and I didn't understand the last eight months at all.
"I am here."--a simple text on my phone the morning Rob died. I laid it on my pillow so I could try to rest and not feel so alone.
"I can be on a plane tonight. I want to be sure you are okay."--Kevin when he offered to take time off from the Army and fly from El Paso to be with us during the funeral and the few days following.
"Reason I'm trying to locate you geographically is 'cause...I was going to see if they had a non-stupid person who might check in on my behalf."--Kenneth, a pastor after God's own heart.
"sits on the ground next to you. *sighs* picks up a rock and throws it away aimlessly"-- sometimes there are no words, only presence, even if it is half-of-Texas away
"Don't you think Joy and I would have been there already if the Teleporter was working?"--Yes, Kenneth, you would be.
"Ugh! (Sorry--that doesn't sound very pastoral or spiritual)."--No, but it sounded like you understood, and I needed that more than anything.
"Silver in forms...Gold Medalist in sparring..."--Two texts that allowed me to feel like I was part of a regular life. It was nice to be Jerri and not just somebody dealing with tragedy.
"Jerri, it's really okay."--It wasn't just Greg's words. It was his tone, the look in his eyes when he said it, and the subordinate truth that I was okay.
"Yes, I can."--Raeetta when asked if she could stay with the children and me the week of the funeral.
"I'll take care of..."--the list was huge, but Chris did take care of all of that, the children, and me. When he said he would take care of something, I never gave it a second thought. It would be done, and it was.
"Okay, here are three boy toys to start...And if you want to rob the cradle, I mean be a cougar..."--Debra had me laughing out loud! And it felt good. :-)
" :-) Smile"--Bilal, just checking in.
"Just checking in on you. Love you, Dan."--Love you, too.
From Sharilyn--A picture of a car with a grill line that looked like a big smile. In my mind, I could see the tongue lolling out. I rolled
"Understandable: watch out for toxic rain."--Pam's response when she asked how I was, and I said the train hit was rough, and the big crater made by the 747 when it crashed into me was hard to climb out of, but the mushroom cloud pretty much said it all. So nice to be understood. :-)
"When do you want us?"--Debra, who knows life and grief comes in waves.
"We are with you."--Stacey, when lunch after the funeral felt like Everrest.
"I've got you, and I'm not letting go."--Stuart, when he held my hand and led me to his truck after the funeral.
"I have never felt more helpless or useless as a friend than I do right now."--My friend John when I called to tell him Rob was gone and I didn't understand the last eight months at all.
"I am here."--a simple text on my phone the morning Rob died. I laid it on my pillow so I could try to rest and not feel so alone.
"I can be on a plane tonight. I want to be sure you are okay."--Kevin when he offered to take time off from the Army and fly from El Paso to be with us during the funeral and the few days following.
"Reason I'm trying to locate you geographically is 'cause...I was going to see if they had a non-stupid person who might check in on my behalf."--Kenneth, a pastor after God's own heart.
"sits on the ground next to you. *sighs* picks up a rock and throws it away aimlessly
"Don't you think Joy and I would have been there already if the Teleporter was working?"--Yes, Kenneth, you would be.
"Ugh! (Sorry--that doesn't sound very pastoral or spiritual)."--No, but it sounded like you understood, and I needed that more than anything.
"Silver in forms...Gold Medalist in sparring..."--Two texts that allowed me to feel like I was part of a regular life. It was nice to be Jerri and not just somebody dealing with tragedy.
"Jerri, it's really okay."--It wasn't just Greg's words. It was his tone, the look in his eyes when he said it, and the subordinate truth that I was okay.
"Yes, I can."--Raeetta when asked if she could stay with the children and me the week of the funeral.
"I'll take care of..."--the list was huge, but Chris did take care of all of that, the children, and me. When he said he would take care of something, I never gave it a second thought. It would be done, and it was.
"Okay, here are three boy toys to start...And if you want to rob the cradle, I mean be a cougar..."--Debra had me laughing out loud! And it felt good. :-)
" :-) Smile"--Bilal, just checking in.
"Just checking in on you. Love you, Dan."--Love you, too.
From Sharilyn--A picture of a car with a grill line that looked like a big smile. In my mind, I could see the tongue lolling out. I rolled
"Understandable: watch out for toxic rain."--Pam's response when she asked how I was, and I said the train hit was rough, and the big crater made by the 747 when it crashed into me was hard to climb out of, but the mushroom cloud pretty much said it all. So nice to be understood. :-)
"When do you want us?"--Debra, who knows life and grief comes in waves.
"We are with you."--Stacey, when lunch after the funeral felt like Everrest.
"I've got you, and I'm not letting go."--Stuart, when he held my hand and led me to his truck after the funeral.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Worshipping
Tonight there is no Gibbs. There is no shooting terrorists.
Tonight there is stillness.
I am forcing myself to be still, to allow myself to think, to allow myself to feel.
It's a hard thing, this feeling...or drowning in so much feeling that I have gone numb.
The truth is I am simply standing in the midst of carnage, turning in circles, staring at the devestation. The sword I used to wield with such ferocity hangs limp from my hand, and instead of determination, I feel very little more than shock.
And I cannot truly believe what I see around me.
For months my goal has been to keep moving forward no matter what exploded around me or in front of me, and I have done that. However, today, I don't know what "forward" means. I don't even know what movement looks like. Settling Rob's estate? Getting the legal papers signed? Picking up his ashes and figuring out where to put them until we scatter them later? Paying off bills that have accrued? Waking up in the morning, getting out of bed, showering, and brushing my teeth?
When all of this started nine months ago, I told folks we were not "fine", but we were okay. It was hard, but we were going to get to the other side and flourish anyway. I'm not sure what other side we are supposed to get to, and I don't know what "okay" is anymore.
I'm not trying to give the impression that I'm hopeless. I'm not. I'm not depressed either. I'm just...
...hurting...
...and dismayed...
...and waiting.
I have never felt so utterly stripped bare, undefined, and directionless.
I have never stood before God and been so completely at a loss. I have nothing, not even words. I can only stand before Him, stare confused, and shrug with a thousand unworded questions.
And all I really know is He is good.
And instead of being appalled by tears, He accepts them as worship because it is all I have to offer Him. It is what I have been reduced to...tearful trust in Him despite the pain.
It is not standing with hands high, songs filled with happy thoughts, and easy thankfulness for all the good things.
And I stand here...staring...aching...questioning...
...worshiping.
Tonight there is stillness.
I am forcing myself to be still, to allow myself to think, to allow myself to feel.
It's a hard thing, this feeling...or drowning in so much feeling that I have gone numb.
The truth is I am simply standing in the midst of carnage, turning in circles, staring at the devestation. The sword I used to wield with such ferocity hangs limp from my hand, and instead of determination, I feel very little more than shock.
And I cannot truly believe what I see around me.
For months my goal has been to keep moving forward no matter what exploded around me or in front of me, and I have done that. However, today, I don't know what "forward" means. I don't even know what movement looks like. Settling Rob's estate? Getting the legal papers signed? Picking up his ashes and figuring out where to put them until we scatter them later? Paying off bills that have accrued? Waking up in the morning, getting out of bed, showering, and brushing my teeth?
When all of this started nine months ago, I told folks we were not "fine", but we were okay. It was hard, but we were going to get to the other side and flourish anyway. I'm not sure what other side we are supposed to get to, and I don't know what "okay" is anymore.
I'm not trying to give the impression that I'm hopeless. I'm not. I'm not depressed either. I'm just...
...hurting...
...and dismayed...
...and waiting.
I have never felt so utterly stripped bare, undefined, and directionless.
I have never stood before God and been so completely at a loss. I have nothing, not even words. I can only stand before Him, stare confused, and shrug with a thousand unworded questions.
And all I really know is He is good.
And instead of being appalled by tears, He accepts them as worship because it is all I have to offer Him. It is what I have been reduced to...tearful trust in Him despite the pain.
TRUST IN THE LORD WITH (ALL YOUR BROKEN) HEART,This is worship.
and do not lean on your own (finite, pleasure seeking, comfort desiring) understanding.
In all your (broken, tear marked) ways, acknowledge Him (He is the only One who can or will make a difference),
and He will make your (seemingly devestating and dream destroying) paths straight.
It is not standing with hands high, songs filled with happy thoughts, and easy thankfulness for all the good things.
Worship is...
...the staring eyes filled with confusion and questions,
that choose to look to Him and not away,
even when the tears fall hot and the heart aches deep.
...the heart shattered
with nothing left of what it had hoped for
that turns to Him and whispers,
"I hope you can find me here."
Worship is not going to God because He feels good.
Worship is going to God
even when it hurts beyond one's wildest nightmares.
And I stand here...staring...aching...questioning...
...worshiping.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Switch
I have avoided this place with you because I really didn't know what to say. People keep asking how I am. Like I have an answer for that.
The last seventy-two hours have been spent mostly angry. I don't think I can really explain that. Some of the anger is specific, but a lot of it is just the general scatter-shot anger. Angry about the last year. Angry about the marriage I dreamed of. Angry about Rob's choices. Angry that things keep disappearing but God isn't explaining. Just angry.
Two of my men friends tell me men have this ability to simply hit a switch and a situation is over. Done. Sort of like it never happened.
Wish I had that switch...
And I don't wish I had that switch.
Did I ever tell you I wanted to go into the military when I graduated high school? Yep. I either wanted to coach basketball or be a military strategist. Really not that different in purpose. In basketball, you figure out the strengths, weaknesses, and strategies of the opponent, and you use them against them so you win the game. Really not much different with military strategy. You learn your oponent, analyze their strengths and weaknesses, and use that information to defeat them. The difference is in one game everyone goes home. In the other, not so much.
I didn't go into the military, though, because of knee surgery.
However, I've often wish I had. Several of my friends have this self-discipline switch--now granted they are also men, so maybe it is a man thing and has nothing to do with the military--and I have wondered if I had become a Marine, would I have it, too? Would I simply be able to turn off the mental and emotional choas like so many of them seem to be able to do?
Sometimes I wish I could...sometimes I'm glad I can't.
Sometimes I feel like the horrendous pain and all the tears is really weakness, and if I were stronger mentally or emotionally, it wouldn't bother me. I feel like if I had the right self-discipline days like yesterday wouldn't slam me. In fact, they wouldn't bother me at all. But, it did. In fact, it knocked me to my knees.
I went to the funeral home to pick up Rob's death certificates, and the woman said, "Oh, his remains are here, too."
No clue what I looked like, but it must have not been so good because amidst the words "remains are here" scream-echoing in my head, I heard, "Honey, I think you better sit down."
"His remains are here."
It was the first time in the this whole stretch of surrealism that I had to fight to not vomit.
"Honey, you don't have to take them today."
"I didn't know they were here," I heard myself mutter.
"You can leave them for now."
"The kids are in the car." Again, it was my voice.
"Well, then most certainly this is not the best time. Not a problem."
I don't remember leaving her office. I remember leaning against the brick wall while gagging sobs shook my body.
Surely, if I were more mentally disciplined such moments wouldn't happen. Instead of letting the information slam into me, I would have simply taken the ashes, too, thanked the lady for her helpfulness, and told her how much I appreciate the service I received from their funeral home. I would have walked out nonplussed, gotten in the car, and the children would have never been the wiser.
Surely...
Sometimes I think that would make life easier, less painful, and really, I like less painful.
However, as enticing as it looks, this very thing I hate so much--the ability or acceptance of hurting so deeply, so wholly--is the very thing that makes me the most useful. It is my willingness to embrace the dark and its monstrous pain that allows me to walk into it without fear to help others find their way out.
I have learned being in the dark is not weakness. Acknowledging the pain of the dark is not weakness. Letting the dark control me is.
If the dark hurts so much I'd rather flip a switch and hide than to walk into, learn it, understand it, and rescue others from it, then the dark has won, but as long as I am willing to make phone calls when all I can do is sob without words...as long as I am willing to lie in my bed numb from the mental and emotionally beating I have just taken...as long as I know the difference between one day and a crater...then I'm not too afraid.
I think there it is admirable when people are self-disciplined enough to flip a switch and turn off their own mental and emotional responses in order to do their job or to help others. But I'm learning that sometimes it takes courage and self-discipline NOT to hit that switch. Sometimes the self-discipline and courage take me right into the place I least want to be. But oddly, even if I had the power to change it, I don't think I'd switch.
The last seventy-two hours have been spent mostly angry. I don't think I can really explain that. Some of the anger is specific, but a lot of it is just the general scatter-shot anger. Angry about the last year. Angry about the marriage I dreamed of. Angry about Rob's choices. Angry that things keep disappearing but God isn't explaining. Just angry.
Two of my men friends tell me men have this ability to simply hit a switch and a situation is over. Done. Sort of like it never happened.
Wish I had that switch...
And I don't wish I had that switch.
Did I ever tell you I wanted to go into the military when I graduated high school? Yep. I either wanted to coach basketball or be a military strategist. Really not that different in purpose. In basketball, you figure out the strengths, weaknesses, and strategies of the opponent, and you use them against them so you win the game. Really not much different with military strategy. You learn your oponent, analyze their strengths and weaknesses, and use that information to defeat them. The difference is in one game everyone goes home. In the other, not so much.
I didn't go into the military, though, because of knee surgery.
However, I've often wish I had. Several of my friends have this self-discipline switch--now granted they are also men, so maybe it is a man thing and has nothing to do with the military--and I have wondered if I had become a Marine, would I have it, too? Would I simply be able to turn off the mental and emotional choas like so many of them seem to be able to do?
Sometimes I wish I could...sometimes I'm glad I can't.
Sometimes I feel like the horrendous pain and all the tears is really weakness, and if I were stronger mentally or emotionally, it wouldn't bother me. I feel like if I had the right self-discipline days like yesterday wouldn't slam me. In fact, they wouldn't bother me at all. But, it did. In fact, it knocked me to my knees.
I went to the funeral home to pick up Rob's death certificates, and the woman said, "Oh, his remains are here, too."
No clue what I looked like, but it must have not been so good because amidst the words "remains are here" scream-echoing in my head, I heard, "Honey, I think you better sit down."
"His remains are here."
It was the first time in the this whole stretch of surrealism that I had to fight to not vomit.
"Honey, you don't have to take them today."
"I didn't know they were here," I heard myself mutter.
"You can leave them for now."
"The kids are in the car." Again, it was my voice.
"Well, then most certainly this is not the best time. Not a problem."
I don't remember leaving her office. I remember leaning against the brick wall while gagging sobs shook my body.
Surely, if I were more mentally disciplined such moments wouldn't happen. Instead of letting the information slam into me, I would have simply taken the ashes, too, thanked the lady for her helpfulness, and told her how much I appreciate the service I received from their funeral home. I would have walked out nonplussed, gotten in the car, and the children would have never been the wiser.
Surely...
Sometimes I think that would make life easier, less painful, and really, I like less painful.
However, as enticing as it looks, this very thing I hate so much--the ability or acceptance of hurting so deeply, so wholly--is the very thing that makes me the most useful. It is my willingness to embrace the dark and its monstrous pain that allows me to walk into it without fear to help others find their way out.
I have learned being in the dark is not weakness. Acknowledging the pain of the dark is not weakness. Letting the dark control me is.
If the dark hurts so much I'd rather flip a switch and hide than to walk into, learn it, understand it, and rescue others from it, then the dark has won, but as long as I am willing to make phone calls when all I can do is sob without words...as long as I am willing to lie in my bed numb from the mental and emotionally beating I have just taken...as long as I know the difference between one day and a crater...then I'm not too afraid.
I think there it is admirable when people are self-disciplined enough to flip a switch and turn off their own mental and emotional responses in order to do their job or to help others. But I'm learning that sometimes it takes courage and self-discipline NOT to hit that switch. Sometimes the self-discipline and courage take me right into the place I least want to be. But oddly, even if I had the power to change it, I don't think I'd switch.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Firsts
Right now, at this moment, I'm in a downswing. Actually, I wouldn't even call it a downswing because that implies it is a pattern or continuing. However, right now, it is a hard moment. It's after 11:00 pm, and I'm tired. Tired always makes it harder, and sometimes it is simply hard enough.
I have struggled to understand the grieving process, at least the one in which I find myself. As I said before, Rob stopped being my husband months ago, but still, a seemingly generic thing can happen, and in seconds, I am in tears with my heart ripped outside my chest. I didn't realize until yesterday that it is still the first year, "the hardest year", when he isn't here.
He moved out eight months ago, but this will be the first March Madness in 22 years we didn't do brackets together. It'll be the first time we don't make a bet based on who gets the most games right. This is the first spring we won't drive around and look at wildflowers together. This is the first year I'll plan birthdays alone, and tonight when I came home from my class, he wasn't waiting to hear how it went, and honestly, I miss telling him. I miss how excited he got just listening to me be excited.
This is the first year I have to find a way for Anna and I to shop for Robert's birthday without him. Usually, Rob and I just split the children between us, and whoever had Anna would shop.
And even harder than all those firsts for me...is watching all those firsts for my children. My pain doesn't compare to theirs, and that hurts me more than anything.
It is hard to trust God and his purpose when my children miss their dad so much and ask me what happened that their lives became so surreal. Faith takes on a whole new tone when the sound of my children's tears or questioning prayers come down the hall in the late hours...in the hours when they should be sleeping but their heart ache keeps them awake.
But I have nothing but faith...and questions...and I wonder which is greater at the moment...and the hour is late, and I should be asleep...but my heart ache keeps me awake.
...It isn't the first time...and it won't be the last...not until all the firsts are done, the pain isn't so stabbing, and the children are sleeping peacefully again.
I have struggled to understand the grieving process, at least the one in which I find myself. As I said before, Rob stopped being my husband months ago, but still, a seemingly generic thing can happen, and in seconds, I am in tears with my heart ripped outside my chest. I didn't realize until yesterday that it is still the first year, "the hardest year", when he isn't here.
He moved out eight months ago, but this will be the first March Madness in 22 years we didn't do brackets together. It'll be the first time we don't make a bet based on who gets the most games right. This is the first spring we won't drive around and look at wildflowers together. This is the first year I'll plan birthdays alone, and tonight when I came home from my class, he wasn't waiting to hear how it went, and honestly, I miss telling him. I miss how excited he got just listening to me be excited.
This is the first year I have to find a way for Anna and I to shop for Robert's birthday without him. Usually, Rob and I just split the children between us, and whoever had Anna would shop.
And even harder than all those firsts for me...is watching all those firsts for my children. My pain doesn't compare to theirs, and that hurts me more than anything.
It is hard to trust God and his purpose when my children miss their dad so much and ask me what happened that their lives became so surreal. Faith takes on a whole new tone when the sound of my children's tears or questioning prayers come down the hall in the late hours...in the hours when they should be sleeping but their heart ache keeps them awake.
But I have nothing but faith...and questions...and I wonder which is greater at the moment...and the hour is late, and I should be asleep...but my heart ache keeps me awake.
...It isn't the first time...and it won't be the last...not until all the firsts are done, the pain isn't so stabbing, and the children are sleeping peacefully again.
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