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

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.

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.

TRUST IN THE LORD WITH (ALL YOUR BROKEN) HEART,
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.

This is worship.

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.

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.

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.

The Truth is...I'm Tired of Lying

A friend of mine told me I need to write. He is right. However, what does one say when there are so many secrets? So many things I can't say? So many lies dressed in shades of truth that sometimes the two look identical...even to me?

Today friends helped me move the rest of Rob's things from his apartment. I have gone twice this week to pack up most small things and move them to the garage or redistribute them to their old homes in my house. Each day I have gone alone. I didn't plan it that way. In fact, I planned to have someone there, someone to help take the jolt. In the end, I chose to take it alone.

Because the truth is even if someone else was there, they wouldn't feel the jolt. They wouldn't feel the impact of walking into a life where I wasn't wanted. To others it was just an apartment. To me it was reality of nearly two decades slamming in the face--"I really didn't love you. I just didn't know how to get out. Now, I don't want to come back."

I know people say men use words like that to justify their actions. Women do, too. In our case, though, they weren't just words. They were reality. I know. I lived them.

The Tuesday morning he died was the first time I had been in his apartment, and it was like walking into the world of someone I didn't know, except it wasn't a stranger. It was a man who promised forever...and lied. And I couldn't help but wonder how much more...just what all else...was lies.

In a stomach turning instant I was in an ocean of memories wondering what was real and what was mirage. Had I become so good at lying about the reality that I didn't know the truth myself? Why does it even matter?

The thing is, I do know the truth, and the truth is the mirage of the lie is its ability to make the truth look counterfeit.

The lie is that peace or closure will come with figuring it out, finding answers, understanding it somehow. The truth is healing comes with letting it go and moving on.

What was and why it was and how it was only create confusion in which who I am is lost, and trust to move forward is buried in the mire of questions.

The truth is the lies of then are only relevant because of the lies of now and trying to figure out how to write honestly when there is truth I am unable to share is maddening. I feel like nothing has really changed. I couldn't be honest then, and I can't be honest now...and I am tired of being here, tired of eggshells, tired of trying to present it in a way that makes sense to others when it makes no real sense to me...and yet, right now, there are two people who couldn't make sense of it at all...so I remain quiet.

Yes, I need to write, but in the sorting through, I find myself at a loss for words...and that's no lie.

Staggering Forward

My friend Rod Dreher posted this on my Facebook page.

Yes, Rod, yes...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmbQEQltOwM

I keep going back to a phrase from the poet W.H. Auden: "Stagger onward rejoicing." Seems right in this situation. I'm also thinking of a line from that Leonard Cohen song "Hallelujah": "Love is not a victory march/It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah." Yep.