Lexapro Lock & Gratitude

I haven’t written anything in what seems like forever.

I think I’m okay with that.

Every now and then, I think a writer needs to refuel, rebalance, and refocus…I think I’m in that phase, and I’m not sure how long it will last. I’m enjoying reading other’s projects, finding new books to dive into, and focusing on the day-to-day of life.

Does that mean I am wasting my so-called “talent?”

I hope not.

In order for me to write and to write well, I have to feel connected. Sometimes, that’s hard for me to do; in fact, the last time I wrote something was back in February, and then in March, I was put on Lexapro due to increased anxiety (this is in addition to a low dose of Wellbutrin). I think I have felt slightly disconnected ever since (although I can appreciate the overall calm I’ve felt since then). Although I’m on the lowest possible dose of the Lexapro, I’ve gained a BUNCH of weight, and am really having difficulties in areas of self-control. In the course of the last 6 months, I’ve gained 20 pounds. 20 pounds, on an already-fluffy frame. I’d lost close to 50, and now I’ve gained 20 of it back. I’d like to wallow in self-pity, but what good would that do? I need to get this weight off; it’s the only way for me to NOT be a diabetic, it’s the best thing for my heart, and it’s the way I feel the best about myself….but it’s hard to get motivated when you feel disconnected.

So, do I stop the meds and deal with the stress? Or do I take the meds and just relegate myself to being fat and calm and somewhat disconnected? What is it worth, to feel so completely, and to risk the imbalance of doing so? And what are the consequences?

I know that it’s probably not “normal” to publicly and candidly discuss medications. It’s been no secret that I’ve been on a pretty solid routine of meds for the past 11 years. Life experiences have side effects, as do various medications and surgeries, and there are emotional and neurological consequences that have to be considered. It’s easy for someone to look at me and say, “Can’t you just get over it?” I get it. And I also know that as Christians, it’s really easy for someone to look at me and say, “Well, we’ll just pray for you to get where you don’t have to take those meds anymore.” And sure, if God wants to do that, I know it’s possible…but I’ve also seen Christians stop their meds based on someone’s prayer, and wind up in a padded cell (or worse). So, I personally think it’s better to be honest about these things, and to take some of the stigma off of it.

Sometimes, we just need medicine.

Sometimes, we just need to be okay with that.

My biggest struggle right now is with worship. It is so, so hard for me to truly plug in right now, and to tap into that part of my heart where I feel I can totally let go and get face-to-face with Jesus. I feel like the Lexapro is somehow fencing me off from not just my true emotions, but from my true heart—does that make sense?  My creative process is affected as well, which is NOT normal for me. I’ve thought about trying natural options, but the side effects usually counter other meds I’m on, so I have to consider that as well.

So, that’s what’s been going on. Life has been good; my son is amazing. He definitely keeps us on our toes, which is pretty typical for a 4-year old. I actually think the Lexapro has been great for our marriage, LOL, because I am certainly a lot less-stressed about dirty dishes, for SURE! J We have been tackling home improvement issues (which means we have FINALLY been hiring wonderful, amazing friends who are far more skilled than us, to tackle plumbing & drywall issues). We are both working our tails off in our respective offices, and getting ready to put Jericho in pre-school in the fall. So, life is “normal.” And maybe that’s also part of my “dry spell”—I am so used to episodes of chaos that I’m not sure how to handle a calm.

So now I’m going to just shut up and praise God for a lull, because I certainly think we need it.  I’m going to praise God for “normal.” I’m grateful.

And I’m grateful for medicines that balance hormones, regulate hearts and blood sugars, replace missing organs, and that help prolong and sustain life. I’m grateful that I have opportunities and health care and excellent specialists, and all of that other stuff.

And maybe focusing on that—on all of the things that I’m grateful for—I can break through the fog and find my reconnect. Maybe that’s how I plug back in, and restart the creative process.  Maybe gratitude breaks the Lexapro lock…

Because I definitely know that God is greater. I may not feel Him to the extent that I have, but I know that He’s there, and I know He is far from cut off.

Heaven...Just a Glimpse...

We are often told to imagine what Heaven would be like, and I think I'm guilty of missing the mark. I have always imagined the esthetics of it: lights, sounds, colors, music, instruments...the endless worship...

Usually, it's the thought of "endless worship" that both fascinates and terrifies me.
How do we DO that?!? Like, does it ever get boring?

Think about why we get bored...because we are distracted and burdened by life, because we are over-entertained, and because we have lost the ability as a society to be focused and contemplative.  We get bored because we live this life.

There is no boredom in Heaven.

So, I'm on the worship team at church, and my mind was blowing up, because as weird as it sounds,  when I am in that setting of communal worship, I see colors in my head. It's basically worship-induced synesthesia,  and it sounds NUTS, but I swear, it's the truth. I see worship in colors. I wish I could paint what roars through my head, because it's amazing, and today, it was intense. I felt like my entire being was about to explode,  but I know "it's only a shadow" of what's to come. My brain cannot wrap around that level of intensity, and neither can my body.
Worship ebbs and flows, and during an ebb, our pastor said, "Imagine what it's like, when you're not tied down to things,  like a calendar."

My heart kinda blew up (& trust me, I know how that feels, for real).

Imagine worship that is not tied down to a time frame.  It's not tied down to a Day of the Week. It's not tied down to a bladder or feet that hurt, or hands that can't play anymore. It's not tied down to a brain that doesn't focus, or musical abilities that never came (I can't play the darn piano. It's aggravating).

It's not tied down to a budget or bills or schedules or CALENDARS or parenting failures or any of the things that tie us down to this distracting, anchoring world.
We will have "no strings to hold us down."
No strings.
No limits.
No boundaries.
No deadlines.
No budgets.
No time.
No chains...we are so used to the chains of this world that we don't even realize, until we look at eternity, just how heavy and limiting they are.

No chains.
True, absolute, incomprehensible freedom....

What would we ever want to do then,  then to worship the One Who gives us that freedom, for eternity?!?

I can't imagine my life without the restrictions of physical responsibility....without bills or boundaries,  without calendars and 24-hour time blocks. Just the thought, just a glimpse of a life without these chains?
My heart...

Jesus loves us so much that He gives us an eternity of perfect freedom, with Him...
There's NOTHING "boring" about that.

The Christmas Post...

My Christmas cards went out this week, and although I still have some to pass out at church, most of them included this little blurb...okay, it's lengthy, but I usually am. Here is the Annual Christmas "Letter" from The Cooley Family:

I genuinely love Christmas cards. I love the fact that someone invested the time into writing to my family, into making us part of their family, with something as simple as a card. There’s such beauty in the written word, isn’t there? I love knowing what’s going on in your corner of the world, beyond Facebook and Instagram!  It’s crazy when I think of how social media has impacted how our world “communicates,” and the lost art of using more than 140 characters…

Christmas cards are probably so exciting to me because my parents are retired postal workers. In fact, every time I walk into a post office, the smell of paper and ink makes me smile. Taking my son to the post office to drop off packages is so fun to me; I think I was just about his age when my mom started working for the postal service, and I have so many fond memories of her office. It’s sweet to see his little face when the packages disappear into the “magic box,” and when we walk past the LLVs (mail trucks—“PawPaw drove that!”).  My earliest memories in life were from when I was around 2-3, so as Jericho approaches 4, I wonder what things we do that will leave those indelible impressions in his little brain?

I never realized how much parenthood effects the littlest moments. He repeats things (often to my chagrin); he remembers things (“Mommy, you like shopping!”); he replicates things that we didn’t know he noticed; and basically, he grows up and makes these memories from his unique perspective of how we live. There’s a lot of pressure to not mess up this amazing tiny human being with our own faults…and there is an increased reliance on the grace of God to undo the bad and to emphasize the good, in how we raise our son.

Watching Jericho transition from 3-to-almost-4, has been wild. I don’t think anything could have prepared us for experiencing this stage of parenthood. He’s such a PERSON! He’s opinionated, hilarious, expressive, messy, loving, ornery; he’s the magnification of so many wonderful things that I see in David and even in myself. And, he’s likewise the magnification of so many ornery things I see in David….(see what I did there?  Bahahahahaha!)…Okay, AND in myself. My son is every bit as stubborn as his father and as persistent as his mother…and maybe a little more.

I hope that the memories we make for him are as wonderful to him as they are to us…

Major changes for David and I are….Well, NOTHING, and for those of you that know me, THAT’S AWESOME. In January, my cancer cells decided to do this gnarly cloaking-thing, and be non-reactive to the traditional body scan they do for thyroid cancer, so I had to do THAT test, and then the PET scan, which cost a small fortune. The results showed the cells were still there, but had decreased, so in July they decided to start with an ultrasound. That test showed no activity, and we’ll repeat that at the end of this month.  It looks like, for the first time since 2012, I’m about to escape 2016 surgery-free, which is AMAZING.

I continue to be employed by the University of Missouri-St. Louis College of Optometry, as the Credentialing and Compliance Specialist. My position expanded last year to include more responsibilities in coordinating the Mobile Eye Van services to underserved public schools in our community, and I have to say that’s my favorite part of my job. It’s amazing, how many children go through school and are told that they’re learning-disabled, when they’ve never had an eye exam! I also had the opportunity to do some guest-editing for a friend’s series of children’s books, which is a dream come true (look for I Can Color a Prayer by Sarah Hanks on Amazon. There are 3 books in the series, & a 4^th on the way).

David is employed by Met-Life as a Dispatch Specialist and really likes what he does in coordinating services. He has opportunities with this company that he is excited to take advantage of, and I’m excited to see him pursue new adventures. He purchased a new-to-him truck this year, and he really loves it; I’m sure our family loves the fact that we no longer have to borrow a truck every other month or so. J

And as for Jericho, well, every day is a new adventure for him. He is excelling at academic things, but struggles a bit with his fine motor skills, so we have goals to work toward. Earlier this month, he went on his biggest adventure of all when we went on a family vacation on the Carnival Fantasy. He would LOVE to tell you all about his experiences on the “party boat” and how he met Santa on his trip! Or, he can tell you aaaalllllll about the “chicken nugget fries” that he ate EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.  Sigh.

Anyways, after 6 years of not taking a vacation (and no, medical leave does NOT count as a vacation!), we decided that if the price was right, we would take a much-needed break. We explored as a family, and made some amazing memories.

I think that’s really what it’s all about—the memories. Facebook and Instagram puts a lot of pressure on society to present these images of a life that’s altered, filtered, and condensed into something palatable, but that’s not what our memories are made of. Our memories are made of the messes, not of the finished product…the paint on the floor, not the canvas on the wall. There is a tendency to be stand-offish, and not to get involved in the mess of intimacy with each other.

I love the mess (just look at my house). I love to know that my husband and my son, and our extended families, are all parts of actively creating memories with each other. Sure, there are a lot of funny pictures, but behind those pictures is a nucleus of people who ferociously love one another, and who are grounded on the amazing foundation of Jesus, Who gives us memories to celebrate, and Hope for a future with Him. He makes the messes into a perfect tapestry of testimony, and I can’t wait to see the Ultimate Finished Picture.

I’m sure that when Mary and Joseph went on their mess of a journey to Bethlehem, they were not prepared for what the Ultimate Finished Picture would look like. Every time I reflect on Mary’s trip as a young, heavily pregnant mother who had to give birth in a disgusting stable, I cannot help but think of the mess of it all, and what she must have been thinking. I wish the Bible gave more insight into her personality, because I’d like to think she was a normal human being. She was highly favored by God, and devoted to His Will…but she was a human being, about to give birth and making a really uncomfortable journey on a DONKEY that ended IN A BARN. That’s messy.

But it was God’s Will.

He makes messes into amazing things.

I am a mess. We all are—in spite of our lives on social media, we’re all a hot mess that only Jesus can untangle. I like being part of your mess, and I like knowing about your mess. I love watching how God makes our messes into amazing things together.  

This Christmas, let’s thank Jesus for the memories and the mess. Let’s thank Him for the Hope for our Future. Let’s thank Him for the journey, blisters and all.

Let’s thank Him for the messy birth in a messy stable, and for the messy Cross…

Let’s thank Him for the Holy Resurrection…for the fact that in Heaven, because of His messy Sacrifice, there are No More Messes…

I am grateful for Christmas…I am grateful for our lives, for our memories, and for the opportunity to celebrate one more Christmas together.

Merry, Messy Christmas to You and to Your Family, from my Hot Mess of a Family. J We love you!!!

Birthdays and Blogs and the Joys of Naked Cowboys...

I just realized that I haven't posted since May. That's a really, really long time, but it's been a busy summer...
A friend of mine recently noted that I process things through Facebook posts. That's actually not true; Facebook statuses are a mini-alert message of what's going on in my world, but I wouldn't call it "processing." I'd call it "Miniature Lunatic Rants and Anecdotes."

Blogging is how I process. Writing in long-term is how I process. And when things get too difficult to sort out, writing is my method of dumping the paint all over the floor, and using the mess to paint a mural on the wall. This time of the year, there is so much to process that I don't even know where to begin.

So here I am. 

I’m only writing because this time of the year beckons it…this time of the year demands that I sit down and process the feelings that are lingering in the back of my head, those feelings that I’ve temporarily been trying to suppress with Chinese food and bad TV…But they won’t be silenced, and I really don’t want them to. You deserve the processing that is the biggest part of the remembrance.

I’m not overwhelmed in sadness, although it’s there. It rears its head when it’s least convenient, like right before a meeting with strangers that may ultimately determine the course of my employment. It rears its head when I’m trying to process delicate data that requires focus that I just don’t have; it rears its head when I tell my boss why I have to leave without notice…when I stammer out that “I’m suddenly not feeling well” and by her quick response, I realize that I must look like it’s true. These incidents are far from common, but this week has been hard….just like it is every year leading up to your birthday.

The weight of the memories is too much. I know exactly where I was, what I was doing, who I was with. I remember the feelings leading up to your birth, and the incredible, incredible joy…the photos my husband took are beautiful and painful and everything I could ever ask, and I’m so, so grateful in retrospect that he peppered my days and your days with the flash of the camera…Back then, I thought it was too much, but now? Now I’d give anything for one more shot….but would I?

As your little brother gets older, the reality of your story gets even more convoluted, even more difficult to balance out in my brain. I know without a shadow of a doubt that if you would not have died, he would have never been born. I know it, and therein lies both the confusion and the gratitude…I can’t figure any of this out, and I’m no closer now, 10 years later, than I was when you were here.

From time to time, the guilt strikes, along with the fear and the intense, soul-gripping anxiety that is medically untreatable. It is always a conscious effort to stop the derailed-train of emotions and get it back on track with prayer and focus. I know from the very bottom of my heart that your birth and death were part of God’s plan—that’s not saying that part of the plan didn’t suck and I don’t understand it—but it is freeing to know that faith that fills in the gaps when we can’t figure something out. I don’t understand why He decided you would be born only to die so quickly after. I’m still angry; I’m still devastated, and though those feelings are tempered with time, they’re still there, and I am comfortable saying that they always will be. Jesus knows how I feel; why would I try to hide it or act like I’m at peace with it? No parent is ever at peace with the death of their child—never. It’s the most unnatural event in the human experience, and it’s not the way life is designed.

Your birth (which nearly killed me—then again, so did your brother’s birth, so you kids are even) made my heart explode (literally) with happiness that I never thought I’d experience again…but I did!!!  I DID, and it’s because the joy of your birth infected my soul to pursue another chance at motherhood.  The joy of your birth confirmed what I’ve known since I was 3 years old: I am meant to be a mother. I was meant to be YOUR mother; I am meant to be your brother’s mother, and that is all I have ever wanted to be, second only to being a wife. You and your brother are my deepest heart’s desire, and for the longest time, I was so unfulfilled and empty…I held you, my soul was complete and my role in life had purpose…and then you were gone, and so was everything in me that had just been made whole…

Hannah, the emptiness in my life….
I can remember exactly how my days and nights felt in the days—weeks—months---years after your passing.
It’s so hard to juxtapose the fullness we say we have in Christ with the emptiness of the aching womb…

Having your brother didn’t “fix” me. He’s not a “band-aid” baby; he’s a Rainbow Baby, through-and-through.  He’s my Promise, my Answered Prayer, my tangible reminder that Jesus loves me, that God heard me and your father. I’ve never been more grateful for a human being than I am for you, your father, and your brother. The three of you make my heart so whole, so light…The reality of the Family Picture, of the incomplete nucleus of us, is heavy and confusing but also full of gratitude and realized hope…

Hannah, I can’t celebrate your birthday without mourning your death…without mourning the unanswered questions, the unrealized dreams. You were here, but then you were gone, and it still hurts. It still hurts…what else can I say? Christian rhetoric be damned; yes, I know you’re in Heaven, blah, blah, blah. I’m still your mother, you’re still a part of me, and we will always be connected in some inexplicable way. I will always wonder who you would have been…what you would be like. I look at nieces and other families and try not to think about dates of birth that come across patients’ paperwork…I look at forms that detail disabilities and think of the split-second where we thought you’d survive, but would be critically handicapped and think of how we would have stopped time to care for you…I pass the section of clothing for your age group in the store and still, to this day, think of the glitter we would have in our home. I saw a toddler dressed as a flamingo at a Fall Festival last week and my heart stopped…

And then I looked at your brother dressed in his cowboy-finest, and it started again. There is little time to process the things that threaten to overwhelm me when I’m chasing a pseudo-nudist/cowboy.

You led us to him…the love we have for you led us to him, and he is everything we could have ever dreamed, even on the hard days. I don’t know how or when we will tell him about you; you’re certainly no secret, but as he gets older, he will start to understand that those pictures on the wall are not all him…he will have questions, and I am praying even now for the words to answer. The answers we give now will set the stage for the deeper questions he has later on…for the times when the enemy comes to steal, kill, and destroy his self-esteem, for the times when he hears the whispers and the lies that say he is not unique, that he is not special, that he is “second,” or that he is a “replacement.” That day will come…I know it, because in my own way, I’ve been there. I hope that by the time we have that conversation, that he reads the words I’ve written to both him and to you that share the deepest love in my heart…that he understands the love I have for him, and how utterly unique and special it is. I hope he gets even the tiniest inkling in his heart of how grateful we are for his smile in our lives…of how blessed we are, of how great the reward is for the hard-fought Battle of Jericho. He is such a tremendous gift…I hope he understands, and grasps that there is no pressure in being who and what he is; there is only love and appreciation for him, and for the great, mysterious grace of God.

10 years is a long, long time; it seems like yesterday. Your birth was a traumatic experience; I didn’t realize how awful it was until I had your brother, which was peaceful and planned, and so exciting. In retrospect, I actually feel somewhat violated by my birthing experience and by a doctor who seemed more concerned about how “perfect” his incisions were, rather than the long-standing damage done to my body by symptoms that pointed in every direction to cardiac complications. I’m not angry with him; I’m frustrated with an industry that has made the most human experience of giving birth into a highly-marketable commodity that is a minefield of lies. Giving birth is difficult, natural, raw, and messy, yet we’re taught to expect a stylized suite in luxury accommodations that look lovely but fail when we look at statistics. Since your birth and death, the façade of American healthcare has been shattered in my life, and now I know: 1 in 4 pregnancies in our country end in loss. 25%--we don’t even rank in the top 10 countries with the lowest infant mortality rates (http://www.mapsofworld.com/world-top-ten/countries-with-lowest-infant-mortality.html)

Our nation is failing our children.

We’re facing an election over the next few weeks, and there’s a candidate who thinks you--you, my perfect, 34-week angel—do not matter. She thinks that babies like you are trash. I can’t even look at her face on the television. She even thinks your brother, at 36 weeks, is trash. I don’t understand this kind of disregard for humanity. That is a woman who has never known what you and I have known, what you and your brother have known. She has never known the love of a mother, not even for her own child. She doesn’t value life, and she doesn’t even know what it is. She couldn’t; she is blinded by deception. I feel so sorry for her; a life without love just isn’t a life at all. Maybe I’m being terribly judgmental, but how could anyone—anyone—look at your sweet face and not be in love?

I am sad for our nation and for the place we are now….for a nation that feels that we are an accidental collision of cells without purpose, and are therefore worthy of nothing but destruction.

You, you beautiful girl, were created by God. So was I. I know your brother was, and so was your Daddy. God cares for us; He loves us, and He sacrificed His own Son—I can’t imagine—so that we could all be reunited someday. This is my hope, this is why and how I breathe; this isn’t rhetoric or myths. This is Truth. Jesus is real; I know you know that better than anyone.

I don’t know what your life is like in Heaven, or if you remember me…I don’t know how you pass the days, or what you will look like when we meet again. I know I have my own beliefs of what happens to babies that die before they’re capable of making decisions, and I feel those beliefs were whispered into my heart by the Holy Spirit when I needed them most. I believe we will have our chance together, and I do not believe that has to make sense to anyone else.

I believe in reunion and restoration.
I believe the Word of God is true, even when I do not understand it.
I believe in the Hope He gives, and I rest my life on it, even when my life is not easy.

Hannah, I miss you. I miss the way you felt, all snuggled up on my chest…the way you smelled like Cheerios…the sounds you made, the way your fuzzy hair stuck out…your beautiful eyes and your gorgeous fingers and tiny toes that were shaped just like mine…I miss the way you looked at me, and I miss holding you in my arms most of all…I still feel you, even now, and I remember…I will not forget, and neither will anyone in our family.

I hope that if for some reason, you can sense me where you are, that you still feel the love I have for you and that it has never faded. I hope that you know you are thought of every day, and that I am so incredibly grateful for you.  I am grateful for the fight you put in me, for the faith you put into your father, and for the days we are living right now…I am so grateful for the life we have, for Jericho, for our family…you made me never give up. You showed me and your father what we are capable of going through, and what we have in each other, and every year that goes by, that gets stronger.

Most of all, I am grateful for Jesus, Who walked us through the darkest days, Who has grace for our anger and for our confusion, and Who truly does trade beauty for ashes. I am grateful that in death there is life, and that nothing is for nothing.

Hannah Elizabeth Gayle Cooley…I am grateful for every second I spent with you, so for your birthday, I am going to set my face and celebrate our time together. I never want any emotion other than gratitude to cloud your memory or my celebration of the gift of you.

I love you…
And I always will.
Happy 10^th Birthday, Beautiful Girl…

Permission Granted

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross staked her claim in the counseling world with her work entitled “Of Death and Dying.” (Yep, that’s a title that will bring the masses….)

The book describes the 5 stages of grief, and I remember studying it in college as I majored in Youth Ministry (technically, I majored in Bible spec. Youth Ministry, but that’s semantics for you), and thinking it was pure genius. The book (http://www.ekrfoundation.org/five-stages-of-grief/) does an incredible job of breaking down the grieving process and of destroying that ridiculous notion that we should all just “suck it up and move on.” It let us all know that YES, you can cry! You can get angry! You can take all of the time that you need! And your grief is as unique as you are—there’s no order, and that’s OKAY!!!! 

My professors at the time had no idea how important all of this information would become to me throughout my life…how I clung to what I learned, and how I so desperately needed to hear that what I was feeling in the wake of my daughter’s death was my own version of normal.

The world tells us we need to do whatever we need to do, to feel better quickly.

Sometimes, our families and friends do the same…they want the “old us” back again, but for me, that person died for a very long time. I know I’m not alone in that…Part (if not all) of my heart went to a very dark, sad place for years, and it took years for all of me to emerge.

And when I finally came out of that dark place, I was someone else…someone who was still me, but who had lost their “shiny.” I went from being like newly-polished metal into being more like a hammered shield—still me, still the same materials, but with an entirely different outlook in every possible way.

It wasn’t an easy journey, and sometimes, it still isn’t. 

This fall marks what would be my daughter’s 10^th birthday, and to be honest, I’m struggling with it. It’s not like I’m going psycho about it; it’s just a painful realization, and I don’t think I should have to rationalize my feelings any further. The labyrinth of grief is so multi-faceted and unique that I am positive that I am right where I should be for my process, and I would like to thank Ms. Kubler-Ross for teaching me that I have that permission.

I have permission to grieve, and though the knowledge of that may have come from Ms. Kubler-Ross, the grace to do so comes directly from Jesus…from His grace, and His compassion, and from His ability to carry it all. I have His permission to mourn what was and what was not (within reason), and I have His consent to burden Him with my heart. What a wonderful, glorious, awful, thankless thing for Him to carry…what a huge thing for Him to trade, and what a beautiful exchange! I give him sorrow, I share my grievances, my anger, my broken hopes and dreams, my FEARS…He gives me new hope, new joy, new goals, new adventures. He restores, He soothes, and He LOVES. He gives us permission to express all of our massive emotions, and He gives us FREEDOM FROM THEM.

I’ve described my own “stages of grief” in past blogs, but I’m reminded of my own words: Grief is like a body of water. Some days, you’re drowning in an ocean of sorrow, you’re Jack and/or Rose floating on a piece of wood in an overwhelming lost cause…you can’t breathe, you can’t move, and you can’t function.

Some days, you’re swimming in a river, keeping your head up, but only on the surface. The slightest tug/pull/reminder, and BOOM, you’re back in the ocean again…

Some days, it’s a creek, and you walk through the clear water, and it’s up to your knees, and you can handle it, and you can even see some of the beauty in it…

Some days, it’s a puddle that you step in and jump over, impressed that it didn’t trip you up, and you keep walking.

Some days, it’s a raindrop that falls on your face…you hold the memory in your hand for a minute, catch your breath, and you keep going…

Until out of nowhere, you trip, and there you are, back in the river, or the creek, or the puddle, or sometimes, the ocean again…and you start the process over, and as time goes on, you navigate the waters more efficiently, and with more grace, than ever before.

It’s a constant process.

I feel like that as the years have gone by, I learn to predict “the markers.” I know certain things will get to me (like her 10^th birthday, or dresses with flamingos on them, or seeing my niece that was born 2 days before my Hannah died) to various degrees, so I can prepare myself. Some things still catch me off-guard, and that’s okay.  

One of the best things I’ve learned is how to gracefully (seriously!) remove myself from situations and conversations that affect me. I have learned how to stand up for myself when necessary in this process, and when to take a deep breath and extend the grace of realizing that people have the “best of intentions, and the worst of executions” (I should trademark that). People who haven’t been through deep loss are at a loss for what to do or say, but they sure try; sometimes, people who HAVE been through deep loss say things that are dumber/more hurtful than those who haven’t (been there, done that, stuck my foot in my mouth HARD-CORE)! We are humans, we are unique, and we have big hearts and small brains. What really and truly matters is that we LOVE the person who’s been going through grief, and that we remember to put them first. We have a responsibility as human beings, and as Christians, to bypass drama and simply love. Be there for the grieving when the audience/drama has left. Be the meal one month into the process for the family that is so fractured. Be the hug on a busy Sunday morning when worship has rubbed a stinging, healing balm into a shredded heart.  Be the quiet place for the mind that cannot make itself turn off the frantic internal screams of pain.

Grief is such a difficult, unpredictable process, and we all live it out in different ways. The Five Stages of Grief (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance) are worked out individually at times; sometimes, they gang up on you; they play out in unexpected ways. I think the key thing to remember is that they “play out.” 

If you’ve just gone through a deep loss, first of all, my heart aches for you. It doesn’t take much for me to tap back into what those early days felt like, and I will never forget what I went through (publicly and privately). Secondly, please remember that anyone that tells you to “get better,” or “get back into the swing of things,” or, “it is what it is,” or “just go back to work and stay busy, you’ll feel better!”—The person who says those things is not your friend, and is not a kind of counsel that you need right now. They may think they’re helping you, but they’re not. Grief is a pushy beast; she WILL be part of your life, and the more you try to stifle her, the more she will come out in other areas. Your health will suffer; your mental health will definitely suffer. Your entire world will suffer until you let yourself be free. You have to give Grief her time, even though the horrible world keeps right on spinning.

You have to give yourself permission to grieve.

Your family and friends need to give you permission to grieve, even in the midst of their own grief (assuming you have gone through this loss together), and they need your permission to grieve in their own way.

You have to be honest with God; He knows how you feel, even if you don’t even know yourself….even if you don’t want to talk to Him, or if all you want to do is scream at Him (or scream at Him and beat your steering wheel into a pulp—hey, at least I didn’t hit a person).

Please give yourself the gift of time. Let yourself feel; don’t wall yourself off. Know that you’re going to have good days and you’re going to have awful days. As time goes on, you’ll have more good than bad; but at first, those bad days are going to be more prevalent. It’s okay to have a bad day!!!!

Finally, please know that time really does heal. It doesn’t make it all go away—that’s a stupid, stupid myth.  In my case, I lost my daughter…she was literally a part of my body, and she was gone. I have scars, physically and spiritually…I will never be the same, and I embrace that (although I used to feel that I should be completely healed, now I know that my scars—seen and unseen—are more like a road map to redemption. They’re markers of healing, and of undeniable change). Time heals, but you will always have a marker in your heart, and it alters you.

And that’s okay.

Ten years is a long, long time…My grief is nothing like what it was, but there is a tenderness there that I will not apologize for. There are things to note in this season that I will probably ponder in my heart more than usual…questions that will come up, and debates I will resurrect with Jesus. The healing process is lifelong, I believe, but if we’re willing, it’s lifelong progress…

We have permission to grieve…permission to question…permission to hurt…We have permission granted by the very Savior Who willingly carries our every emotion and burden, and Who gives us the greatest gift of all:  Answered Hope.