She Ran The Race Well

She Ran The Race Well

As a child she learned to love Jesus
Through playfully singing Bible songs,
Through dutifully learning the catechism,
Through memorizing Scripture,
Through being captivated with Bible stories.

Lindsey learned to wait on the LORD and rest in Him,
She ran the race well.

As a pre-teen she learned to love Jesus
Through learning hymns in church,
Through the liturgy of worship,
Through seeing Him in the community of faith,
Through prayer time with her family.

Lindsey learned to wait on the LORD and rest in Him,
She ran the race well.

As a teen she learned to love Jesus
Through playing her guitar and singing,
Through youth group meetings and trips,
Through godly friends in high school,
Through nightly prayer and discussion with her sister.

Lindsey learned to wait on the LORD and rest in Him,
She ran the race well.

As a young adult she learned to love Jesus
Through joining other musicians to lead worship,
Through always pursuing a church body to join in worship,
Through regular Bible reading and prayer,
Through small group and discipleship relationships.

Lindsey learned to wait on the LORD and rest in Him,
She ran the race well.

As a young married woman she learned to love Jesus
Through loving a flawed man well,
Through committing to church community,
Through crying out to Him over years of infertility and heartache,
Through giving herself to a few key friendships,

Lindsey learned to wait on the LORD and rest in Him,
She ran the race well.

As a mom she learned to love Jesus
Through giving herself for her children,
Through serving and valuing home life,
Through praying regularly and desperately for the boys,
Through seeking to always shepherd their hearts and show them Jesus.

Lindsey learned to wait on the LORD and rest in Him,
She ran the race well.

As a cancer patient she learned to love Jesus
Through accepting His visitation,
Through embracing His goodness and joy,
Through seeing His kingdom and the eternal glory to come,
Through putting on his warm shawl of comfort and future wholeness.

Lindsey waited on the LORD and found final rest in Him!
She ran the race well!

Written December 2 (day 354). We’re in the tender part of the year since Lindsey passed. This time a year ago was a confusing and vexing period for all of us close to Lindsey. It was characterized by a helplessness of standing by her side as she began to suffer to breathe, as she spent the majority of this week and a half in and out of a hospital only to return home weak, chair-bound, and on oxygen perpetually. A year ago today, she laid in a hospital bed confounded by her failing body hoping, like all of us, that some sort of other, fixable cause could be at work for her deterioration. She treasured her visits from family, friends, and her pastors. She especially treasured the music and Scripture that pointed her to Jesus.

This week, I’ve set apart time to reflect on the year, her life, the future, loss, life, beauty, pain, etc. As I muse, I have found great comfort in her memory and the memory of her life. Lindsey lived her life well and found great strength and joy in Jesus. I’ve thought on that a lot this week and am grateful for the legacy she’s left all of us, the example she left of someone that found joy and solace in Jesus not only when life was easy but especially when life was hard. I find comfort in her resurrection and final resting place and am thankful for the gift she was to me and to us all as she lived here on earth. She had a cultivated faith that permeated all aspects of her life. And, even when it got hard, she never lost the object of her faith no matter how feeble her faith or strength may have been at the lowest points. Her faith was a product of parents, family, and a church community that treasured Jesus by living lives marked by repentance and faith. I marvel at the seriousness, commitment, and joy she had following Jesus. He was her treasure.

Jerry Sittser’s A Grace Disguised has been a helpful book for me on how the soul grows through loss. In the 14th chapter of the book as he commends the voices, (writings, poems, songs) and art of the cloud of witnesses around us as useful tools for processing grief, he shares an excerpt from Thomas Sheperd, a 17th century Puritan pastor that wrote cathartically and reflectively upon the death of his wife. In his pain and remembrance, Shepherd wrote glowingly of his wife’s faith and relationship with Jesus by claiming that “She was fit to die long before she did die.” This line struck me and is also so fitting of Lindsey and the life she lived. She ran the race well, and she learned how to find joy in communing with Jesus. She waited on Him, found rest in Him, and learned the secret of being content with Him, developed eyes to see His kingdom and eternity. Though it’s such a morbid construct of language and not a sentence we often utter, I could not agree more with Sheperd with this description fitting of Lindsey: she was fit to die long before she did die. May we all learn to develop such a fitness, for our joy, comfort, and peace as we continue to live here on earth awaiting eternal life to come.

Their Home Life Is Different

Their Home Life is Different

Their home life is different
And that’s ok,
It’s going to be ok.
I can exhale,
And all the voices in my head can exhale.

I can’t do the work of two people
Even though I’ve thought I have to
And others, in their grief, probably have too.

And I understand the expectation.
It’s a pronounced feature of grief,
Of all of us thinking I should be giving the boys what Lindsey gave them,
In addition to what I can
Because we miss her, what she gave them, and hurt for the boys.
We want their lives enriched the same way.

But I’ve recently realized this expectation is crushing me
And finally see it’s a fallacy and unachievable
Because I’m not Lindsey,
I’m not two people.

In my grief and love for them
I want to do both jobs,
I don’t want them to suffer loss
But this has invariably happened.

I don’t respond with resignation
Or by disengaging.
Instead I finally feel free to do the best I can as a limited father
Because I think they’ve gotten it before us,
Even gotten it all along.

They know it’s now a one-parent home
And I think they’ve discovered secure attachment
And a father that loves them,
A father far from perfect
But present and providing,
Circling back when I leave them lacking or fail,
And finding comfort that good enough has proven good enough.

Because there are days when I have little to give
And there are times when I know they needed more
But I need grace too.
This responsibility is never-ending and solely mine now
And I’m trying to figure out living again too.

And I have to be ok if everything isn’t perfectly put in order,
If I’m not on top of every detail of our lives
And it’s ok if they play more on their own
And have to figure some things out by themselves
Or even have to wait for me to get to them when dealing with another brother.
And I’m thankful for a friend reminding me this sounds a lot like Gospel application.

But I pursue them,
Provide for them,
Listen to them,
Comfort them,
Correct them,
Pray for them,
Teach them,
Feed them,
And care for them as best I can
And find great comfort that God is caring for us all.

I don’t like this new reality
But I had no say in the matter
So I continue to show up,
Giving good enough effort with all I hold
And look forward to the touch points along the way
And the snuggles and hugs at bedtime every night.

Written October 7, 2023 (day 298). My parenting and care for the boys is one of the most sensitive topics I can choose to write about. Nothing makes me more vulnerable as I know many are invested in how I parent because of how they loved Lindsey as a mom, and love my boys. I love the boys too and loved Lindsey as a mother. She was a phenomenal mother and has left a massive void for me to fill. But I’ve been processing this role as a father lately, hence the musings of late. I hope you’ll deal kindly with me in your reading and seek to give me the benefit of the doubt. This musing is about me and my perspective with how I continue to process the many voices in my head and how I continue to figure out how to be a solo parent on this side of loss.

That They Would Know Their Father’s Love For Them

That They Would Know Their Father’s Love For Them

I’m so helpless,
Vulnerable to meet every need.
My heart bleeds for them, yearns for them, dreams for them.
I long to protect them and lead them,
Engage them and listen to them,
Help them grow up and navigate life.
I long to cover them with my love,
But better yet, the Father’s Love.

I love to know their quirks and see their playfulness,
How they sing with headphones on,
How they erupt into uninhibited dance moves,
How they discover humor and tell their own jokes,
How their personalities and unique preferences come out.

I love their curiosity and seeing them discover new things,
How they marvel at the minutia of life,
How they inquire and posit deeper questions than I’d expect,
How they love to consume stories and knowledge,
How they aren’t afraid to try new things and figure things out.

I love seeing them develop,
How they learn ways to cope with frustration and anger,
How they learn how to listen and love others,
How they become more responsible every day,
How they layer learning and are starting to sit with nuance.

I love seeing them grow,
How their coordination and dexterity improves,
How they fill out their clothes,
How they can eat with a bottomless stomach,
How they are taking the form of little men.

I love watching them play and create,
How they push and compete until they’re red in the face,
How they bound around with limitless energy,
How they construct crafts and art,
How they make up books and stories.

I love watching them love others,
How they speak a kind word of encouragement to a teammate,
How they observe me in a difficult moment and give me a hug,
How they care for and share with friends,
How they seek to include younger brothers and tenderly care for one another’s hurts.

I love seeing them understand God’s love for them and His creative works,
How they regularly remember that Mommy’s in heaven,
How they claim to love God and Jesus,
How they trust God is good and kind,
How they enjoy Bible stories and songs.

I hope…
That they’d become kind, responsible, humble men,
That they’d learn who they are and what they want in life,
That they’d contribute to the Common Good,
That they’d find meaningful and lasting love one day.

My dream for them is to know Jesus, to find Him beautiful and worth following
And that they’d pursue life in all of its fullness and joy,
That they’d love others, dignify image bearers, and not take from anyone,
That they’d develop lives of prayer and repentence,
That they’d be slow to speak and quick to listen,
That they’d be good stewards of God’s creation and their resources,
That they’d know wisdom and recognize the luring voice of folly and sneer at it,
That they’d know God’s love that controls us and, in so knowing, know self-control,
That they’d find sweetness in the Fruit of the Spirit.

God, please hear my prayer.

Written Thursday, October 5 (day 296). Like the other musing posted today, this too was inspired on the drive to Columbia the weekend before. In my exhaustion, I had a real moment of desire for them, a longing for them as I considered them, the ones for whom I was spending my energy.

My Life is a Crucible

My Life is a Crucible

With all on me,
With all the responsibility,
The holding of everything,
The onus on me to drive it all forward…

At times…

Life feels like a weight too great to bear,
So I remember His yoke is easy.

Life feels like it’s in the direct flame of a refining fire,
So I remember He refines only for our good.

Life feels like a crucible melding all I hold together: the past, present, and future,
So I remember He makes all things new.

Life feels like it exists in a perpetual kiln,
So I remember He is the potter and heat is how forms are finalized.

Life feels like a wine press,
So I remember that through pressing, He makes new wine.

Life feels like a sleep-deprived trek,
So I remember He gives rest now and forevermore.

Life feels like a broken relationship,
So I remember His love is complete and redemptive.

Written October 5, 2023 (day 296). I want to emphasize the “At times…” clause and be clear this isn’t how I always feel but, with life these days, this musing reflects how the weight of it all feels and converges. I had the frame of this musing while driving boys to a soccer tournament in Columbia last weekend. It had already been a daunting week and during the commute to Columbia on Saturday I felt the convergence of managing it all again. I farmed out my two younger boys to family and had two with me for the day and trip back home again. I was tired and fighting a lung infection (I’d later learn) so that colored this too. But, this musing nonetheless fits with the series of musings sharing what I carry this side of Lindsey’s death as I navigate life as a solo dad and manager of a four-boy household, all the while figuring out life again.

Solo Parenting is Hard

Solo Parenting is Hard

Being a solo parent is hard
Especially when compounded by grief and loss.
The pressure is immense;
Pressure to fill the void,
To meet their needs of loss,
To tenderly care for their confounded hearts,
To be Mr. Mom and Dad.

They’re so vulnerable
And I wish I could take away their pain
And settle their hearts.
I wish I could return what they’ve lost
And protect them
But I can’t,
Not fully anyway.
So I endeavor to give myself to them,
To love and provide for them,
And I’m learning how to listen better.

Day-to-day tasks and survival require so much;
Getting them up for school, fed, and out the door,
Walking them to school,
Managing the tantrums and fights,
Providing snacks and meals,
Cleaning the kitchen,
Staying on top of the laundry,
Brushing teeth,
Overseeing showers and baths,
Reading and snuggling before bed,
Managing the illnesses and ouchies, the sadness, the rebellion,
Still finding time to manage the yard, keep everything picked up and in order,
Paying the bills,
Working an almost full-time job to provide,
All the while finding time to pray with and for them,
Teaching them the doctrines of our holy religion.

The sum game of this life is to break even,
To survive and advance
And that is demoralizing
Because it’s hard to get ahead,
To have the margin for self, for progress.
(But amidst it all, there has been progress through God’s grace).

And yet, many share their opinions
Sometimes explicitly,
But often with passing comments along the way.
I’m sure many don’t understand,
Understand what I’m holding,
What I face day to day.
I’m doing the work of two people
But it feels like more than that
As the specters of grief and loss are here too.
A person is gone but with that rip was a part of all of us
And it’s the sum of those missing parts of our family life that increases the void to fill.

I’m doing it
And marching forward
And the functioning is in the face of an undergirding of heightened anxiety and stress
But we’re figuring it out together.
I don’t like the pressure of always being on
And having to operate under the conditions of loss
But I know God is growing us through this.
He has grown me
And truly allowed me to know more of Himself in a way I never imagined possible.
I’m thankful that through absorbing loss and facing the daily grind
God grows us
And God changes us.

Written Thursday, September 21, 2023 (day 282). Probably off the heels of the musing written the day before and still feeling the heaviness and all that is on me, this came out. It was cathartic to write this in the evening lull between putting down the younger two boys and the older two. It felt good to finally write this and put this all down, get this out. It’s true. (And probably written from a low point of being tired and exhausted still).

I don’t always feel this way and am able to manage and function sufficiently well enough a lot of the time but this musing is nonetheless true. It feels like I’m always drinking from a firehouse or managing a lot with them…

Heavy Days

Heavy Days

I hate the heavy days
When everything converges.
I hold so much and it piles up.
Sometimes, I buckle underneath it.

Tetris as a game is fun to play
But Tetris as a way of life is no fun,
And exhausting.

Sometimes grief gets me,
Sometimes sadness,
Sometimes I remember what I had
And what I’ve lost.
Now, I am moving forward and trying to live again.
But that too can pile on.
Living again adds new things to hold.
New joy and excitement touch the places old joy once resided
And that alone is bizarre and something to process.

I know the goal is to hold all of life’s heaviness and not stuff or escape it,
To absorb it and expand.
But the holding and absorbing are not always easy
And not without their overwhelming realities.

Some days I’m flattened,
Flattened by responsibility,
Flattened by emotion,
Flattened by newness,
But often just flattened by the weight of holding them all.

And in the midst of the heaviness,
I’m tempted to lose hope
And believe I can know nothing good again.

I long for knowing good again,
Knowing life.
But the path to that is daunting and seems so overwhelming,
Almost impossible some days.

And yet, I press on
Because optimism is in there too,
A future is in there,
A life for the boys and me again
Is in there.

But the heaviest things to carry are those tied to the future Lindsey won’t have,
For her,
For me,
For the boys,
For her family,
For my family,
For our community.

Surely those things come with me,
They’re here
And they inform my days,
All of our days.

But acceptance that she’s gone must happen
And life must go on.
So, it does.
And I march forward begging God to work,
To be a Way Maker,
To pour out His grace on me and the boys,
On our extended family and community,
And on our future.

This was written Wednesday, September 20 (day 281). I was exhausted and it’s often in exhaustion that these musings come out. They’re cathartic to write and get out. It’s in the exhaustion that I feel the convergence of heavy, of all that’s on me.

Here One Minute, And Gone the Next

Here One Minute, And Gone the Next

Here one minute,
And gone the next.

The wall between this world and the next is so thick,
And yet so thin.
Thin enough to crack open at any moment.

Here one minute,
And gone the next.

Life here is so full, so busy, so vibrant, so near…
And yet you’re so far away,
So gone.
Though seemingly far away,
Another real world lurks around us.
It surrounds us.

Here one minute,
And gone the next.

I’m here with the ruins still very much intact
But ruins nonetheless.
And our friends and community march onward
Like ants going about their business all around me.
I enter the scrum and go about business again,
Navigating the structure of what was
But it often feels so bizarre,
So new and unfamiliar.

Here one minute,
And gone the next.

I have a joy living again and am living
But life nonetheless feels strange some days,
Strange in breezy ways, like gusts that hit in a way to make you pause and take notice
But then move on.

Here one minute,
And gone the next.

Lord, teach us to number our days
That we may gain a heart of wisdom
Because we are

Here one minute,
And gone the next.

This was written on September 14, 2023 (day 275). I was back in the clinic and where I worked full-time since 2011. After Lindsey’s cancer spread to her brain I resigned my position in December of 2021 and have worked remotely since then. I haven’t been back into the workplace often.

Going back is complicated because it’s where she was treated, it’s where she was a patient. It’s in the same building as many of her oncology appointments and imaging studies. It’s where we received staggering news and had to first process all of this. And, it’s where I “lived” professionally, where she’d bring the boys to visit daddy at work, where she’d pop down after an OB appointment next door upstairs. It’s where I processed a lot of the trauma of her diagnosis and thought through life. It’s where I read her reports and had conversations with oncology colleagues about her situation and prognosis.

Going back to work hits me in myriad ways. It reminds me of the job I had, the responsibility and work identity. And that’s now gone, now different. It reminds me of professional loss. It reminds me of a happier time in my life, a more carefree time, an enjoyable time working with friends and building something. It reminds me of social loss, and some loss of purpose and curiosity. It reminds me of her being a patient and seeing her walk the journey. It reminds me of being a caregiver and the trauma and helplessness therein. It reminds me of her loss. Where it used to be a place I worked, I see the patients and most particularly their caregivers in a way I never before noticed. I see them in technicolor, and their presence is LOUD to me. The other noises, conversations, and interactions lose focus, blur, and mute when patients and their people walk by.

This musing was produced from the day back in the clinic. It’s weird to be back where I lived a former life, in the ruins of that, so to speak. The strangeness and bizarre nature of being back around all of it is what produced this musing.

A Painful Return to Your Second Home, 807

A Painful Return to Your Second Home, 807

I’m in blinding, walls-close-in,
Fetal-position pain. 
Haven’t felt this since the first months.

There’s so much here to grieve,
To touch again, 
To sit with, to move through and process.
Her entire life left fingerprints,
A residue here.
She’s part of the decor, the structure, the lore of this place.
Her memory screams at me,
Her ghost feels omnipresent.

As I sit on the balcony and feel the wind,
Hear the waves crash,
See the gulls soar,
I feel her,
I hear her, 
I see her.
I hear her laugh in the condo 
and out on the beach, 
peels of joy playing with the boys, with me.
I see her swimming in the ocean
And lounging by the pool.

I blink and 
She’s a little girl frolicking in tide pools, playing with her siblings.
I span the deck and 
She’s a teenager reading by the pool.
I gaze into the condo and
She’s a college student talking with friends.
I peer down the beach and
She’s my new bride dreaming about a life together.
I glance toward the bedroom and
She’s crying through years of unexplained infertility.
I walk in the bathroom and 
She’s joining her tears to mine, celebrating what would be our first viable pregnancy.
I sit at the kitchen table and 
She’s expectant and filled with wonder as we share a weekend with friends.
I look down from the balcony and 
She’s holding a baby in the pool and cheering on another son learning to swim.
I see the low tide beach and
She’s kicking a ball and creating a maze for the boys to decipher.
I turn from the fridge and
She’s smiling, making pancakes for all of us.
I settle on the sofa and 
She’s eating homemade brownies and ice cream while laughing through a late night movie.
I sit on the porch and
She’s here fighting to process a terminal diagnosis.
I observe the boys playing on the floor and
She’s playing with laser intentionality and soaking up all the days have to offer.
I sit at the counter and
She’s here bald, weak, but happy.
She’s everywhere today,
She haunts me today.

I miss her terribly tonight.
I ache,
I hurt,
I viscerally shake,
And can’t breathe again. 
The walls close in.

Pain steals my presence tonight,
I sink inward in terror.
Under the responsibility of caring for the boys this weekend, I feel fragile
And that I might crack again
Like I did in Orlando back in March.

I succumb to the pain.
I feel the squeeze in my chest,
The breathlessness in my gut,
The blurring of the eyes,
The contorting of my body,
The pressure between the temples,
The dizziness in my head. 
I wear the grief again.
I despise this garment.

I hate this feeling,
It robs me of function.
Grief, absence, and loss scramble all sensibility.
I want to escape but I can’t.
Responsibility stays me
And constrains me to deal.  

But the pain sits on me,
And I struggle to breathe.
I feel so opened up, so laid bare, so vulnerable. 
Security is gone, 
The comfort and safety is gone. 
It’s just me again with this grim visitor, this thief of joy and personhood.

The demon returns and
It’s just the broken me again tonight.
And I hate it.
So I cry out to God, beg him to be my comfort yet again,
To be my Physician. 
I wait on the Lord.

And I must work through this,
Through the pain.
This is the necessary work
To be opened up again that I may know more healing, 
More of God’s balm,
More of God’s comfort.
This is the necessary work
That I must learn again to live where she lived, 
To live without her, 
To live as me. 

Blessed are those who mourn, 
For they shall be comforted.
Please give comfort yet again, Lord Jesus.

(July 7, 2023 (day 206). I brought the boys down to Ormond Beach, Florida, to the condo Lindsey spent the entirety of her life coming to every summer. The family simply refers to it as, “807,” the unit number. Aside from the kids’ preschool, nothing reminds me more of Lindsey than this place. I had no idea what to expect when heading down here last night. Honestly, I thought I’d be fine to be here as I’ve experienced and felt such little heaviness for months now. I thought most of the work would be rational and more of an intellectual exercise to process the memories, expecting some sadness and grief but not enough to take me to the mat. The realization that the wave was coming hit me gradually today as I worked remotely from the unit. I was here alone for most of the day. Late afternoon I realized I needed to get out and went for a long run, hoping it would help me process and deal with what I was starting to feel, to deal like my many long walks and runs have done for me in 2023. But, the wave kept coming and many more followed. By the time the evening came around, I started feeling the visceral and sympathetic response in my body and began to fear for the worst as it’s just me with the boys here this weekend. We were driving to dinner when I realized I needed to get this out and put this musing down on a note. So, while waiting for our table, in the bathroom, and during meal time, this flowed. And it was finished back at the condo after I gave the boys ice cream, got them ready for bed, and let them watch something. For my sanity, I needed to get this out and organized in some form. I know it’s raw and choppy but it’s truly a musing on grief. I hope to be able to sleep tonight as I do feel fragile and fear the return of the grief demons that haunted me many a sleepless and dark night back in January and February.

For the last few months, I’ve known an elasticity and resilience when I’ve had moments of sadness and grief. But, this weight tonight feels different, it feels heavier. And I think I have to sit with it, and through it. Like the musing posits, this is the necessary work, to work through the acute pain of loss and I think I have to do that tonight and this week and do it specifically here. This is the last physical place I can think of where Lindsey lived a lot of life that I’ve yet to visit, to spend time in and process. And, I think, like the musing says, I need to again learn to live where she lived, to live without her, to live as me. These pathways of grief are no fun, they’re hard and exhausting work).

The Special Days Feel Empty

The Special Days Feel Empty

The special days feel empty.
They once felt like a gift, a dance even;
They were warm music,
Something to enjoy, something to sit in,
Delight in.

They were days of gathering,
Of celebrating, of eating together, of laughing.
The sum was greater than the parts.

But today felt so ordinary,
Full of responsibility
And mundane obligation.
The day felt stripped,
And of disjointed parts.

So I made crepes for dinner,
And tried to create the magic
But it didn’t work.

The special days feel empty

Father’s Day, June 18, 2023 (Day 187). I don’t feel weighed down by grief today, but did have a realization late afternoon that I was sad and disappointed the day was what it was. I wrote this in that moment.

Bagels for breakfast, leftovers for lunch, and I scrambled to produce dinner: crepes, my go-to to comfort the boys. They love them.

As it was, the day felt anything but special, apart from the sweet gift and notes from the boys first thing. I did appreciate their excitement to say Happy Father’s Day and give me their creations, as we call them. I also appreciated a few unexpected gifts from friends and texts along the way. But, after the early interaction with the boys, the day became the usual day of providing and managing all of it alone. Against the backdrop of rich family culture memories, the day inevitably felt empty).

In the City Again

In the City Again

I’m in the city again,
A city we loved,
A city we shared.
But you’re not here, you remain in the past.

Past memories from our past life come alive as negatives.
They flicker in the background with strobe effect
Like a remnant of a former life, a prior experience.
My heart aches, but it also bleeds.

I struggle between moving forward, living life,
And the vestige of what we shared, what was ours.

I’m thankful for our time together
And how I grew because of you.

In such an overwhelming and beautiful city,
I reflect on our heavenly city,
The one you now inhabit.

Entering the great cathedrals of this city
I’ve been flattened by God’s glory and weightiness
But also overwhelmed with joy that you are now with Jesus and His people.

So I enter the fray of the city and mass of people, of creatives,
And feel alive again.

I’m ready to move forward.
I encounter life everywhere
And want nothing more than to jump deeply into the stream of it all.

I praise God for my life and want to enjoy Him through living again,
Through His creation.
It feels good to be alive.

(Written, Friday May 12th (Day 148) This was written toward the end of a four day trip to New York, written during a walk from Central Park to Lower Manhattan, written as I walked between East 50th and East 45th streets. I had been haunted by my memories of Lindsey and our many visits to the city. I also felt so alive during this trip and this musing reflects the tension between the two).

Home Alone

Home Alone

I’m in the house alone
For the first time in months.
At first I felt such relief,
A breath of fresh air, of calm.

But your ghost comes alive
And the howling winds of a past life squall
And return to be collected by our home.

And I fall apart
And weep.

Life is just still so much.
I’m moving forward and living life
And the home is a place of life again
For me and the boys
And our roommates.

But I miss you
And miss what we had.

I wander the floors and pause at our photos,
Remembering what feels so long ago
And so so gone.

Who is that man?
Where did his life go?
What happened to his heart?

It’s been pounded,
It’s been loved.
It’s been to hell and back
And it’s been made new.

I want to live again
And feel so guilty to do so.
But your words come alive again
Filling the halls.

Telling me to be free, to live.
But I had no choice in the matter!
And all I can do in the moment is weep.

But I need to take a nap
And recharge
Because the house is not alone.
It’s filled with life and responsibility
And all of that has never left.

So I poorly do what you did so well
And march us forward.
And I will go live my life
Because it’s my only option
And the only way forward.

(Written Saturday, May 6 (day 142). This was an unexpected experience and one I have learned is a part of moving forward in grief. My days can now hold great joy, hope, and promise but also sorrow and sadness. For the last five weeks I have felt as though the clouds of grief and deep sadness have lifted. I’ve been grateful to lean into the excitement of living life again. And Lindsey did such a good job of speaking to me about life after her. Fortunately, we had ample time and some powerful conversations regarding me moving on one day, and I’m so grateful for that. But, I still struggle at times with guilt over moving on and living my life again. And, regardless of how guilt chooses to haunt me daily, I still feel great sadness over being in this life situation at times. And, that feeling of sadness and loss swept over me Saturday. The boys were gone, my roommates were gone, and I had the house to myself to rest and get ready for the evening. I was so relieved to have the house to myself and did not expect to be cut down with a wave of grief. It was cathartic to lean into and so good to weep. I hadn’t wept in well over a month. This musing was a download of that experience Saturday).

Plain Potato

Plain Potato

I sit at the dinner table gnawing with hunger,
But not for the meal.
I miss what I had,
I miss the fullness.

Another meal graciously provided is served.
I dole out the plain potatoes,
And all the toppings.

This meal, like most, is a battle.
They don’t like it.
They don’t want it.

If I’m honest,
I also don’t like it.
I don’t want any of it.

Meal times now feel fragmented,
Disconnected.
Maybe I’m the problem,
And disengaged.

We eat to move on but we’re rarely all together.
The empty seats between two meal shifts remind me of the seat that now sits vacant.

What once felt so warm and joyful
Now feels so cold and mechanical.
We don’t eat to come together anymore,
To pause and enjoy.
I miss that and grieve the loss of that tonight.

But I have to eat something
And I need to move along.
So I choke down the plain potato
And taste what life is now like.

(This was written Tuesday night, May 2nd (day 138) between meal shifts with the boys. This is not to complain about the Meal Train and all of the gracious provision of meals over the years. They have made such a significant difference for us and for me. Sitting at dinner Tuesday night I was depleted and felt the heaviness of my new reality and responsibility of it all. And the poor potato and a specific meal became a metaphor for an expression of grief in that moment. I want to offer my apologies to the plain potato.

For whatever it’s worth, I like potatoes).

Venom

Venom

Our third-born is angry at Adam and Eve for eating the apple.
I share his anger and hate the curse.
But the curse is everywhere,
It rules the world.
The venom permeates everything.

To see death is to know brokenness,
To know the curse.
I’m angry too!

The world is a tease.
So much beauty and life
Yet death rules the natural world.
I long for it to all be made new.

I can’t imagine what you lived with when
You were told your news.
The fear, the anxiety, the defeat.
I marvel at how you lived.

A bystander to your fight,
To your will to live,
To your torment.
It broke me to see you breaking.
It just didn’t seem right.

It still doesn’t seem right.
The anguish terrorizes my being,
It presses in
And mingles with the pain.
The venom seeps in.

Yet I stagger forward
Learning to process the poison,
To embrace its effects
And learn how to function again.

(Written Saturday, March 25 (day 102), the week the grief and stress caught up to me physically and I felt psychologically broken. Though past the 100 day mark, the pain and sadness still weighed heavily on me. And I was haunted by a recurring awareness of brokenness everywhere, particularly my own).

Cracks Everywhere

Cracks Everywhere

I’m in a house that’s falling apart.
Peeled, the plaster;
Cracked, the walls;
Stained, the ceilings.

Critters and bugs assault the structure.
Wood warps and rots.
Paint fades, shingles and trim fall to the ground.
The fence now dilapidated, boards just fallen away.
Mortar now dust on the ground.

It’s just too much to maintain
And it’s all falling apart.

Weeds take over the landscape.
What was green and vibrant is now brown
And choked out from neglect.
Bare spots dominate the yard.

It’s just too much to maintain
And it’s failing to thrive.

Like the house, life’s grown tired and dated
From three years of suspension, of survival.
It’s been neglected.

It’s just too much to maintain.
I’m in a life that’s fallen apart.

The administrator, our superintendent, is gone.
The glue that held it together has disintegrated.

Cancer warped her organs.
Disease rotted her body.
Our life together crumbled and is but a ruin.
And she’s now dust in the ground.

(Written Saturday, March 25 (day 102), a day after I was paralyzed with anxiety and unable to move forward with the day. Family came and rescued me over the weekend, managed much of the kids’ needs and gave me time to get away for the day(s)).

Angry at the Spring

Angry at the Spring

I lie on the earth above you
Wanting to be close,
Longing to hear your voice again,
To talk and share a laugh,
To touch and feel your warmth.

The sod produces new growth.
It’s greening up again.
Growth is exploding everywhere,
Spring is blossoming with hope and promise.

But I’m not.
I still endure a bleak, cold winter,
Brown and dormant
Like the sod draped over you that day.

And I recall that cold, sunny day
When you were lowered into the ground
And feel so broken,
So sad to have our physical separation made perpetual.

I wanted to scream then
And I want to scream now.
But it’s of no use.
You’re in the ground
And can no longer hear me.

Yet I talk to you.
I tell you my failures.
I confess my fears.
Tears fall on your earth.

I sit in my anguish
And talk to God.
I tell Him my failures
And confess my fears.
Tears fall on your earth.

I wonder.
I ponder the future
Not wanting one without you
But wanting one with less pain.

I miss the comfort of your presence
And feel so vulnerable without you by my side.
I’m exhausted from carrying this daily load
And miss sharing it all with you.
I think of you often as though you’re still here.

But your body’s part of the earth below me
And you’re no longer here, no longer a part.
The grass pushes up above you,
Greening up and bursting forth.
I hate the Spring, or this Spring anyway.

Bustling and forward everything moves.
Yet I remain unmoved,
Sitting with you,
Stuck on that cold, quiet day
When you were lowered into the ground.

(This was written Saturday, March 4 (day 81) during a quick, solo visit to Lindsey’s grave wedged between birthday parties and play dates. It was a warm, sunny day and evident the early Spring had started).

Alone, Surrounded by Help

Alone, Surrounded by Help

Everyone is helping
It’s amazing to experience the outpouring of support
To be helped by so many
And, yet feel so alone

Everyone helps but no one can touch the pain
No one can make it go away
No one can bring you back

They help me connect my dots day to day
But there’s a great disconnect

I’m thankful for the help
I feel the love
But I want your love

I miss you

People are all around me
Helping me
Loving me
Caring for me

But I am alone
Surrounded by help

(This was the second poem or bullet journal of thoughts I had while on that same afternoon walk, Saturday, February 18 (day 67). Also recorded by thumbs to an iPhone note as I walked along the trail. Though surrounded and supported so well, the absence of Lindsey is a solitary confinement of sorts in my grief. I’m in the room just for us, the room we shared though life, but now she’s gone. I think about that a lot).

All the Places

All the Places
(A Walk to Where You Were)

I pass places I last inhabited with you
Your memory overwhelms me
I return there with you in my mind
And you’re there

But, you’re not here...you’re no longer here

The neighborhood
Up on the Roof
The Kroc fields
Unity Park
The Commons
Swamp Rabbit Cafe

I see couples everywhere
Moms with kids

But, you’re not here…you’re no longer here

I see dungeons and dragons…medieval times being play-acted by people in the park
Reminds me of you, and our picnics in Nashville
Our free entertainment

And, I miss you…

The park is buzzing with people

I see couples everywhere
Moms with kids

But, you’re not here…you’re no longer here

I miss you
And I ache

I walk through the sea of people
I’m crying
And no one notices 
I don’t want them to notice

Everyone seems so happy
So carefree
So full of life

But I don’t

I feel broken
I feel shattered
I can’t breathe
All I can do is cry

I pass a brewery
Everyone’s outside
So jolly
How can they be that way?
Don’t they know?

They don’t know my pain
They don’t know your loss…

I can’t breathe
I struggle to catch my breath

But I have to keep going
So I cry
And move forward

I listen to songs of God
They fill my ears
I want to believe the promises
I want to lean in
It’s hard
I know it’s true, it comforts me, but I still struggle

Grief overwhelms me today

I see couples everywhere
Moms with kids

But, you’re not here...you’re no longer here

(Written on Saturday afternoon, February 18 (day 67) while on a long walk alone, from my home to downtown and then along the Swamp Rabbit Trail to Swamp Rabbit Cafe. Lindsey’s memory was everywhere in everything I passed. And I grieved her loss and recorded this with my thumbs on an iPhone note as I moved along, missing her and processing her loss that afternoon).