indeed, love never dies

I read something so powerful recently. As I've shared and continue to share, I am working my way down the rocky path of grief, and more recently, have begun making my way through books that were given to me to help gently nudge me along the journey.

In the beginning, no way could I crack a 'grief' book. No way.

It wouldn't have worked back then.  I had to keep moving, moving, moving. I still do, but at least now, sometimes I can allow myself to stop and read. Even if only bits and pieces.  Lots of reading started taking place during my lunch hour at work when I could pull away into a quiet place and focus.

The book, and I think it's the last one I was given to read, is Love Never Dies by Larry M. Barber. It's very possible that I've already referenced this book?  Either way, I highly recommend it to those who are dealing with loss.

Here is the passage:

The first common unhealthy grief response results from rebelling against 'giving up' or forgetting about their loved one in order to heal. Mourners taking this grief path hold on to their loved one by clinging to the past and a relationship that cannot exist in the same form as it did prior to the death.

As a result these mourners use all their energies to keep the past alive. In fact, they expend more energy to stubbornly hang on to history than the energy it would take to acknowledge and adapt to the new reality. They are unable to maintain a loving, healthy relationship that can now be experienced emotionally and spiritually, but not physically.  Their endless yearning for the reality that can no longer exist robs them of the healing and joy they could experience now. They think erroneously that healthy grieving makes it impossible to carry their loved one and their memories into the future with them.

Healing from loss is tough work, my friendly readers.  Believe me.  You think you're doing great, and then a neighbor comes over, brings you supper, speaks softly with you, and then asks to pray with you ... striking a chord deep inside your soul ... cracking the dam that holds back the flood waters.

When will this end? - you will wonder.   

What is the point? - you will question.   

What is going to happen to me in this 'couple' world? - you will whine.

Well, when I've figured all of that out, I will let you know ...

Our last New Year's Eve

In the meantime, I am going to work on carrying Terry's memory with me ... into my future ... still maintaining a loving and healthy relationship ... emotionally and spiritually. 

Yes, I will always miss him.  Yes, I will sometimes cry.  But I cannot allow my depleted energy to dwindle down to nothing because I cannot touch him ... because he is not lying beside me at night ... because he no longer brings me coffee in the morning ... because this is Friday and he died on a Friday and I will not get to go to a movie with him tonight. 

The reason the above passage helped me is because - indeed, love never dies.  And if I want to fully heal, I will need to remember that.  I can still love him, though I do not see him, cannot touch him, cannot hold him ...

better for having known him ... better for having been loved by him

I stayed home from work today. Woke up feeling like a Mac Truck had run over me. Probably part allergies ... pollen sweeping gracefully through the spring air; probably part me, not resting enough, not giving it up when the sandman comes calling ...

Actually, this is not where I intended to start the blog today. I intended to start by telling anyone who drifts by that God-incidents always seem to happen. But then I ran across a picture yesterday that made me stop and remember ... not that I would ever forget ... but caused me to want to try and express something in words on paper, or rather, on screen, what I felt in my heart.

Terry was such a sweet husband to me. This month, May 2013, I will have my first Mother's Day without him ... and also what would have been our 43rd wedding anniversary on May 26.

As I've mentioned in a recent blog, I only was able to begin reading "grief" books a few weeks ago.  The book I am currently reading was given to me by the uncle of one of my daughters-in-law. Its title is Love Never Dies and is written by Larry M. Barber.

Now, some who go through grief declare they have no inclination to read grief books ... but once I started reading them, I could not stop.

Just try to digest this thought:  The best memorial you can ever build to honor your loved one and his or her wishes for you would be to grieve in a healthy way and live a good life.

Or this one:  Your loved one is worthy of your grief.


One more quote from the book: The grief experience is reframed as a part of life with a positive purpose to be accepted and embraced rather than avoided ... When mourners realize their grief feelings are their love for the person, they choose to continue the love expressed as grief.

So, here I am, in my 9th month, without this dear Christian man who loved me to the core. To the rotten core. I am better for having known him, and I am better for having been loved by him.

He was one-of-a-kind ... but aren't we all? God, who is a "relational being," made no duplicates, though we ARE all made "in His image" ...

But no other man that I'm aware of could possibly love me as Terry loved me ... despite ... in spite ... and completely.

Is Terry worthy of my grief for him? You bet he is. Having learned that grief is merely an expression of the love I had for him has truly helped me. Grief is normal and should be experienced fully. That means that I am normal ... in spite of the fact that I am fumbling along right now.

Having said all of this, I guess I won't write what I originally intended. But it has to do with God-incidents ... things that have happened and people who have crossed my pathway since Terry's death. People I might not ever have met unless Terry had died have been instrumental in helping me find safe passage through grief.

I'll save that for another day, but that's the way my new life is ... filled with people I never knew offering  invisible crutches to help sustain me on a treacherous path that is lined on each side by many, many a detour sign.

We enjoyed being in that quiet moment, my friend and I

Today was an important day; well, every day is important. But today I acted on a decision I had made at the end of last week ... to carry on a tradition begun by Terry.

So I went to Home Depot after work and, following some discussion with an employee who gave me his thoughts on the matter, I picked out three tomato plants and some fertilizer.

Driving home, I became aware of thunderheads, hanging dark and heavy above; I'd not been expecting a storm.

I quickly rolled up the trash can and recycle can and took the plants from the car.  It had started to thunder.

Grabbed the hoe, well not the hoe but whatever the thing is that has a hoe-shape on one side and a sharp point on the other ... screwed in the hose, found my garden gloves, pulled out some potting soil from the garage, and went to work.  It felt so good to do that, to be out doing what felt normal ... when I live in an abnormal state right now, an out-of-sorts world where I not only lost my mate but my identity as a wife.

It grew darker and windy and so I hurried. Task finally finished, I swept up, then hosed down the driveway.  Decided to go to the front porch, sit on the rocking chair, because there was a definite storm blowing in ...  and I wanted to watch it.

I opened the door, and the wind blew over my face and through my hair. In the distance I thought I saw a friend I knew through the spray of my sprinkler that had been earlier turned on by my neighbor.  Turns out, I was wrong ... not about the friend, but about the sprinkler; I was seeing her walk through the rain that had started coming down.  It was a beautiful sight, and a beautiful revelation of her return home and God's love.
 

This friend and neighbor is so special to me. I've known her since we moved here, more than 15 years ago, and Terry and I had prayed for her so often as she fought cancer ... the first go-around.  Little did we know that Terry would die suddenly ... or that cancer would strike again so viciously at my friend who had helped support me throughout the trauma of Terry's death.

Last night, she had returned from Mexico, after multiple weeks of alternative, healing therapy.  We met each other in the street, in the rain, in a huge embrace ... and she wanted to come and sit on my porch where we talked for a while as the rain fell.

I told her about the tomato plants; she told me about the therapy in Mexico and her plans for continuing with healthy eating and living.  [I thought to myself, fresh tomatoes ought to fit in nicely with that plan!]

We talked about God and His love, as she rocked in the rocking chair, the one my mother had rocked in long ago as she nursed my sister while I fed her chocolate ice cream.

We enjoyed being in that quiet moment, my friend and I ... and tonight ... the air outside is cool, and the earth is fresh and clean.  And God made sure that my tomato plants received the richest moisture in the world this afternoon.  He brought my friend back home; He reminded me of His love in many ways ... I was blessed on this important day.

out of nowhere, she was there ... right before we bowed for prayer

The weekend has been full  ... busy physically ... very rich emotionally.  As I have tried to do for several weeks, I sat up close ... very close during worship this morning.  After a couple of minutes of sitting at the end of the pew, I decided to move to the middle ... thinking someone else might want to sit there on the end. No one came. The services began.

I've tried to remember exactly which hymn caused the eruption, but during one of those beautiful songs, the tears came ... unannounced, uninvited, and certainly, unwelcome.

In case you think that I haven't grieved a lot over the sudden-death of my husband, just eight short months

Betty & Terry

ago, you are mistaken. Since Terry's death, I have not had a day of rest or lack of hurt.

I have cried to the Lord, "Haven't I grieved!?"~ especially when it, the onslaught, happens in the late evening and wracks my body relentlessly and without mercy.

Recently, I discovered something I'd written, but did not even remember writing:

I screamed in his closet tonight -
I can only take so much at a time before I break in half.
Even though we went through the past two years of miracles,
I find that there was so much more to learn from him that I didn't learn.
And I am so sad
And I hope my sweet neighbors
Didn't hear me
Screaming in Terry's closet.

10-1-2012

Have I grieved? You bet. And just when I begin to think that maybe it has finally ended, the uncontrollable onslaught of sadness begins again ... as if I didn't get enough before. Today's attack caught me at an inopportune time. There I was, at the front of the auditorium. I wanted to run out from the pew, down the aisle, and escape. Run to my car. But I could not. Through that hymn and into the next, the tears flowed. I was absolutely powerless to stop them.

Out of nowhere, she was there ... right before we bowed for prayer.  I suddenly felt a presence, and not knowing who had stepped beside me and wrapped an arm around me, I looked to my left. There she was: Melissa. Our youth minister's wife smiled at me ... big eyes ... her sweet, young face radiating all kinds of Godly love and compassion. In her left arm, she held her little son.

As we bowed to pray, her right arm still held onto me. In a moment, I felt another touch ... light ... up and down ... up and down ... softly, rubbing me ... up and down.  I realized gradually that it was a little hand ... her little boy ... reaching around his mommy ... with his little arm ... his little hand rubbing my shoulder and upper back ... up and down ... softly ...  knowingly.

Jesus tells us to become as little children ...

for a little bit longer ... 'till I'm a little bit stronger

I came from a family of collectors. That is both good and bad. Bad, when it takes over the home and clutters the mind. Bad, when everywhere you turn, the past slaps you upside the head and blocks forward progress. But ...

... good, when you recognize those little tidbits that you unexpectedly run across as a reminder of where you came from ... and how far you've traveled. Like today ...

Today while pulling out my 2005 tax records and burning them in the outside fire pit, making room for 2012 tax records ... I found sad scribbled notes I wrote when daughter was getting ready to go back home after her dad died. I could barely stand to read them today as I stood leaning against the desk, just shaking my head. They were instructions on how to turn on the blu ray and use Netflix. Shaky handwriting.  Instructions ridiculously drawn out point by point ...

I remembered the terror I had felt as I wrote them. Terry's clothing had been strewn across the living room floor; daughter was packing everything she could cram into her suitcase and into the suitcase I gave her ... the one that had belonged to her dad. What clothing of his that she could not take with her, the Paralyzed Veterans would pick up the Friday after she left; I knew Terry would have approved. He was all about helping Veterans; he was a Veteran.

In the filing cabinet, I found a folder labeled "Alarm Clock" - daughter had downloaded instructions on how to set it. Pretty much a lost case ... I was a total mess at the time. I couldn't even work the thermostat. Admittedly, it was a very complicated one that a Veteran friend wound up replacing for me, but just the same ... I absolutely could not learn one more new thing.

So, even though my running across those hastily scribbled notes today hurt me, I could also see how far I had come since that awful night.  There are a lot more things like that, notes I took to keep track of every day, what got taken care of each day after Terry died and my world shot into total chaos.

There's this part of me that wants to throw it all away ... all of those notes ... this very minute. Avoid ever seeing it again.  But there's this other part of me, "the collector" part, that needs to hang on to it for a little bit longer ... 'till I'm a little bit stronger ... and a little farther down the road.

what his viewpoint would have been as his new life began

I just finished reading another book, one of several that have been given or loaned to me since the death of my husband. This book was written by one who had a near-death experience, living in a coma for seven days; he came out of it a changed man. He is now a believer, both in God and in heaven.

Toward the end of the book, I felt tears welling up (while reading it on my lunch hour) so I knew I should not finish it at my workplace ... I've done enough crying there.

Photo by L. Terry Sandefur

Tonight, I spent sweet time visiting with two ladies ~ one who, years ago, had suddenly become a widow due to a tragic car accident ~ the other, a very recent widow whose husband died in pain and whose last few words included the statement, "I'm ready to go to heaven."

Since she had witnessed his horrible pain for weeks on end, she was ready to see him find that blessed relief.

But it's still so difficult to let go ...

I've wondered many times what Terry thought in his last moment. Did he call out to God? Did he call out my name or have time to think of me?

In the last chapter of this book, a beautiful poem brought me such peace tonight as I finished reading ~ especially since my husband had died so suddenly, so unexpectedly.  It became clearer to me what his viewpoint would have been as his new life began ...

I hope that you who have lost loved ones will find comfort in the words of this poem.

When Tomorrow Starts Without Me

by David M. Romano

When tomorrow starts without me,

And I'm not there to see,

If the sun should rise and find your eyes

All filled with tears for me;

I wish so much you wouldn't cry

The way you did today,

While thinking of the many things

We didn't get to say.

I know how much you love me,

As much as I love you ~

And each time you think of me,

I know you'll miss me, too.

But when tomorrow starts without me,

Please try to understand,

That an angel came and called my name,

And took me by the hand,

And said my place was ready,

In heaven far above

And that I'd have to leave behind

All those I dearly love.

But as I turned to walk away,

A tear fell from my eye

For all my life I'd always thought

I didn't want to die.

I had so much to live for,

So much left yet to do,

It seemed almost impossible,

That I was leaving you.

I thought of all the yesterdays,

The good ones and the bad,

I thought of all the love we shared,

And all the fun we had.

If I could relive yesterday

Just even for a while,

I'd say good-bye and kiss you

And maybe see you smile.

But then I fully realized 

That this could never be,

For emptiness and memories,

Would take the place of me.

And when I thought of worldly things

I might miss come tomorrow,

I thought of you, and when I did

My heart was filled with sorrow.

But when I walked through heaven's gates

I felt so much at home

When God looked down and smiled at me,

From His great golden throne,

He said, "This is eternity,

And all I've promised you.

Today your life on earth is past

But here it starts anew.

I promise no tomorrow,

But today will always last,

And since each day's the same way,

There's no longing for the past.

You have been so faithful,

So trusting and so true.

Though there were times you did some things

You knew you shouldn't do.

But you have been forgiven

And now at last you're free.

So won't you come and take my hand

And share my life with me?"

So when tomorrow starts without me,

Don't think we're far apart,

For every time you think of me,

I'm right here, in your heart.

"Either way ... God is going to heal."

Most of the time, we humans find it difficult to see where we really fit in - you know - in the "big picture" of life - in God's "upper story" for us.  Bad stuff happens, and we don't understand the how or the why.  

As babies, the world circles around us.  We can't eat, slobber, pee, smile, say "chinga-chinga", or cry without being surrounded by loving arms, lifting us up ... to feed us, wipe slobber from our lips, change our diaper, smile back, say "chinga-chinga," or comfort so that the tears will go away.

Adults find life quite different.  Suddenly, it's just not all about us.  We question why things happen.  We whine ... we complain.  Even worse, we sometimes allow the terrible pain we see others experience to pull us right back down into the baby bed ... where we take on the pain of the other ones.  

Before you know it, we start thinking once again that the world revolves around us.  ... Poor me.  My husband died a while back, and now my friends are very, very sick.  Poor me ...  

We make their pain our pain ... when it is not.  Many things, many challenges, many weekly events may pull me back to yesterday when Terry dropped dead.  But it wasn't yesterday ... it was almost seven (7) months ago.  

God has given me almost seven months to grow ...  

And the pain that I see others suffering today must cause me, cause all of us, to get off our own pity-potties and encircle those who hurt.  We must lift them up ... do all that we can do to give them hope.

"Either way ... God is going to heal."  

That's what a friend said recently.  I know what that friend meant. He had seen his wife embrace death at the end. She knew she was heading for healing.

Those who face horrible cancer or other diseases will be healed ... one way or the other ... here on earth ... or totally embraced and healed in the hereafter, by the God of Eternal life.  

Unbelievers sneer at the thought.  They think that we (the human race) end right here, right now.  They think that when we die, we're like the dog named "Rover" ... who when he died ... he died all over.  

Not so with us.  We believe that we were made in God's image.  We have compassion.  We have hope.  

All we need to do is follow His lead. He allowed His own beloved Son to give up everything and go to the cross.  It was His plan all along.  

Unbelievers scoff at that.  They claim God just couldn't control the raucous, violent, blood-thirsty crowd who nailed Jesus there.

Scoffers will know the truth one day. And they will confess it.

It was God's plan all along because He had even better plans for His Son. 
  

Jesus arose.  And it is that hope in Him that keeps me going.

That hope keeps me focused on others who are enduring fiery trials right now.

Please pray for my friend Marsha and my friend Belinda - both facing cancer.  

And either way, God will bring healing.  

My prayer right now - for these precious friends - is for their peace in God's Waiting Room ... while they wait for healing.

My prayer right now - for me - is that I will reflect Christ's compassion and His message of hope in my eyes when I see suffering ... that I will speak of it to unbelievers or those who live as if they do not believe ... and that I will keep my faith strong so that I can accomplish the plans my Father has laid out for me.

Changes are coming

Changes are coming. In the wind that stirs the leaves.  I feel them. 

I hope this feeling is not temporary. I hope that this growing need in me is permanent ... the one that is urging me to press on - move forward - go, go, go.

Philippians 3:14: I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heaven word in Christ Jesus.  

I'm working on a bucket list, but one that is more inclusive than what you saw in the movie years back. 

Yes ... lots of thinking taking place here on Windmill Cove ...

My bucket list will include internal "stuff" I need to address ... the home matters ... clutter ... and "stuff" that get in the way of focusing more clearly on what our true purpose in life is.

For me, I question my new purpose ... now that I'm not a wife anymore ... now that I am a widow ... what will that new mission be for me?  

It's easy to overlook the toothpaste on the bathroom mirror when it stays there all the time, you know.  So I've got to rid myself of clutter that blocks the view.  That may mean nothing to someone else, but it means a lot to me.  To see clearly, I have to move things out of the way.

Then there are the internal matters ... the "heart matters" I need to address ... where the pain still sits and festers and cries out and questions things I actually have no right to question.  

Many of us want to scream, "It's my way or the highway ..." and that is just not the way it rolls.  So I need to finish mending up a torn heart ... and the only way to do that is listen more to God.

Remove the physical clutter and listen for His call. 

I'll let you know how it goes.

in the present moment

There is an article that I can't seem to put my hands on right now ... but it reflects how we tend to live life.  When we are young children, we think that when we are teenagers ... we'll be happy.  

And then we think, when we get to leave home ... we'll be happy. 

And then we think, when we marry ... we'll be happy ... and so on and so forth.  

I'm sure you've read what I'm talking about somewhere along the way. Perhaps you've actually felt these feelings.

We are always wasting precious time ... waiting for the illusive peace and happiness that will come sometime 'tomorrow' ... on the other side of the tracks ... where the grass is greener and the sky is bluer and the clouds are fluffier ... instead of living in today ... right here ... in the present moment where God and you ... where God and I exist.

I'm working on living "in the present moment" ... practicing the Presence of God ... right where I am.  

Not trying to guess or fear or anticipate what's coming.  Not trying to run ahead of God, holding up the big banner and announcing how it will be ...  

... Not trying to imagine how another "first" will feel ...  

Take last night, for instance. It was the first time I have ever dealt with taxes without Terry.  

You know what?  When I came into that dreaded moment of doing taxes ... there was someone right there beside me, saying, "I'll do them for you; I love doing taxes!"

And so we sat, Mike and I, as I watched him actually enjoying doing my taxes.  I shook like a leaf, sliding from the slippery chair in my slick slacks multiple times, until he insisted that we trade chairs.  

I was ridiculous. My hands were trembling ... wanting to get past that moment of taxes. I had dreaded that moment, thinking ... when I get the taxes done ... then I'll be ... 

Long ago, I painted a plaque for my mother that said, "Bloom where you are planted."

And so must I.  Bloom right here ... right now.  

Wherever He plants me ... whenever He puts His hand on my shoulders and says to me, "Stay here ..." or "Go there ..." I hope I am listening.

Someone said to me very recently, "You know, when you are talking, it's hard to listen [understood - to God]."

I think got the message.  Jesus knows when and where I will be happy, but He really wants me to feel joy no matter what circumstances are around me.

He has always known and loved me ... from moment to moment ... in my mother's womb with fine hairs covering my developing body ... in my grave ... in His care every step of the way.

My Jesus knows just what I need
Oh, yes, He knows just what I need
He satisfies, and every need supplies
Yes, He knows just what I need.

a perfect day to be blue but no, no, no

Today would be a perfect day to be blue, down-in-the-dumps. It truly would. It's very gray outside, a depressing kind of gray. It's way too quiet in my home: no hubby or friend or child to break the silence.  I couldn't sleep in, for unknown, irritating reasons ... whatever they may be.  And I'm tired.

I flirted with the "blue" idea for a few minutes, but am I going to give in to the blue?  No, no, no.  Boomer will not sing the blues today.

Instead, I discovered that I am quite capable of doing my own hair and got it done; got two very important cards written and into the mail; ventured out to the beauty supply store; tackled the daunting task of undergarment shopping; and then decided to fix myself a hamburger - my third one since Terry died six months and one week ago.  

Yes, I'm still counting.

It has begun ... the "thinking" that comes before taxes.  The gathering of papers ... the sorting ... the dividing and conquering ... the you-can-do-it cheering that swings around inside my brain.  I'll let you know how it goes.

In the meantime, I'm gonna sprawl out here on the couch, let the burger digest, and then go outside and do my toenails.  Yeah.  I am quite capable of doing that, too.  But if you need yours done, don't call me ... I'll call you.

only the "innocent ones" would believe ...

One day, a bra will startle someone by falling out of a sheet, a hat, or a suitcase that I thought I'd emptied. I've never lost a bra, but somehow I have managed to lose one. It's been several weeks now, and I'm giving up ... almost. 

Of course, I'd never lost a husband either, never buried a husband's ashes, never grieved as I have grieved in recent months ... or halfway lost my mind in the early days of the rotten grief passage.  

So I suppose that losing a bra is really no big deal in the great scheme of things.

With my dad and first grand;
she's now 9 1/2.  Life goes on.

My dad called me tonight, and at the close of our conversation, asked me if I thought I'd gotten through the worst of my grieving.

I don't know, but I told him yes. He's 92, and I don't want him to worry. But he lost Mother 10 years ago, and he grieved for a very long time ... still cries over her when he talks with me.

As for me and my grieving, it was either get through it, or just die.  

It may appear to Dad that I'm moving a bit too quickly -- but -- for a while, it was take a pill just to keep moving.  

Or have a drink ... or two ... just to get through the evening.

Sweet grand daughter today

Those who really know and love me to the bone are not shocked by this revelation. I've always been open about my past. I make no pretense about it, and I am completely empathetic with those who find themselves in darkness.  That's really why I like to do everything I can do to help them out of it. 

Hear this. In the days when I was growing up, doctors gave Valium to teenage girls who had cramps. So, it should come as no shock that some Boomers learned early on to lean on alcohol or other drugs to get by. No shock at all.

Someone in a group I was in a while back shared broken pieces of her life that, I am absolutely certain, shocked many who sat in the circle. There are "innocent ones" out there who have no clue about the real lives and troubles  that have darkened the door of many. They've never been exposed to the black hole that even "forgiven ones" can, without warning, fall into.

Feeling protective, I used my peripheral vision to gauge the "temperature" in the room. The individual who was speaking suddenly stopped and questioned the confidentiality of the group.

I spoke one hyphenated word:  "Twelve-step."

Someone asked what I said ... and then what that meant.

Those who have been in 12-step groups, for whatever reason, know what it means.  You never discuss anything shared by anybody within a group outside of the group.  

Ever.  

Hopefully, every individual in every situation can and will rise to that calling, as well.  And ... for the record, there is no alcohol in my home ... now ... and I only take prescription medication. 

I am very fortunate; I never faced any "chemical" addiction. But ... I understand the overwhelming sadness that drives one to drink or self-prescribe when emotions overwhelm and life has become too dim to see past one's own outstretched arm that is reaching out for help ... help from anyone who might be willing to reach down and grab the hand.

Enough about that.  

The way I would really LIKE to end this passage tonight is that I found my bra. But then, that would be a fairy-tale ending that only the "innocent ones" would believe ... 

letting go when the time has come

It has been [still is] a beautiful Saturday. So beautiful that I allowed myself the pleasure of going down to the park and walking around the pond so many times that I lost count.    

The last time I did this was when my daughter was with me, soon after Terry died.  She came to be with the family, helping us get through the arrangements and the service ... and then she flew back home.

But she couldn't stay.  She flew back ... and that's when she went to work on me ... helping me remember that I had to keep moving in order to keep living. She absolutely made me walk, demanded that I go to the Rec Center ... insisted that I stay alive.

But I will tell you, there was a time ... and not so long ago ... that I would never have dreamed of going to the park alone or walking alone around the pond. Terry was always there with me ... walking as far as he could ... then sitting on a bench where he could see me clearly at all times.

Today, I walked around the pond so many times that I lost count.  I was counting up until 5 or 6 times ... but it was when my shirt and hair became wet ... despite the cool winds that blew ... that I knew I had accomplished my goal.

My mother's and Terry's resting place

And then I drove to the cemetery ...  

I think today was the first time that I did not weep in that quiet place. I sat on the bench and said his name out loud.  

It's surreal, you know.  

I said out loud ... How ironic that you [Terry] came here only a few days before your death to fill in dirt and plant more grass seeds at Mother's grave.  How odd ...  

And here you are, Terry ... but not really. I know you are not really here in this place.  

Despite the peacefulness in the cemetery ... and the birds that sang around and above me ... and the winds that blew through my hair ... and the amazing afternoon sun that shone on my face ... I knew that Terry was not really there.

Terry Sandefur
July 4, 2012

Someone who lost his wife to cancer a couple of months before I lost Terry in sudden death asked me what Terry and I were doing on July 4 of 2012.  I'll tell you what we were doing ...  

Right before dusk, we donned our patriotic garb and drove down the street with our drinks in an ice chest and our lawn chairs ... and awaited the fireworks.  

A few moments after we were settled, my dad and his wife pulled up, so we all sat together.  

It was a happy evening, and I didn't give it a thought that someone ... somewhere else ...  might be grieving the loss of a spouse ... or a parent ... or a child.

We don't think of those things, do we? ... that someone is suffering while we are feeling joy.  

Terry did not like to BE in pictures ... he preferred to TAKE the pictures ... but he allowed me to take this one.  It was the profile picture he used on Facebook before I closed it down. It was a happy night for us.

"Man's life's a vapor, and full of woes; he cuts a caper, and down he goes." 
~ from the Proverbs 

We simply have no guarantees here, so we live one day at a time, and live it in the best way we can. But we must live by faith and not by sight.

As for me, I am healing.  I'm not all the way to full joy again, but I am better than I was yesterday ... certainly better than when my daughter came here to insist that I keep moving ... and definitely better than August 31, 2012 ... when Victim Services came to my office to tell me that my husband had died and I screamed and screamed.  

I am better.  I try to take nothing for granted, not friendship, not life, not my home, not my blessings.  Nothing.  

It is a hard lesson to learn ... being thankful for every day of life ... and letting go when the time has come.




  

pushing on through

A bittersweet weekend ... very full, very fun, very sad, very tiring ... especially after pushing on through what I pushed through this evening. It is often not fun to "re-visit" the past, but my office was out-of-control. To get it back to [at least] livable, I had to go through stuff I didn't want to see.

All of that being said ... I'm glad I got it done. Pushed on through. It is not [not even close] where it will be in six months, because in another six months ... it will have been a year since Terry died.  I still have much processing to do, many documents I must save and tend to when the right time comes.

Nope. Not making sense tonight. I'm tired.  

Lovely things happened this weekend, like seeing my brother and his wife, hearing him read from the back seat of my car, seeing my aunt and uncle, my cousin and her hubby. Catching up. Remembering "olden days" when we were kids and really funny things happened ... singing old school songs we learned long ago. Riding in the car with my dad, knowing how blessed I am to have him still. 

Tonight I'm trying hard not to let my office work ... things I had to go through tonight ... blow me off my feet or make me forget all the good stuff that happened Friday and Saturday.  It's been too nice of a weekend to let that happen.

That's all.  I'm going to hit the hay earlier than usual tonight, hopefully. Tomorrow, it will be Monday all day long.

Photo by L. Terry Sandefur

and love while you can

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he's a getting.

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry.

For having lost but once your prime,

You may for ever tarry.

--Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

Terry once carried this photo in his wallet because he loved me ... and because I was his Valentine. 

He snapped it in his parent's backyard in the San Fernando Valley, California; it was our first Christmas, 1969, and he had taken me there to "meet the parents." I'm still not sure if I passed inspection.  :-)  [Mothers worldwide tend to doubt there will ever be women good enough for her sons ... but inside, we know that there are.]

Tomorrow will be my first Valentine's Day without Terry since 1969. Our first class together, in summer school at Abilene Christian University, was English Lit - he hated it. He disliked all that poetry ... but inside his heart ... he was the greatest poet ever.

My mother could have told you all about this poem, but irregardless of its true meaning, the one its author had in mind when he wrote it long ago, this is the way I see it ...  

To those who still have your love alive, love him or her in the best way possible ... and love while you can.

To those who have lost their loves, there is a certain peace in knowing that you have known love and still know love ... what it is, how it changed you, how it affected the lives around you ... or brought new life into the world that you can see growing, changing, loving.

Terry was a romantic. I wasn't - not really. But I still enjoyed his little surprises, the sweet smile I saw on his face as I discovered whatever ... I was loved.  

And I am still loved. You see, once you've had it, you never lose it. The more you share it, the greater it grows. There was a precious Valentine in my mailbox today; another one arrived in a box on my front porch. 

Friends know that tomorrow may be a rough day, but because of those precious ones ... it won't be. 

I love knowing that God sends His love to me through His people. It's really time for me to start giving it back.

It’s Not Like the Movies

I’ll never forget the day in March of 2012, when an Iraq Army Veteran stepped up to me at my workplace and stated with some surprise in his voice, “I just realized that it was nine years ago today that I deployed to Iraq …"
 

At the Mid-Winter VFW Convention in Austin, I had an opportunity to talk with him again, but more in depth … about the war ... his experiences ... and his response to incidents that took place.  

Many combat Veterans, especially those who have experienced great loss, prefer not to talk about war days. When I run across one who is willing to share his perspective, I am especially appreciative. 

There are many lessons to be learned from war ... and wise insight can be gained from the personalities that allow one to heal more rapidly.

On a major Iraq highway that stretched across the desert, one that might look like any highway in the United States, an L-shaped ambush awaited a convoy that this young Veteran wasn’t even supposed to be in. 

Unknown to the convoy, on the other side of the highway, was a daisy chain of IEDs, set to explode.

“Right before we took off,” the young Veteran said, “my Platoon Sergeant - for unknown reasons - called me back from where I was going to be riding in the fuel tanker - to ride with him in the gun truck at the back of the convey.  After we had moved down the road a bit, a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) that came out of nowhere and hit that fuel tanker.”

He described his racing thoughts at the time.  “It’s not like in the movies … movies are ridiculous!”

He continued vocalizing his memory of the beginning of this horrifying ambush that lasted three hours, “… I don’t even know where I am at this exact moment … no one is even going to be able to pronounce the name of the place where I died … they’re just going to say to my parents, ‘Sorry we couldn’t find your son … his body went everywhere' …”

“SSSzztt … ssszztt … ssszztt,” the young Veteran mimicked a sound. “I briefly wondered what I was hearing ... until more explosions rocked the earth repeatedly split seconds later … it was the sound of 7.62 mm rounds from an AK 47, breaking the sound barrier right next to my ear. I thought to myself ... Someone is trying to kill me … ”

The mission of Infantry is close with and destroy the enemy.  There was no backing up, no looking for where to hide.  The mission is to close with and destroy the enemy.  It was a fatal day for many.  It was a painful day for many of those who survived.  It was war, and war sucks.

During the same period of time I was speaking with the young Veteran, a Vietnam War combat Veteran walked up as he caught some of the discussion.

"God bless you!” he said to the Iraq Veteran. “You guys are just amazing!  We respect you so much!  God bless you.”

"... greatest horrors you can imagine ..."

An emotional scene then followed … the older Veteran reached over and tightly hugged the younger Veteran.  Both were Army Veterans … both carried terrifying images in their minds they would rather forget.  They shared a bond. 

The Vietnam Veteran then came around the table and sat down beside me. 

“I want to tell you something,” he said, “and it has nothing to do about me, but everything to do with the greatest horrors you can imagine … ”

“The injured were medevac’d out of Vietnam, hanging like slabs of meat three deep on World Airways … back to Fort Sam Houston, closest to their home of record.  Army buses met those planes. There were no seats … just racks inside the buses where we again were hung ..."

"... I don’t know if we were going up New Braunfels Avenue or Broadway, but I remember looking out from where I hung … and suddenly realizing I was looking through ‘expanded metal’.  Do you know what that is?” he asked me.

Vietnam Vet describes expanded metal

I did not.

He said, “It was there to keep the hundreds of war protesters from firing ball bearings through the windows with their Wham-O sling shots. The expanded metal [he held up his hands to demonstrate how it looked] was there to protect us from those demonstrators – but the police were keeping their eyes more on us, rather than the protesters ...”

I have learned many things during the past few days, and one of those is the origination/true meaning of the word “civilian.” Individuals are either “civilian” or “military” … meaning, those who undergo brutal training to prepare for combat … and perform “uncivil” actions in order to keep “civilians” safe.

“I had more problems when I got home than I had in Vietnam,” he finished with tears in his eyes.

I reached over, laid my hand on his arm and said the only words I was able to get out of my mouth, “Welcome Home.”

He smiled.