December 20, 2017

a spark

“Why don’t you write anymore?”

I paused and looked down to escape my friend’s gaze. I didn’t know how to answer that. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t make time to write anymore…”

While that is actually true, it’s not really the reason I stopped sharing my journey. I stopped sharing my journey because I was afraid of being judged. I thought maybe people were tired of hearing about how sad it is to rebuild your life. I just needed a minute to live in my head and keep to myself.

It’s been One year and seven months since my husband quietly slipped away from us. I can still close my eyes and be back in that hospital room, holding my breath and praying for a miracle. One year and seven months of rebuilding, moving on, finding balance, and making mistakes.

Two years ago I was a missionary pilot’s wife and homeschooling mama getting ready to return to our jungle home in South America. Two years ago I was jealous of an airplane who got more of my husband’s time than I did, and I would go and spend hours scraping paint, filming progress, and hanging out in the hangar just to be with him. Two years ago I was in the full swing of Christmas joy and holiday excitement. Christmas cookies and gingerbread houses and trees and lights and all the things. Two years ago I had no idea that in one week he would suddenly get sick.

We had Christmas, and then we had cancer.

Christmas isn’t what it used to be. I hold onto the memories of our last Christmas as our very last days together as a normal, happy family. I’m thankful for the gift of that last Christmas. But Christmas is also a marker of the end for me.


You know what I miss the most? Our time together on the sofa after we put the kids to bed. The time when we could just chat and hang out and be together. And those moments where he’d come home and just hug me for long moments. And falling asleep at night talking. I miss our inside jokes. I miss praying together. I miss walking hand-in-hand.

Oh, my heart.

The pain hasn’t really lessened. It’s changed. But my heart still feels a void I can’t explain. I have a dull ache in that emptiness that is my constant companion.

But I’m finding a spark of new life in a way I never expected.

I thought that the only way I would ever feel whole again is if I found someone to give all this love to. All the love that has no where to go. If I could just find someone they would fill the hole in my heart, I thought…

I dated way too early trying to fill the void. It was what I needed to try, and I made some good friends in the process, but time revealed to me that, like it or not, I had to go through the process of grief. And it is a process. And I’m going to be in process for quite some time.

But as time goes on, I am finding that my emptiness can be filled in other ways. I am substitute teaching right now, and stepping back into the classroom lit a spark inside me I had nearly forgotten about. I love teaching. I love ministering to young people. I could spend my whole life watching their faces as they learn and grow. I have a newfound mission and calling. I never thought I could be as fulfilled as I was as a missionary, but teaching… teaching fills my heart by the bucketload.

In a week it will be two years since my world came crashing down around me. I will relive all the things we did each day. The day he got sick. The day I took him to the hospital and we heard the word “cancer,” The day I flew him out to Seattle to start treatment right away, the day we left to drive out to be with him, etc. I can close my eyes and be in those moments like I lived them yesterday.

But in a week something else is going to also be happening - I’m starting to apply for full-time teaching positions. I can’t think of anything else, other than being a missionary in the jungle, that I would want to do with my life.

This last year and a half has been a crash-course in so many things. I basically went from living in my dad’s house to living with my husband (there was a short time in between when Todd and I were dating). Until my husband died, I literally had never made a decision on my own. My dad helped me buy my first car and get insurance and all the teenage things, and then my husband helped me decide just about everything after that until a year and 7 months ago.

And since then, I have purchased our tiny home on wheels, spent countless hours renovating and repairing it, put my kids in school, got a job, and on and on. I think that Todd would be proud of me. I hope he would be. I want him to be.

So, this is where I’m at in this journey. I’ve gotten used to being on my own and if God has someone out there for me, I will be happy when that time comes. But if there isn’t someone out there for me, if Todd was my someone and my only someone, I’m OK with that too. Those fifteen years with him were the best fifteen years of my life. I’m blessed to have them.

I’m trying not to be a grinch for my children’s sake. But if you don’t hear much from me for the coming weeks, I’ll be alternating between applying/praying for a teaching position, and cuddled up with my pup living inside my own head a bit.
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September 6, 2017

two different lives

It might seem like widows, me in particular, are a little (ok, maybe a lot) bipolar.

In one week on Facebook I made a blubbering post (I’m pretty sure you could hear me sobbing my eyes out through the computer), and then a few days later a shining post about how God is working in my life. Annnd then there’s days like today where I drop the children off at school and cry at a teacher.


Here’s the thing about being a widow and these mood swings - I had an incredible 15 years with my husband. Thirteen of those years I got to be his wife. I can’t think of a greater thing happening to me unless it’s being a mother. I have two amazing children that I get to watch grow up into awesome little people. Buuut. My husband is gone. And my little blessings of children, well it’s really, really hard to raise them on my own. So sometimes I feel so blessed for those years with my husband and sometimes my heart feels gutted of all substance. Sometimes I look at my children and I can’t believe I’m so lucky to call them mine. And sometimes I hear myself and wonder who that lunatic yelling at my kids is.

I’m not really bipolar. I’m not really as crazy as I might sound when I’m sobbing about the laundry piling up and having to cook another supper and having to put our shattered life back together all by myself. It’s hard. And most people can close their eyes and imagine what they would do in my situation, but most people aren’t in this situation and don’t know what it’s like.

I have two separate, totally different lives. One is gone and I want it back, and one is the replacement life that I never asked for and don’t want. It’s a funny thing to have two lives. It take a lot of mental balancing. I often will close my eyes and go back and and live the old life, just for a few minutes. But then when my eyes open, the other half of the bed is still cold and empty.

I know that there is a camp of people out there who think, it’s been 16 months. Get on with your life. I have a special kind of smile for you folks. Spoiler alert: it’s not reeealllly a smile. No amount of crying will ever bring him back. But tears are healing. I can write 500 posts on how much I miss him and it won’t change anything. But my heart feels good to speak his name.

As time goes on, each day draws me further into this new life, there are moments when I see the world of possibilities before me. But, each day also carries me from a life I loved deeply. So some moments I will be filled with hope of our future, and some moments cling to the past life of love. I loved so much about that life. I loved being married. I was made to be a wife a mom. I loved living in South America. I loved the work we did. I loved watching Todd and the children, oh, what a special bond he had with his babies.

But the future - maybe I can love that too. The day after I ordered my GRE prep book I was offered a job - a job with career potential. I looked at grad school and I looked at my other option, and I set the prep book down and haven’t opened it again. I will someday. But right now, I’m of a different and unexpected, yet fitting and fulfilling path. I don’t know what, or who, might be in our future. This morning Millie crawled into bed with me and discussed all the things she’s hoping for in a new daddy. She hopes he hurries up and finds us. She wants him to be kind and playful.

As I sat and listened to her describing the perfect daddy (who sounded suspiciously like Todd), I just smiled and agreed and someone who likes roughhousing is a necessity. I don’t know if there is a man out there who will find us or not. There’s a good chance that there’s not, honestly. Most guys my age are already married. Or don’t want to be a daddy. Or, I don’t know, they don’t have a good sense of direction to find us. But whether or not there is a guy out there for us, we need to learn how to do this new life. I need to find happiness where I’m at. Sometimes I think I’ve found it. It’s getting easier to fall asleep alone, and cook meals for just the three of us, and now that the kids are in school, there are days when I am home alone. And I need that.

If widows, me in particular, seem like they’re a little all over the place, it’s because we are. But I hear that nothing lasts forever. I hear that time bring healing and with healing comes happiness. So just bear with me. I’m a work in progress.
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July 18, 2017


If you want to understand something about grief, borrow my sweet Millie’s dolly Maeva.

Millie came to me this morning, Maeva in one hand, a comb in the other.

“Mama, will you brush Maeva’s hair for me? It’s too tangled.”

I looked down at the dolly she set in my lap and sighed. I knew that was an hour of brushing. Yes, a full hour. A labor of love for the girl I love so much. It’s not for me that I find myself camped on the sofa, working through the tangles in Maeva’s hair and thinking about the tangles I’m working through in my heart.

Brushing a dolly’s hair is basically working through the grieving process.

I try to take a bit of hair to begin with, but the hair is so tangled I can’t even get a small handful free. It’s hard to know where to start, but I know if I don’t, the hair will stay tangled. So I do the best I can. It’s an awkward start. There’s a lot of pulling at the tangles to work enough free that I can start working the comb through.

Finally, I have a little bit of hair away from the rest of the tangled mess and I start the process of separating each hair from the rest until I’m holding a small bit of shiny, straight hair in my hand. I can comb through that little bit easily now. But this dolly has way more hair on her head than any girl needs. For a brief moment I consider giving her a haircut to match Millie’s hair. But even though taking scissors to her hair seems easier, all that hair would still be tangled.

There was a point in my grief I didn’t talk to many people about. I wanted to run away. I was so broken I didn’t want to carry on the life I had been given. It would have been easy to take the scissors to my life and cut myself off. But my heart still would have been tangled. And I had two little people that needed me to start the process of separating the strands of my heart. These are who kept me getting out of bed and going everyday.

I’m not even halfway finished brushing the dolly’s hair before I need a break. My legs are falling asleep from being crossed under me and my hand is getting a little sore. I set Maeva down next to me and stand and stretch. I go and pour boiling water over a tea bag and hop in the shower while my tea steeps.

In the shower, I run my fingers through my own hair. Unlike Maeva’s thick, dark locks, my hair is fine and thin. I’m reminded that grief doesn’t negate grief. I’ve had to remind myself that when I’ve been tempted, in my darker moments, to say to someone complaining about their spouse’s less desirable quirks, “At least he’s still alive!” I’ve also had moments when I have gently reminded to a friend of this after apologizing for talking to me about her failing marriage.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“It’s ok, I’m always here to listen.”

“I know, but you lost your husband. I should just be thankful for life.”

I looked gently into my friend’s eyes, “Just because I am working through a huge grief, it doesn’t mean your grief isn’t real or meaningful.”

Grief doesn’t negate grief. We all walk our own path, and we all have to face our own obstacles. We’ve all traveled different miles. We’d do well to have more grace with each other and stop comparing our griefs against another’s.

I finish dressing after my shower and head for the kitchen. My tea is the perfect temperature. I take it and sit back down on the sofa and pick Maeva back up. There is a stark contrast between the smooth, shiny hair I’ve combed and the knotted, tangled side still waiting for me to work though. Sometimes those tangles in our own lives are noticeable. Sometimes though, like when I pick up Maeva and the smooth hair falls over the tangled hair, hiding all the knots, we can’t see the parts of our lives we’re struggling with.

Another friend, also in the midst of marital struggles, recently told me that she can’t talk to anyone about what she’s going through because people see her picture-perfect family and can’t believe anything could possibly be wrong. But when you turn over the dolly and brush the smooth, brushed hair away, there’s still a tangled mess under there. Brush away the smiles and the lives we present to the public and you’ll see mess in all our lives. Picture perfect only exists in photos, not in real life. Be gentle, my friends, with one another.

I’m now halfway through untangling dolly’s hair. Sigh. I don’t really want to be doing this anymore. I just want to be done. I remember expressing the same exact sentiments about grieving. But if I stop now, all my work will had been for nothing. And if I try to speed up the process I will just rip hair out and do more harm than good.  I grab a larger chunk of hair. That doesn’t work either. The only way to get through this is one little bit at a time. In grief, one little day at a time. One little hour at a time. One little moment at a time.

I can see progress. I’m getting there.

Millie walks into the room and sits down beside me. Her hand reaches out and she gently strokes the smooth hair.

“It’s beautiful!” She quietly murmurs, running her fingers easily though the brushed half.

“What about this half?” I ask her, hold up the unbrushed, tangled half.

Her nose wrinkles and she halfheartedly tries her fingers in that side but they just stop in the tangles. “Ugly.” Was her assessment. She goes back to petting the smooth side.

“But it’s the same as that side, isn’t it? It’s just not brushed yet. But it will get there.”

She thinks about that for a minute and then her fingers slowly return to the tangled side and she feels all the knots, “It will be beautiful too.” She gets up and runs back into the room her and Sam are watching a show.

“Yes, it will be,” I think to myself. Not sure if I’m talking about dolly’s hair or my own healing heart.

I have left the worst of the tangles for last. Sigh.

Another 20 minutes and the unforgiving and unyielding tangles are finally smooth over Maeva’s head. Finally.

The mess has been put right. The tangles untangled.

For now.

In a week, Maeva will likely need to have her hair brushed. The braids that I quickly twisted into her hair will be taken out. Millie loves to see Maeva’s hair cascade around her shoulders and watch it flow as she lovingly spins her around.

The thing about mess is - mess means life. Mess means love. It’s much cleaner to keep Maeva on a shelf. He hair would never get tangled up there. If I kept my heart to myself and never opened it up again it would be much safer.

But we’re not here to be safe.

We’re on the Earth to be free and wild and to live fully and love recklessly.

I return the braided dolly to her waiting little mama, who takes up her beloved dolly in her arms and hugs her close. Her smile both thanks me and rewards me for finishing the task. All of a sudden, an hour of brushing didn’t seem like such a waste of time. Love is never a waste of time.

Did you hear that? Love is never a waste of time.
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July 2, 2017

all this adulting

It’s a very strange thing to go from living the life you always dreamed of to losing almost everything and starting all over.

I’ve heard people say adulting is hard.

No truer words have ever been spoken.

Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time introspecting. Who am I and what do I want out of life? These are among the most common questions on my mind.

I was confident in my role as a missionary pilot’s wife. Homeschooling mama of 2. Mission project videographer. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do. But now, none of that fits anymore. That’s not me anymore.

Driving 7-hours from one place to another in my 32’ tiny house RV today, I relished every mile. Washington. Oregon. Idaho. The Pacific Northwest. Home. Driving over the Blue Mountains I took in the beauty of this place I grew up in. The last time I lived here, I knew where my place in life was. Oh how things have changed.

I gave myself a year to wallow. A year to cry. A year to give myself an extra measure of grace and a year to feel all the feelings. Not that any of that ends a year after losing your husband, but it was my year to wallow. I thought the one-year anniversary of my husband’s death would be almost as hard as the day he died. Instead, it was almost liberating. I gave myself permission to wallow, and then I gave myself permission to step of out the wallowing and live again.

I still wallow at times. I still cry every once in a while. I still sometimes find myself in need of grace - don’t we all? - and I still have LOTS of feelings. Don’t get me wrong. I left behind the state of constant wallowing but not grieving. I’ll miss my husband till the day I die.

Life for me is much better as I begin the second year of widowhood than it was the first year. There’s not as many firsts. I feel more nostalgia and less searing pain in my heart. I no longer need medication to help me keep it together. Things are much improved.

But there is still so many hard things. Finances. Parenting. Decisions. Oil changes. Travel.

I still don’t have a life plan. I’m impatient and feel like I should know what I want to do with the rest of my life by now. But I don’t. This is an area in which I just have to remind myself to give myself a little grace.

I’d really like to do grad school. But financially that’s not possible. I’d love to go back to overseas missions. But I don’t feel God calling me back to the jungle as a single mom. I’d love still homeschool my kids. But I’m only just barely keeping my head above the water and need to start working soon or else things are going to go downhill. I’d like to start working but I don’t know what I want to do or where I want to live.

With two little lives depending on me and me alone I want to get it right. But I’m not sure what “right” is quite yet. If anyone has a road map for life I could really use that right now. Or tuition for grad school. Snort.

This life is nothing. I’m nothing more than a little leaf on a big maple tree. Life is fleeting and over so fast. Most of us will never be remembered in future generations. A few generations will pass and then I’ll just be a box on with my name under it. It’s not a greatness that will be remembered that I want to strive for. It’s the quality of character and integrity and love that I want to pass down to the boxes under mine.

My wallowing is over. But my life isn’t over. I want to live. And love. And embrace all that I can while I have it. I might not have a life-plan, but I have a love-plan. And I’m OK with that for now…

I’ll pause here to give a little update for those who have made it though my ramblings thus far. I’ve been widowed a year and 2 months now. We have lived in our tiny house RV for 9 months now. Winter was HARD. The rest of the year I actually rather love living in my 320 square-ft of a tin can. Samson the great dane is a year and 3 months and I haven’t weighed him in a while but he’s an impressive beast. Our kitty Moses was killed (we don’t know from what) but little Mary is still in Tennessee waiting for us to come home. We have been on the road for over 6 weeks, driving from TN to Washington, Canada, and a whole slew of places along the way. I met a very nice gentleman a little over 2 months ago and we are in a relationship. He lives in Idaho but if we can find him a job in TN we might be able to talk him into moving.

The children are doing amazing. These little people never cease to amaze me. Their stamina and endurance and ability to rebound are quite impressive. They are such troopers and are excellent little travelers. They continue to grieve in their own ways. It comes out and then they move on. Then it hits again. And they just keep right on going again. Sam is 6 and Millie is 7. Sam is obsessed with dinosaurs and Millie loves horses. Sam starts kindy in August and Millie will be in 2nd grade.

Ok. That’s my update.

I wish each of you peace and love. And a break from adulting when possible.
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March 30, 2017

breaking out

I have learned so many lessons over the past year.

Hard lessons. Good lessons. Painful lessons. Beautiful lessons.

I’ve learned things about myself and what I am capable of, and I’ve also learned where I fail miserably. I sometimes wonder if grief has changed me in ways that will be changed forever, or if some of these changes will lessen with the grief as it slowly retreats back to the ocean until the next wave.

I’ve learned that the people we think will always be there for us… aren’t. My husband isn’t here for me anymore. My mother. Some friends. Funny how people like to say they are here for you, but… where are they?

I’ve also learned about an entirely different world that exists out there. A world full of compassion and love and support. People who grant me the grace I need when I screw up. People who look past my selfishness as I’ve been so focused on my own survival and that of my children. This is the world I have needed.

But as the fog continues to lift, and my mind stops spinning so much, I find that as wonderful as the loving cocoon is that has been created around me in my community is thinning. And that’s OK and natural. My cocoon was what held me together and carried me though, but it’s a temporary covering.

And maybe, just maybe, a butterfly will emerge…

March 22 hit me like a ton of bricks to the face. Eleven months. The last time I will be counting in months since he passed away. Soon, it will be counted in years. I’ve been whirling in a stormy sea of grief, as if he’s dying all over again.

When I laid next to him as he slowly slipped away from me, I watch his face intently. Would I see a miracle? I silently pleaded with God to breathe life back into him and heal his body. This was the moment, God… but God missed the moment… or did He?

I will forever remember that moment. Just like that, he was gone… In that one moment.

But that was just one moment. Our lives are full of moments and I’ve missed so many this last year. But every today we are given is a new day with new moments. Seize them. Cherish them. Hold them close to you.

God doesn’t miss these moments, He holds them in His hands, along with us, and carries us on to the next moment.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn, aside from RV plumbing and letting go of homeschooling, was that I can’t make anyone love me.

That’s a hard one.

The heart is a funny thing. Capable of so much more than I ever imagined. Stronger. More resilient. More tender.

I want you, you know who you are, to know that I forgive you for not showing love to me. You still don’t see how you’ve hurt me and I’m guessing you never will. But I forgive you anyway. Not for you, but for me. My heart is letting go of this hurt. Hurt is a heavy burden to carry and I need to lighten my load. There is a scar left behind, but no longer will I carry this hurt around with me.

I want you, you know who you are, to know that I am so sorry for hurting you. I have been selfish and wrapped up in my own world and uncaring about yours. It was unintentional but nonetheless my actions still have consequences and I will accept them. I will try harder all of the tomorrows I am given.

I want you, you know who you are, to know that I’m so very thankful for you. Not in a public, shout-out, telling the world what you’ve done for me kind of way, but in a quiet, eternal, you’ve changed my heart kind of way.

I want you, all of you, to know what maybe I’m still closer to a worm than a butterfly, and I still feel like a hot mess on a freezing day, but your kindness, your support, your encouragement, and your love are not unnoticed. I’m learning. I’m living. And someday I hope to be part of your cocoon.
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