Lightning

Anger, fury, wrath… pissed. Wounded, hurt, devastated, torn. I am all of these things. Today I marvel at the idea that there could ever be anything resembling healing, ever. God promises healing. It is not something I can fathom.

I’ve genuinely wondered how I can possibly ever still need to pee? How is there anything left after all my weeping? How is the human body capable of producing so many tears? How can the heart be so completely torn and yet still beat?

I loath my increasing functionality. I loath that I’m beginning to have conversations and remember to do things. Today I thought “dang, ketchup is good.” I hate ketchup. Actually, I hate that it is good. There should exist no normal and certainly no good.

I don’t want to appear normal. Everything is torn.

I’m struggling with this new stage of emotional turmoil. It seems that every time I feel as if maybe I’ve started to wrap my mind around the depth of my wounds a new cavern is uncovered. This one is fury. It isn’t a passing black day, or a screaming fit. This is sticking around.

I finally got real with God about it. There was something between us. I ache unbearably when there is something between us. I need Him. More than anything else in the entire world I need Him. I hit my knees and almost screamed WHAT?! I knew instantly.

After all this time and the long dance of love and healing that He has lead me in why do I STILL try to hide things from Him? I was hiding my anger. I was “shoulding” myself. I hate shoulds. I opened my heart and let the anger scream. I don’t disrespect my Elohim. Even in my rage I remember His mighty deeds but He has also taught me to be honest. So, honest I was.

The “between” lifted. Thank you God!!!

I was thinking about anger today. It is a “stage” of grief. Though I’m entirely unconvinced that anything so complex and circular and incomprehensible as grief could have simple stages I recognize that anger is a necessary and common experience. In my white knuckled commitment to do this His way He has steered me clear of some fleshly indulgences I wanted in the name of grief. He has not steered me from anger. I get to be angry. I need to be pissed.

So why anger? There are a lot of whys in this process I won’t get answers to until the trumpet sounds. This one I may just get, maybe, a little bit. My anger spurs the urge to fight. I want to punch something, rip something destroy something. I want to scream a battle cry. I want to lead an army into a clash of swords and armor and hack and slash and win.

Perhaps I feel this way because I was created to be a warrior. Walking around in my bubble I ignored my warrior heritage. My Father is the warrior.

The LORD is a warrior; the LORD is his name – Ex 15:3

I have a mighty and noble heritage. So maybe when the precious is rent from our arms and the veil is torn from off our eyes and the bubble pops the rage is the warrior emerging.


I’m not saying I want to live my life according to a code of anger. Interestingly I think the destruction of the enemy comes from just exactly the opposite.

Since Damon’s death Isaiah has talked a lot about heaven, God and Satan. We don’t avoid the subject of Satan at our house. He is the cause of our agony and he will rightly receive the credit. One night Isaiah said “I hate Satan. I want to take my lightning sword to his privates.”

Yes!! Me too kid. It’s become almost a nightly ritual to discuss exactly how we can “take our lightning sword to Satan’s privates.” We talk about love. We talk about loving God and teaching others to love God.  

Will regularly raises his right arm where Damon’s name and the word “sword” (Eph 6:17) is permanently inscribed and says “lightning sword to the privates.”

Lightning sword to the privates.   

love

I looked up the definition of the word dysfunctional today. It means “1. Not operating normally or properly. 2. Deviating from the norms of social behavior in a way regarded as bad.”

Yup, that’s me.

I went to Panera this morning to get my man a blueberry scone, because he wanted a blueberry scone. Occasionally I sort of forget just how dysfunctional I am. Most of the time I’m in my cocoon of family and very close friends who, for the most part, just accept my dysfunction.

I also spend the vast majority of my time either steeped in dense fog, intensely introspective or in deep conversation with my Father. This, combined with my emotional turtle act while in the company of most people makes for some pretty serious dysfunction.

I honestly don’t much care that I appear incredibly odd but this morning in the hustle and bustle of a busy restraunt while I was standing in line expending every ounce of energy I had just to remember what I came to order and what the appropriate conversational nuances were it hit me that to the people around me I likely not only seem weird but rude.

As I struggled through the rest of the interaction and went to fill my fountain drink I kept my head down and my eyes averted. I almost always do. A former student spotted me and I just kept walking. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

In moments of lucidity over the past month I’ve wondered about the burdens carried by the people going about their lives around me. Often the world seems to move in slow motion with me outside as an invisible observer. I see parents drop their kids off at school and hurry to get to work. I see couples out to eat dinner conversing about this or that, or not. It all seems so normal.

And then I think about me. Those outside of my circle of friends and family have no idea of the burning, screaming, devastating pain that lives inside me every single moment. I’m just some inconsiderate chick who apparently doesn’t notice anything going on around her. They can’t even fathom the extent of my pain.

Maybe that “jerk” who didn’t smile back or cut you off in traffic or didn’t want to talk isn’t a jerk after all. Maybe they are desperately wounded. Maybe they just can’t smile. Maybe the hurt is so deep and so wide that just breathing is an exercise in endurance. Maybe they don’t want to look you in the eyes because either you will see the pain and recoil or, perhaps worse, you won’t notice at all.

God has been reminding me over and over that I have choice to either harden my heart or not. He wouldn’t say “do not harden your hearts” (Heb 3) if I didn’t have a choice in the matter. So as I battle to maintain a tender heart in the face of devastating pain, in the face of temptation just to cut off all emotion to save myself from the horror of the missing and confusion I reach out to you. Will you soften your heart? Will you allow me or her or him the benefit of the doubt? Will you extend His love in the face of a circumstance that certainly doesn’t appear to warrant it?

I want to stop fighting each other and start fighting the enemy. Today love.     

Black

I really thought I could handle this. Not the big ‘this’ but today this. Today is a black black black day. I’ve had two Tsunami days in a row. After the tears and talks of this morning I thought the black would lift. It didn’t. If anything it deepened.

Will has to attend graduation (cap, gown, hood and all… he is reportedly very hot) so I tagged along to the town where he teaches about an hour away. I like it here. There are no memories and no one knows me. I don’t risk running into someone and having that awkward exchange where I don’t participate in the societal posturing.  I can just be black. Today I need to be black.

I explored, got lost and drove around in circles trying to find the little coffee shop my smarter-than-me iPhone had told me about. I pulled into an empty parking space in front of the store and out walk two people, each carrying baby blue gift bags.

Are. You. Freaking. Kidding Me?!

WHO HAS A BABY SHOWER AT A COFFEE SHOP???!!!!!

I really wanted to hate them. I really wanted to hate the baby blue bags and the people carrying them and the obnoxiously trendy coffee shop for hosting a baby shower. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I just don’t have it in me.

So here I sit drinking my half calf, whipped, stupid-named caffeine concoction listening to the buzz of people talking about all manner of stupid things (everything seems stupid to me these days). Why did I come in? It took me an hour to find this place! Why did I stay? This stupid coffee and scone cost $6! So here I sit. Fuming.

I’ve been furious all day, the baby shower just added fuel to the fire. I woke up fuming at God this morning. You had the power, You knew it was coming, You didn’t stop it, You didn’t fix it. I’m pissed. I really didn’t have words when I cried to Him but I think that was the gist.

This sucks and I’m mad.

I opened my bible and surveyed the pile of reference books and bible studies that I had lugged in and deposited on the table in front of me. I went to an old favorite and dug in. I didn’t feel like it. I honestly wanted to stay pissed. I have every right to be mad right?  What I want and what I need are often far from aligned these days.

As I searched the bible reading familiar passages and begging God to speak even through my rage I felt the fury begin to seep away exposing the truth underneath… pain. Isn’t it almost always pain fueling anger?

I don’t have a scripture reference for you, just Him. Just Him speaking to my heart a thousand different ways in twenty different passages. His word.

Today is still black, so very very black but I see the light. 

Counterfeit

This morning as I was standing in the shower allowing the water to wash the streaks of salt left behind by rivers of tears my mind raced. I was thinking about how Satan counterfeits the things of God. It seems that for every good, healthy or beautiful thing God gives Satan offers a counterfeit, a shadow of the experience God offers.

God offers covenant marriage, a relationship in which each partner is free, loved and fulfilled. Satan convinces us that sex is something God is withholding and that we should take the pleasure but we suffer the pain of the act outside of the covenant, counterfeit. Satan insists on self-centered marriage where everyone hurts, suffers and longs for completion, counterfeit.

God offers relationship, freedom and fulfillment. Satan convinces us faith is not about faith at all but about checklists and a list of “dos” and don’ts”, counterfeit.

And the list goes on and on...

The scary thing about counterfeits is that they must in some way resemble the original. Satan weaves a whisper of truth into his imitation and we believe his lies.

Then I thought, so what about grief? I’ve had to fight for my grief. Our society backpedals from the depth of sorrow that I experience every minute. We want to fix it. People say things like “you’ll get through this.” Or “keep your chin up” As my beloved little brother says “You keep your chin wherever the heck you want to.”

We don’t like grief. I wont get through this. I will carry it with me always. I want to. I need to. I will go “through” stages, yes, but I will never get to the other side of sorrow. Not until I get to glory.

It seems everything in my fleshly nature tells me to do things opposite of the way God is guiding me along each step toward healing. Does Satan counterfeit grief? I think he does.

Death is bad, pain sucks but grief God’s way brings life and healing. Grief Satan’s way brings embitterment, festering and death.

So, I will fight for my grief. I will fight to do this God’s way which to the world looks weird and backward and dark but in the black I see the light. 

Obstinate

I’m sitting in Wills office surrounded by Damon’s baby pictures. Before I entered the room this morning Will came in and turned them all face down. I’ve been slowly turning them up one by one as the day progresses, trying to confront my fear and pain.

I miss him.

I’ve been thinking a lot about fear, fighting my fear with everything I have. Each day carries with it constant fear; fear of the morning, fear of night fall, fear of being alone, fear of being surrounded by people, fear of remembering, terror of forgetting. I don’t want to live in fear. I wasn’t made to be afraid.

Today God had me in Joshua. Joshua is one of my favorite books. I first fell in love with my God in the pages of the Old Testament. It speaks to me. The Israelites faced so many physical obstacles that I face spiritually. I like the concreteness. I like the way God so obviously showed off. I like seeing my God be huge.

The last week or so since I’ve begun to emerge from the fog, started to have more and more lucid moments, started to think again I’ve struggled so much against the urge to do something. In the throws of desperate anguish I’ve  whispered to my husband countless times “I don’t know what to do.”

I’m so thankful to my God for His clarity in this season of desperate wounding. I have heard Him more clearly and more consistently in these days than in any other season of life. It’s true, He draws near to those who draw near to Him.  

He has confirmed and reconfirmed His message to me; “Be still and let me heal you. You focus on now and I will take care of then.” He has told me directly: Stop it with the planning Jodie. You beg to go home and yet still try to plan next week. There may not yet be a next week!”

It’s been hard completely re-tooling my thinking. We’re always about what’s next and don’t even notice what’s now. As much as now hurts I’m trying so much to live in N-O-W. To obey the one who knows what I need.

I shudder to think what I would have done to myself if I had not chosen in those first days and hours to fix my eyes on Him, if I had not chosen to trust Him. Where would I be today? Undoubtedly I would have already done horrid, gruesome damage to my wounds, desperately tearing at them, ripping them open time and time again.  

I imagine myself in triage. I keep screaming about my broken ankle while my Healer is methodically, carefully, patiently mending my life giving arteries. “I see it baby girl, we’ll get there but you need to trust me to tend to what could kill you before I get to what wont.” I love Him so much. His faithfulness heals me as much as the work of His hands, His goodness, His Godness.

Today He confronted me with my fear. “Be strong and very courageous” (Joshua 1)

The original word interpreted “strong” can mean: to fasten upon, to seize, obstinate, to bind, be constant, constrain, hold fast, mend, become mighty, prevail, repair

Obstinate is not something I have ever had trouble with, ask my exhausted mother. I love that I get to be obstinate! I’m obstinately in love with my Yahweh.

“courageous” can mean: to be alert, steadfastly minded.

This made me think the devil is prowling like a lion waiting to devour you, don’t get lulled by the glamour, choose to see through the lies.  

And then comes the conviction. Do not be afraid or discouraged.

Afraid is exactly what you think it means but the original word for “discouraged” held powerful significance for me. It can mean: to prostrate, to break down either by violence or by confusion and fear.

Do not lay down to this child. You are MINE. I am ALL POWERFUL. Choose to stand.

I’ve felt a calling on my life for some time now. I’ve insisted over and over that there is absolutely nothing special about me. I’m just clinging to the Rock. That’s true but through the words of my bible teacher today God said this “Can you even admit that I have entrusted you with a gift?”  Oh, man. Ouch. I’m not denying me. I’m denying Him. There is nothing special about me but there is everything special about what He is choosing to make me.

I wept when she then cried the words “I’m afraid I’ll fail You!!” He brought conviction and then answer.

I WILL NOT FAIL YOU.

I love You, Lord. I will not lay down.

Guilt

Frustration… ups, downs, highs, lows and everything in between. The last two days I feel like I’ve been inside a maraca and I’m so drained. Last night was a night of desperate wailing, sobbing, blackness. I can’t sleep anymore, even with ‘drugs’ (that could have something to do with the gallons of Dr. Pepper I drink) so when my eyes opened this morning they were already heavy.

Isaiah was in a good mood, my little light in the black. We loaded up and headed to get his allergy shot. My heart was heavy and aching but I’ve found that on the heels of a soul purging cry a lightness follows. Like the elephant that lives on my chest lost about 500 pounds. Isaiah was fun and silly and six on the drive and my mind somehow managed to stay in the present. Pulling into the parking lot the familiar darkness fell. I waited, counting the minutes while my dear friend herded my little man into the building. After what seemed like an hour the back door popped open and Isaiah exclaimed “Mommy look!!” and proudly held out a little plastic baggie. Instantaiously I knew “You lost your tooth!”

It’s been weeks that we’ve been waiting for that thing to fall. Isaiah has been the definition of a snaggle toothed little boy. Every day we ask to wiggle and test it. “Is it ready yet? No, not yet” It’s been the one piece of normal that doesn’t make me want to punch something or tear at my aching heart.

He lost his tooth. For a moment there was simple joy. I felt it. I held that little baggie in my lap all the way to school, staring at that tooth, thanking God for layering a happy memory on top of the pain of that place.

I spent the majority of the rest of the day lost in the tide of my own thoughts, undulating here or there. I talked to a friend today. I told her about this theme I keep seeing emerge in the stories of grief that I read. People don’t let themselves grieve. They write that after the initial shock they threw themselves into this pursuit or that. They “got back to life.” After a year or maybe two the glass jar holding their pain takes its last deposit and shatters sending shards into every facet of their lives, again.

I’ve told God over and over (I need reminding, not Him) that I want to walk through this honestly. That I want Him to confront me with every memory and every fear and every bit of knifing pain that I need to face to be truly healed. It’s been the greatest struggle of my life to face this head on, to avoid the fleshly urge to cover it up, push it down, busy it away. The agony is seemingly unbearable. I would say that I miss him but the words fall so desperately  short of even beginning to describe…   

So in short I’ve committed to face my child’s death. To say “when Damon died.” To leave the door to his room open, to look at his pictures, to remember his laugh and to tell his stories. I’ve committed to be taken by the black when the black comes and to wail and scream and cry when I am overcome. I’ve committed to feel everything.

I’ve come to expect the pain, the constant undercurrent and the blinding explosions. I live in pain, every second of every minute, pain.

Today took me by surprise. We went to dinner because I’ve realized that I can’t stand the thought of cooking in my kitchen, of anyone cooking in my kitchen. I thought I had faced the memories held in this house so this one shook me.

Before my little Damonator was born I thought the saying “with a baby on her hip” was just an expression. I thought it just meant “she’s a mom.” Damon, however, had apparently taken it literally. I did everything, no seriously, everything with my little one on my hip. I cooked dinner with him on my hip. So tonight, cooking was out.

We went to dinner. Isaiah was in a great mood. The kids menu featured “MadGabs.” I laughed…

An entire dinner where the pain didn’t take center stage? I didn’t cry once. I loved on my kid, received suggestive winks from my love and even ate dessert. I laughed…

Does my commitment to feel everything include… happiness?

I’ve read about the guilt. I think every grief story I’ve read talks about the guilt. The guilt when a moment comes and goes when the child you lost isn’t featured in your thoughts. I had that moment tonight. I’m struggling with the guilt.

I know… I “shouldn’t” feel guilty. I freaking hate “shoulds” I DO feel guilty. It can’t be shoulded away. I DO. What do I do with this now? Like every day for the past weeks I am helpless before my grief. When I start to adjust in some small way to screaming pain I’m assaulted by a whole new arsenal of emotion.

I’m reminded of a friends words “Guilt is not of God. Guilt is of Satan.”

Time to allow my Father to speak His truth over me... again.

weakness

I rage. I scream. I cry.

I’ve asked God ‘why?’ so many times the ‘W,’ ‘H,’ & ‘Y’ on my mental keyboard are certainly entirely worn off. No worries though. I know those keys by heart.

I don’t get it. I’m pissed… then I’m distraught… then I’m so overcome with desperate wounded longing that I’m nothing. I’m just gone.

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me – 2 Corinthians 12: 9

We tend to try to cover our doubts and dark places as if they will somehow make God less God. My faith doesn’t make God ‘Godder’ and my dark places don’t make Him less. He is my shield not the other way around. 

Covenant

God has had covenant on my mind.

When Will and I were discussing marriage before we entered into our covenant he asked me what marriage meant to me. He felt, like many do that a piece of paper isn’t important, that marriage is just a symbol, a contract. God had been forming a picture of marriage in my mind for some time at that point. He had been teaching me to depend on Him for my security, to give my man room to discover who he is in God. He had been teaching me freedom. I don’t remember how exactly He formed the concept in my heart but my response to Will was “marriage is a covenant.” He looked at me like I was speaking martian “and what exactly does that mean?” He asked. I remember this all so clearly. I can still see the room and his bemused face. I responded with a seemingly simple answer that means so much more than the 16 words that explain it. “It means that I will be your wife whether you are being my husband or not.” God taught me this concept.

The first song that played at Damon’s funeral was “Praise you in this storm” by Casting Crowns. The chorus says:

And I’ll praise You in this storm

And I will lift my hands

For You are who You are

No matter where I am….

These words play over and over in my thoughts. He is who He is, no matter where I am. This is what covenant means.

Recently Isaiah has had a bit of a rainbow fascination. He made an entire book about rainbows. It’s a good eight pages long, each page illustrated with a rainbow. Page two reads “the rainbows are God’s promises.” I really believe that the heart of a child is capable of hearing God more clearly than at any other time in our lives. My sweet boy got me started thinking about the rainbow and about the promise God gave when he painted the sky with the first one.

I suddenly remembered that the day Damon was born God painted the sky with not one but two rainbows. One inside the other. I never would have known but my mom took pictures.

Today my study was about Noah. Coincidence? I think not. God brought together my two thought themes of the last days. Genesis 6, 7 & 8 tell the story of the first covenant God saw fit to include in Holy Writ, perhaps the first covenant He made. In this covenant God binds Himself to His children. God bound Himself to us, through all generations. This is so significant and beautiful and… woot woot! I can’t describe the way it makes me feel to know my God is bound to me by His Holy Word, not by some piece of paper.

Beautifully, the first covenant was not the last. He bound Himself to me with the blood of His first born at the cross

.

For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your ancestors, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect. – 1 Peter 1:18

My God, the maker of heaven and earth bound Himself to me with the blood of His son. He is who He is no matter where I am. He is my Rock and to this Rock I cling.  

Laundry

This morning likely looks like any other average Saturday morning. Isaiah came in and woke me asking for his ‘breakfix.’ I dragged myself out of bed, hoping to give my exhausted husband some extra rest. I can’t sleep anyway.

I sliced Isaiah some cinnamon bread and got myself some cereal. Today is a victory I guess. I ate breakfast. Isaiah has no clean clothes. Yesterday morning was one of the hardest. There were no clean clothes which triggered a full on 6 year old melt down. Those are hard on the best days, yesterday I barely held it together. The teachers at Isaiah’s school likely think I’ve turned into a zombie.

So, laundry. The kid needs clean clothes. But even this task is a minefield spewing the shrapnel of my former life. Yesterday Will emptied the laundry basket of its contents, baby clothes. Little shorts, little shirts, sweet PJs. I couldn’t do it. They’ve been sitting there, on the washing machine for three weeks and five days. I couldn’t bear to think about what to do with his tiny clothes. I couldn’t bear to look at them, not an entire basket full. But I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else taking them away. So there they sat. My husband is my hero. To say he’s amazing would not begin to describe the weight he carries. I adore my man.

But today as I folded laundry while Isaiah sat on the floor coloring rainbows and asking me to help him spell “The rainbows are God’s promises” (yeah, pretty stink’n beautiful, huh?) and looking for all intents and purposes like any average Saturday morning mom I had to lay a pair of mismatched baby socks on the table with my folded laundry. They’re still sitting there shooting webs of lightning through my already aching body.

My functionality is increasing. I’m able to converse, at least with one person at a time. Groups send me running back inside myself, the unexpected addition on of anyone to my world turns me into a turtle, tucked away in my shell. But I’ve been to lunch. I’ve even managed to order my own food without appearing to have some sort of disorder. This is progress. I assure you.

But the appearance of ‘normality’ is not an indicator of normality. The desperate, aching pain still churns inside. Laundry hurts, waking up at 8:15 instead of 6:00 hurts, empty arms hurt, quiet hurts. Everything hurts. I miss him and I will never be the same.

Awake

Waking up from the anesthesia is scary and disorienting. I was one of those people who never ever ever watched the news, it was too awful. I didn’t watch sad or scary movies. The sad ones made me cry (a lot) and the scary ones gave me nightmares. I simply turned everything off that wasn’t part of my world of perfect happiness. I was anesthetized. I looked at this world and saw so much beauty. I was madly in love with my life and I simply couldn’t handle anything negative. The thing is, I’m not home yet.

Slowly over the past few years I’ve begun to feel like a character in one of those freaky sci-fi movies that wakes up from some sort of virtual reality and can’t convince everyone else that what they’re seeing isn’t real. March 27^th I was confronted full force with the reality of this world and it’s ugly.

We’ve been lulled into believing we have that we aren’t at war. We’re shocked when someone we love dies unexpectedly as if there aren’t concussion grenades going off all around us, as if this is the final stop. Satan has us believing that we have time. We are blind to the signs everywhere that say ‘Danger ahead.’ We’re blind because we choose to be blind. Because if we choose to see the reality of the blackness of this world that means we have to live like strangers. No one wants to live like a stranger.

God tells us over and over that this life is rough and that we have no idea when it will be over. For a long time I walked around like that particular part of His Word was just a filler between the verses about hope and love. It’s not filler. God doesn’t waste anything, least of all words and if he repeats a concept it’s for a reason.

For the first time I really really want to go home. I finally see that I am a stranger here, that whatever beauty He has lavished on us here is just a shadow of home. I want to go home and while I’m here I want to walk with Him as closely as possible.

Today I studied Enoch. God says Enoch walked faithfully with Him and that Enoch pleased Him (Gen 5, Heb 11). The author of my study says this: God appears to have enjoyed Enoch’s company so much He saved him the trouble of dieing…Enoch walked with God for 300 years until, one day, God just walked him home. Apparently, they didn’t pass a cemetery on the way.

My eyes welled with tears as I read this. I want that! I want my God to enjoy my company!! I want to know Him and to love Him and to please Him. Can you imagine? I know in His company I find peace in the storm. I know He has taught me who I am. I know I love Him but sometimes I think I forget that He loves me, to think that He enjoys my company?! I want that. I want that always until my father walks me home.

Now

Today has been orange. I got up, showered, spent time alone with my Father and talked with a good friend all before noon. Against the heart crushing reality that is my life this is a huge victory. As I write this I sit on my couch in the early evening positively exhausted, aching for my son but floating in the truth that this day held something for me other than pain.

Yesterday God confronted me with Himself, with His ableness. He asked me, do you believe that I am able, NOW. I realized that I had been hunkered down, folded completely in on myself waiting for the storm to pass instead of opening myself up to Him, to His profound and unequaled ablility. He is able. I think until that moment I wasn’t believing Him. I wasn’t believing that there was anything He could do in my now. I believed He was here. I believed at some point in the distant future I would rejoice in Him again but it hadn’t even occurred to me to expect something of my almighty God NOW. I’m glad my abba doesn’t get frustrated with me because I get frustrated enough for the both of us.

I am a living breathing miracle. In my bible study today I was in Ephesians. I was studying the way Paul seems to fall all over himself trying to describe the glorious inheritance we receive as children of the Most High (I just got all tingly as I wrote ‘Most High’). I can hear his excitement, his breathlessness. He’s screaming, don’t you get it!?! My study asked which of the promises God describes through Paul is easiest for me to accept. It was a no brainer for me “according to the riches of His grace which He lavished on us.” I remember my pit. I know His grace.

Yet, here I am again, relearning the same lesson. HE IS ABLE.

This morning I opened my eyes to a new sensation, hope. I’ve known every step of this journey that I had hope. I’ve held onto the hope I knew I had in Jesus with white knuckled intensity but I didn’t feel anything but blinding pain. This morning I felt hope and it’s all because of faith. It’s because my Father, Lord Most High, El Roi, Jehovah jireh reminded me who He is. He reminded me that He is able.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring but I know He gave me enough for today.

Thank you

Now unto him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us, unto him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus unto all generations for ever and ever. Amen. – Ephesians 3:20-21

Baby girl, will you believe that I am able?

He spoke this message over me this morning. The challenge is to believe that He is able, not in a year or two years or when I finally get to go home, but now. In the midst of the impossible, now.

Satan comes at me at night, in the moments when I must face the quiet before sleep mercifully takes me. He repeats back to me every doubt and every question I have ever had. He tells me that the pain will never end, that my God cannot possibly be the One I have come to know and to love over the past two years.

Last night was particularly horrific. The anguish has begun to take me in the evening. I sob. I wail. I can’t stand or speak. Will holds me, for hours sometimes and the tears pour onto his chest in quantities I didn’t think physiologically possible. In the midst of his own torment my husband holds me.

When the tears finally slowed and conscious thought returned the onslaught began. Questions, doubt, fear, pain. I cried out. God, I need You. I need You. I need You. I need something tangible, something firm.

You know I’ve been held together by my brothers and sisters, by my church. I’ve been astounded at how often one of them has known, just at the right moment and responded to a call placed on their hearts. Many times over the last weeks I’ve received an apologetic text that goes something like “God just kept laying this scripture on my heart. It doesn’t seem to fit. I don’t want to hurt you but He just wont leave it alone.” It fits. He knows.

Last night through a similar situation, using sweet sisters, He brought clarity and silenced Satan. I love how God can do that. If I will listen He can shut Satan up, nothing stands against truth.

I think one of Satan’s favorite tactics is the “it’s none of my business” line. Don’t get me wrong. There are people for whom my anguish is none of their business. If you want to preach, condemn, judge or ridicule then you’re right, it’s none of your business, ever, anywhere. But God uses your love, your honest genuine openness and your willingness to obey. He uses you to heal, strengthen and support me. You are His hands and feet. You have formed a tight wall of support around my brokenness, around my wounds and that is no accident. It’s by design.

Thank you.

The shadow of death

I understand wailing. When the agony within requires a pressure valve release. I understand wailing.

When Damon died I never conceived that any moment could get worse. I never imagined that it was possible that agony could be deeper and wider than that moment but it is, it does. The ghost of life that I live now echos back all the moments of happiness in screams of pain. I feel as if for every ounce of perfection I once lived I must pay back in pounds of misery.

Will and I grope for each other in the dark. We sit in stunned silence as the horror washes over us time and time and time again. He’s gone. How is this possible?

There are moments, though I can’t remember what they feel like now, when I almost feel like maybe I can do this. Maybe I will survive after all. All the oxygen from that breath is crushed from my lungs by the next crashing wave that plunges me ever deeper and seems to hold me longer.

Such agony should not exist. Such depths of emptiness should not be. How is it that I am still breathing? How does my heart still beat? I marvel at my physical body’s ability to carry on in the midst of such debilitating suffering. I look at myself in the mirror and wonder why there is not gaping wound in my chest. Why are my lips still red?

What does my soul look like to God? Is it ripped and torn and shattered as I imagine it? Will He ever be able to heal me?

Part of me desperately wants to be healed. Yet the concept of happiness feels so foreign, like something conceived of in a dream, its memory fading.

I saw someone laugh the other day, a pure open uncontrived laugh. It hurt. I wondered what that felt like, to feel happiness without the shadow of searing pain. I don’t remember.

A Psalm keeps running through my head, over and over. Even when I can’t think there it is.

Yea though I walk

through the valley of the shadow of death

I will fear no evil

For you are with me

Your rod and you staff

they comfort me

I always thought this psalm was about David’s fear of death. Maybe it is but I know David saw death. Two of his sons died before him. He knew about the shadow of death. He knew the depths of the black. I keep thinking ‘walk through the valley of the shadow of death.’ I’m living in death’s shadow.

Suck

Have I mentioned this sucks? Because this sucks

This morning sucks. Will is at work. I needed to get Isaiah up and ready, to his allergy shot appointment then to school. This morning sucks. I woke before Isaiah did. I talked myself out of bed, got as far as the bathroom and full on retreated. Back under the covers all I had to do was think and , you guessed it, thinking sucks. Back out of bed... breathe Jodie, just breathe. I found clothes and tried to roust Isaiah from his covers. Apparently he is having a rough morning, too. The doorbell rings. My precious friend is here to walk through the nightmare of this morning with me. Thank God, I couldn't do this alone. Breathe Jodie, just breathe.

Monday's... Mondays suck. Sunday night and Monday. You'd think it would be Tuesday, we removed the ventilator on Tuesday but it's not. Sunday night holds memories of pacing, pacing, pacing. Please God, bring his fever down. Baby boy, you're so hot. ER... Just a virus... Thank you God.

Monday... The pediatricians office... There's something really wrong. Hospital, nurses, can't find a vein... He's so dehydrated. Scary procedures... Singing... Singing to my baby. Meningitis? Ambulance... PICU... Clear CT! Oh God... No, no, no. We knew, we knew he was gone. We prayed for a miracle, we begged. Tuesday we had to let go...

This morning I had to be mom. I had to take my living child to get the medicine he needs every single Monday morning. A repeat, a reminder of the morning my entire world was torn. I couldn't drive. Thank you God for precious friends. I couldn't walk into that office. Thank you God for friends.

Jesus, come soon.

Together

God has had me in Hebrews since Damon’s death. He’s been reminding me who Jesus is, of His power, His sacrifice and His completion. One day this week (they all run together) I asked God something like “I need to know You’re here, I need to know You’re powerful, I need to know that You are good, I need to know Damon is with You and I need to know I will be there soon.” He had me in Hebrews 1&2 that day:

1:3 the Son radiates God’s own glory and expresses the very character of God, and he sustains everything by the mighty power of his command.
I got chills, You are powerful…

1:9 You love justice and hate evil
You are good…

1:12b But you are always the same; you will live forever.
You’re here, always the same…

2:10 God, for whom and through whom everything was made chose to bring many children into glory.
Damon is with you…

Then we hopped over to chapter 10.
10:37 For in just a little while, the Coming One will come and not delay.
I will be there soon.

It took me a long time to process His answers. I prayed this prayer as the study that answered my questions sat open in front of me. Seriously? Wow.

Today He spoke over me the story of John. I’ve had so many questions, upon questions, upon questions. I’ve questioned every assumption I’ve ever made. I’ve asked Him over and over and over to tell me who He is. I’m clinging to Him with all my might. Everything I believe must be true. I’m not satisfied to believe that which I have been raised to believe. I am tearing the Bible apart looking for absolute truth. Who do YOU say that You are, Lord? I need to KNOW.

I feel covered in His protection. I’m oddly aware that I have not been exposed to criticism or cruelty in these tender weeks. He knows how wounded I am. I have no doubt that He is hiding me. However, the deceiver’s voice can still be heard. He’d like me to believe that all my questioning means I do not believe God, that my faith is a sham, that I am a sham. Today God refuted that claim.

John, who dedicated his entire life, his entire being to preparing the way for Jesus, who saw the Spirit descend like a dove onto the Savior just as God as promised, questioned. Sitting in prison, destined for death, likely confused, wounded, afraid, John sent his questions to Jesus. Are you for real? Was I wrong? His questions resonate with me. I recognize the agony in his voice. Jesus my Jesus, speak.

Jesus spoke “blessed is anyone who does not stumble because of me” or “God blesses those who do not turn away because of me.” I looked up the original word that is translated “stumble” or “turn away.” It is skandalizo, the definition is a paragraph long but what stood out to me is this: to cause a person to begin to distrust and desert one whom he ought to trust and obey.

I’m comforted by John today, by his story, by his questions and by his continued faith. I’m comforted by Jesus’ response to these questions. Jesus rebuked when rebuke was in order, yet, no rebuke fell on John. He reaffirms that which he has taught me over and over. Bring it to me child, whatever it is, bring it to me. We’ll walk through it together.

Homecoming

Last night Will and I sat curled together on the kitchen floor, mourning. I sobbed and touched pictures of my baby’s face. For the thousandth time in this nightmare I said “I miss him.” Will replied “murmur.”

The phrase “I love you” has long seemed insufficient in our marriage. We’ve often discussed how there should be other words, like in Greek. People say they love colors and foods and shoes. The commitment we have to each other, the emotions that go along with it don’t fit into the same category as peep-toed pumps. So, one night Will said “I love you,” I responded “more and more” but apparently my enunciation was a bit off and he heard “murmur.” Our expression was born.

To us, it means something special. Now it describes the deepening ache for our son. It isn’t getting better. It’s getting worse. We miss him more and more. The pain is more and more. The lost feeling is more and more. Murmur defines our lives today.

After last night I knew it was time to listen. When God was healing me, “the first time” as Will now puts it, I developed a habit, a specific way of approaching Him when I needed moments of deep intimacy. There’s nothing particularly special about it, except to me and Him. It places me in a position of physical submission and removes distraction so I can focus on Him. Since Damon’s death I have not approached God this way. I’ve talked to Him virtually constantly. He’s answered me clearly but I have not spent time in deep intimacy with Him. I was afraid. Afraid of what I’m not entirely sure.

This morning I hit my knees and entered His throne room. He welcomed me and swallowed me in peace. He soothed the screaming pain and waited. It took a long time for the swirling in my head to slow. Finally all I could say was “You took him, my son, You took him.” Then it occurred to me, Your throne room! I’m approaching the throne room! Is he here?! Is he here?! Yes.

I stayed there for a long time, soaking in the peace, His presence. Finally I asked the question that has been haunting me. What now Father? What do you want me to do?

In the chaos of agony that were the days between Damon’s death and the funeral there was one thing we knew, we wanted to help. I didn’t want flowers I wanted to help someone with that money. God placed orphaned children on my heart even before Damon was born and again in the months before his death. He tells us over and over again in his Word to care for the orphaned and these children are precious to me. I’ve felt so helpless to do anything. The answer was clear and Damon’s fund was born. We will use the money so many of you sent to help other couples bring their beloved children home.

I had my answer. God clearly directed my heart to this mission. What do you want me to do? Help them child. So, I will help. Undoubtedly, the paperwork will be tear-stained and it will hurt but I will help.

I’m so looking forward to the pictures, to the smiles, to the homecoming.

Pain

Will is going back to work next week. He’s concerned about me. He wants me to do something.

I sat at my kitchen table staring out the window unseeing and thought, what now? Nothing that used to seem important matters anymore.

I remember at some point, some time, somewhere hearing someone say that the things you do are not who you are. I used to think of myself as a mixture of the things I did. I was a child of God, a mommy, a wife, a scientist, a strong woman… among other things. Now I realize being Damon’s Mine-ee was at the absolute core of who I was. Who am I now? Lost, adrift, afloat.

No, I don’t fail to see that I am still Mommy to the most amazing 6 year old on the planet nor do I dismiss my covenant relationship with my husband. What about all the other stuff? What really matters?

I barely have the energy to walk through a day and still breathe. My son needs my help tying his shoes or finding his book and he has to ask me three times before I can process what he is saying. Tears flow freely and I can’t bear to look people in the eye.

Move on…move on to what?

I am awash in a feeling of desperate aloneness. Not loneliness but aloneness.

I told Will today, I keep asking God what my job is, what He wants me to do. He wouldn’t have left me here; He wouldn’t have allowed me to endure such suffering if I didn’t have a job to do so let’s have it!! Give me my job, tell me what to do!

“Have you been quiet enough to hear Him speak?” Will asked. My husband knows me well. He knows my relationship with my Creator well
.
“No!” I replied as the tears begain to flow, again.

I haven’t been still. I haven’t been quiet. It hurts too much. It’s too terrifying.

God is still speaking, through His word He answers the new questions I pose daily. Today I actually told Him “ok, this is kind of starting to freak me out.” His answers are so directly dead on, it can be a bit unnerving. But I haven’t spent time quietly alone with Him and allowed Him to speak healing into my soul. I’m so afraid to go there with Him. Maybe I’m afraid of what He will show me lurks in my own heart. I’m afraid of the pain. Every moment is pain, barely held at bay, pain.

Teach me other things

The other night I kneeled beside Isaiah’s bed after we read books and he talked to his dad. I asked “may I pray over you tonight?” He shook his head yes and nuzzled into the covers. Praying over my children aloud has not been a custom of mine. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe because after the 14th “but I’m thirsty” or “just one more book” I didn’t want to introduce yet another excuse not to go to sleep. Now, however, I need to. I need to whisper my prayers aloud to my Father where my grieving son can hear them.

I ran my fingers through Isaiah’s hair and whispered “Holy Father, please teach Isaiah to love you. In the healing and saving name of Jesus, Amen.”

“Is that all?” Isaiah asked

“That’s what I wanted to say to him lovie” I replied “is there something you would like to say to God?”

“God, please teach me other things. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” Isaiah put his request to God.

I had to stifle a laugh, not wanting him to think I was laughing at his simple, beautiful prayer. The laugh was and explosion of merriment, joy. I’m so in love with this kid, I thought. I told him my favorite verse in all of the Bible

Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know – Jer 33:3

“He will teach you lovie. Goodnight, I love you.” He was already asleep.

Up

I unloaded the dishwasher today, first time in two weeks. I went to put someting in the cabinet under the sink and noticed that the hair tie that holds the doors closed was undone. I went to replace it and realized with a shock that there was no need. There won't be little baby hands trying to get inside. Moments like this happen constantly.

My compulsory need to write drove me to the desktop today. I've been writing on Will's laptop, avoiding this screen that is covered with Damon's fingerprints. He loved this computer, loved it.

Every time I feel like I'm starting to get a handle on the sorrow, the agony reaches new depths.

Today Will and I visited the local Humane Society. We loved on every single animal in the place, every single one. I've always loved animals, they heal somehow. Toward the end of our visit we met Ulmo, an 82 lb Antolian shepherd mix. He was amazing, a gentle giant if I've ever met one. He loved on me with every once of his 82 lbs. His walker kept saying "wow, he really loves you." Animals know, the really good ones anyway. He was convinced my lap was the only acceptable place to sit. My amazing husband patiently waited while I spent the better part of an hour with Ulmo. He took pictures of the giant in my lap and for a moment, the despair lifted.

I reluctatly left Ulmo with his caretakers and headed to the car. I grabbed Will's phone to send the Ulmo picture to myself and there staring back at me was my baby. The brief moment of peace vanished and I sobbed. I cried harder this afternoon than I have in days.

I miss him and everything reminds me of him.

I used to think that I saw the world from the perspective of eternity. I've been deeply in love with God, steeped in His word for some time now. His healing changed who I was, changed how I thought, set me free. But I didn't see the world from the perspective of eternity. My heart was still for this world. This sucks, every breath hurts but I'm looking up. From now on, always looking up.

Hope

Today Will needed to be alone and I needed to be not here so I spent the day, well, not here. Here is one of the hardest places in the world to be. Here sucks.

I spend much of the day sitting on a dock with one of my dearest friends. She’s one of those rare people who doesn’t fill the silence just for the sake of filling it. She’s a gift. We talked, we didn’t talk, then we talked. She let me ramble and try to make sense of the insanity swirling in my head.

The entire world has shifted. It’s as if every particle of everything has completely come apart, then come back together in entirely new patterns. Nothing looks the same, sounds the same or feels the same. I thought maybe over the last days I had turned some sort of corner. Maybe I have. Does grief have corners? Tonight as I searched Hobby Lobby for something to make, something to do, some way to express my grief I realized that while much of that feeling that I’m walking around without any skin on, injured by even the slightest gust of wind, has dwindled the pain has seeped deeper. It’s taking root in who I am. It’s changing who I am.

This probably sounds like sci-fi or some sort of psychosis but I think it’s exactly what has to happen. The death of my beautiful, hilarious, exhausting, amazing 19 month old son should change me but I get to choose how.

And there it is again, choice.

In the moments and hours after Damon’s death I had to make a choice with every breath. Inhale, believe God, exhale, believe God, inhale believe God… It was a choice. I had to choose to bring my agony, my fury, my endless questions, my empty arms to Him. It is a choice.

I keep thinking over and over and over, there are mothers who will lose their babies and they will walk into the black, thinking they are alone… I open my eyes every morning, talk myself out of bed and keep fighting because I know in whom I have believed. I know my Jesus. I know His heart. I trust His heart even when I don’t understand the work of His hands. His truth sustains me. Nothing else could.

The word “conversion” has always bugged me. Why do we say we want to convert people? Is this Biblical? I don’t know but I know I have no desire to convert anyone. Are we vans?

What I want, the only thing that seems to matter at all anymore is for everyone to get it. Really get it. Faith is not about rules, it is not about buildings, and it is not about religion. It is about relationship. Gospel means “good news!” Jesus is GOOD news. Go into all the world and preach the good news is not a mandate to convert it is an opportunity to be couriers of letters of love. Without this love, without Yahweh this world is simply unbearable, unsurvivable and hopeless. I have hope.

Easter

I was dreading today. I kept forgetting this weekend was Easter. Someone or something would remind me and the dread would seep into my heart. This was to be the first Easter Damon could hunt eggs. I was excited; the boys would get to do this together. I figured it would be one of the only Easters they would get to this little boy thing together, soon Isaiah will be too old.

But, today is orange, not black. An image of Damon running around with that amazing Damon grin on his face finding Easter eggs has been playing on my internal movie screen over and over. It’s as crystal clear as if I had watched him do it. I’m filled with the rolling baritone of my Father’s
laugh as He watches my son find egg after egg. Surprised excitement has a special look on the face of my child. His puffy little lips form a perfect “O” his eyebrows try desperately to jump into his hair and his little hands reach for the ground and the air at the same time. It’s impossible to describe. I’ll show you a picture sometime.

Will and I laid in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. It’s been a battle to stay intertwined when grief takes us in such different directions. I wondered how God feels about Easter eggs on the day that is supposed to be a celebration of His perfect Son’s resurrection. I almost laughed. God does not have an identity crisis. He knows who He is. He is not intimidated by a bunny. He loves the children. The hunt in Heaven must be phenomenal, God laughing all the while.

I shared my thoughts with Will. We narrated the hunt together. “Whass dis?” Damon asks “that’s an Easter egg” Jesus answers, grinning ear to ear…”whass dis?” Damon asks at the next stop “that’s another Easter egg” comes the jovial answer. “It’s a good thing God is infinitely patient”
I laugh through the tears. Will imagines God saying “you’re so much like your mother.” “He knows that” I answer “He made D that way.”

Today I am filled with that rolling baritone laugh and my son’s beautiful excitement. The tears still come, in waves, in stops and starts, in sobs but I’m clinging to this moment of peace, to this joy. My baby is hunting eggs with Jesus. Jesus is alive.

No words

We’ve read every single sympathy card, every word. A recurring theme presents itself ‘there are no words.’ Tonight I sat trying to comprehend the boiling mass of emotion raging in my gut. I can’t. It’s been said that humans fall short of comprehending things for which there is not language. There is no language for this kind of grief. I am not sad, sappy movies make me sad. I don’t hurt…that word describes a stubbed toe or a sunburn. No, this desperate, gnawing, ever-present beast cannot be described. I stared into the distance and wondered if there will ever be a moment when I don’t burn. Will there ever be happiness again?

Today God gave me a gift, a day without the black. I seized it. Will and I spent the day together. We drove to “the city” and met with the artist who will render my tattoo memorializing Damon. We had no idea where we were going so Will concentrated on driving and I concentrated on navigating. It felt so good to be somewhere I had never been before. There were no memories waiting around the corner to assault me. There was just me and my man.

This brief respite was bookended by tears and ripping pain. We took my car “Bertha” (yes, we name our cars). Bertha almost never went anywhere without Damon because I almost never went anywhere without him. It hurt, more than I can describe, to see his side of the car empty. To watch that ever present movie in my head play back is silly little face looking up at me. I cried.

On the way home I was overwhelmed with the number of times Damon and I had taken that exact road, back and forth to his doctor in OKC, him asleep in the backseat. The last time I was awash with relief, he just had a virus, he would be fine. I’m haunted by what might have been. I ask, what if? What if his doctor had caught it on Friday? What if the ER doctor had taken us seriously on Sunday night? Why did I go home? Why did I listen? I wonder, was there something wrong with Damon’s little body that he could never have been fully rid of? Something about that rings true but I fear I’m answering the questions the way I want things to be and I want truth.

Could things have been different?

Will says no. In the midst of my tumult he stands steady. He is sure, certain. This is one of the many, many things I love about this man. He is so solid. He is sure that it was Damon’s time but the questions swirl in my head. I don’t voice these questions to anyone because I can’t bear to hear the speculations. I need to take them to God but I’m terrified.

God and I have walked intimately enough that I know what is required for Him to heal, to answer. He will not force Himself into any area of my life where He is not invited. You see, I have to unwrap the chains, pull away the bars and drag open the doors to my wounds. I have to be part of the process. I have to look at it. I’m terrified of what will happen when I stare into the gulf of this wound; I fear it will swallow me whole. So He waits. He is not impatient with me. I find that He is not even remotely as hard on me as I am on myself.

Soon, perhaps I will begin to unwind the binding that has only just stanched the bleeding and allow Him to begin the excruciating process of true healing. Soon, I will have the strength, I hope.

Air

Last night I begged God “please, please Father, let me wake up tomorrow without the black, please, please, please.” This morning I opened my eyes. The realization fell like a hammer, like it does every morning. Then came the flood of pain, then memories…then…nothing. The pain steadied and I counted the seconds, waiting. I stared at the ceiling. I laid there for probably half an hour, breathing. I listened to the steady sounds of Will breathing beside me and quietly thanked God. Thank you Father, thank you for the break, for the air, for this moment of simple relief. Thank you.

For every child of God defeats this evil world, and we achieve this victory through our faith.
- I John 5:4

A heart like His

I don’t understand. I sat in the back yard today. The sun was warm. I had finally pulled myself out of the black. It took the whole morning and half of the afternoon but finally I was able to speak, to move. I sat on my back porch and watched a reel play in my head, Damon giggling and bouncing on the trampoline, Damon climbing onto the table for the umpteenbillionth time, Damon digging in the dirt, Damon.

Again, I cried. I wish I could explain the pain but you’ll never understand. I hope you won’t.

I keep crying out to God. He is not silent. I asked Will this morning “It’s ok with God for me to grieve. Why can’t it be ok with everyone else?” It feels like people want to fix me, as if I’m fixable. God has promised me healing. I don’t mean in the “big guy in the sky” kind of way. He has whispered into my heart a promise. He will heal me, but it’s not time yet.

Undoubtedly He is already at work but it is going to take a long time. No matter how dark each day is, no matter how I feel I’ve committed to do the Bible study He picked for me. He is speaking directly to my fears, answering every question. When I think of all of His power of who He is…

I’m amazed.

Not by His power (though that is amazing) but by His heart.

Every time I find myself standing in amazement at my Father, the all-powerful God of the universe, I feel a little sheepish. How many times, Jodie? How many times has He shown you His glory? How many times has He met you on your knees and sung words of healing into your heart? How many times? Too many to count. It’s as if I expected Him to change. My world was rocked, my heart is torn, my arms are empty; He is still the great I AM. He is still exactly who He is. The storm rages all around me; He stands firm. “Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you.” He means it.

Messengers

Grief is not what you expect it to be. The darkness is darker than anything you can imagine but perhaps more surprising are the moments of relief. This morning I was sure I would be swallowed whole by the grief. I was sure the overwhelming pain would drag me to the depths and hold me there forever. Our friends brought their bundle of fluffy silliness over. His name is Eddy. We took Eddy with us to pick Isaiah up from school. The normal, routineness of picking Isaiah up, same place as always, same kids, same sounds, same world, was both painful and healing. Isaiah giggled as only my amazing 6 year old can giggle in response to the wiggly, waggy tailed furball. And there it was, a crack in the suffocating black. Suddenly light, laughter.

One of Damon’s nurses came by today. I was sitting at the kitchen table writing to God. The last words I wrote before she knocked were “do something!” She brought a wreath, a card, and something she wrote. She explained that it just poured out of her the night before Damon’s funeral. Something told me “Jodie, you want to read this.” So I did. It spoke directly to so many of my questions, so many of my fears. I believe it poured out of her. I know where it came from. I’m so thankful that she was obedient to the Spirit. It must have been hard to come here. It must have been hard to hand over her words, not wanting to hurt, hoping to help.

For Damon's Mom

I met a precious soul today...he touched my heart...
No words- and yet- so much to say, that when he left, I begged the Lord,
To heal this child, and spare his mom, the pain that she would feel -
if from this earth - he'd have to go to Heaven...to be healed.

I watched her hold him in her arms, wrapped in love- secure-
Her fortress from the cruel fact,
that even love-can't hold one back-
When health is gone and time is short...and heaven calls us home.

Her deepest pain and agony, her tears that cry, "Lord-why?"
Can't take away- the darkest day, this little one was swept away,
When earthly ties can't keep him here and she has met... her greatest fear
that they'll live life without this one... and never understand

We'll grieve- for we connot explain... the depth, the width - unmeasured pain,
I close my eyes and say... "Lord, this cannot be true".. And yet- I know the facts...
My faith feels lost- I feel forsaken,
The things I thought I knew- are shaken,
I'm angry- and my heart cries out... I just want him back!

Then, I hear your whisper.....,
"Heaven was the only place- That this sweet child- could feel the grace...
of whole and painless healing"
For medicine could not supply, or meet the needs, of this sweet child
And partial help would leave him here...to suffer and to cry.

So, our Great Physician took him home and spared him of all pain,
He's skipping through a field of flowers... all sunshine... and no rain-
Restored and whole! ...with understanding - we have yet to gain
He's waiting there to see you, and he'll know you by your name.

So how, then, can we deal with this?
The pain, that we must bear?
Help us to remember and teach us how to share,
That sometimes... love means letting go, so loved ones truely rest,
We have to take on earthly pain, of heartfelt brokeness.

One step,
one step,
...and then the next...
a family here today,
Another son, whose grieving,
who needs your loving ways...

He'll learn from you that faith sustains, the truths that we believe,
He'll learn that life can be survived... even when we grieve.
It's not the job, that you expected, wanted or conceived-
But it's a part of who you are... and the legacy you'll leave.

I know that you can do it.
I've seen your strenght so strong...
In the middle of your heartache, I heard you sing him songs,
I saw you go beyond yourself, wigh perfect love complete,
A mother's love- so true- so pure- so comforting... so sweet...

Damon spent those hours, wrapped in your arms of love,
While earthly forces fought their best, the Father watched above,
And when his little body tired, and he had done his best,
You made the choice to honor him and let his body rest.

Isaiah will be blessed by you, and he will give you hope,
To face each day... one at a time... and help each other cope.

I met a precious sould today, he touched my heart...
No words, and yet so much to say,
I knew that he was special...
I knew it from the start.

Black

Today is black. There is no other way to describe it, black. I opened my eyes to sunlight streaming in through the window. I hated the sun this morning. I hated it for shining when all should have been dark. Maybe I hated it most of all for its helplessness to penetrate the black.

Will was up, rocking in his favorite chair, the chair that I rocked Damon in the last night he was ever in this house. It still smells like his vomit but apparently I’m the only one who can smell it. When he rocks his chair squeaks, it always has, the sound makes my stomach turn. I want to scream.

My stomach growled and I turned my fury inward. How could my body call out for food when all my heart wants to do is die? How do my lungs still take in air? My heartbeat is like a mocking voice “yes, you’re still here.”

I laid there, unable to move. My stomach growls, my heart beats but the parts of my body that are supposed to be under my command refuse to respond. Nothing. Finally, the familiar sounds of that chair bore into my brain and I run. I run to the front porch. I sit, alone. People drive by and stare. The rational part of my mind tells me they are probably looking at the assortment of flowers that now adorns our porch but I want to scream at them all the same. There is no refuge here.

I venture back inside and am driven to the back of the house by the incessant squeak, squeak. My path takes me past Damon’s room and the fury explodes. I screamed and beat the closet door. I screamed and screamed. It was sound I didn’t know I could make, feral. I collapsed on the floor in sobs. My husband came to me, held me, and I screamed. My hands hurt from the beating
and my throat is sore and raspy. Good, I think, good. All I can think over and over and over is “I want to go home. I want to go home.” Jesus, come soon.

living hell

The phrase “a living hell” keeps coming to mind. I mentally scold myself for thinking it. Hell is a real place, not just a turn of phrase but that’s how I feel. I’m in anguish. It’s an anguish so powerful there is no voice for it. I’m so overcome with horror I can’t even cry. My house is empty.
The cradle of all of my happiness, the gathering place for my precious ones is empty. There was no bedtime routine tonight. No lullaby to sing. Damon wont wake up in the middle of the night and need his pacifier. The blackness is so profound, so thorough, there are no words.

God my God I cry out, your beloved needs you now.

Home

Today we are going back to the house. I can’t bring myself to call it “home.” That word hurts. Home is where your family lives, where you raise your babies, a place filled with laughter and memories. I was always absolutely determined to make our home exactly that, safe. I grew up singing “this world is not my home, I’m just a passing through.” To be most candid heaven was sort of an intangible, ethereal place. I wanted to go there but mostly because I didn’t want to go to hell. Streets of gold and all that didn’t really appeal to me. I wanted to watch my babies grow up, to go to basketball games, graduations and hold my grandbabies, then I would be ready. My entire view of the world has changed. Partially because I want to hold Damon again, because I want to see him so desperately but also because I’ve finally clearly realized something. This world is not my home. My Father did not create me to suffer, to lose, to cry until I nearly throw up.

When the doctors told us how bad it was, when they told us there was no hope we cried out “No! Take me instead!” I recently heard a lesson by one of my favorite bible teachers. She explained that God looks past the desire of our heart to the heart of our desire. That may just seem like semantics but today, to me it makes perfect sense. Days after Damon went home I realized that my abba gave me exactly what I had begged for over and over on my knees. He made sure Damon went home, he protected my child. He certainly did not do this in the way I expected or the way I wanted! But that is exactly what He did. I would rather miss him, ache, hurt, lose sleep every second for the rest of my life than for that precious baby to suffer. God gave me the heart of my desire. I’ve often told Isaiah when he tells me things aren’t fair, when he tells me I’m too strict “I’m a lot more interested in you becoming a man of God than your life being easy.” Well, there it is.

This doesn’t make anything easy. Today, and likely tomorrow and the next day and the next, will be pure torture but I’ll take it because one day I’m going home.

Thankful

Today two of my precious sisters dropped their lives and drove an hour to sit and listen to us talk about Damon. It hurts. It hurts to say his name, to remember his silly little habits and his tendency to poop in the bath tub but it hurts a million times more not to. They watched a video of him dancing and we laughed. I laughed today. They will never understand the gift they gave me. I miss him, every second, every minute, every day. I miss him.

I'm held together today by the strength of the church. Not a building, not a denomination, not an idea, the church, Christ's body. Every morning I wake to text messages of scripture. In the first days I held to these like air. I didn't have the strength to search His word myself, my brothers and sisters brought it to me. We are covered over with prayer constantly. Our small group has committed to walk with us for the long haul, they have committed to not forget, not ever let us walk alone. Grateful is not a strong enough word.

I know there are those who have sworn off "church." I was one. I was so wounded and broken by hypocrisy that I refused to be a part of a body of believers. God slowly healed me of those wounds and today I cling to my brothers and sisters. We are to be His hands and feet. Today I am carried. Today I am thankful.

Rain

It’s raining today. Finally, I think. Finally the world reflects the darkness inside of me. But it doesn’t, not really. Birds are singing. No birds sing in my world. There is no light, no air, no song. I haven’t cried yet today, that’s new. It makes me wonder, where am I now on this lonely journey? I would say I’m numb but the pain is so present this can’t be numbness, exhaustion maybe. Maybe I’m just too tired to cry. The anger is starting to build. It has no direction, no focus. It’s just there, rolling in my chest. I dreamt this morning, the first time since my baby left my life. Maybe I haven’t been dreaming because I’ve been so doped up on Tylenol PM. I don’t know, but I was thankful. I actually thanked God last night that I hadn’t dreamt of him and then it came. My child was alive, he was asleep in my arms, his precious little blonde curls were soaked with sweat. In the dream I knew the crisis had passed and then I woke up.

I’ve been crying out to God. I thought I had cried out before. I thought I had been desperate before, in the blackness of my self-made pit but that was nothing compared to this. I am desperate. I’ve asked over and over to see Him. Lord, I NEED to know You’re there! I need to know You’re real. I’ve been desperate for His voice, for His peace.

I tend to get very annoyed with people who claim to want God, who claim to desperately want to hear His voice and yet do nothing to seek Him. I’ve wanted to scream so many times “Well, are you in the Word?” So I followed my own obnoxious advice. My precious Papa and Nannie took us to Mardel. I sat on the floor in front of a wall of Bible studies and called out to my Father. Which one? At the moment I’m overwhelmed by questions like: would you like some butter? As desperate as I am to hear Him speak choosing among the dozen or so studies written by my favorite Bible teacher, not to mention the hundreds of others took my breath away. I narrowed it to two. I laid one on my left and one on my right (did I mention I was on my knees in the middle of a store). I laid one hand on each and prayed: which one? It was obvious which one God had chosen, the one on my right. Of course it was not the one I was hoping He would choose. This almost made me laugh, almost.

I dug into the study and at last…a measure of peace. It is inexplicable but there it was, peace. The pain was not gone, not by a long shot but there was peace. Undoubtedly, He will teach me so many things through this study. He always does but for now I am clinging to the verse He gave me yesterday.

Hebrews 10:35 So do not throw away this confident trust in the Lord. Remember the great reward it brings you!

I wrote it on my arm in permanent marker. I asked, He spoke. Praise the Lord oh my soul! All my inmost being praise His Holy name!!