The Big Race

The kids giving the "Ready, Set, Go," for the big race.

Two weeks ago, I was waking up, not wanting to peek outside to see what the weather was doing.  The previous week was filled with snow, cold temperatures and your basic gloom.  I knew race day may not be as great, if the weather didn't cooperate.  But it was sunny-Phew!

What wasn't sunny, was my attitude about the flooding that had occurred in the basement the day before, so before I was off to the races, I was meeting with a plumper and making future plans for a visit from good old Roto-Rooter.  At times like those, I really really miss Dave's handy dandy do-it-yourself skills.  Everything ended up being a basic clog, and the Rooter guy didn't even pull out any My Little Ponies or Power Ranger action figures, which I thought could be the culprit.

Anyway, that whole business put me a little behind schedule that morning.  So, we all hurried (at least I tried to get everyone to hurry, but four year old have no idea what that means) out the door and headed for the park.  I parked at the first open spot and told everyone to grab hands and "HURRY" once again.    We hustled to the edge of a steep hill that leads to the park and there I had to take a moment.  In my mind is a snapshot of the hundreds of people that were already there.  To say I was overwhelmed a would be an understatement.

A couple weeks earlier, I knew that there were only 25 people signed up.  That could have been a little awkward on race day, if our family made up 20 percent of racers.

By the time we were running in, all the kids were being warmed up by none other than Justin Armour, and the Manitou mascot, Manny the Mustang.  That brings me to a side note.

When Dave and I moved to Manitou, I was a little uncertain.  Dave was in love with Manitou before we even moved in but I, personally, wasn't sure that we could live up to the cool factor that seems to reside inside most Manitoids.  He convinced me that it would be a good fit for our family, despite our lack of coolness.  I have said so many times, since Dave died, that I'm so relieved and grateful that I live in this area, because it is unique in the sense that there is a real feeling of community.  All that to say, they had bussed high school kids over to the race to help out.  Again, overwhelmed doesn't even seem to express how I felt and feel even as I write this two weeks later.

Without the high schoolers there, my kids wouldn't have run the kid race.  When I tried to get the girls to get lined up to run, they would have none of it, but as soon as Holly, our high school babysitter, suggested it, they were lined up and ready go.  The kid run was so cute.  At the end, all the adults, made a tunnel for them to run under.  I wish I had a picture of Maci and Leah at the end.  In true form, Maci came running through the tunnel with high fives and huge smiles.  Right behind her was Leah with rolled eyes and a look that said, "Who on earth would call this a fun run?"  They are so funny.

After the kids' fun run, the adults were up.  As I headed to the microphone to say a few words, I was examining how I was feeling.  I had anticipated a feeling of bittersweet.  I figured that I would feel happy to be so supported, but sad for the reason that we were there.  My assumption was wrong, though.  This part is going to sound cheesy, at best,  and maybe even like I am making it up, but it felt physically impossible to feel sadness or sorrow at the race.  I only felt excitement and joy.  It literally seemed like Dave were present.  I don't know how that sounds to other people.  It sounds fabricated and like something someone would say on a Hallmark movie, but it really did seem like he was there.  I can't fully explain it.  It seemed like I would be dishonoring him, if I were sad.  I, for reals, (to use a term from 7th grade) kept feeling that he just thought it was so cool that there was a race in honor of him.  I just knew that he was so proud of his Manitou community, his work community, his church community and even all the people there, who he didn't even know.  There was no way that he wasn't smiling huge, and for that, I couldn't stop smiling  (except from maybe mile 2 to 3).  Unfortunately, my excitement didn't propel my running to a new level, but I did run the whole race, if that counts for anything.  Thanks Misty and Brittany for running with me.

Speaking of thanks, I can't thank all of you that volunteered and helped out with the race, enough.  I am still amazed with how every detail was so professionally done.  I can't imagine all the work that went into it.  Thank you so much, Laura Morgan, for birthing this idea and for carrying it out.  I can't express to you, how important it was to feel that sort of joy again. Not to mention the almost $15,000 that it raised for our family.  How unbelievable is that?  Seriously!?! Unbelievable!!!!  Thank you all so so so so much for being a part of this amazing day.  I'm not exaggerating when I say, I would definitely point to this day and say that it was a kind of turning point in my new life without Dave.  I sure miss that guy!

Jury Duty

You know you're life is at a pretty low point, when you are actually kind of looking forward to jury duty.  I acted like, "Really?" Now jury duty?" However, there was a part of me that was a touch giddy at the idea of waiting for my name to be called, while reading a book on my iPhone.  I wouldn't have even been opposed to sitting in on a juicy traffic violation of some sort?   I could feel like I actually accomplished something as I will have fulfilled my civic duty, all while my mom watched my kids.  How was any of that a bad deal?  It wasn't.  I didn't end up reading my book, but I did sit and talk with a new friend and I watched the first part of  National Treasure, twice.  Again, not too bad.  But, by the time Nicolas Cage stole the Declaration of Independence the second time, the fun was over and my cluster of people were ushered upstairs to a courtroom.

There was a group of 72 random (and I mean that in more ways than one) people, sitting in assigned seats, all awaiting our next set of directions. I didn't think that it would be humanly possible for the room to be as quiet as it was, with all of those people sitting hip to hip, but you could literally hear people breathing.  The judge finally entered the room and we all stood.  He began to outline for us, the next couple of days, and for 14 people, the next three weeks.  We were all staring headlong into the possibility of being chosen to decide the innocence or guilt of a man accused of murder.  I'm not gonna lie.  There was certainly a part that seemed pretty exciting.  I sat the entire day, actually thinking that maybe I could do this . . .   maybe it would be a good break from reality . . . maybe I'd be a great juror, because I want justice to win, just like everybody else.  

After the judges introduction, he opened up the floor and gave everyone permission to share, if they chose, what "hardships" they were facing that would keep them from being able to perform their duties as juror.  Some had finals and group projects on the horizon. Some had parents with failing health. Some had child care issues. Others lived far away, but very very few "hardships" actually qualified according to the law and to the judge.  During these hours, the room was full of practicing jurors.  As each person shared, you could see everyone examining whether or not the voiced hardship in life was a valid reason to be dismissed from the room.  And the retired gentleman behind me, complete with his foam front hat and his San Francisco black sateen jacket would huff and sigh in utter disappointment, each time someone would raise their hand to speak. You could tell he was disgusted with the American people.  I listened and I watched, but I didn't say anything.

It seemed like people had some legit reasons, but the judge and Mr. San Francisco didn't think so.  I kept wondering if my situation was a "hardship" that would qualify.  I figured I would let something else weed me out.  I didn't want to use Dave's death to be boiled down to an excuse to get out of jury duty, even if it was legit.  A group of us were then let go for the night, but a portion of the 72 remained to speak to the judge and attorneys one by one.

I left the courthouse and re-entered my actual life.  I headed to Grief Workshop, which did NOT impress me at all.  One of the speakers said, "You will wear your friends out.  It's a fact."  That's great. And so encouraging to hear.   Then our small group met, which was semi-fine, but over and over again, I kept thinking, "Oh, I can't wait to tell Dave . . . ."  How ridiculous is that?  I'm in Grief Workshop, repeatedly wanting to tell Dave what everyone is saying and what I am thinking.  So frustrating!  I went home and cried.  I, also, realized that I was super delusional thinking that I could remotely pull off being a juror in a murder trial.  That was the denial phase of grief speaking.

It was about 9:45 the next morning by the time the one by ones were finished getting interviewed.  Most of them were sent packing.  When we entered the courtroom, there was a much smaller number of people and in my most judgmental view, I thought that only about half of the remaining crowd would be fit to sit on a jury for a murder trial.  The judge asked one last time if there were any others with a hardship that may prevent them from providing this man with a fair trial.  A few people spoke and each plea for a dismissal was shot down.  My heart was seriously pounding.  I literally could not figure out if mine would qualify.  I was starting to realize that my worst fear was that that everyone, judge included, would not see my hardship as that hard.  With my heart pounding wildly, I raised my hand and choked out the words, "My husband recently died."  Where did these tears come from?  I was trying so hard to remain composed in front of all these strangers.  The judge just barely could make out what I was saying, and he said, "Did I just hear you right?  Did you just say that your husband recently died?"  I said "yes."  He asked if I thought that this would impair my abilities as a juror and in a lot more words than necessary, I said "yes," again.  I don't know what made it feel so unbearably vulnerable, but I felt like I was sitting naked in front of all these people.  Nobody else was crying - only me.  Then, in a very sweet way, the judge said, "This is big."  Then I started crying a little harder.  What a relief to hear him say that.  "This is big."  Then he thanked me for giving it a try, which to me, was like acknowledging that I wasn't just trying to use this as an excuse to not serve in this capacity.  And then he finished with, "For what it is worth, you will be OK."  Then I got up, and left, and went back to my real life.

Spencer's Story To Tell

Whew!  Finally, I am sitting behind my computer.  My last post was a doozie for me, no doubt.  I'm so glad I wrote it when I did, because life all of the sudden went into turbo and I've really been missing time to just be, and think and cry and write and it's making me feel pretty brittle the past few days.  I thought I would write on Easter, but then what I was going to write about was Easter. It just seemed too contrived, so I waited and now I'm jumbly with thoughts and have quite a tangle to unravel.  So here we go.

In reference to my last post, Dave got me an iPad for Christmas.  We usually buy each other things like cheap flip flops, a cool flashlight, or a Sonic shake, so this was WAY WAY out of our present giving league.  It's funny that I should am writing about this tonight, because an hour ago, Spencer said, "who was that iPad for?" We recounted the story together and he said, "I wish you would have opened it and I wish Daddy could have been there for his last Christmas."  Ah - that Spencer.  That is who I want to talk about tonight.

I struggled for awhile about writing about my kids.  In large part, because it was just emotionally impossible, but also because I had to figure something out.  In adoption training there was a whole chapter about how you will handle your child's story. At the time, keeping our unknown (at the time of training) child's story private and just for them seemed so special and keeping it secret made it seem so sacred.  Fortunately, I totally forgot about that sweet notion and I just have told whoever asks that Maci's mom was young and we don't know who the dad is.  There you have it.  I didn't even think for a minute about keeping her story secret and now I'm glad.  If I would have thought about it, I would have thought way too much about it and analyzed every pro and con of it and driven myself crazy. It has led me to think about a phrase that I feel like I have heard more and more lately.  "It's not my story to tell."  It sounds very protective.  It sounds very ungossipy.  It sounds like there would be nothing bad in that phrase, but I think there can be.  Stories left in the dark can often times take on a new and detrimental story line of their own.  I don't want Spencer to feel like his story should be a secret or that there is any shame in anything that he has done or said, so I'm outing him. Or at least, I'm cracking the vault on some of our conversations.

Telling Spencer that his dad died was easily one of the most horrific sentences to every come out of my mouth.  Friends picked him up early from school (randomly enough he also talked about that tonight, too).  He was wearing khakis and a striped zip up sweater, of which he has not worn since.  I remember him coming through the front door and dropping his jacket and backpack on the floor and was excited to see all these people in our house.  When I delivered the news, which seemed super unreal to me in that moment, he reacted in a way that was somewhat similar to my reaction.  He was just in shock, but the shock soon gave way to tears.  Ah, that Spencer.

Fast forward a few days to Dave's services.  Before we went to the viewing that night, I spent a couple hours with Spence, reading a kids book about the death of a loved one and drawing some pictures for him to put in Dave's pocket that night.  He thoughtfully and painstakingly drew the sun, some grass, a cross, a flower, himself, and his daddy.  Then he moved on to another drawing, but before he got too far, he went back to his original work.  He started adding a little length to Dave's hair and changing his eye color.  I asked him what he was doing, and he said that he was making that me.  In true mother form, I felt like I needed to control this situation, fearing that he would regret for the rest of his life changing Dave into me on his final piece of artwork to his dad.  Desperately trying to play it cool, I urged Spence to keep Dave in the picture, but he just said, "No, this is you."  THEN, on the cross, he drew Dave.  He knew exactly what he was doing.  Could there ever be a more meaningful picture, a deeply bitter and a deeply sweet piece of six year old art?  Ah, that Spencer.

Speaking of the cross, on almost every Easter Sunday, it has bothered me that I don't have a more emotional reaction to what Jesus has done for me.  I mean, one would think that particularly on this Easter Sunday, I would just be on my knees thanking my Jesus for dying on the cross, so that I can be with Him and be reunited with Dave again someday.  I should have been weeping with gratitude for conquering even death.  However, Easter Sunday went more like this.  On the way to church, in the van, Leah informed me that she was still wearing her pajama bottoms (fortunately they kinda matched) and Spencer informed me that his buttons were off by 2 spaces, all while the three of them ate their Easter breakfast of Cliff Bars.  Then we got to church and even though I have been going there for 16 years, I still couldn't figure out where the kids go on Easter Sunday for crying out loud, so I brought them to "big church," as they call it.  We sat in the very last row of the balcony, because trying to keep my three kids settled, without any bribes handy, during a longish sermon, is no easy task.  Easter Sunday was no different.   The early service is fairly well known for hosting the somewhat more seasoned, and I might add, stoic crowd.  I mean, the choir was singing this amazing song that made you think that angels were going to appear and start dancing down the isles.  Yet, all the millions of grey hairs in the that room didn't move a millimeter.  I didn't hear a toe tap in the crowd, except for the little Ethiopian next to me.  I'm not even kidding when I say that it looked like she grew up in a Glory Hallelujah Amen Amen Black Church.  She was clappin' her hands and swayin' and reachin' toward heaven.  Then the song ended and in stark contrast an, also, very seasoned pastor announced in his quiet, crackling voice.  "Welcome.  Toooodaaaay is Eeeeaster Sunday."  To which Maci, literally yelled (which is pretty much her regular speaking voice), "It's Easter Sunday!!!!!!!!!"  Based on her reaction, I think she was the only one in the crowd to really understand Easter.  I love, love, love, my church, but mark my words.  Next Easter I'm going to a church with a little more color.  Can I get an Amen?

Anyway, I have clearly digressed.  The point is, it has always been hard for me to find the emotion that I think should rise up on Easter.  Maybe because there are so many distractions on Easter?  Who knows.  That being said, Easter Sunday rarely causes my gratitude for Jesus to swell, but I can't say the same for the conversations that Spencer and I have shared since Dave's death, as we have read and reread and reread again the Easter story.  There is something about it that Spencer knows is important.  Not to his head, but to his heart.  Each new read through, he has new questions and each time I fumble around trying to explain the Trinity to a six year old.  Trying to explain that Jesus was fully God and fully human. In fact, I think I wrote in my journal, our last conversation.  Here it is:

March 13, 2013

Oh Spencer!  I’m so sorry that you lost your daddy.  Tonight, Spencer just cried.  He didn’t make excuses as to why his eyes were watery, he just cried.  Spence said, “I’m just sad.”  “I’m sad and I’m scared.”  I asked why he was scared and he said, “Because Daddy isn’t here.”  He then asked if I could marry someone else.  I said I maybe could someday.  Spencer then said something to the effect of “Somebody else might do.”  Then it was followed by a swell of tears and he said, “but I’ll never forget Daddy.”  Then tears and tears and tears.  By both of us.  I don’t always know what is the right thing to do.  Do I cry, because I want to cry with him and show him that it is OK to cry and maybe if I cry, he will cry a little harder and get it out.  Or should I be the strong one.  Should I button it up a little and tell him we are going to be OK.  So, I go for a mix.  I cry with him for a bit, then pull it together, tell him that we are going to be OK and then we cry together for another round.  He just keeps saying, “I want to go to heaven now.”  I explain that we will get to go to heaven and that we are just here for a short  time compared to how long we are in heaven.  He says through watery eyes and shaky breath, but with a smile, “Daddy can’t die in heaven.”  Then I ask him if he wants to read the Bible.  By this time the crying is subsiding a little and I tend to Leah who is all out of sorts in her own room crying over something.  I go in her room, she sees my tears and gives me a kiss and a hug and says, “There’s a Daddy kiss and a Daddy hug.”  I sing to her the old Eagle Lake Camp song, which is where Dave and I both went to camp when we were growing up.  We figured we probably were there at the same time at least one summer.  Crazy, huh?  

Anyway, I went back into Spencer’s room and asked if he wanted to read from the Kid’s Bible or the regular Bible and for the first time he wanted to read out of the regular Bible.  I got Dave’s Bible, coffee stain and all (he doesn’t even drink coffee) and Spencer tells me that he wants to read the story of Jesus dying.  So, I read and he listens intently.  When we got to the part where it says, “In the same way the chief priests, the teachers of the law and the elders mocked him.  ‘He saved others, but he can’t save himself!'"  Spencer said, “He could have, couldn’t he?”  Then we talked about that for a bit.  Then he asked, “Why didn’t he?” And then we talked about how people had to sacrifice a perfect animal to God to cover their sins, before Jesus died and a lot about all of that.  And then he asked, “How was Jesus’s blood so powerful?”  Then we talked about that for a bit.  Then we finished the story.  Then I went in my room and cried.  Oh, Baby.  I’m so sorry.  

  
That was just one of our conversations.  Each time we have these conversations, it is like heaven touches earth for those moments.  It was like that when Dave first died.  Heaven felt just as real as earth.  Now heaven feels most real when Spencer and I talk about it together. It feels like a testimony to me that Spencer has this earnest need to understand and know Jesus.  I'm watching before my very eyes this child ask questions of eternal meaning.  How does he know that this is so important???  It is something born within him.  Spencer LOVES Star Wars and Star Wars is what Dave and Spencer played, watched and talked about, but Spencer doesn't have a heart need to know about Star Wars.  He has a heart need to know Jesus.  Jesus is what takes the sting away on the nights when Spencer is so torn up.  The same is true for me.

Isaiah 24:8 - He will swallow up death forever.  The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces; he will remove his people's disgrace from all the earth.  The Lord has spoken.  In that day they will say, "Surely this is our God; we trusted in him, and he saved us. This is the Lord, we trusted in him; let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation."

The Day Of

I'm gonna do it.  This is a post that I need to write, because I can feel it becoming bigger than what it needs to be.  Each time I have even thought about writing it out, my stomach churns, my heart goes brittle and I end up watching TLC instead.  I can't let the dread of writing it grow any bigger, so on the third month anniversary of Dave's death, I will recount the events of December 21st, 2012.  The unequivocal worst day of my life.  

Dave wanted to get to work about an hour early that morning.  We were going to be heading out of town for Christmas and the schedule at work was a little up in the air, so he wanted to get a beat on that, before a meeting started at 8:00.  His 4Runner was in the shop, so either I was going to have to bring him, or he was going to ride his bike or jog to work.  The night before when he said that he needed to get to work early, I sarcastically said, "Don't look at me.  I'm not getting everybody out of bed early to drive you to work."  Then I went on to tell him that I would totally bring him in.  We said a couple more things about it and he convinced me that he really wanted to run to work.  

His alarm clock rang early. Probably around 5:45.  He usually presses snooze a couple hundred times, but I don't know if he did that morning or not.  I kinda heard him getting ready, but I know I never even looked at him.  What I do know, is that before he left the room, he said, "Holly, I'm leaving.  I love you."  I totally heard it and I totally didn't even respond.  I remember thinking that if I started talking that I would wake up and not be able to go back to sleep for an extra hour or so.  When I finally started stirring, the first thing I did was grab my phone and text Dave.  It was at 7:06am.  I wrote, "Holy cow-I can't believe u ran to work in this weather. Your are pretty studly." I know that text sounds kinda 8th gradish, but I'm sure he would've loved it, had he gotten it.  

At 7:50, I piled the kids in the car to bring Spencer to school.  My phone never rang, but I got the little alarm that says you have a message.  I listened to the message en route to school.  It said, "This is Kelly (or Karri) from Penrose Main Emergency room and I need you to call me back."  I was at about a 5 out of 10 on the panic scale.  I have a tendency to go to the worst case scenario and I did, but then I talked myself out of it, because the worst case scenario really never happens.  However, since Dave should be at Memorial Hospital in the event of an accident, I knew that this was either in relation to something or someone else, or that Dave was unconscious at best and not alive at worst.  I thought I better drop Spencer off at school, in the even that something terrible did happen to Dave, so that he was taken care of for the day.  Spencer got out of the car and I dialed Dave's cell number thinking that Dave would pick up and my rising anxiety could be put to rest.  He didn't answer, so with rising panic, I called his work number.  Ninety-eight times out of 100, he answers his work number, so I knew I was going to hear his voice on the other side.  No answer again!  My panic had soared to about 9 out of 10 by this point.  I drove home as fast as possible, figuring that I shouldn't be getting whatever news this was, while behind the wheel of car with two little four year olds in the back.  We got in the house and found the land line, which was no easy task when I was so frantic, and I called the hospital.  The nurse asked if I was Dave's wife.   She said that I needed to come to the hospital, but have someone drive me.  You can only imagine how much I was freaking out by this time.  I said, "I just need to know if he is alive."  Then she said, "You just need to stay calm, find someone to bring you to the hospital."  I said, "No, I just need to know if he is still alive."  She said, "I'm so sorry, but he's not."  

I really did think that this had to be a dream.  You hear that all the time, but I kept thinking that it just had to be a dream.  The girls were already in full play mode, with their princess dresses on and plastic jewelry draping from their necks.  I called my mom and told her the news that I just received.  I wasn't even crying.  Then I called his mom and told her and kinda started crying, but mostly because I should be crying at this point.  Then I called my friend Kate and told her that Dave had died and that I needed a ride to the hospital.  I was trying to make all these ridiculous plans about how I wanted the kids to come with me, etc, but fortunately people were overriding my in shock decisions.  Then I called my mom again and that is when the real hysterical, madness tears starting coming. "  I remember saying a lot of "Help me's" and "I can't do this."  At this point, it was obvious to the girls that something wasn't right.  I was trying to stay out of the freak out so much that I scar my children zone, but I'm not sure how successful I was.  I'll find out someday, when they are in therapy, I guess.  I told them that daddy died, but they just pretty much carried on with their princess play, which is what I kind of expected.  When I got to the hospital, I think that there were already about 30 people there, or maybe they came a little after.  I can't really remember.  I was ushered into a little, cream colored room, decorated with a sweet, older chaplain.  I'm sure he's seen his fair share of grief, but I'm not sure he knew what he was in for that day.  The nurse with a bit of a valley girl lilt in her speech entered with an already hurting expression.  She talked to me about how a biker found him on a path and called 911.  The rescue workers worked on him for 40 minutes, but his heart remained in only a quivering state.  The words she spoke to me, indicated that it could have possibly been a heart attack, but she certainly didn't say it.  

The volume of my words was uncontrollable.  I kept apologizing for cry-talking so loud, but I couldn't help it.  I kept saying, "I didn't even tell him that I loved him, before he left."  I was also so focused on the fact that he tried to give me my Christmas present the night before - twice, but I rejected the notion - twice.  He was so excited to give it to me, but I didn't open it!  I hate that part of the story!  See, I like anticipation to build when I'm going to open a present, and sitting outside the car fix it place in the dark, didn't feel like the right time to open a great present.  Then on the drive home, he said, "Holly you deserve this present for all that you do.  It was kind of expensive, so don't buy me anything."  I mean really . . .  could I have married a sweeter guy?  It also didn't feel like the right time to open it in the middle of putting the kids to bed.  And then we started drinking a little wine and watching, "Christmas Vacation," and then we went to bed.  So, I've always been really sad about not opening the present that he was so excited to give me.  

That morning, probably while paramedics were furiously trying to save his life,  I had actually cracked open a Bible study about Hagar and her son, Ishmael, wandering in the desert without food and water and they were about to die.  God heard the boy's cry, provided a well, and told Hagar to not be afraid and that He would make Ishmael into a great nation.  The whole point of the study was that GOD SEES.  I wanted to do the study in full, because I really felt like just months before God was seeing our situation with Negusu when for a long time, I didn't think that he did.  Anyway, that may seem random, but it plays back into the hospital.  I remember wanting to find the verses that I read that morning.  I thought maybe those verses would mean something a couple of critical hours later.  I was loudly, of course, asking for a Bible.  The dear chaplain finally handed his over to me, I opened it up, and it wasn't a normal Bible.  It must be a look alike that carries only comforting words from the Bible.  I remember handing it back and asking for a real Bible.  I never did find those verses while at the hospital.  

Then an officer came in and told us that it is being treated as a crime, because nobody was there to witness the death.  They also said that I would get the autopsy results the next day.  It turned out that they were off by about 5 weeks with that estimate! (By the way, I found out just last week, that he didn't die of a mitral valve prolapse.  He had a heart defect where the coronary artery goes through the heart muscle instead of around it and for some reason, with that one beat, the heart muscle closed around the artery). Then the chaplain, my parents, who had arrived by this time, my pastor, and a police officer went with me to see Dave's body.  It was all so surreal.  I walked in and he still looked very much alive.  His bushy hair was molded into the shape of a baseball cap, his face was scruffy from not shaving in about two days and he was actually still warm to the touch. He had obviously either died from crashing into the ground, or he had died and THEN crashed to the ground.  The second turned out to be the case.  I thought there was just NO WAY he could actually be dead.  My pastor prayed and reassured me that Dave could see us.  I remember feeling beyond grateful that at least I knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that Dave was in heaven.  Dave had a child like faith - not to be confused with an ignorant faith.  While my faith often rattles in light of difficult circumstances, his faith was always planted and always firm.  I was always jealous of his gift of faith.  

After signing some papers, we left the hospital and I started rehearsing how I was going to tell Spencer that his daddy had died.  Now, that I have gone through a box of Kleenex, just writing this, I don't think that I have it in me to talk about Spencer.  There is a lot to say, though.  What a kid.  The conversations we have had are so rich, so deep, so heartbreaking, and so a part of eternity.  But I'm spent.  Whew - well, I guess I am about half way through the day.  Maybe it won't be as hard, next time to come back and tell the rest.     

My Double Life

I totally feel like Hannah Montana.  Not in a sort of youthful, rock star sort of way, but in a double life sort of way.  Just so you know, I know she is somewhat a decade ago, but she's just who popped into my mind when I thought about the phrase, "Double Life."  She was an average teen who went to school by day, but was a pop star by night.  Only her closest friends and family knew Hannah Montana's real identity.  My double life-ness isn't quite so glittery and exciting.

By day I feel like a fairly capable (I say capable lightly, as I still have people bringing meals, cleaning my house, and doing my laundry) and relatively fun mom of three kids. By night I feel like a broken, sad, grieving widow with three grieving kids.  They are in stark contrast with each other.  How can I be fun and normal AND be deeply sad and broken, AND feel OK about being both, all in the same 24 hours.  One isn't a cover for the other.  I'm not pretending to have fun while I play with my kids at the park.  I'm not forcing myself to feel joy when Maci explains in her unique vocabulary, "This dessert is impressive."  I'm not fabricating parental pride when Spencer exercises his new skill of reading the English language.  And I'm certainly not feigning laughter, when one of my more tailored friends (and you know who you are) starkly announced yesterday, "I just want to scratch my balls!" When she actually meant to say, in reaction to her allergies, "I just want to scratch my eyeballs."  

I'm also not stifling my tears all day.  I not hiding my hurt.  At least I don't think I am?  Maybe the jury is still out on this one.  I know I don't want to be sloppy crying over everyone, all the time and making everything about me.  That is for sure! I don't ever want to outdo anyone else's problems or concerns that they have in their life.  That would leave me with friends that don't want to share the good, the bad, the hard, and the real.  I would be left with exchanging the insignificant with my friends.  Gross. I want to spit that thought right out of my mouth.  However, I wonder just a little if I am so worried about that happening, that I don't disclose the frequency or the intensity of my tears.  Or maybe it is just healthy and healing enough to fall apart when I am alone in my car or after hours at the Aldridge household.  I am like a negative twenty on the internal processing scale, so I probably just feel like my session of mourning isn't complete unless I have processed it with somebody.  However, that would be a little weird to pick up the phone late at night and say, "Hello.  I just cried real hard." And here is the other thing.  I crave the normal.  I don't really want to use my precious time with friends to boo hoo the whole time.  I think I would much rather laugh, kick back, and live out a little normal when I get the chance.

I have always read Solomon's words in Ecclesiates to mean that there is a season for everything. 

  a time to be born and a time to die,

    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
³     a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
⁴     a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
⁵     a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
⁶     a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
⁷     a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
⁸     a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

In my life, the seasons change by the minute. At 3:15 it is a time to dance in the kitchen with the girls.  At 3:20,  I see a CiCi's Pizza commercial, and it reminds me of Dave and our classy dinners there, thus making it a time to weep.  One minute I am keeping with stability and the next I am ready to look for something new.  

I imagine this part is just going to be hard for a while.  Until the two begin to blend a little, maybe I just need you to know a few things.  I am doing quite well.  I still genuinely enjoy so much in life.  I still love to laugh. I love Jesus with my whole heart.  I am proud that our family is still carrying on.  I am not OK.  I am sadder than I have ever been in my entire life.  I am questioning the power of Jesus on earth.  My heart is continually wrung out for my kids.  I cry a whole lot.

All these statements are true.  My double life is in full swing along with Hannah Montana's reruns.    Unfortunately, my double life isn't exactly the material that sitcoms are made of.  

Dads, Dudes, and Donuts Day

I'm pretty sure that I have already established that Fridays are hard.  It continues to stand as a marker of time from the day Dave died.  The intensity in which I miss Dave also continues to stand strong.  I can manage through a day fairly well, but when I sit still and miss him, I still FULLY miss him.  Forlorn Fridays are not fun.  So, let's talk about Thursday.

A week ago Thursday a flier came home in Spencer's take home folder.  It read, "Dads, Dudes, and Donuts."  Here we go.  I wanted to make sure to give Spencer the heads up, before he found himself hearing about it at school and not knowing what he’ll do on that night, without a dad.  When I first read the title, he instantaneously lit up, but the light was quickly distinguished by a look of panic and then watery eyes. Oh, Lord, help.  He immediately asked if I could go, because he didn’t have a dad anymore.  I said I couldn’t go, because I'm not a dude, but that he could choose one of the fine fellows that have committed to contorting their feet into Dave's one of a kind shoes, whenever the need arises.  I went through the long list of amazing guys that are in his life and each one came with a side to side head shake.  After a couple rounds of him saying that he didn't want to bring anyone, but he wanted to go, he casually walked through the kitchen after school on Tuesday and said, "I guess, Mr. Jim."  The phone call was in and the reply was a yes.  

The big day was yesterday.  In the morning, I awkwardly climbed the ladder, up to his bed and rattled him awake.  He looked at me with genuine excitement and announced that it was, "Dads, Dudes and Donuts Day!"  Either donuts have such power they can cover gaping holes in life, or he was feeling good about this special event and his plan to allow Jim to bring him.  I'm really hoping that it wasn't just the donuts talking. Anyway, that little glimmer in his eye truly made my day. It was a huge encouragement to me.  I could maybe see a trace of the Father taking care of my child's heart.  I think so.  

The rest of the day just felt a little lighter than usual.  It was sunny and warm, so  I walked with my friend, Emma, and my dog, who appears to be an emotional eater according to his weight gain. The girls were in good moods most of the day.  I talked on the phone, which is actually a big deal when you have two four year olds in the house.  I celebrated a friend's Birthday party and I went to Bible study.  It was a good day and it felt good. 

Pike's Grief Mountain

Our pastor recently referred to grief as serious spiritual workout and compared it to doing the Accent about 20 times in a row.  If you have ever hiked Pikes Peak, you have heard of the 16 Golden Stairs.  Each week is like starting at Barr Trail and each weekend is like tackling the 16 Golden Stairs, except there is no donut shop at the top - just another agonizing hike up the grief mountain.  BTW - If you ever hike Pike's Peak,  don't be fooled into thinking (like I was) that when you get to the 16 Golden Stairs that you have only 16 steps left to the top.  I could be wrong, but I think it refers to the last 16 SETS of switchbacks, which is actually 32 switchbacks.  I think that last sign should actually read, "Even Though You Are Close,  It Will Still Take a Good Couple of Hours.  Good Luck Chumps."

This is what my spiritual workout is all about right now.  The days following Dave’s death were ones that were very spiritually charged.  He died just days before Christmas, which is terrible timing, and wonderful timing.  Terrible for all the obvious reasons.  Wonderful, because with Christmas approaching, there was a constant reminder of the hope that Jesus brought to this earth by his birth and life and death and resurrection.  It provided an easy back drop to tell my kids that we will see Daddy again.  Hope filled our house.  Hope was the fuel for getting out of bed in the morning.  For a little while, I was thinking that I would now be catapulted into a deeper, more dependent relationship on Jesus.  I would start growing spiritually at perceivable lengths.  I could almost see myself sitting with the other ladies waiting to take the podium at the “Women of Faith Conference,” or Jennifer Hatmaker calling to ask if I wanted to co-write a book with her.  What I didn’t expect was to find myself here, at 10 weeks out, with another round of questioning and doubting.  

Throughout the adoption process with Negusu, I had two main questions, “Is God real?”  Yes!  Any argument against the existence of God was bankrupt.  Then my questions morphed into, “Is God good?”  This was a toughie.  I can’t tell you how much I hated it when people would throw out, “God is good,” after something good happened to them.  I would almost gag when something meaningless (in my opinion) would occur and people would tout it as God’s goodness, while my baby was languishing in a struggling Ethiopian orphanage.  I know that is not very gracious, but it’s pretty easy to say those words when things are going your way.  I was on the hunt for people who had experienced great disappointment and could still say those words with conviction.  I found some and I became one of them.  

My doubting spirit has now landed on a new question.  How powerful is God, this side of heaven?  I know he conquered death.  That is pretty powerful.  If we know Jesus, we get to live forever in a place where there are no more tears and no more pain and no more sorrow and, of course, a place where we will see Dave again.  Oh, I can’t wait.  But is God powerful just on the other side of heaven or does his power extend into this wretched world, filled with so many tears, so much pain, and such intense sorrow.  I know the answer, I think, but I don’t really believe it for my life.  I guess I even believe it in my mind, but my core is questioning it. This questioning is extinguishing some of my fervent hope that I had, right at the beginning.  I need to know and feel that God is powerful, because what seems to weasel its way in, is fear.  The less I feel that God is powerful, the more fear I feel.  How will my kids be OK without a dad?  What will happen to them, if something happens to me?  Who will take care of me, if something bad happens? If I don’t believe that God is powerful, then I don’t feel like I can trust him with my life and my kids lives.  There is not a whole lot of freedom in this way of thinking.  I’m sure I am still just longing for a safer world, which I know I won’t find here.  

I will say that when I have cracked open the pages of the B-I-B-L-E,  I read with hunger.  How powerful are you God?  I’m searching the pages.  Unfortunately, I really feel like I don’t have any good space to really let the words penetrate.  I have 2 minutes at 11:30 at night to be lucent and in the morning, if I even attempt to try and turn on the light, my little Ethiopian Early Bird, rises with me.  Even while writing this post, I have broken up numerous disputes, helped out in the bathroom a couple times, let the dog in after he barked for five minutes, enforced a time out, and written this particular paragraph while Leah has whined for me to go look at something in her room, even though she probably doesn’t really have something to show me.  (She did finally ask sweetly for me to come and look and sure enough, there really wasn’t much to show me).  I can’t find the quiet (and clean) space to search out this question.  I know it’s there, but I’m having a hard time finding it.  That being said, more needs are quickly arising around here, so my window of time to partially concentrate is closed.  I just needed to write something, even if it doesn't make any sense. If I don't, I just end up with a tangle of thoughts.  I can only seem to unravel them by writing here.  So, thanks for reading and helping me to heal at some level through writing.