Ten Years Gone

Life lately has been weird. I’ve been sick for like six weeks and haven’t felt well. A doctor appointment a week ago led to antibiotics. A doctor apppintment this morning led to “give it more time.” Six weeks is apparently not long enough. So I’m tired. And drained. And achy. And whiny. Maybe this seems like a blog post you’ve read before by me. Haha!

But it’s New Years Eve and I’m also reflective. Thinking back on a whole decade and what has transpired in life is amazing and overwhelming and seemingly so cliche. But so important for my journey of growth and loss and healing and finding myself. 

The decade is coming to a close. Ten years has gone by. When I think back to December 31st, 2009 and think about the last ten years, I am shocked at the changes that have happened. The highs and the lows. The additions and the losses. My last decade seems like yesterday and 100 years ago all at the same time. 

Ten years ago this day I had a half-way there baby in my belly. Emerson was making her debut just four short months later. I was on bed rest with her. So sick. So wanting to make it to the date where she was ok to come out. Prayerfully waking each morning hoping God would keep her in until His handiwork was done. Worried about not working and paying bills and my babies at school too. So thankful for my people that helped me be a sick, pregnant mama with an almost three year old. Emerson and I made it to April 16th and then they induced me and said it was time. Brian and I were so happy to be a family of four. So happy to have a beautiful, healthy baby as a new addition to our family. 

Those first months of her life were a whirlwind. Trying to balance going back to work with a weeks-old little one and Amelia who was three. Amelia loved Emerson from before she was born and it showed in every fiber of her being. 

Then October hit and our world crashed down around us. Brian killed himself. Secrets were revealed. Heartache and anger and suicide and investigations, all while still trying to just be a new family. Emerson just six months old. Amelia three and a half. We were just learning to be a family of four. Now we had to quickly learn to be a family of three again. One parent. One reeling, struggling, grieving mom trying to make sure everything was ok. Stayed ok. Looked ok. 

Those early months of 2010 shook and molded and structured our decade. So many things happened these ten years past, good and bad, but those first few months set the stage for us for sure. 

I worked hard to not let it impact our family. I’m not a “wallow-er.” I didn’t want this to define me, define us. But to an extent my desperation for everything to go on as normal probably dragged it out longer. I’m still learning to heal. I’m still working through throes of anxiety and depression and PTSD. I still wake up some mornings and feel like I’m fighting just to survive the moment. 

Then other things happened and compounded the grief and the struggle. Tom died. Clay died. Friends got sick. People left our lives. Trauma. Grief. Heartache. When you get stuck in those moments, sometimes it’s hard to see the sunshine through the clouds. And you get lost and lonely and feel isolated. 

If I look back at my blog posts in the last ten years it’s quite a journey for me. Seeing the ups and down written out in blog form I get to relive the amazing moments where life was good and everything was ok. And see the days that things weren’t so great. So many people say “Don’t look back. Keep pushing forward.”

I completely understand the thinking behind that. Don’t wallow. Move on. Be happy. Don’t dwell on the bad. 

But for me? I don’t agree. Looking back shows me where I was. Where I started this decade. Ten years ago I was a timid new mom, widowed, reeling, surviving, fighting to be ok. In ten years I have grown and matured. I like to think I’m a good mom and when I see the little people that I have raised, I know somewhere I must have done something right. They are resilient and kind and amazing individuals who are strong in their faith and family values. They are wholesome and well-rounded. And then I look at me as a person, as a Christian, as a human being that has seen a lot of yuck in the last decade. And I can hold my head up and be proud of the things I’ve accomplished. 

So, as we enter a new decade, I am only making one statement for my future. Sure, I’ve made goals and plans and written things down. But, my eyes will be focused on one word. UP. Eyes up. Look up. Chin up. Grow up. Prayers up. Build up. Rise up. UP. 

When you’re in the trenches and in the depths of dispair, sometimes the only place you can look is up. You’ve hit bottom. There’s nothing else under you. So, as a Christian, I have the comfort of knowing that when I’m in stuck in the depths, I drop to my knees, and send those prayers up to the one who matters most. 

1 John 5:14-15 says “Now this is the confidence that we have in Him, that if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us. And if we know that He hears us, whatever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we have asked of Him.” Father is always there, listening, watching, waiting for us to turn to Him, to hand it all over to Him. He’s up there...waiting to carry you through the mess that you’re in. Waiting to send His angels to guide and protect you. Waiting to show you how to climb up and out of your depths of despair. 

So, as we enter a new decade, ten years gone, your path will be filled with highs and lows. I, for one, am thankful for the struggle; for it was in those moments that I realized how desperately I needed my Lord and Savior. And the constant reminder to look up...up to Him. Up to the future. Up to all that He has for us. 

Ten years gone. They go quickly. Don’t let another decade slip by without remembering your Creator and all He does for us. In the good and the bad. He’s up. Just reach for Him.

Oceans...

The ocean is my favorite place to be. It’s weird that I hardly ever go there, but just thinking about being there takes my breath away. I remember riding my bike through the Kalaloch campground with my sister, and we’d always stop at the top of the walkways down to the beach and just look. I remember closing my eyes and breathing deeply in, the salt water smells seeping into every pore of my body. I remember the goosebumps on my skin as I felt the wind and the warmth of the sun on my face. I remember tears sneaking down the corner of my eyes as I felt so so small in the presence of this magnificent, powerful scene. 

How ironic that in the moments that I’m struggling, I also picture the ocean, but it’s not like that in my mind. The moments when I’m having a hard time are the moments I’m drowning in the ocean. The waves swirling all around me. I kick hard with my feet and push through the black water with my hands. Trying desperately to reach the surface before I can no longer hold my breath and my lungs seer with the pain of sucking in salt water. The darkness envelops me and the panic sets in as I wonder if I can ever make it out of there alive. 

I. Keep. Going. Though. I love to swim. I’m a strong swimmer. I have always loved the water. In my darkest moments, when the water seems too much, I still drive to the beach and just sit and stare and think and breathe and listen. The water is calming. The water soothes my soul. And as turbulent as it can get when I’m fighting against it, I always return to the water. It’s cleansing. It’s calming. It is inviting and beckons me to forget the crazy that is going on around me. 

For a while after Brian died and so much came to the surface, I had this recurring dream. I was driving across this narrow road with water on both sides. I couldn’t slow down and the truck was barreling faster and faster. Eventually there was a corner and my truck would careen off the path and flip into the water. I would fly out of the truck, hit the water, and begin sinking down into the dark, murky water. I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t ever. Every time I would have this dream, I would allow myself to float downward. Sink lower and lower into the water. Down in the depths I would find absolute peace and happiness. Joy. I would be able to see clearly and breathe deeply. And I always had this feeling that everything was going to be alright. 

Psalm 89:9 says “You rule over the surging sea; when its waves mount up, you still them.”

God is in control always. He’s there when I’m sitting in my car at the beach watching the glass-like surface of the water in the calm. He’s there when I can’t stop the waves from pulling me under and I don’t know if I’ll ever find my footing. He is present in the water. He is whispering to me to be still and keep pressing forward. He is there, in all seasons, in all weather, in all circumstances. He is guiding me through the peaceful memories of my childhood and using the turbulent nightmares that pull me into the depths. In all circumstances, I will trust. 

Water is powerful, majestic, a force to be reckoned with.  But so is our Father. Like water, He will fill up your empty spaces and guide you where He wants you to go. We need only have faith. 

I’m not certain where my next steps of life may lead. I don’t have all the answers or know the plans He has for me always. But I know that He is as constant as the sea. I will have faith that all I need to do is turn my eyes towards Him and have faith. Trust that He is in charge. And keep visiting the beach as a reminder of His grace and power and beauty. 

Just keep swimming...

There Goes My Life...

Kenny Chesney is one of my favorite country artists. And one of my favorite songs that he sings is “There Goes My Life.” If you’ve never heard the song, it starts off about a guy who just found out his girlfriend is pregnant and he’s having a baby. His life is over. Ruined. Destroyed. As the song goes on he realizes what a little miracle his daughter is to him. At the end she is leaving to pursue her life and context of the phrase changes from “there goes my life” like it is destroyed to “there goes my life” like that girl is his everything and his life is getting in to that car. 

My situation, my tragedy, is fairly similar. When Brian killed himself and everything unraveled I remember standing often in one spot, feeling like life was swirling all around me and I couldn’t get my bearings. I didn’t know what I was going to do. How I was going to survive. How could I ever go on as a single mom to a three-year-old and a six-month-old. Was this some kind of cruel joke? This wasn’t the happily ever after I had envisioned that you can see beaming from the wedding day photo I have shared. 

August 5th, 2006 was the day that the Duncan family story began. Our wedding day. Filled with joy and anticipation and friends and family. It was magical. And then it was over in October 2010. Or so I thought. 

My emotions surrounding this date vary year to year. Some years it’s just another day. Some years, like this one for some reason, the pain of what could have been sears through my heart, taking my breath away and leaving me reeling in the swirling whirlwind that I so often had experienced. 

A few years ago I came to the realization that August 5th was the beginning of the Duncan family. It didn’t have to be my wedding day alone. And even though we are missing a member, it is still the anniversary of the Duncan family. So my girls and I spent the afternoon today on the docks by the water at the Boat Shed celebrating our family’s day. 

When we got home I went back to my bedroom, pulled my box of treasures off of the shelf in my closet and opened it. The first thing to greet me was the overalls that my grandma gave me that belonged to my grandfather. His birthday was August 2nd so he’s been on my mind a lot lately. I held them close and could still smell the memories of that most important man. So many times I wish he was still here. 

Underneath his overalls, was my box of wedding pictures. I pulled a few out and immediately the tears flooded to the surface. These pictures, freezing these moments in time, showed how it all started. How it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be forever. Til death do us part, right? I had no idea that date would come much sooner than I had planned. We were supposed to be a family of four. The family Brian and I created and planned for. The family that began August 5th, 2006. Some days I still don’t understand it all. 

Romans 8 is probably my all-time favorite chapter. And Romans 8:28 says “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” It didn’t feel good when Brian died. And it doesn’t feel good right now in this second looking at old pictures and thinking about the pieces he has missed, is missing, and will continue to miss. But, I can see God at work in our lives. He has made His Duncan family strong. We are not a family of four. And that is ok! We are a family of three girls. Three women, who are strong and faithful. We love our lives and try and live it to the fullest. We have seen and gone through trauma and heartache and tears and pain, but we are stronger because of Him. 

People say that time heals all wounds. I don’t know if I agree with that. Time doesn’t heal the wounds. Time give us seconds and minutes to see God’s love and grace and faithfulness heal our wounds. I put my faith in our Heavenly Father. Time gets you further away from the point of pain, but God is the one that takes the moments in between and uses those moments for His glory. 

My song has changed. The context has shifted. Thirteen years ago it was a “There goes my life, it’s over” moment. Today? It’s a “There goes my life, it’s just beginning” moment. We are stronger, more faithful, and ready for the next part of our adventure as the Duncan family. Happy 13th anniversary to us! Here’s to many more!

I Hope You Dance...

This was a huge week in our house. Amelia got her Pointe shoes for dance. She has been dreaming of this day since she was little. The pink satin ribbons. The elastic. The feeling of rising up on to her toes for the first time. It was a momentous occasion for sure. When my not-so-baby girl slipped those shiny pink shoes on her feet, walked to the bar, and rose on to her toes, her whole face was beaming. Those of you who have watched her dance know of the million dollar smile I’m talking about. I cried as I watched her meet this milestone in her dance career and I was just so proud of her and all the work she has put into her passion. 

Skip forward a few days and I was reading a Facebook post from my friend Andrea. In it she shared a story she experienced at work. I asked her permission to share this with you here and she agreed that I could share. She posted a picture from her business of a pallet full of leaf blowers. In front of the pallet was a pile of orange cellophane that had been wrapped around the blowers. Instead of using a knife to cut the plastic wrap and free the machines, she chose to start unwinding the celephane, inch by inch. Layer by layer. A couple of trips around the package and she started feeling dizzy. She noticed that as long as she kept her eyes on the center and focused on the stack on the pallet, her focus was clear and the job was much easier. If her eyes strayed from the focal point, she quickly slipped back into dizziness and disorientation. So she quickly learned to keep her eyes focused on the stack. 

I shared with her that this is how dancers function. When they are practicing or performing turns, they focus on one spot somewhere in the room or somewhere on stage. And as they turn they whip their heads around and look at the exact same spot. An analogy that Amelia shared with me that was passed down to her is that you are a dancer, but when you are turning you are like the guard at a museum. The spot on the wall is a precious jewel. Many people are itching to steal that jewel, so it is your job to keep your eye on the jewel at all times. As you are turning, you crane your neck as far as you can and when you get to the point where you think you can’t crane your neck any more, you whip you head around and find the jewel again. Dancers call this “spotting.”

Andrea made a statement in her Facebook post that she believes our walk with Jesus is similar. I couldn’t agree more! Jesus is our spot. He is our jewel. And when we take our eyes off of Him, the thief comes to kill, steal, and destroy. We lose our balance. We become dizzy and disoriented. We fall and crash on stage, hurting ourselves or others. Losing sight of Jesus, our spot, makes us unsteady. And the disorientation can be frightening. We desperately search for other places to focus. Money. Sex. Alcohol. Food. And when that happens, when we lose the “spot” of Christ, we can quickly fall and lose our balance. 

The Message translation of Hebrews 12:2 says, “Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we're in. Study how he did it. Because he never lost sight of where he was headed - that exhilarating finish in and with God - he could put up with anything along the way: cross, shame, whatever. And now he's there, in the place of honor, right alongside God.” 

Keep your eyes on Jesus. He keeps His sight on us. We are His “spot.” He never loses sight of us. He never lost sight of the plan His Father had for our salvation. He loves us and carries us in the palm of His hand. Even when we lose sight of Him. He’s right there beside us, catching us when we become dizzy and fall. Keep your eyes on the jewel, on Jesus. Don’t let the thief take the jewel. Don’t let Satan derail your faith. Life will get hard and messy. Just keep your eyes on Jesus. He’s the best and brightest “spot” you need. 

Be Prepared...

It happened super quick. One second I was walking just fine with Emerson down the steps of my terraced bank, heading home to run and get Amelia from dance. The next second I was laying in a crumpled heap somewhere between the bottom two steps of the terrace. My left ankle tingling and searing in pain. A rock jabbing into my ribs. Emerson’s panicked eyes filling with tears as she picked up the pieces of the mail that were strewn across the lawn. Awesome. Grace strikes once again. 

I sat up, wiggled my left foot, and choked back the tears that wanted to form around my eyes. Emerson was already terrified. I couldn’t cry in front of her. I pulled her close and said over and over again, “I’m ok! I’m ok!” This was more for my own benefit, but the words were soothing to her soul as well as the tears subsided and she walked the mail into the house, to then return and help her clumsy, aging mother up out of the mud and dirt. I walked gently into the house, brushing the leaves and muck off of my pants, and thinking hard about my ankle and the rest of the spots on my body that were starting to smart from my failure of gravity. 

Boy, these things happen quick. But there is some good that comes out of these moments. You are more careful, more prepared so it doesn’t happen again. I have never walked so carefully down those steps as I have in the days following my tumble. I choose different shoes to walk in that are more supportive. I’m more conscious of the steps that I take, looking for holes or toys or the slightest unevenness in the ground. I iced the joints and muscles that took the brunt of my topple. I checked the steps the next day and moved the rock that I most likely landed on. I’m more careful, more prepared, now that I know what could happen.

Why don’t I think to take the same precautions in all aspects of my life? The assaults that happen spiritually, or mentally, are just as painful, just as jolting, as the headlong tumble down the steps. I can feel the panic attacks coming from a mile away. So why do I wait until it’s too late to try and stop them? The attacks from Satan are the same. How many times do I need to walk down the same path before I might try a preventative strategy versus a reaction for when the onslaught hits? I don’t have the answer. But I should think smarter about all of this. 

I sometimes know what sends my spiraling into panic and despair. I know that I get caught inside my own head. I know I start to head the voice in my head that tells me I’m not good enough. That I don’t have anyone that cares for me. That people have their own troubles without worrying about me. That I wouldn’t even be missed if I just snuck way and left it all behind. I could prepare for those moments. Some say I should try medication. Some say prayer. I could start with positive self talk and all the strategies that I teach my social skills babies. I could pray or meditate or deep breathe.

And the spiritual attacks? Ephesians 6:11 says “Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” I could do that far in advance. Be ready. Be prepared. But I don’t. Why?

There are probably many reasons. I’m tired of fighting. I tired of preparing. Looking for how to make things better or easier or smarter. Sometimes I feel like life is so exhausting that there is just no point in fighting. Just let it happen. What is the difference?

But then something happens, like a fall down the stairs, and I’m spiritually and mentally under attack and feeling like I’m tumbling down the steps, breaking into pieces and feeling so much pain I’m not sure I can stand it. But, I find the strength that God provides me with and I stand up, dust myself off, clear away the rubble, and be prepared for the next attack. As a Christian it’s not if, it’s when the Devil tries to get to you. You just have to put on your armor, and be prepared. 

Physically, I’m ok. The bruises are fading, my ankle isn’t as tender, and joints seem back in place, and I am starting to be less cautious as I walk. Mentally, I’m ok. The waves come and go, I’ll practice the strategies that everyone suggests and I’ll be prepared. Spiritually, I’m ok. The fiery darts come at me, but I remember He gives me His armor and I already for battle. 

Be prepared. Walk cautiously. Know the fall is coming, but God will always be there to help you stand tall, wipe the dirt off, be cautious and take the next step. You might fall again, but oh the lessons you will learn!

One Step Closer...

Cabin fever had settled in. We were home for a bunch of days in a row. And now big sister is gone. Emerson and I hit up McDonalds for a treat and play time with some stranger’s kids. We’d been there a while and she was having a blast. Coordinating games. Leading charges against bad guys. Playing a rousing game of “The Floor is Lava.” I loved visiting with other moms. Watching my kid giggling and playing with other kids. Diagnosing kids with various communication or social disorders. It’s was fun for both of us. 

And then they came in. A family of five. A husband and wife with three darling little girls. The girls ran to the play structure and started playing with my kid. The couple sat at the table next to me on the same side together and started eating when their food came. 

Around the time they called their girls down to come and eat Emerson ran over to me for another quick sip of her drink and a nibble of chicken nugget before running off again to play. The little girls next to me ran off to play too and they all were fast friends. They exchanged introductions, hugged each other, asked how old they all were. The older of the three girls pointed down to her smiling parents and said “There’s my mommy and daddy.” They waved back and smiled. Emerson pointed to me sitting in the corner and said “That’s my mom.” I smiled and waved back. The couple turned and smiled at me. Then one of the other girls asked, “Where’s your daddy?” My heart skipped a beat and I held my breath. I never know how to respond myself so when my girls are confronted with this question my heart hurts for them. 

But Emerson handles it always with grace and her eight-year-old flair. She shrugged, declared “Oh, he died,” and announced her next plan at getting away from the boys in the play structure. I sighed with relief and picked up my soda for a sip. The man next to me scowled at me, leaned over, and sternly said “How dare you!” Wide-eyed I looked back at him and said, “Excuse me?” He slid closer to me and said, “How dare you teach your daughter to be so non-chalant about something like that. I don’t want MY daughters exposed to people like you. You need to teach your daughter to keep that sort of thing to herself. We don’t need our daughters exposed to that.” Then he packed up their food, called for his girls, and stormed out of McDonald’s as he cast a dirty look my direction. 

I choked back tears and sat in disbelief at what had just happened. What HAD just happened? Was I really just chastised for losing my husband? My daughter was judged for being honest about her father’s death. As the door closed behind them, I thought of five hundred things I could have said back to him. They’re lucky she didn’t tell them he killed himself. You’re judging a widow and a kid who lost her father? Emerson bounced back and forth between new-found friends and her food on the table, blissfully unaware of what had just transpired. Thank goodness! While I worked hard to just breathe and process what had happened and not burst into tears in the middle of McDoanlds. 

Psalm 147:3 says “He heals the broken-hearted, and bandages their wounds.” I am so thankful to Father for giving me this verse immediately after this happened. He heals the broken-hearted and bandages their wounds. He knows that I have cracks in my heart. He knows the grief that I carry. He knows how I struggle some days to hold those pieces together. He knows that some days those pieces feel like they are going to crumble and I’ll never find how to arrange the pieces back. Tonight some pieces fell out.

Grief combined mental illness takes a toll. Anxiety. PTSD. Depression. These things all eat away at you over time. Sometimes things are going great and you feel fine. Normal even. But in the background is always ick. Voices that tell you you aren’t enough. Feelings that twist and turn your insides. Tears that just won’t fall. Nightmares that jerk you awake at night. Paranoid thoughts that make you think all of your friends will leave you just like everyone else has before you. And when things like tonight happen, it’s just one more thing that pushes you closer to a breaking point. Closer to the edge. 

Being a widow isn’t something I chose. Raising my children alone wasn’t my plan. And blaming me for those things is ridiculous. My brain knows that. But my already fragile heart starts to wonder. Being a survivor of suicide already brings thoughts and feelings of blame and shame. Plant a seed and my mind runs away with the idea. And then that pathway leads to other thoughts. I should have saved my husband. I should teach Emerson to answer differently. We shouldn’t be so open about our story. We should just shove it down and hide it. 

But let’s back up for one moment to the Psalm. He heals the broken-hearted and bandages their wounds. God never promised life would be without trials. But He did promise to heal our broken hearts through the bad times. He did promise He would bandage our wounds. Tonight was a wound. Emerson has no idea anything happened even. And I thank God that He protected her from the truth. Her momma, however, was wounded. 

It is always shocking to me how cruel people can be sometimes. I try so hard to be kind to others always. To try and think about what their situation might be. Tonight caught me off guard. I found myself angry. Angry they would judge us. Angry that he blamed my daughter for sharing a piece of herself. Angry that he stormed out, making me feel like I was to blame for my husband’s death. Angry for cracking a piece of my lately-fragile heart. 

But I pause tonight and think about Psalm 147:3. I will give this broken heart to God again to mend. He will fix it. He will make it better. And then I pray. I pray for Emerson to always be brave enough to share her story. I pray that God protects that family from ever enduring what my girls and I have gone through. I pray that God heals the wounds on that man’s heart that caused him to lash out at me in the middle of a McDonald’s play place. And I pray that, no matter how many times my heart is broken, no matter how close to the edge I get, that Father God will cradle my heart in His hands, and paste the pieces of my heart together, to seal the cracks in my soul. 

God heals the broken hearted. My weary feet and my weary soul will continue to carry me through this life. One step at a time. One act of faith at a time. I often get closer to the edge, feeling like I’m about to break. But I just have faith that God will reel me back in and gently guide me onto the path towards healing again. Faith and hope and peace and love get us through. And even on the days that I feel like my heart doesn’t have any more pieces to crumble away, I will be bolstered up and know that He will set me on the path He plans for me. And my girls will be made stronger everyday, and I will too. He will bandage this wound from tonight, and all the other wounds too. 

My Name is Jonas...

I am the worst at remembering names. I run whole class social skills lessons at my school with kindergarteners and second graders. When I start my lessons in September, I tell the kids that I am terrible with names. I feel badly when I don’t remember their names. Their little faces scrunch up. Sometimes I feel like they might start crying. It’s important for us to be remembered. It’s important to be called by name. 

When we go through life so often it can feel like we are just another face in the crowd. There’s nothing special about us. Our name isn’t even important enough for someone to learn and remember. If they can’t take the effort to even learn our name, why would they want anything else to do with us?

Kids feel the same way. Amelia has an adult in her life that can never remember her name. This person hardly ever uses it and if she does call for her, it is often the wrong name. Amelia pretends it doesn’t hurt her feelings but I can tell it does. Amelia works hard for this particular adult. And Amelia takes pride in her work for this person, has interacted with her for years, so to not have this person be able to remember her name, I know it hurts Amelia. I try and explain to Amelia that it doesn’t have anything to do with how this person feels about Amelia. It’s not a reflection on Amelia’s performance. Some people just aren’t good with names.

Amelia got in the car yesterday and was just beaming. “Mommy! She remembered my name! She looked at me and thought hard and she remembered!” That small gesture was enough to make Amelia’s spirits soar for the rest of that day. She was thrilled 

It’s important for people to remember us. To at the very least remember our names. But that’s hard. We are human. Our brains are full of information that we use each and every day. And names can be so confusing. My kindergarten class has three or four girls who have names that start with the letter “E.” I get those confused often. Doesn’t make it any less terrible that I cannot remember their names. Amelia’s reaction is proof of that. 

Prayers of praise that we have someone who calls us by name each and every time. Someone who speaks our name often. Whispers it into our ear when we need encouragement. Even has our names written in His book. God knows our names. He never forgets. He always knows when we need to hear His voice. When we need that someone to come through and make us feel special. To make us feel important. He knows us and calls us by name. It says so in the Bible. Isaiah 43:1 says “But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” We are His. We belong to Him and he calls us by name. We are special and important and He loves us so. He will never leave us nor forsake us. He will always know our name. We are precious in His sight. We are His sons and daughters. Heirs to His throne in heaven. What an amazing feeling to be loved that much by someone!

So, pause and listen! Listen for His whisper in your ear, showing you that He loves you and calls you by name. He cares so very much for you! And He will never forget your name. 

In the meantime, I will sit with my babies at school and try to show them the same example of love and kindness that our Heavenly Father shows us. They are important to me. And I will learn their names. It might be May or June. But I’ll get it eventually. 

A Million Dreams...

I’ve always been a dreamer. A daydreamer. I dream at night. I process through things in my dreams. I’m often conjuring up images in my head of hopes and wishes and dreams for the future. I can envision myself doing things. It even goes as far as imagining things I would like to get done. Imagining myself darting around my house cleaning up this and that. Or daydreaming about starting dinner. I have a whole mind full of things I would like to accomplish. And this is especially true as the clock struck midnight last night and I turned the calendar to an array of new possibilities. I have high hopes for 2019 and the blank slate that has been presented to me.  I dreamed all day of resolutions and plans and ideas. 

And then reality of who I am set in. You see, right now I’m struggling with my autoimmune issues. I have Hashimoto’s Disease. I was diagnosed with it when I was thirteen years old but I never let it hold me back. In fact, I rarely talk about it to anyone because I don’t want it to be an excuse, a crutch to keep me from doing things. My thyroid is the culprit behind this disease and it is attacking my body. Usually it’s managed through medication but lately something is going a bit haywire. And as much as I don’t want to use it as an excuse it has wreaked havoc on my system lately. I am in constant pain in my joints. No matter what I do, all the weight I worked so hard to lose has slowly crept back on, and then some. It takes all I can muster to get out of bed in the mornings. I’m fatigued. Exhausted. So so tired. And stuck in the vicious cycle of no energy - gaining weight - even less energy - even more weight gain. 

So as January 1st rolled into the present my dreams turned to diet and exercise, which has been a daily struggle my whole life. I bought a planner, messaged my kickboxing instructor, joined forces with my sister, and set off on my new life changes. I planned my menus for the week and went grocery shopping. Planned my workouts for the week. Set alarms for kickboxing. Wrote out my goals. Hopes were high that I would find my dreams once again. I completed Week One, Day One of my Couch to 5K app, and sobbed through most of it. I was in excruciating pain for most of it. My joints seared with every step I took. My hands hurt. My hips hurt. My feet hurt. And all I could think about was how just eight short months ago I was in the best shape of my life. And here I am starting from the beginning again. Fifty pounds heavier. Muscles that don’t know what to do with themselves. Clothes that don’t fit. Old habits that snuck back in. 

I’m ashamed. Embarrassed. So sad that I am having to start all over again on this journey. I know what I need to do. I am strong. I am resilient. I plan and write and work and I’ll get back to where I was again. But, I’m also so very tired. Autoimmune diseases drain the life out of you. Adding in workouts and eating and cooking on top of all the other things you’re expected to do as a single momma to two beautiful, busy girls is daunting. I will push through, because I have a million dreams. But I will need help. 

I want to be healthy for my kids. I want to lose weight so I can maybe stop hurting constantly. I want to run a 5K every month and watch my times get better and better. I want to eat better and be a good example for my girls. I want to be more organized. I want to declutter my house and my life. I want to remodel the rooms in my house and paint and decorate. I want to plant a garden this spring. I want to build a chicken coop for my egg-laying girls so they are warm and together and safer. I want to show the people in my life more appreciation. I have a million dreams. 

I will keep my eyes on the prize. Not on the failures and disappointments that are so glaring right now. In the middle of my run tonight when I was in so much pain and sobbing and so down and discouraged, my God heard my cries. He promised me He would never leave me. He promised me He would love and protect me. He promised to help me achieve my dreams, if I only put my complete and total trust in Him. I deserve no part of what He is offering. But I am gladly accepting it. I need Him. More than anything, I need the strength and the peace and the love of my Lord and Savior. I need more of Him. 

I Corinthians 5:17 was given to my prayer partner and me for the new year. It says “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” My old, aching, pain-riddled self is going away and Father is going to make me new! My dreams will all come true as long as I put my faith and my trust in Him. It won’t be easy. But knowing how my story ends in the final victory, I know for sure it will be worth it!

So, how about you? What are your million dreams? Give them to Him! He’ll walk with you through it all this beautiful new year. 2019 will be amazing! Just trust in Him!

Happy New Year! God’s blessings in 2019 and beyond!

Most Wonderful Time

My heart is happiest during the holiday seasons. I love the breaks from school and getting to be home with my kids. I love hearing Christmas Carols on the radio. I love buying presents for my kids and my niece and nephew and all the people that I love. I love the traditions we’ve made. It is indeed the most wonderful time of the year. 

It’s also my hardest time of year. The pain and emotion stings my soul every once in a while and I’m caught off guard, even all these years later. Walking through Target and finding the perfect stocking stuffers. Browsing Amazon for just the right outfit for Amelia. Even the driving through the insane crowds trying to make it to get that one last prize for my Emmy. The elation and joy of this season makes my heart soar, and in one brief glimpse it can shatter into a million pieces. Tonight’s catalyst for this blog post was watching the girls excitedly open their gifts. Such joy and thankfulness beam from their little faces. I am so happy that they are so happy. 

And yet underneath for me, my heart hurts just a little. Brian should be here. He should be here to help pick out gifts. He should be here to pack bags as we get ready to head out to my sister’s. Brian should be the one I get to text when I find the perfect gift. He should be here to sit at the table with Amelia as she builds her LEGO set. Or helps Emerson learn how to use a baseball mitt 

And then, in the next mood swing, I’m so thankful that he isn’t. I get them all to myself. They are safe and loved and happy being a family of three. And we truly get to enjoy the holiday season. There’s no stress. No tears. No anxiety. There’s only peace and joy and love. 

Father God knew exactly what He was doing in our mess. He knew that victory was His and that we are part of His kingdom. His plan. We are strong and resilient and have a profound love for each other. And I am so very grateful. 

So I will use those moments in my next swing. It’s usually when I’m standing in the closet on Christmas Eve, praying the girls don’t wake up and hear me and spoil the magic and surprise. The tears fall then because it makes me sad to be doing these moments alone. To not have a helper, my husband. And then it shifts to Christmas morning when I get their little arms wrapped around me all to myself. And we get to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior and know that Brian is with Him. And we will be too someday. 

It truly is the most wonderful time of the year. And I wouldn’t trade any of these moments for anything. Enjoy your magic moments! Every single one of them. Don’t take them for granted. Hug and hold and honor. Love and laugh. Enjoy each second. Don’t rush through! Take it all in. Every smile. Every tear. Every single moment and memory. And check on your friends who are struggling. Even the ones that are eight years out and should be fine. They are fine. But they need love and extra check-ins too. 

Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! And may God bless us every one! 

Boulevard of Broken Dreams...

There are certain days that hurt worse than others. Doughnuts with Dad day at school often causes us to pause. The daddy-daughter dance that is incessantly advertised and then published about as daddies get to take their daughters out on a date is a bit hard, probably mostly for me rather than Emerson and Amelia. And today, also probably more for me. 

This last Sunday was a new one. The memory verse at Sunday School for this week is the Fourth Commandment. After class we were in the car on the way home and Emerson asked what we were supposed to do with that? We don’t have a dad! Amelia without missing a beat recited, “Honor your mother. Period.” We all broke out in fits of laughter and then talked about how our sense of humor is a bit warped perhaps. We cope a bit differently than others maybe. 

That situation was brought up again today by Amelia. Marilyn started my day with a hug. She said she knew what today was and wanted me to know she loved me, loved us. I quickly left knowing that the tears were on the surface. When I picked the girls up from school Amelia asked why Marilyn hugged me. I took a deep breath and told them that eight years ago today was the day their dad died. 

“Today?” Emerson sounded exasperated. “Why would be pick today?”

“I don’t know why he picked today, Em. He just did.”

“He should have picked 9/11. That’s already a sad day. Why did he have to ruin another one?”

Then the questions started from both of them. Questions that give my momma heart pause and sends aching pains through to my core. What were you doing when he died? Why did you call him? What do you mean he left a note? Did he do it in our house? Where was he? How did they find him?

None of this is in the parent manuals. I didn’t read anything about this in any What to Expect books. I answered their questions and choked back tears. I watched Amelia closely in the rear view mirror as she scrunched her little face up, her signal that she is done and doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. 

Emerson, after taking it all in, asked, “So, what are we going to do?”

Amelia once again without missing a beat said “Honor our mother. Period.” We laughed hysterically again. And moved on with our busy routine. 

Except my heart hurts. It hurts for me. It hurts for my kids. So many things that we were supposed to do as a family. Like daddy-daughter dances and doughnuts with dads and being able to recite the Fourth Commandment without a caveat. So many broken dreams just lying by the wayside. 

The Message translation of Jeremiah 17:14 says “God, pick up the pieces.  Put me back together again. You are my praise!” The pieces of our dreams were broken and shattered, along with our hearts. And those pieces sometimes break lose and the tears flow and the questions fly around. But God will pick up all of those pieces. He will put us back together. He will mend the broken parts and present us with new plans, new boulevards, new dreams. And every time we find ourselves falling apart, He will wait patiently for us to call out to Him in our times of trouble and He will pick up the pieces and put us back together. 

Who Is That Girl I See...

When you spend most of your life inventing and reinventing yourself, the image you see can feel skewed. Some days I forget who I used to be. Some days I want to forget who I used to be. Some days I forget who I am. Some days I want to forget who I am. And some days I just desperately want to be anyone other than who I see in the mirror. 

October is weird and angsty. There are so many emotions that swirl around me during this time that some days the best I can do is close my eyes and hope the ride stops soon. I am fairly certain it was October about four years ago that I sat on the couch of the second therapist I tried to get to fix me, looked into her eyes, and said, “Do you think I’m bipolar? I feel bipolar.” She smiled, informed me that I was not bipolar and then stamped PTSD into my chart and into my life. Bipolar is how I was feeling then. And that’s how I’m feeling now. I’m feeling lost and hurt and euphoric and happy and depressed and anxious and stubborn and brand new and broken all at the same time. 

And then, a friend posted what today is. Today is World Mental Health Day. I didn’t know, but sitting at the head of my bed feeling like a swirling ocean of emotions and trying to breathe and discovering this makes me laugh out loud. Is it mental health awareness day where we want to promote mental health? Is it fight for a cure day for those of us suffering from some form of mental unhealth? Is it a day we should celebrate with no work and being with people we love and doing something to take care of our mental health? Should I celebrate myself? Or should I feel badly that I’m a statistic and am diagnosed with PTSD? How does this work?

I find it interesting that September 10th is World Suicide Prevention Day and then October 10th is World Mental Health Day. Seems like that should maybe be the other way around. Maybe if World Mental Health Day was more than just a day, we wouldn’t need to even have a World Suicide Prevention Day. And it’s obviously not publicized very well. I didn’t know. I haven’t heard anything except for one Facebook friend that posted about it. But I can tell you that this month is Breast Cancer Awareness month. It’s plastered all over. Wear pink. Think pink. Raise money. Find the cure. And trust me, I am NOT trying to take away from the breast cancer cause at all. We need research in ALL areas of cancer to eradicate these horrible diseases. Breast cancer incidence rates are currently 20 deaths for every 100,000 women. I have grieved and have worried about and have lost more than my share of people from brain cancer, prostate cancer, lung cancer. It’s all terrible. 

But did you know that the suicide rate in males is 21.3 for every 100,000 and for females is 6.0 for every 100,000. Suicide is now the second leading cause of death in 10-34 year olds just behind unintentional injuries. But we are still not talking about it. They give it a day. And then a month later we talk about mental health. For a day. It’s not enough. It’s not saving enough people. It didn’t save my husband. 

I am eight days away from the eight-year anniversary of my husband’s suicide. Eight years has flown by and part of the invention and reinvention of myself that I talked about at the beginning of this post is directly linked to that incident. I suddenly found myself a young single mother with a three year old and a six month old. I had to learn to be strong and do it all and balance life without being “Brian’s wife.” So I have changed immensely. For the better, I feel, but it has still be a process that has changed me into a person I don’t recognize sometimes. Who am I? Who do I see in the mirror? I work hard to see an image that is positive. I work hard to make sure my girls see a mom who is involved and strong and a good provider. I work hard to feel and appear ok. And most of the time, that works. 

It doesn’t work as well in October. I miss my husband. I miss his goofy laugh and his mischievous grin. I miss his smelly fire fighter bunkers in his closet. I miss ironing his State Patrol shirts. I miss the scanner on the counter. I miss making him rum and coke and watching him mow the lawn. I’m sad that he ruined his career and his volunteerism and his family in one fell swoop because of his choices. I’m sad that the good he did in his life is sucked away by the bad that he ended on. I’m sad that rather than just focusing on grieving him I have to be angry and hate him. I’m sad that I feel like I can’t honor and remember my husband that way most widows honor and remember their husbands because he became a monster and I have to balance how I feel about him. So many emotions. I need a mental health day. 

So, there are days that I look in the mirror and don’t know who I am. I don’t know where I fit in this world. I don’t k ow what purpose I have on this journey. And then I remember that God is walking me along this path. He is helping me to discover the message in my mess. 2 Corinthians 12:9 says “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 of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” I know that God has already used our story to shine through to others. I know that the hills and the valleys are just pieces to the journey that Father God is walking us through and that looking back, we will see His power and His glory and His grace and mercy. He has a plan for us. He has a plan for me. He has a plan for all of us!

Who is that girl I see? Some days I don’t recognize myself. But, I can smile with confidence and know that that girl is a daughter of the Most High King. That girl is chosen and precious and a princess in God’s kingdom. That girl is more than her struggles, more than her pain, more than PTSD, more than the sum of all of her experiences. She is strong and amazing and beautiful and will rise above the statistics. It doesn’t matter who I see, it’s all about who my Heavenly Father sees. And I know that I’m precious in His sight. 

Fix A Heart...

How do you fix a heart? Many people say time. Right? Doesn’t the saying go “Time heals all wounds.” Sure it does. I’m not sure the person who wrote that knew what they were talking about. Besides, how much time are we talking here? A few days? A few weeks? Try eight years...Is my heart fixed? I really can’t answer that question for you tonight. 

Fall is my favorite season. I think it always has been. I love football and cooler weather. I love rain storms and Halloween candy. I love fog and pumpkin patches. I love fires and hoodies and cozy sweatpants. But, the beginning of the school year always brings stress. Don’t get me wrong; I love my job. But the stress is there nonetheless. Add in the extra stresses this year of new bosses, new reporting systems, uncertainty of how the people and programs work. It’s a lot. And then there’s the fact that it’s been a stress for me for the last eight years in an extraordinary way.  The anxiety and panic that a simple turn of the calendar page brings amazes me each year. Every year I vow this will be the year that I can make it through without remembering what happened.  This will be the year that seeing October 1st on my calendar doesn’t bring me to my knees at some point in the day. This year has to be the year that my heart is fixed. Well...not yet. 

It’s always been a point of contention for me that my husband chose to unravel our lives on October 1st. We were just heading into the Halloween season when he came home and admitted he had done something so heinous that I knew life as we knew it was over. I remember the room spinning and pieces of my memories of our family crumbling in front of my eyes. My heart was broken beyond recognition. Why would he do this? Why did he choose this path for himself and our family? I still don’t have answers and I still don’t understand. My heart still hurts if I dwell too long in the whys and what ifs. 

Time does fix a heart. Partly. The pain doesn’t last as long. The beats that are skipped don’t happen as often. My gut doesn’t hurt for quite as long as it used to. I don’t make the same “dealing with it” choices I made in the past few years. But it’s a roller coaster for sure. I don’t feel like this is my best “fixed” year. The stress and fatigue of this school year mixed with too many “sure I’ll do that” moments and a frantic dance and school schedule have left me feeling like I can’t breathe. I am feeling the heaviness in my gut and the drive to want to run away and never return is something I fight every minute of every day. I cry myself to half sleep at night and drag myself out of bed in the mornings to punch and kick a bag at kickboxing to try and deal with the pain and the emotions of this time of year. I over schedule and over book and over plan just trying to float through the days and ignore the fact that there are days in October that are forever etched into my soul. Amelia and I are reading Mockingjay and just finished watching Catching Fire. There are scenes in those books and movies where the pain gets too overwhelming for Katniss and they just sedate her. I have joked to a few people that I would sign up for that in a heartbeat. Just knock me out for a while and bring me back when some time as passed, only it isn’t really a joke. There are seconds in the day that get so overwhelming that a shot of morphling sounds like heaven on earth. 

And then in the middle of my wallowing, I get messages from Father God. Reminders that I have come so far, thanks to God. Glimpses of how I used to be. Flashes of how I used to deal with things. There was the year I got drunk and sat in church and cried for hours. I ran away one year and scared all of my people. I ignored everything completely one year and declared how great I felt. It’s been a Jekyll and Hyde journey for certain. This year is no different. I smile and schedule myself and my girls to death and have fun and laugh and push through. Once in a while I reach out to someone, anyone, wanting them to ask how I’m doing. Or ask if I need anything. Or just even remember that today is October 1st and the beginning of eighteen days of memories that tear me from the inside out. But then I don’t want them to remember all at the same time. Ignore it and move on. Fix my heart? Sometimes I feel like there’s no way to fix my heart. Sometimes I feel so broken that I don’t know if I’ll ever feel normal again. 

And then I remember Psalms 46:1 and these words: “God is our refuge and our strength. A very present help in trouble.” So I close my eyes, and fold my hands, and remember that God is the one that gets to take it all. He gets to hold my pain and my angst and my emotions and tears. He gets to carry my burdens and my struggles. He gets to take my heart and all of the shards from the broken pieces and gently place them back together, fixing my heart one piece at a time. He has already gently persuaded so many of the most broken pieces back together. My heart, which was once joyful and happy and light, is starting to slowly take shape in His hands. He is making me whole. He is fixing me. So I trust. And I grieve. And I ask Him to fix my heart, one piece at a time. And I will come back more healed, more whole, more joyful than ever before. 

I thank God each and every day for the journey He has me on. For no matter how painful, no matter how broken I feel, I know He is fixing my heart. One piece at a time. One prayer at a time. One step at a time. My story will help fix others too. And as rough as things are right now, I know that I just need to fall into His arms, press deeper into Him, and wait in anticipation for the healing He has for me. He will fix my heart. I’m so glad I’m not in charge of that part. 

In the End...

As a widow of a man who killed himself, I am painfully aware of suicide. Today is National Suicide Awareness Day. I’m aware...

I’m aware of the lonely nights where all I wait for is to hear the door squeaking open as he tries to sneak in after his shift...

I’m aware that I cannot walk down the beer aisle without glancing at the Blue Moon and fighting back the sinking feeling in my chest...

I’m aware at the days where I am so exhausted that I would like nothing more than my husband to be home so that I could hand the kids or dinner or laundry off to him...

I’m aware that my house and my yard are disasters because I am only one person and I cannot keep up with everything...

I’m aware that I have one daughter who is angry and doesn’t want anything to do with his memory and another who is crushingly sad that she doesn’t have a daddy and is the only one in her class that doesn’t have one...

I’m aware that I wasn’t aware of what was going on in my own household in the months leading up to his suicide...

I’m aware that I blame myself for a lot of things that happened and still have a hard time letting go of my guilt...

I’m aware that September and October get really hard to breathe and I fight to walk through those calendar turns every year, even though it’ll be eight years next month...

I’m aware that he will miss so many events in our lives and that my heart fractures if only for a second with each milestone we check off the list that he wasn’t here for...

I’m aware that I lie in bed at night, silently sobbing because the dream for our lives has been shattered and sometimes the pain in my soul is overwhelming...

I’m aware that I’m still paying for his choices, mentally, emotionally, physically, financially...

I’m aware that I’m alone and lonely and wish I had a partner, but that I want nothing to do with relationships or men or marriage...

I’m so so painfully aware of suicide. And I wish that I wasn’t. I wish no one was aware of it. But, we have got to do better! We have got to talk about suicide and mental illness and PTSD and loneliness and anxiety and depression. But we have also got to talk about God. And prayer. And faith. And loving each other. And being kind and understanding and supporting each other. We do need to increase awareness. We need to be aware of the risk factors and the signs and symptoms. We need to be aware of programs that are designed to help. We need to be aware of counselors and therapists and mental health providers. We do need to increase awareness. We need to be aware of the pain and the aftermath of suicide and the gaping hole it leaves in families. 

1 Corinthians 13:13 says this: “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” Love. We all need love. And we all need to know that God loves us. Even when the whole world has turned their backs on us, we can still know and be confident that God loves us. The greatest single life-changing force is love. Please be aware of those around you that need love! Share love! Let’s love people with everything we’ve got so that the cycle is broken and suicide is no more. 

In the end, we all need love. And in the end we all need God. We have the power to end suicide. We have the power to increase awareness. Let’s turn a single day of awareness in to lifetime of love and compassion and understanding. We don’t need to carry things on our own. In the end...

I’ll Fly Away...

Our whole lives we are taught to run away from danger. Our parents teach us about stranger danger from an early age. They tell us if someone we don’t know tries to get us into their car, or give us candy, or lure us away that we are to scream and run. In schools we practice locking down and running away from intruders. We are to put as much distance between us and the bad guy that we safely can. Run away. Get away. One large portion of the adrenal mechanism that we are created with is flight. Running away in moments of life-threatening danger. Run! Get away! 

Often in this journey that I am on, I have wanted to run away. To get in my car and leave. Drive for hours. Start over. Don’t tell anyone where I’m going and just begin again. I don’t. Well, I don’t anymore. There were some points in my journey that it just got to be too much and I did “run away.” One time I went to the office of the school where I worked and told them I needed a half day of sick leave. I needed to go home and I wasn’t feeling well. But I really just needed to run away. To get away. To get in my car and go sit on a beach for a few hours and just forget the world. 

We all run away in our own way. Brian used to drive to SeaTac and sit and watch the planes taking off and landing. This thought occurred to me while I was at one of my favorite “run away” methods - in the middle of the Zac Brown Band concert with my friend. Music is one of my run aways. And in the middle of the concert time froze for just a second as I watched the airplanes flying over the top of Safeco Field one after another. For one moment my husband’s “flight plan” intersected with my “flight plan” and time stood still. Tears filled my eyes as I remembered him in his moments in the middle of mine. We all need to just run away. Get away. The pressure of dealing with it all can be so crushing. It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to see the path. It’s tough to find the message in the mess. So we run away. Whether it be in music. Or movies. Or watching airplanes. Or sports. Or diving. Whatever our method is for hiding from it all when it all gets to be too much. 

Except my husband couldn’t find solace in the airplanes anymore. His running away got to the point where the only relief he saw was in suicide. Exiting this world became his plan. Leaving the wife and the children that were his family and his world was the only option. The planes weren’t enough. Why on earth weren’t the planes enough? 

Well, they should have never been enough. Hope has to be built on more than airplanes or music or movies. Those things are good temporary escapes from the responsibilities and emotions of life. But they are not enough to pull us up and out of the yuck. There’s only one thing that offers permanent hope, a permanent fix, a permanent solution to the pain or sadness or grief or chaos that we find ourselves in. We have to be anchored to our Creator. To God. To the one who knows us inside and out. Deuteronomy 31:8 says “It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.”

Read that again. The first part especially. “It is the Lord who goes BEFORE you.” He’s there, waiting. Any situation you may find yourself in, He will be right there from the very beginning. Ready to catch you when you fall. Ready to wipe your tears. Ready to pick you up and dust you off and set you on the right path again. He will never leave us or forsake us. In our darkest hours, on the darkest path, He is right there in front of us, simply waiting for us to finally admit we can’t run away, we can’t do it alone, and we need to take His hand and walk through it all. 

September is National Suicide Prevention Month. I am painfully aware of the need for awareness to be brought to this topic. There isn’t a day, isn’t a moment that goes by that I don’t sink back to 2010 and think about Brian. The increasing absences. The frequent visits to the airport. He was running away. Trying to find the solace in his airplanes. When that didn’t work, instead of turning to God and crying out for help, he chose to slip into a forever sleep. My heart breaks when I think about Brian, and the countless others who couldn’t run away far enough from their pain. There’s a fine line, I think, between running away for a while and running away forever. We need conversations around suicide. We need to talk about it. We need to be willing to speak with a friend or a family member or a coworker and let them know that you care, that there is help, that you are there to listen when the running away doesn’t work. And the other side of that coin too! We need to find a person, a friend, a prayer partner, to turn to when running away stops working and the darkness seems to be taking over. 

So, stop running away and instead choose to run into Heavenly Father’s open arms. He’s ahead of you, waiting in the mess, patient in the trials, pausing to scoop you up, hold you close, and carry you back to where you belong. So, I’ll run away to my concerts, or run away to the beach, but I always know that when I get there, my God is waiting and watching, filling me with His grace and mercy. He will never leave me nor forsake me, and I hope each and every one of you accepts this truth for yourselves too. 

Stand By You...

Revelation 21:4 - “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

Tahlequah, or J35 as she is known to researchers, has released her baby into the deep. This heart-breaking story has been in the headlines of Pacific Northwest papers and news channels and Facebook feeds for 17 days. The killer whale named Tahlequah birthed her baby 17 days ago. The baby lived for only a brief time before succumbing to death. Her momma carried her, pushed her, through the ocean for 17 days at the expense of her own health. The debates have ensued with a lot of theories from people about animal behavior. Some say that she didn’t realize her baby was deceased. Others say that there must be something wrong with the whale, that it must be intellectually or cognitively impaired to be carrying her dead baby for so many days. And others theorize that she is making a statement about the pollution and the people that have ruined their environment and this was her own protest. 

As I’ve watched the news and watched this poor whale pushing her baby to the surface with her snout, I see pain. I see gut-wrenching sadness. I see grief. 

I haven’t lost a child. Many would say that I have no authority to speak on the grief of losing a child. And they would be correct. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a child. But I do know what it’s like to grieve. I do know what it’s like to have people say that I should be over that already. Why am I still sad after all these years? There must be something wrong with me. I’m just looking for sympathy. In my eyes seventeen days is only the beginning for this momma whale. Just because she let go of her baby’s body doesn’t mean she has let go of her sadness, her pain, her kicked in the gut sobs. It’s just the beginning of her grief journey. 

Death can be consuming. Overwhelming. When Brian killed himself my head immediately started swimming. They hadn’t even found his body yet and my grief was starting. There’s panic and sadness. Fight or flight kicks in and in my case stayed on for a long time, and still rears it’s head from time to time. There’s the feeling like your heart is going to explode. Loneliness. Anger. Helplessness. Panic. Depression. Worry. Lack of sleep.  Feeling like you’ve been kicked in the gut.  Feeling sick and tired. Grief is hard, even when you’re not pushing around a 300 pound baby. 

One remarkable piece of Tahlequah’s grief journey was watching her pod respond. They gave her space to grieve but also stayed silently near her for when she needed them. They grieved with her. They fed her. They helped when they could. Her pod stepped in the help carry her burden for her and with her. Just like humans. My pod, my people, rallied around me. They watched my kids. They let me cry and scream and get mad. They helped make phone calls and sort paperwork. They walked me through things I had never thought I would have to do. They fed me. They stayed at a distance if needed but were right there if I needed them closer. My pod saved my life, just as that killer whale pod supported and surrounded Tahlequah in her moments of raw grief. 

Being someone who has been through the grief journey, my hope and prayer is that I can use my process for good. Either through these blog posts that I write, or through love and support of people in their grief journeys. My heart aches for everyone that I know that is going through this process. The feelings that I had, and still have, run rampant when I find out someone has lost a loved one. The grief journey is something that you share with others whether you want to or not. My heart aches when people lose someone important and oftentimes, it rips a little bit of my scab right off and starts the wound oozing all over again. It doesn’t matter whether you’ve lost a parent or a sibling, a child or a spouse, a grandparent or a friend, grief is hard. There is no sliding scale that determines who has a harder road. There’s no right or wrong amount of time to grieve. There’s no rules about when grief is over because honestly, it’s not over. There will always be a piece of you that is gone, that is missing. A piece that will never feel whole. The sadness gets easier and the waves get smaller. But sometimes they’re big and giant just like it first happened. It’s not a curve. It’s not a circle. It’s not a linear path through the stages. It’s a roller coaster and there’s no shame in being sad. There isn’t anything wrong with you if you grieve longer than someone else who went through a loss. There’s also  nothing wrong with you if you’re done with grief quicker than others. We all have our own timeline, our own pace that we go through. 

Seventeen days. That momma carried her grief physically for seventeen days. I have carried my grief mentally and emotionally for going on eight years. There is no right or wrong. The only recommendation that I have is to invite God into your grief. Let Him walk with you. Let Him carry you on the days that you can’t make it. Let Him comfort and console you.  And let Him lead you to the people in your pod. I have been blessed with the most amazing people on my journey. Friends and family, coworkers and neighbors, church family and even strangers. My pod has kept me alive, and kept the memory of Brian and others that I have lost on this journey afloat. Who’s in your pod? Let them swim the waves with you and help you through it. We all have burdens and struggles. We all have things that we are carrying that no one may even know about. But with Father God in our hearts and our pod by our side, we can walk this grief journey towards healing and recovery. We never forget our loved one. We carry them in our hearts forever. And there will be moments we don’t think we can move forward, but just remember the verse for Revelations that I posted at the beginning of this post: “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

He will wipe away our tears. Doesn’t say in seventeen days. Doesn’t say in eight years. It just says He will wipe away our tears...EVERY time we cry them. Our Heavenly Father is with us in our grief and our pain. It hurts Him to see us hurting. He is there to walk us through, to dry our tears, and to heal our hearts a little piece at a time. 

And just as Tahlequah’s pod was there for her, I’m going to stand by you if you need me also. My grief and my journey cannot end here. Father God has a purpose for my pain, a message in my mess, and I’m going to stand by you, whether you’re ready in seventeen days or eight years. I’m going to stand by you...

Everything has Changed...

Twelve years seems like a lifetime ago. Each passing year the memories get a little bit fuzzier. The hurt is still there when I wake up and realize what the date is. Twelve years ago I was in a nail salon and hair salon with my best friends. We were getting pretty for the day to come. I remember the happiness. And anxious pit in my stomach. Wondering what he would think of my dress. Hoping Pastor Pulse wouldn’t get too embarrassing with the sermon. I was excited for my friends and family to celebrate. The day had finally come. I was getting married. 

As we walked through that day I remember taking a lot of pauses to just stop and take it all in. Little moments throughout the whole day happened and I would stop, close my eyes, and be deliberate about that second in time, taking a little snapshot at that very second. It was a magical day. I was so happy. 

As I lay across my bed and ponder those moments twelve years ago the moments run through my mind. I see my sister and Miranda and Rachel and we’re laughing as we eat bagels and drink mimosas. And then the image slowly crumbles away, being cleared as if sand in a desert wind. I see my daddy waiting at the entrance of the church as I link my arm through his. His voice cracks as he tries to tell me how beautiful I look. And that image is erased clean, one swipe across a chalkboard. I see my soon-to-be husband standing up front in a crowd full of our people. He smiles and then disappears as if a mirage in the Sahara. Little moments, slowly crumbling away as I age and the years like into each other as time marches on. 

But the pain and sadness and grief. That I remember. And there are little moments that rose to the surface and I fight back tears throughout the day.  Kneeling at the communion rail, watching Pastor Brynestad bless my beautiful little girls and telling them they are saints in God’s kingdom and tears well in my eyes. Standing in the parking lot of church with my parents talking about where I’d like the go for breakfast to celebrate our “Family-versary”, the day we became the Duncans and I bawl like a baby no knowing what I want or where we should go. Laying on my bed because all I want to do in that moment is sleep and cry and forget that he’s not here, he won’t be coming in the door with roses and kisses and hugs. Sitting on the deck later talking about brunch, and tears finding their way back as I think of all he misses, not just today, but every day. 

Everything is different. Everything has changed. And not all of that change is bad! I firmly believe that most of the changes we have gone through, although painful, have been good changes. I have an amazing little family. We are strong and resilient and we have been placed on this path as God’s children, God’s army. We have been tasked with using our troubles for His good. He always makes good out of all of the bad that happens. There’s always a message in the messes. Sometimes they take a really long time to show up. But they’re there. The diamonds in the rough. The good out of the bad. He puts us on these paths and asks us to walk through horrible, terrible things sometimes. But the good that shines through outweighs the bad. 

Everything has changed. Just as God has promised! In Isaiah 14:9 it says “Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” A new thing. Amelia and Emerson and me? We are new things that God is doing! He is walking with us through our moments of sadness and heartache and grief. He is making us new. He is making our situation new. He is using the hard moments to mold and shape and change us into who we are in Father God. 

Everything has changed. But God never does! He is constant and steady and there for us always! He is making us new. He is walking with us as we grow and change and become more like Him each and every day in our walk. And in the moments like today, where we just can’t walk another step, He carries us. He catches our tears. He reminds us of His plan and His grace and His mercy. And He is just there to listen to us vent, to catch our tears, to hold us and be with us and remind us who we are in Him. 

So, as I think about the beginning of my family, the start of the Brian Duncan family back on August 5th, 2006, I thank my God for starting that journey for me, for us. I am grateful that Brian and I shared in that day, and started the union that was to be our family. I’m thankful I was gifted with my amazing girls. And I am grateful for the four years we got to be a family together. Brian wasn’t in the plan for our family. I may never understand why that part of the plan had to end the way it did. It makes my chest hurt and makes it hard to breathe when I think about him not being here anymore, still all these years later. And days like today I cannot control the tears and the pit in my stomach feeling. But tomorrow is a new day! God is making all things new. And even this piece of my grief will be made new. It hurts tonight. And I just want to cry and go to bed. But I will pray. And talk it out. And write a blog post. And turn to my Heavenly Father for comfort for He knows that plans he has for the Duncan family. And I am thankful to be walking on the path He has planned. 

Everything has changed. And yet, I am so very blessed...

Dancing in the Dark...

Isaiah 9:2 The people who walk in darkness will see a great light; Those who live in a dark land, the light will shine on them.

During our pastor’s sermon yesterday at church, he talked about the high of the highs and the low of the lows. He talked about how you can reach a peak of euphoria and excitement one day and in the next moment be bottoming out, exhausted and plunging into the darkness. He spoke of God’s plan to put us into these dark situations so that we may learn to rely and trust and turn only to Him. 

I don’t feel like I’m in the low of the lows right now, but there are signs that I might be heading there. It doesn’t take much for me to swing from a high to a low. I spent many times on my therapist’s couch asking her if she thought I was bipolar. She assured me that I was not, but the swings that I experience sometimes are so rapid that no one sees them coming. Not even me. PTSD can do that to you also.  Sometimes I just want to forget that I have that. And then the darkness gets to be too much to fight off and I’m painfully aware it’s there. 

This last weekend was filled with fun and family and faith. We had a great time lounging by the pool, eating together, enjoying the Whaling Days parade, going to church, celebrating the sunshine and having a great time. There was no reason there should have been a low coming. But I’m working on it. And putting it out there because maybe I can press on the brakes and turn this around. Or, maybe I can help someone else turn their rapid descent around. 

“What’s wrong?”

“You sound sad.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I do. But I also so desperately don’t. I don’t want to admit that I am weak, because that is how I feel. I shouldn’t even be sad. I have an amazing life with an amazing family and amazing friends. I have two little girls that are the best things ever. I just finished a great weekend filled with my favorite things. What could possibly be wrong?

I quickly answer “I’m fine.” Or “I don’t know.” And change the subject. The conversation ends and I am immediately filled with regret. Not for not sharing. For feeling like I’m making my people feel like they’ve done something wrong. That they are not important. That I don’t trust them. Which then just spirals into more. I’ve gained weight. Let’s look at old pictures that don’t seem that long ago and ponder how it can take a whole year to lose 30 pounds but less than six weeks to gain it all back. I got mad at Emerson and said things out loud that I didn’t mean, or shouldn’t have even said. I question my skills and my place as a mother. School is starting soon and I don’t want to go back to work. I’m not ready. So thoughts of walking away from everything cross my mind. The walls seem to be closing in and the darkness is settling all around and I’m not sure I can do this ride one more time. 

I squeeze my eyes shut and listen for the music, HIS music, playing to my soul. Shining light into my darkness. Praise songs. His voice comforting me. Pastor’s words. God’s arms holding me and carrying me through this dark valley. It’s a dance that I have learned over the years of being thrown into the darkest of valleys. Laying in a broken heap at rock bottom, the music of His love and grace and peace begins, and we begin dancing in the dark. Swaying back and forth to the music, finding the words of the Holy Gospel filling the empty spaces of my soul. And I rise. I rise out of the darkness, towards the light, towards the sound of His voice, towards the space where I am at the high of the highs. I remember that I’m a great mom. I remember that I’m more than a number on the scale. I remember that I am putting in work every day at the kickboxing studio and there is no shame in gaining. I am strong. I know what I need to do. I remember that I am a daughter of the Most High King. I remember...

Those remember moments play a huge part in the peaks and valleys. Memories play and I plummet to the bottom into the dark, but those same memories can also drag me back up to the place where I can breathe and sing and dance. This right now is a low. Darkness. But because of the care and compassion and love of my Heavenly Father, and the people that He has gifted me with, I am dancing in the dark, closing my eyes, listening for His voice and remembering the steps to rise back to a peak moment. I know that He makes good out of all things. And I know that I am on this journey for a purpose, for a reason. I need to remember. I need to remember His purpose for me. I need to remember that I am not weak, but strong in HIM. I need to remember that He is with me, and He is carrying me through these darkness moments. 

So, today, the dark memories are winning. I feel fat. I’m ashamed. I’m sad. I’m remembering things in the darkness. But, the undying beat from Holy Spirit begins. And suddenly, I’m dancing in the dark. And as all my of the negative messages pile up and push me down until I feel like I’m drowning, I hear His voice telling me that I am His daughter. I am His creation. And I am made perfect in Him. 

Dancing in the dark...until His light eventually breaks through again. 

One Step Closer...

Acts 1:7 And He said to them, "It is not for you to know times or seasons which the Father has put in His own authority.

I’m not exactly sure where I lost my motivation. I had done well with my plan until I think Spring Break. Easter Sunday I was weighing the lowest I had weighed in a long time. My exercise routine was on point. I was drinking my water. Everything was going just as I had planned. I looked and felt great. People were complementing me. It was all going so well. 

Then seeds of doubt were planted. I started hearing old tapes being played. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t strong enough. I needed to give in to the temptations that confront me day in and day out. People say that food is the only addiction where you have to face it to survive. You can’t just stop eating cold turkey. You can’t avoid food. We need food to live and yet my relationship with food is an addiction. Another play by Satan to try and control me. To try and convince me I’m not daughter of the King. To try and completely derail the progress I have made thus far. 

For a while, Satan’s schemes worked. In the last two months I have watched the scale climb up and down a twenty pound span. So frustrating. So disappointing. So many excuses. It’s just a few pounds. I can get those off. It’s only ten pounds. Well, I’ve gained fifteen pounds. Might as well binge eat tonight. Shame. Sadness. Disappointment. And then the attempt to control the tailspin. Not eating all day. Working out in abundance. Drinking water in huge quantities. Tiny portions. Until I snap and visit the bakery and shovel cookies into my face before I have to pick up my girls, throwing away the evidence before they come out of the dressing room. Pain in my stomach from stretching it way farther than it’s used to in the last few month span. Shame at what I have done, but out of control enough that I’m already planning my next fix, the drive thru at McDonalds for breakfast in the morning. It’s definitely a relationship controlled by Satan. And, as I read in my devotion book this week, an idol. What?! Me? An idol-worshipper? Yup! Food becomes my idol. I worship it. Savor it. Allow it to fill my heart and soul, attempting to fill the breaks and cracks that sometimes show themselves in this healing process and grief process. Rather than turning to my Almighty God, I turn to Bic Macs and frosted sugar cookies, cupcakes and French fries. 

It’s a vicious cycle I am stuck in, probably in every aspect of healing. One step forward, then two steps back. I have a good run, and then I lose my footing and slide over halfway back down the mountain. I steady myself and climb back up, only to trip and dangle from my climbing rope, terrified and panicked and just wanting nothing but to cut the rope and free fall back to the bottom. Except this time? I am closer to the top, closer to my goal, and I have no desire to fall back into rock bottom, the pit of despair where my emotions and my anxiety consume me and devour me until I no longer recognize the person that I am. 

One step closer. I am getting stronger everyday. I am growing stronger in my faith, learning to rely completely on Him, learning to steady myself against Him, learning to free fall into His arms where He holds me until I’m ready to take another step closer. 

One step closer. I am getting physically stronger everyday. Kickboxing and exercise and playing with my girls finds me muscle groups I didn’t know I owned. My hands are strong. My legs are strong. I have stamina and endurance and all those things you need to function, to be human, to not need to stay in bed all day waiting for the pain and the heaviness throughout my body go away. 

One step closer. My mind and my heart are getting stronger. The hills and the valleys on the grief roller coaster settle for the most part. I can pry my white knuckles off the bar of the car and open my eyes and slow my breathing. I know there’s probably another steep drop coming, but I’m starting to remember that God will be there for that part too. He’ll walk me through the terror and the panic and the heartache just as He always has and I will come out of the drop better and remembering He uses all things for good. Even anxiety and grief and death and suicide and assault. All things for good. 

One step closer. He guides my path. He guides my steps. He makes me to lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still water. (Psalm 23) He is in control and I am growing my faith to remember that He is in charge! I am His! He is mine! And together we will do great things! He is healing me one step at a time. Complete, beautiful healing is on my horizon. And each day, one step closer. 

Daddy’s Hands...

My dad is the BEST! I’m sure I’m biased just a little bit but I also know there are some of you that wouldn’t argue with me about that point. He is one of the most amazing men that I know. He is strong and faithful. he has worked hard his whole life for his family. He loves kids and loves to tease. His smile and his laugh can bring me to tears because it just fills a room. When I was little my favorite part of watching a movie was actually watching my dad. Hearing his laugh. Seeing his tears because he’s really just a big softie. He is the best. 

Growing up, he taught me all he knew about cars and motorcycles. He could talk for hours about his experiences growing up in Nazi Germany and immigrating to th United States when he was nine. He bought me my first tool box and filled it with his tools. I would lay under cars with him and pretend to fix things while he was really fixing things. He let me help him with lots of chores and was oh so patient with me. Most of the time. There was that one time (or maybe more) where is frustration or annoyance or whatever he looked at me and said, in exasperation, “Don’t you ever shut up?” So, apparently he also indirectly fostered my career in speech-language pathology because I remembering answering “Um, no” and carrying on with my conversation. 

My daddy has endured so much in his life. Surviving a Hitler Germany and seeing the atrocities of the holocaust.  Immigrating to a new country at nine not speaking English and not knowing the people they were taken in by. He had an abusive uncle. He joined the Navy and became a hard hat deep sea diver. Did you know he’s a three time prostate cancer survivor? No one really knew because he silently did his treatments and dragged himself to work exhausted and fighting cancer to be with his kids at work. He’s an amazing guy. 

He gave me great advice always. He always would pray with me before I had anything I was nervous about: final exams, track meets, piano recitals, spelling bees. You name it his first response was, “Do you want to say a little prayer?” And then he would grab my hands and pray for me and then pull me into the biggest hug. When I left for college he bought me this little stuffed green frog holding a tiny Bible. He handed it to me and said, “His name is Jeremiah. Get it? The bull frog? The Bible?” Eye rolls and fits of laughter are always present when me dad is around. 

The night Brian confessed what he did, my dad came down in the middle of the night and held me and cried with me. Then he changed my locks for me so the girls and I would be safe. He was angry. He is still angry. He is hurt he couldn’t protect his girls. He exudes love and affection for his family, and even those that are not his family. He is the best example of what a dad should be. 

So, my upbringing is in stark contrast to what I’m raising my daughters in right this second. No dad. A dad that hurt one of them. A dad that chose to leave them when the times got hard. And my heart breaks. 

The perfect example of this moment happened at the Waterfront Park this past week. There was a preschool graduation happening under the big gazebo. A baseball awards dinner was also happening at the tables. There were people everywhere. Emerson, who is always the life of the party anywhere we go and can orchestrate a playground of thirty kids into completely changing their game and doing what she wants instead was standing in the middle of the chaos just observing. And then it hit me. There were dad’s everywhere. Playing tag. Climbing on the rope dome. Laughing and running and teasing their kids. She stood there for probably ten minutes just looking all around her. It was like those moments on TV where one central point is frozen in time and the blurs of action are running all around.  Her little body stood their frozen, a look of pain on her face, as kids and their dads ruled the playground. And my heart shattered into a million pieces for her. 

We are grateful. We have had so many men step up and try and fill that hole for Emerson. My daddy is her favorite and she follows him all over whether it’s at home or at Peace. Uncle Ben plays the meanest game of tag and she counts the seconds in between their visits and talk smack in the time between. Mr. Carnahan was the best teacher because he has been playing tag and basketball and active in her life for a few years now, and his leaving is leaving a hole in her little heart. We are thankful that our amazing new pastor, Pastor Brynestad, has already shown that he can join in on a game of tag or two also. Amazing men that are showing my girls that they care and they love them. And my heart is so so grateful. 

But that moment on the playground is our most-of-the-time reality. No dad. And as hard as I try I cannot fill that role. Please don’t wish me a Happy Fathers Day as I do not fill that role. I am their mom. And they are missing their dad. 

This year seems to be harder for some reason. Perhaps the fact that both of them know what happened to Brian. Perhaps they are both old enough to realize what they are missing out on. Perhaps it just is what it is and there is no explanation. I don’t know. I do know this Father’s Day hurts for them. 

2 Corinthians 6:18 says, “and I will be a father to you, and you shall be sons and daughters to me, says the Lord Almighty.” God is our Father. We are His daughters. And my girls are faithful and know this! They know that He can fill the holes in their hearts. That He will scoop them up when they are sad or hurting and will bind all their wounds. That He is loving and faithful and the perfect example of what a father should be. It doesn’t quite take the still out of not having a daddy to play tag with for an 8-year-old, but the reassurance that Father God is there, and the knowledge that we do have so many amazing men stepping up for them is the perfect combination of being able to walk through the Father’s Day holiday with faith and hope and peace and love. 

So, for those of you that have dads this Father’s Day I pray that you love and cherish every moment with them. Tell them what they mean. Tell them how thankful you are the God chose them for you. And for those of you that are missing your dads this Father’s Day, take comfort in knowing that you Heavenly Father is there for you. He will carry you through and wipe every tear and cherish you as the daughter of the King that you are! And, if you see my girls, or think about my girls, send them a prayer this Father’s Day. Pray that they will grow in their faith and hope and peace and love and know that God is their ultimate father. 

Thank you, daddy! You set the bar so high! And I love you forever and always. 

Nobody Can Save Me...

Another post about suicide? Yes. This is another post about suicide. Why? Because that’s all I seem to hear about lately. And everyone is talking about suicide. And then there’s the awkward pauses and the stares and the silence and then the “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up in front of you.” Like I can’t handle the talk. Like I might burst into tears in front of them. Like I might snap and sink into a PTSD flashback. 

So, what if I did? What if I did start crying and make people uncomfortable? What if I froze and hyperventilated and dropped to my knees and screamed? What if images from the night Brian died flash in front of me? My mother-in-law wailing. My dad choking back tears. The words of the note he left me deafening me as I silently read them. What if I shared that with you when you talk about suicide? What would happen? You would probably be uncomfortable. Maybe shift your eyes or your feet. But you know what? We need to be uncomfortable. We need to have to stand there for a second not knowing what to do. You know why? Because THAT’S how we learn. That’s how we figure out what to say the next time this happens. We might gain some insight as to how to save the one person that kills themselves every 12 seconds in the United States. 

We don’t like emotion. We don’t like having emotion or dealing with other people’s’ emotion. So we suffer in silence. We stuff feelings and hide the hurt and suck it up. We see someone upset and we turn a blind eye, waiting for someone else to take care of it. Emotions are awkward and not many people know what to say or what to do. So we do nothing. We say nothing. And life moves on and the person who is suffering wanders through life, feeling like they are without a purpose. Feeling invisible. Feeling unloved. 

I posted a video to my Facebook page the other day. The video is an ad for online counseling. In the video a woman stands in front of the bathroom mirror, gasping for breath, obviously struggling to breathe and looking anxious and panicked. The top of a zipper is visible in her chest. After struggling a while she reaches up and pulls the zipper down. Words spill out of her chest and she begins to breathe easier. I shared the video along with a message that stated that this video was the best interpretation of PTSD and anxiety that I had ever seen. That is exactly how I feel many days! Unable to breathe. Feeling like I might burst with panic and anxiety. Flashbacks and feelings and emotions. Two people commented. One person agreed with me, commenting that she related to the video also.  One person, my sissy, commented love and support and empathy that I would ever feel that way. Four people “liked” the post, I’m assuming indicating some level of either support or understanding. Many people probably didn’t see the post. Some maybe did and felt uncomfortable thoughts and feelings. We don’t do well with emotion.  Six total interactions from a friends list of over three hundred and fifty. 

I’m fine. Most days I am fine. Some days I’m not. Some days are worse than others. Some days I’m completely falling apart. Think you could know the difference? I don’t think you would. My closest friends and family, perhaps. There are subtle differences between ok me and not ok me. The people that know me best would tell you my face changes. I’m a bit shorter with my interactions. My voice is different. I get quieter. I smile and say I’m fine. But in the typical passing glances and small conversations we might have in the hallways or on the sidewalk, would you even really know? 

Would anyone know that today is a day that I am not ok?  Did anyone notice me today? See me hanging out a little longer than usual? Passing through the office a few more times? Sitting playing with kids past their speech time? Did anyone notice me missing from kickboxing class? See me in different clothes this evening than I wore to work because I feel like I needed to protect myself in my fat clothes tonight and changed as soon as I got home?

Do we take the time to notice people? Did anyone notice Kate Spade feeling different? Anthony Bourdain? Did anyone see red flags for the 11-year-old belonging to a friend of a friend that chose to kill himself this week? Are we checking in on people? Are we taking a second to make eye contact? Look up from our devices and look at the people around us?

We talk openly of people who have been diagnosed with cancer. We love and support our friends through MS or fibromyalgia or diabetes. We openly post support and fundraisers for people with leukemia or people with fractures or people with head injuries. And we should! Absolutely! People need love and support. People need fundraisers and financial assistance to get through tough times. 

So, why do we not extend the same courtesy to the mentally ill? To people suffering from depression or anxiety. To people like me who have been diagnosed with PTSD? Why are people with those illnesses (and they are illnesses) shamed and made to feel like they are crazy or lazy or fat? Why are mental illnesses taboo? I may not have the physical implications of any of those other health maladies, but I suffer just the same. Yes, I suffer. You can’t see my scars. I don’t have a cast or a brace. I don’t have ports or get poked incessantly with needles. But I still suffer. 

My joints physically ache when I am in the throes of my PTSD and anxiety. I get headaches. I can’t breathe. It takes all of my focus to stay at work and not want to run far away from everything. I can’t focus or concentrate because my mind fills with thoughts of despair and destruction.  My stomach hurts. I begin to worry about my girls and my parents and my sister and her family. I start to think that I’m worthless and mean nothing. I get paranoid and wonder how long it’s going to be before I lose my friends. 

And then? I find that single ounce of courage to admit to myself that I am ok. That there is light after the dark. A calm once the storm passes. That there is a message in the mess. And then I pray. And I turn it all over to the One who loves me more than anyone. I fall wrecklessly into His arms and allow His peace and grace and love to wash over me again and again. And the feelings calm and I can move on until the next episode hits. 

Kate Spade? Anthony Bourdain? Chester Bennington? Robin Williams? They never found their single ounce of what they needed to see another day. They couldn’t pull themselves up out of the pit they were in enough to unzip even the tiniest part of their zipper. They didn’t have anyone that noticed. Or, if they did, they didn’t have anyone that reached out to them. 

Have I contemplated suicide? It’s crossed my mind. When the demons that I dance with get strong enough there are lots of thoughts about ending it. Being at peace. Finally getting rest. Being in a better place. Leaving the burden that I face my family with. Do I buy into those thoughts really? Not always. But I find the ounce that I need to push through and step forward into God’s marvelous presence. I look into the mirror and remind myself that I am a daughter of the Most High King! That there is a grand plan for me and that Father God never intended for me to choose when I exit His world. 

Romans 8:28 says, “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” All things work together for good. It doesn’t always feel that way, but I promise they do! I wouldn’t never have picked this life. I didn’t want to be assaulted. I didn’t want my husband to kill himself. I didn’t want seizures or PTSD or anxiety. Many days I wish it was all different. I wish I was different. But, that’s not how this works. Things happen. Evil happens. And the wind is knocked out of us. But, we need to fight to find that ounce of strength to pull us through. And if we can’t? We rely on the people around us to bolster us up and walk us through. We also need to realize that this world is becoming more and more egocentric. We can’t rely on anyone to save us. We can’t wait for someone to notice that something is wrong because chances are it won’t happen! We need to turn our hearts and our souls to the One who can save and guard and guide us through each and everyday. Turn our faith and our eyes to the One who understanding pain and suffering. The One who can walk us through. The One who sees us and noticed the subtle differences on the days that are not ok. 

In the meantime, notice people! Push through the awkward and help someone! The interactions you have with people, even strangers, could save a life! You saying hello and asking about someone could be the moment they needed to change their minds. 

And pray for the people of this world. We are all fighting battles. We all need love and support and compassion. We all need to be checked on. Make it a point to check on someone every day! You never know what their plan and their perception is. Be present. Be kind. Be compassionate.