I am a rock. I am an island.

Life has become a never ending game of chutes and ladders. I climb toward the finish line only to roll the dice and slide down again. Each climb up is difficult. Especially when I am climbing the same ladder for the umpteenth time. And each slide down is on that blazing hot piece of metal. And I'm wearing shorts. And not just any shorts, but the ones from the 1970's. If my buns weren't burning from the climb they were burning from the skin peeling slide back down. I decided that today I would direct this blog to the one that I have been writing about. That is to say, this one is to my wife, not just about her. 

The pain grows as the day approaches. And this is how I see it going: Hand in hand we approach that slab of granite that includes the beginning and end of the incredible life of our daughter. You do realize she would be 23 by now. Yeah, I know. Pretty incredible. Time has crept by in a flash. This crawl of years has taken forever as it proves the theory that time flies when you're having fun. When you're not having fun the finish seems so far away. Across the grass we amble, our grip on each other tighter with each step. I don't know at this point who is holding who up. Eight years. Eight long years. From the road we cannot see her name but we know it's there. We've traced it a thousand times with our fingers. The branch. The butterfly. The words letting everyone know that she was Our Angel. The dash. So much resides in that dash. Such a short dash but so full while it was being etched on this earth. Rounding the corner we find our places on the concrete bench and sit with our fingers intertwined. The sun glints off the diamond I put on your finger 27 years ago. Our interlaced fingers becoming one. My fingers dwarfing your perfect, short, stubby little ones. 

This visit is different. This is the most difficult yet. As each blade of grass bent under the weight of my feet I acknowledge the fact that this time there is only one set of footprints. And the approach is to two slabs of granite. Both etched with the stake that went through my heart. This stylus of death has ripped me in two. The bench has been moved to the other side of our daughter's spot in the earth. It now resides above the last patch of earth my body will ever own. We had to move it from the other side to make room for you. Just like you said I would have to do. I place myself on this bench made for two but there is only one now. No one to hold me as I sob. No one to lock her fingers with mine. No one to mix her tears with mine on the grass beneath our heads that hang heavy. This time when I rise I will wipe the dirt off of two markers. I will trace my fingers along two dashes and realize how short those dashes are. I will walk away and trace that single row of footprints back to the road. I will glance back to the markers and know that one day I too will have my wish just as you did. 

Somewhere out there, if you listen for it, there is a loud crack. My heart is breaking in two. It is being sliced and shaped into a block roughly 8 inches thick, three feet wide, and two feet tall. And on one polished side of this stone is being etched a date. Followed by a dash. You, my sweet dear, filled over half of that dash. Your daughter made it wider. And that dash will stop one day and be followed by another date. That date will not mark the end of the dash. It will mark the beginning of the greatest reunion ever. Open your arms wide and brace yourself because I'll be running full tilt! 

I know you will be with me next week as I face another dreaded first. And, although I can't mix my tears with yours I will cry enough for us both. Although I can't lace my fingers with yours I will squeeze my fist tight. And although I can't place footprints next to yours I know mine will be deeper than ever before. Because I will carry the weight of my love for you as well as that of your family and mine. And, when we are all putting an end to our dashes you will know that my final dash will be to you. 

I'm Alright. Don't Nobody Worry 'Bout Me

For the last seven months or so I have focused my blog on the loss of my wife more than the loss of my daughter. Today, as I approach the 8th anniversary of my daughter's passing I thought I would change the direction a little bit. I also want to change the angle at which I approach this so if I seem to be scattershooting a bit, bear with me please. 

Let me begin by answering a couple of questions you are probably afraid to ask:

1. Which was harder, losing my child or losing my spouse? 

My answer may surprise you. And this may not be the typical answer of someone who has gone through both losses. Losing our child was the toughest thing my wife and I ever had to face. I would not say that we had marital bliss from the moment we made our vows until the day she left for home, but the daily troubles seem quite minuscule in comparison. Women are very relationship based. It is in their nature to nurture. As a husband I knew that whatever I gave my wife she returned to me in a greater abundance. I gave her my love and she gave me a child. I gave her grief and she gave it back, good measure, shaken together, and running over (but not nearly what I deserved). This nurturing nature made her an incredible mother. It also meant that, being relationship driven, she developed an extremely strong bond with our daughter. The kind that a child can only develop with their mother. That being said, when she passed away she took the life out of her mother. The grief and pain slowly killed her. Her mom died of a broken heart that just took seven years to manifest itself. It is for this reason that I believe that, had I been the one to go, leaving my wife behind, that she still would've grieved the loss of her daughter more than me. I, on the other hand, miss my wife more. Yep, I said it. Then again, had the timetable been flipped, I might miss my daughter more than my wife. But I doubt it. Most of the reason behind this is because we faced our firsts together. Our first childless Mother's Day. Our first childless Father's Day. Thanksgiving. Birthdays. Christmas. All of these we faced together. A conversation my wife and I had weeks before her passing centered on how she couldn't bear the thought of going through these events without me at her side. Well, that nightmare became mine, not hers. My relationship with my child was based around the one thing that almost all guys base relationships around - activities. I miss going places and doing things with her. This is why I am so blessed when a friend entrusts me with their child as I take them to a movie, ballgame, or some other event that my daughter would've been at my side. I miss her most when I am at activities that she would join me at. My wife missed her all of the time. I know it was tougher for her than for me.

2. How do I feel when other people mention their children and how proud they are of them when I don't have a child to be proud of?

I am very proud of my child. My daughter had such a profound effect on those around her that that effect lingers to this day. And that effect is multiplied exponentially by the way those that she reached are now reaching others. Her best friend told me just the other day that she would not be as strong in her faith had it not been for Beth. How incredible a legacy that is! But, in better answering the question, it doesn't bother me in the least to hear of your child's exploits. I'm proud for you when your children and grandchildren make you proud. A friend once mentioned to me that she didn't want to hurt me. I told her that it would be hard to hurt me more than I already have been. But that was just the point. She didn't want to add to my hurt. And, while it was very sweet of her to worry, I think the decision to be hurt is mine to make. Too much of life is unlived if we let the fear of being hurt get in the way of life's experiences. As a parent you allow, and even encourage, your child to take her first steps. You clap when she falls, walks, and wobbles her way into your arms as she puts one foot in front (or slightly ahead!) of the other. But, as she learns to walk she is going to fall. She is going to get bruised and possibly bloodied through the learning process. But we don't discourage her from walking. In the same way, I may be hurt when I realize that my child's adventures have ended. She never saw her sweet 16. She never had her heart broken by a boy. Never had her first date, first holding of sweaty hands, first kiss. Never got the chance to walk the aisle as a bridesmaid or a bride. But I don't focus on these things. I focus instead on what she WAS able to accomplish. And, as I was able to do for a young man who recently walked the aisle with his beautiful new bride, I like to encourage and bless those that do get to accomplish those things my daughter only got to dream of. I don't get to do it for my child so I want to be able to do it for another child. Regardless of how old they are. 

Life with my daughter, just like life with my wife, is now relegated to memories. I miss them both more than those of you who haven't experienced such loss would ever even imagine. But, I must go on. I must place one foot slightly ahead of the other. I must fall down. I must get back up. I must hurt. I must learn my lessons and move on. And in moving on I will continue to set myself up for more pain. But that is my choice. Please don't take it away from me. 

Flying away on a wing and a prayer, who could it be? Believe it or not it's just me.

Spiders. I hate spiders. I know. I know. They play an important role in the grand scheme of things in the insect world. But I still don't care for them. And tonight one of them decided to try to take up residence in my house. So I did the thing that any self-respecting arachnophobe would do. I went to find something with a very long handle to kill it. After all, I've seen all of the things spiders can do. They can jump long distances, wrap you up quickly in a web, and hang you from the support beams in the basement. They can even, when given a significant dose of radiation turn you into someone with great responsibility. But, since I have no plutonium around the house, thereby reducing my chance to be a superhero, I was forced to take military action. So when I returned with a broom, never once taking my eyes off the eight-legged freak, I began my assault only to see that, from out of nowhere (they are sneaky that way) his twin brother showed up and began to aggressively charge me. Fortunately my aim with the broom was spot on as my arial assault on this rapidly growing arachnid army was successful. Kevin-2. Spiders-0. 

This was once not an issue with me. I had a way of dealing with my dislike (slowly evolving into fear) of spiders. I would simply call my wife in to deal with it. After all, ladies are sweet so the spider would never think she would intend harm to their spider bodies. It was my own sneak attack. At least that's how I justified calling my wife in to deal with something I didn't want to handle. When it came to spiders, my wife was my hero. When it came to many things in my life, and the lives of many others, she was a hero. 

This weekend I helped millions of others set a record at the box office by going to watch American Sniper. An excellent movie. Very patriotic and yet it gave the viewer a glimpse into what our soldiers have to face. Chris Kyle was a true hero to millions. Still is. And to no one more than his family. His wife. 

My wife will never have a movie made about her life (but if she did I would expect Sandra Bullock would be terrific playing that role - and I'll happily play myself). Regardless, she is still a hero. So many of my brothers and sisters on this road of grief feel the same about their own dearly departed. June was a hero to Jim among others. Bradford was a hero to his Brittany and his family and friends. Abigail was a hero to her mom and my friend JoJo as well as her brothers and sister. Holly was a hero to her mom and dad and all of her school and church friends. Eric was a hero to his mom, dad, and sister. My daughter was a hero to my wife and I and so many others. You can insert the name of your hero here too. And you can be sure that there will probably not be movies made about them either. But they are, nonetheless, heroes just the same. 

When American Sniper leaves the theaters and hits the shelves in DVD format the hero recognition will swell again. But afterwards, when we are all going about our own lives, we will probably seldom think of this military hero. But his wife will think about him every day. All day. He will always be in her thoughts. Just a breath away. 

For those of us who have lost our heroes they will always be in our thoughts. Days, weeks, months and even years later. And when you think about Wanda, Beth, June, Bradford, Abigail, Holly, Eric, or anyone else that you can think of that your friend lost, you can be sure that that heroes' spouse or parent or even sibling has thought about them a million times more. When you wake in the morning from a dream that makes you think of him, recognize that his wife went to sleep with him in her thoughts, woke up that way, and thought about him several times before you even brushed your teeth. 

So, how would you like to be our hero for a little while? You can. Let us know when you've been thinking about our loved one. It sure helps to know that they live on in your memory as well. And don't think for a moment that by mentioning them to us that you are going to hurt us. We may cry (if you know me at all you can be sure I will), but it isn't like we forgot the loss of our hero. They were only a breath away. 

Who Are You? Who ooh, who ooh?

Who am I? You know, I thought I knew the answer to this question when I was in college. I knew what I wanted to be. What I wanted to do. Where I wanted to live. I knew the kind of person I was. How I would react in any given situation. That was all before SHE came along and started to change me. Oh, she was sneaky about it. Once we married I thought I would bring her into my world. We were going to live the way I wanted us to live. Then I realized I had just made the biggest mistake of my life. 

Getting married to the love of my life wasn't the biggest mistake. The biggest mistake was thinking I could go on being who I thought I was supposed to be and she would fall in line. After all, I was the older, more experienced of the two. She would learn from all the wisdom I had garnered from my 22 years of life and would fall at my feet in adoration. Yeah, I made a mistake. 

I remember when the change began. I was the kind of guy that would let things fall where they may when I walked in he door. You know, a bachelor. Shortly after the honeymoon I noticed a little white basket resting on a speaker by the front door to the apartment. My wife put it there so I could just dump everything in my pockets right in the basket. Being the loving spouse that she was, she would take the basket and carry it to the bedroom so I could have all of my stuff ready for when I left the apartment the next morning. This was a great arrangement. Already she was taking care of me. That was until the day I came home to find that she had rearranged the entire apartment. Okay, she didn't rearrange the entire apartment exactly, she just moved the basket on top of the other speaker. The one by the door to the bedroom. I had to take three giant steps across the apartment to get to my basket. But that's okay. I took those steps because I loved her. That was until I came home one day and she had done it again. She had moved my basket. Now I had to take yet another extra step into the bedroom where I found my basket on the dresser. This was getting ridiculous. If I wasn't careful I was going to end up finding my basket on the shelf in my closet one day. Well, I wasn't careful. I was now having to go on a scavenger hunt to find my basket. And there it was, neatly tucked away in the closet. I wanted to carry the basket and put it right back in the speaker by the front door. But that would defeat the purpose of my laziness if I walked it all back to the front door so I decided to let her win his little battle. 

Twenty six years later found me taking my shoes off at the door, picking up any grass or debris as I walked in, and placing it in the nearest trash. I would go to my closet and put my stuff away on the shelf there, switch to my inside shoes, and walk back to the kitchen to have a snack. Then I would wipe down the counter and any crumbs that had fallen to the floor and eventually find my resting place on the couch. All of this I did while the missus was at work. Why was I doing this? What happened to the bachelor? I am not who I was. She changed me. How dare she! Because of her I am... a better man. 

So, why wasn't I like this when I was a bachelor? I think the last seven months have proven to me that I was chiseled, shaped, morphed into a completely different being because I loved my wife. I wanted to do things for her. And it really only took her seven years of marriage to chisel away the bad and start shaping the good. She taught me to be a better steward with everything God had blessed us with. 

Now she is gone and the first thing I do in the morning is make my bed. When I finish showering and shaving I wipe down the sink, spray down the shower, and put the towel and wash cloth in the hamper. I carry my work shoes to the door to put on there rather than wear them throughout the house. I clean my breakfast dishes before leaving for work. When I come home I try to take care of keeping the house neat and clean. But, why? Why should I bother? Part of me seems convinced that I must keep the house spotless for when she walks through that door. I want her to be proud of what I've done. I want her to see that I've done it for her so she doesn't have to clean up. She can just come sit and snuggle on the couch with me. But I know this is not the case. I am alone. No one else in the house. Utterly alone. No one to snuggle with. 

Now cleaning seems self-serving. I don't want to keep the house clean for myself. I want to keep it clean for her. And, yes, I know she can't come back. I know she can only observe from beyond. And while that very thought sucks the very life from my bones, I pray she is indeed a part of that cloud of witnesses that watches me. I pray that she looks in through the windows and realized that I've done this all for her. And that I love and miss her more than words or those things that speak louder than words can ever convey. I hope she sees that she changed me into something I wasn't. She changed me for the better. I hope she sees it all. 

That reminds me, I need to wash the windows. 

Let the wind blow

It's crazy where inspiration comes from. And it's equally insane the things that make us press on and not give up. For me it is sometimes difficult to find that inspiration. For many of my grieving brothers and sisters you continue putting one foot in front of the other because your children or your spouse need you. I no longer have those ties to this earth. So when my second journey down grief's highway began just seven months ago today it was harder to see what the grand design was that the Grand Designer had for me. Please don't get me wrong. Although there is even more calling me to the everlasting and less anchoring me here, it has never crossed my mind to put an end to this earthly pain. I refuse to interrupt God's plan. But it sure would be nice to know what that plan is. 

When day one occurred in this second journey I went through what everyone goes through. The heart dislodges itself from my chest cavity as it tries to follow my loved one's spirit to heaven. It first dropped to my stomach causing me to double over in pain. When my heart determined it could not make it's escape through my gut it began searching for another way out. It pounded in the walls of my chest trying to squeeze between the ribs reminding me of the rib that woman was formed from. Close to my heart. When access to heaven could not be obtained through the chest wall my heart tried to escape through my throat getting lodged there for a period of time before dropping again to my stomach. Eventually my heart gave up trying so violently to escape and decided to see if it could slowly squeeze out from behind my eyes. Even today, like a champion fighter rising from the canvas for one more try, my heart begs to be freed from this mortal shell. 

The day after the first of my wife's birthdays in heaven a major tornado tore through the area. I had just dropped some presents off for a precious little boy at his Nana's house. As I was leaving his Nana drove up, got out of her vehicle, and gave me a hug. She invited me in for a few minutes but I politely declined. My Christmas delivery had only begun as I was headed to see my nephew and nieces and drop off their gifts. When I told Nana where I was headed she informed me that there were tornado warnings in the area. I told her that I had heard that but I was sure it would be fine. Then she looked me in the eyes and told me that she knew where I would rather be but not to do anything foolish to rush my departure from this earth. There were too many people here that needed me. I assured her that I would be fine and that I wouldn't do anything foolish... and proceeded to drive directly into the path of a tornado that caused massive destruction. I missed it by mere moments as my truck shook, swayed, and dodged debris falling from the sky. God did not intend to take me then. But He definitely intended to shake me a bit. 

I did not intend to foolishly face the tornado, but I did not take the measures I should've taken to protect myself from what could have been an event that would've caused a number of you to say that I was where I wanted to be, just like my wife. Given the same situation I would like to say I have learned my lesson, but who am I trying to kid? However, an event today opened my eyes. 

Traffic on one of the main highways is tough enough as it is during rush hour. Today it was worse as a compact car pulled out directly in front of me as I was traveling highway speeds. In an effort to not make it a compacted car I slammed on my brakes and horn equally hard and stopped merely inches from the oblivious driver's face. Seeing that they were from out of town my only solace was in the fact that I was much closer to a change of underwear than they were. The only injury I sustained was to my tongue as I bit it to keep from saying things that would not be heard in heaven but would, instead, give otherworldly directions. 

So, what does this have to do with a journey of grief? To me it was proof that, no matter how bad it is for me, I am not ready to go. Self-preservation kicked in. Well, that and my compassion for the wide-eyed individual in the other car. It might have been time for me to go but I wasn't taking someone with me if I didn't have to. I guess what I'm saying is that I recognize that God wants me here a bit longer and I'll stay here doing whatever he wants me to do. And, hopefully, wearing clean underwear. 

Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality

The other day one of my very best friends and I were talking about my losses. I had just finished my first Christmas since losing my wife and I'm just now facing my first new year without her. Dealing with loss creates a number of "firsts" in my life. But our conversation wasn't about firsts. It was about "lasts." And they can be just as difficult to face. Sometimes "lasts" lead to "firsts" and sometimes they don't. 

For example, if I eat the last of the peanut butter that my wife bought then I have to go buy my first peanut butter without her. Now peanut butter may seem trivial to you but when you're  shopping for it, the weight of what you are doing can suddenly bear down on you. Allow me to enlighten you. You scrape the bottom of the jar of peanut butter you shared until it is bone dry. Now you have to throw the jar away. But it's the last peanut butter she ever bought for you and you realize it just as the jar hits the bottom of the can. Now, you could dig it back out, clean it out, and save the jar. You could also find yourself on the next episode of Hoarders. So you forgo the dumpster diving and man up to the fact that you have to go buy peanut butter. So off you go... a month later. You decide that, during that month, peanut butter isn't as important as you thought it was (thank the Lord that it wasn't deodorant that caused this epiphany). Finally you go peanut butter shopping. You stand in front of the peanut butter aisle and suddenly realize that George Washington Carver would be shocked at the number of brands there are now. And then you remember that your daughter once did a report on Carver that you helped her with for school. So now it's not only your wife that you're missing but also your daughter. You straighten up before someone sees you crying in front of the Peter Pan and begin to make your selection. The brand selection isn't a problem. You know what brand to get. And, although your wife preferred crunchy, she always bought smooth because that's what you liked and she was always good about sacrificing the little things to make you happy. So you know you don't need to even consider anything but your brand and smooth so this should be easy. Low Fat? There's such a thing as low fat peanut butter? Is that what she got for you? You rack your brain for a moment and realize that she just got you regular peanut butter so you reach for a jar. That's when it hits you hard and fast. A double tap to the heart. The first thing to hit you is that you don't need a large size since you are the only one using the jar and it should last twice as long. The second thing that hits you is the question of whether peanut butter can go bad or not. You don't know so you pull out your phone to call... your wife. And suddenly people are making space for the man crying holding a small jar of Jif in one hand and a family sized one in the other. You put back the large jar and get the small one instead. Now it's on to the bread aisle where you face the same dilemma. 

So, see, sometimes lasts leading to firsts can have a great impact. The peanut butter episode really didn't bother me. The regular butter did, though. I bought a small tub of it so it wouldn't go bad before I used it all. But the "last" that really got to me was tea. There was a pitcher of tea that my wife made that sat in the fridge growing a layer of ice on it because I didn't want to drink the last sweet tea that she ever made for me. Guests would come over and I wouldn't offer them tea because it was the last tea she ever made for me. This went on until about a week ago. I finally got up the courage to dump it out and try to make more. I had seen her do it with the fancy tea maker gadget I bought her years ago so I had a general idea. I know she used 4 scoops of sugar. I just didn't know what size scoop it was. But I guessed pretty good. I found the tea bags and put them in the basket in the tea maker. Wait, I have to add the water first. So I add the water and then go fill the pitcher up with ice... What's that noise? Why, it's the water pouring out onto the floor. It seems that someone filled the container incorrectly and the teamaker voiced its opinion by regurgitating the water onto the floor. Fortunately I was thinking fast enough and caught much of the water in the pitcher so I didn't make too much of a mess. 

Sometimes dealing with "lasts" can be messy. It can leave you in a puddle on the floor. But we must get through the "lasts" so we can face the "firsts" that God has planned for us. But sometimes we have to learn that lesson the hard way. 

Imagine

When you first experience a grief event one of the things we all have in common is that feeling that the world as you know it has ended but other people still keep moving. I remember, both times, leaving the hospital for the drive home wondering why the sun was shining; why people were driving around with smiles on their faces; why they were driving at all; why stores were not closed. All of these signs of life going on when all you want to SCREAM is, "don't you know that life as we know it is over."

Over time that feeling does dissipate. And then your new life begins. You learn to do things differently. When you lose a spouse you begin to realize how many things your spouse did for you. And you now have to do those things for yourself - even if that means hiring someone to do the yard, wash clothes, or clean house. So you learn new tricks or find the right person to handle the chores. If you have surviving children, I imagine, then your children also have to bear the weight of loss and increased chores. 

Finally, you settle into a routine and plod along throughout your day. You spend time with your old friends and maybe even make a few new ones. Eventually you allow yourself to enjoy life as you now know it. You go out to eat and talk with anyone who will show you attention. You attend social functions from Bible studies to holiday parties. But when the Bible study is over or the party breaks up you head home. Alone. 

This evening, as I was making plans to spend some time with extended family this weekend I thought about a show I watched several years ago. I do not know the name of it. And I don't remember much about it except this. The main character has some sort of accident and becomes partially paralyzed. Wheelchair bound he has to relearn daily life. One day he is surprised by a group of friends who showed up with a number of wheelchairs so they can play ball with him. During their game the ball bounces away and rolls under a fence. One of his friends jumps up and leaps over the fence to retrieve it. At that moment this man's new life implodes.  He cannot jump up out of his chair. The use of his legs is gone. And the joy he was feeling is now covered in a depressing wet blanket. 

Such is life for the griever. We enjoy our time with others. It makes us feel important. It makes us feel loved. It makes us feel alive. But then we part company and the friends go about their happy lives and we are right back where we were that first day. Alone. Wondering how people can go on with their lives. And one of the difficult things for us to realize is that these friends have lives of their own and they do not spend time away from us thinking about the next time we will get together. Meanwhile all we can think about is when we will get our next fix. 

The one thing I have learned is that I must recognize that I am no longer the most important person in someone else's life. We are left alone to live a life that others can only imagine (or they can't imagine). And, it's time for us (me) to do some imagining of our own. Our friends deal with the emotions of our loss occasionally while we have to deal with it every moment of every day. So we have a choice. We can pull down those trying to help us in an attempt to make them feel how bad it must be for us, or we can try to pull ourselves up out of our figurative wheelchairs and learn to walk again. I think I'd rather walk than put all of my friends in the wheelchairs. How about you?

He did the monster mash

Sometimes you don't see it coming. Other times you do. Regardless, the tsunamis of grief come whether you are ready or not. The surprising ones are actually the ones that you can see. When you see the tsunami coming your first reaction is to try to outrun it. And for a short period of time you think you are successful. Why? Because your attention is on the direction you are headed and not on the grief building behind you. 

Have you ever watched a horror film? You know, the kind with a Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers, or even one of those darn scary clowns? The ridiculous teenage characters running from the villain run at top speed but the scary bad dude catches up to them by walking. The faster they run the sooner they are caught. And you, the movie watcher, know what's coming and yet you jump every time the clown pops up out of nowhere. Well, I think that the grief is the scary bad dude. No matter how fast I run he will catch me. And he will inflict some kind of harm. 

So, why do I run? Why don't I just turn around and face it? I'm not sure what the answer is. I guess I think that I am the star in this horror show and I will be the one left standing in the end. I will be the one person that the bad guy isn't going to catch.

Now running isn't the only defense I have against grief. Angry Me seems to help sometimes. I hate using him, but he does have his place. Sometimes it feels good to let Angry Me have his way. He screams. He cries an ugly cry. He sometimes throws things. And, occasionally, if left to his own accord, he makes stupid decisions. But all in all he has his place. The problem with Angry Me is that he doesn't care who he hurts. HULK SMASH. For that reason I try to only release Angry Me when I am alone because you wouldn't like me when I'm angry. 

Another defense I have is distraction. This is where my friends and family come in. They are the best at providing me with distractions. I enjoy meals, sporting events, conversations, and even Mario Kart races and Tiger Woods golf video games. Distractions are usually activities with people I find dear. But not always. I go to sporting events. I've even tried retail therapy (but I can't seem to really buy much because I still feel like I'm supposed to run it past my wife first).

Most recently I stood in the face of an oncoming tsunami. It's beginnings came during a recent grocery shopping trip. I now understand why my wife hated going alone after our daughter passed. I failed to make a proper list so I found myself going through several aisles looking for something that I'm sure I would forget since I didn't have a complete list. I went into the store for five things and came out with twenty and a hundred dollars poorer. I got things I didn't really need and still failed to get things I did need. What I really needed was my wife telling me what to get for her. What I really needed was my wife to be thankful for going with her and entertaining her as she shopped. What I needed was my wife to tell me to put something back. What I really needed was my wife. Badly. I missed her so terribly that I could hardly make it through the shopping trip before the tsunami began to crest. 

So, I ran. And then Angry Me showed up and tried, unsuccessfully, to control things. When Angry Me got out of control I looked for distractions. Hard to see through the tears so I went to bed. Wrong answer. Bed time is the worst. Quiet. Alone. Too much time to think. Alone. Stopped up from the ugly tears. Alone. So. Very. Alone. Bedtime is not a good idea. But washing clothes, yeah, that's a good distraction. Start a load and then take some sinus medicine to help me breathe through the stuffiness brought on by the tears. Sinus medicine makes me sleepy. Climb in bed. Start to go to sleep. Remember the load of clothes and move them to the dryer. Find something to clean up. Get distracted by something else. Get sleepy. Climb in bed and watch TV. Forgot about the darn clothes again. Get up and fold the clothes and put them away. 2:00 a.m. No longer sleepy... And the scary bad dude catches me. 

Yeah, I didn't see that coming. 

Let it go, let it go

For years I've heard the expression, "The best is yet to come!" More often than not, this is heard at the first of the year. But what if you know, deep down inside, the best has come and gone? For those of us who have lost very close family members, we know that it will never be that good again. We know it to the core of our being. Especially, if you are like me, and had the best wife in the world and you had to tell her goodbye. Especially if you had to tell the best child who ever lived the same thing just a few years earlier. 

My best is behind me. What is left are incredible memories that sometimes break through the crust of grief and sprout a beautiful picture of what life was once like. Like pictures from a favorite vacation, they can be revisited in your mind but they will never be revisited the same way again. But they can be revisited. 

Life will never be the same. We have lost the love of our life and cannot imagine life ever being as good as it was. But we can make new memories. And they can be good memories. And, like a good meal, you can have your favorite dish at different places. As soon as we tell ourselves that it will never be good again we limit ourselves. We shut the door on new experiences, new people, new memories. 

If the best is truly yet to come how amazing it will be. If we feel we already have had the best and God has something more for us, are we truly bold enough to tell God that it can't be good again. That it, unbelievably, can't be better. 

It would be difficult (dare I say, impossible) to believe that God could ever give me anyone better than my daughter or my wife. It is totally beyond comprehension for me. But, far be it from me to limit a limitless God.

 

The best is yet to come? Alright God, go prove it!