Andrea

I've wanted to write this post for weeks now. Yet, I just couldn't seem to find the words. And even after I found the words, it would be 2 more weeks before you would actually get to read it. Simply because I wasn't ready.

When John and I got married in 1999, I acquired his family, and I acquired Andrea and her family as well. Andrea was the daughter of John's father's best friend. They've been friends since junior high, so Andrea and her big brother Joe, literally grew up with John. He's known them since he was born. John's dad has now been friends with this guy for more than half his life.

A couple of years ago, thanks to all the drama that we have been through with my inlaws, my sister-in-law Jean, was at the library where Andrea worked complaining about me. You know, how I was evil and should be destroyed. Andrea made a comment about how she didn't believe it was true, Jean said that Andrea didn't know me, and Andrea quickly resolved to rectify that situation.

A beautiful and glorious friendship began. We were privileged enough to spend the next couple of years getting to know Andrea, her husband and her precious kidlets. We were blessed enough to spend the last year doing what we could to keep Andrea's spirits up and make the bad days less sucky. And even though to an outsider it would look like we were doing all the work, our lives were certainly enriched by the care packages we delivered and the time we spent with Andrea and her family. See, at 33 she was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer in January of 2012.

Andrea and I joked that we were separated at birth. Where I as strong, she was weak and vice versa. I'm quite sure she was the sane, rational part of my brain, she would probably agree.

Andrea and I managed to build a friendship unlike one I've ever had before. She's the only person who I couldn't put on my "happy face" for. Because we were so much alike, we both knew that the other was just telling us what we wanted to hear. Thankfully neither of us was afraid of calling the other a liar and getting to the bottom of whatever the current trouble was. We both walked away feeling better about whatever situation we were facing. Our relationship forced me to be utterly honest with her about the struggles with infertility, with my inlaws, with my own family, and she could help me find peace about the situation, or any situation really. Of course, I could provide perspective about moments in her life too. Like the night she cried when she missed her kid's Halloween plans because she couldn't be exposed to that many germs because of her weakened immune system due to the chemo treatments. She was busy getting better, better that her kids missed her for one night instead of a lifetime. Of course, I had no way of predicting the future, but my reassurance that she wasn't a bad mother was enough to provide her some peace and ease the guilt.

She taught me how to worry less and let life happen more. There wasn't much that chips and hot sauce wouldn't fix, or at least soothe. She taught me that I'm stronger than I think, and that it's okay to slow down, to say no, and to not make an offer I didn't want to hold up in the first place. She taught me to to hand over more of life's little inconveniences to God, like job loss, sucky exam grades, and burnt biscuits. She taught me that there was nothing better than texting about our husband's when they went off to the lease for the weekend. We probably saved each other years of therapy and marriage counseling.

Andrea had the ability to make you feel like you were the most important person in the room when you were around. She was tons of fun, and thanks to her and relationships that she had cultivated with other people, I've gained a few new friends that I'd like to get to know better. They certainly can't replace the relationship that I had with Andrea, but they can certainly add to my life and they already have. Andrea had the ability to put things in perspective, even if it wasn't a situation that she fully understood. She also had an amazing capacity for forgiveness and she truly understood and practiced the "turn the other cheek" concept.

From the moment of her diagnosis of Stage IV colon cancer, to the emergency surgery which removed her colon, ovary and appendix, she never believed that the whole situation wasn't trucking along exactly like it was supposed to be. She might not have always liked the results or the outcome, but she fully believed in "rolling with the punches and giving it to God". And she did. She showed amazing strength and a fighting spirit when most people would have caved under the disappointment of another setback.

There were moments of laughter and moments of tears. There were moments that I would have gladly traded places with her, and moments she probably wouldn't have given up even if it meant a different outcome. Even though I can't send her a text message or find her sitting in her chair at her home, she's still here. I hear her voice every time John irritates me about something, her offer of "Do I need to take care of him?". I hear her voice every time I've had a moment of self loathing over school. "Girl, I did the 13 year plan, it's not a race." I hear her every time I see her kids. She's in her daughter's laughter and joy over a Christmas gift. She's in her son's fearlessness. She's in her husband's stubbornness. She's in every yellow or purple butterfly I see. She's in the purple shirts I own, simply because it was her favorite color. She's in the moments of doubt, I can hear her telling me to not worry so much that it will all work out in the end. And you know what, she's right.

I can hear her voice telling me how much she loves "you guys". I can even hear her now as I type this, saying "sheesh" that she doesn't deserve all the hoopla. She'd even be slightly annoyed that this post is literally, all about her. Yet, this is probably one of the few places she is wrong. Her friendship literally changed my life.

I'm pretty sure what I posted on Facebook on December 4th sums it all up

"I've thought all day about what I wanted to say to you on this space. As I picked out my purple shirt today and the bracelet with the yellow and purple butterflies. I've thought about the text messages, the phone calls, the date nights, the Christmas shopping expedition of 2011. I've thought about your infectious laughter, your "hey guys!" greeting, and your sweet smile. I've thought about the strength you've shown through the treatments, doctor's appointments, and the overwhelming pain. Yet tonight, as I hugged your husband, and I told him that he was stuck with me, I heard your laughter and your voice telling me to give him grief. Thank you for all the text messages, the phone calls, the emails, the friendship, and the love. You had such a huge impact on my life, in ways that I probably won't even realize for quite some time. Thank you for changing my life, and for letting me be a part of yours. Hold that tiny baby that was gone from my world too soon, and save me a seat, we will have lots to catch up on. I love you."

 

Today I'm thankful that I didn't really lose her. Sure, I can't sent her a text message or laugh about something her husband children did, but she's still here. I'm thankful that I'll see her again, and that she's no longer suffering from the pain and misery of cancer, but also from life's disappointments. I'm thankful, that because of her faith and choices that she has made I'll see her again. When the moments of grief and missing her seem to overwhelm me, I can just close my eyes and see her beautiful smile, and I know instant comfort and peace because she's exactly where she would want to be.

Saying Goodbye

This year has already been an eventful year for our family. We had hoped that this year wouldn't hold as much sorrow as last year had. With the loss of both of John's grandparents 2011 was a year we were ready to move away from, and hopefully towards a brighter 2012.

Apparently God had other plans. In fact, here lately I here laughter in my head when I start making plans for the future. Deep, belly laughs. The kind that involve tears streaming down the face, gasping for air, and a slight trickle down your leg. Not that I would know anything about the trickle. But still laughter.

This past week has been the first time that my own mortality has been so deeply affected. John's cousin's wife took her own life on Tuesday. She would have been 32 on February 25th, 4 days before John's birthday.

32. She was my age. She was also a police officer, and let's face it, we often think about police officers as being tough, impenetrable, unbreakable. It was hard to watch her husband grieve openly. He didn't try to hide his emotions when they overwhelmed him. He just grieved. It was beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.

Last week, a few days after we learned of her death, I was headed to school. Thinking about her husband and son that she left behind and thinking about how angry I was that everyone was blaming her for being selfish for taking her own life. That she never thought about her husband or son, when in fact, I know without a doubt that they were all that she was thinking about.

See, I think that suicide isn't a selfish act, but a selfless. Granted the people that are left behind are deeply hurt, they want to understand but can't. They have questions that will never be answered. But I have no doubt in my mind, that as she ended her own life, that she thought that she was leaving their world a better place.

I've never contemplated ending my own life. But I have contemplated walking out of my life. There were months when we stopped infertility treatments that I just simply wanted to walk away from my husband and my family. I stayed up at night thinking about how easy it would be to pack my stuff leave a little note on the table by the door and leave. His life would have been so much better without me in it, without me not being able to give him a child of his own. Or so I thought. Thankfully, I didn't do it. But in the midst of all of that, I never not once, thought about how that would let me off the hook. It was about how much better it would have been for everyone else.

But, no matter what, no matter how much this has sucked, there have been a handful of beautiful moments this past week.

See today, was also Papa's birthday. So this week was already going to be difficult enough. I had dreaded today for his birthday, and then for D's funeral.

I'm going to skip around here, not to confuse, but simply because it will end better this way. Trust me.

Today at D's funeral, and also at her wedding, was the song that helped John and I both survive some hard days and moments after Papa's death. The irony of that was, that the song was also played at D's wedding to John's cousin.A wedding that for some unknown reason, John and I didn't attend. Go here to listen to the song before you keep reading.  I Can Only Imagine by MercyMe.

The moment the beginning notes of the music began, my stomach dropped. I love that song, but like I said, it has some other meanings to us both. I knew John was thinking the same thing I was, as his hand gripped mine. Yet, as the second verse began I realized that the following story, made so much more sense and gave me the peace that I needed to make it through today, through Papa's birthday and now D's funeral with some form of comfort.

See, last week, I'm not sure what I was doing, or were I was going, because just as suddenly as the image popped into my head, it was gone almost as quickly.

It's like I was watching a TV, or a play. Except, I knew those voices, and those people sitting at the table.

There was this gorgeous table sitting in this room with all these chairs around it. The table had a nice shine to it, and some nicks from thousands of plates and meals eaten at that table. Pictures had been colored there, bread kneaded, it was a well used, well loved table. Around this table I see John's MeMa sitting there talking with her son, Papa, and B (D's husband's sister). They are laughing about something. It must have been incredibly funny, because they are all laughing, one of those gut wrenching, leaves you gasping for breath and the slightest gasp for a neighbor has you laughing even harder. Slightly behind them, almost as if she has walked into the room in the middle of a moment that she shouldn't have interrupted stands D, looking very unsure about what she is doing there and like she is in the wrong place at the wrong moment. The laughter dies down, Papa turns and looks over his shoulder and see's her standing there, so unsure of herself. He stands up and smiles at her and stretches his arms out and says "I've been waiting for you." As she walks into his arms. She knows, just like I do that she is exactly where she is supposed to be.

That they are both exactly where they should be.

Life Goes On

This year has been full of suck. There has been death, dismemberment, and other all around general things that I would really prefer not to repeat.

Well, ok, there really hasn't been dismemberment, but those words just go together when you work in a sheetmetal shop.

It's been a year of moments, hours, days, and weeks that I wouldn't want to repeat. Yet, I have found myself wishing this year away in hopes that when the clock strikes midnight on December 30, that 2012 wouldn't hold the same amount of suck that 2011 has.

Then the Wednesday before Thanksgiving that all changed. Because let's be honest. No matter how bad things are in your own life, they can always get worse. Always.

A good friend of mine (who I'm pretty sure is my sister and we were just separated at birth) lost a childhood friend the day before Thanksgiving. Suddenly my year wasn't so bad after all. Yet at the same time her year hit rock bottom.

I look at the pictures of my childhood friend, whom I have known since Kindergarten and I wonder what I would do if something happened to her. I've known her 5 less years than I've been alive. 27 years we have been friends. 27 years. Suddenly someone my age dying made me feel very, very old.

I've spent over half of this year wishing it were over. Wishing that I could just hit the fast forward button and get to 2012 and it would be better. The last week, I have wished I could hit the pause button and savor some of these moments for the next 20 years and let 2012 show up later. Much, much later.

I've been so lost, and partially found and lost again since Papa died in July. Well, let's face it, probably when Grandpa died in April. There has been so much heartache, anger and hurt wrapped into this year that I would love to put it all behind me. However, just because I flip another page over in the calender, doesn't mean that things will be better. It will still be the exact same, except for the date I write on everything at work and school.

Whether or not I want next year to be better or not, has nothing to do with the year. It has everything to do with me and my attitude towards the problems that I face. I can choose to wallow in self pity and other emotions and suddenly I'll wake up and it's June and I'll think that this has been the worst 6 months of my life. When in reality, it was partly my choice to leave it that way.

This year has seen both heartache, joy, triumph, sadness, and laughter. Just like the last 32 have seen. 2012 could be better, it could be the same, or it could be infinitely worse. Some things are out of my control, but how I react to them, how I dwell on them, or move on, is entirely up to me.

It's Funny What You Miss

I've always heard the saying that when you lose someone you miss the oddest things. It's true.

When my grandfather died, I missed chocolate covered cherries at Christmas. There was a big display and I burst into tears in the middle of Wally World. I missed the smell of Beech Nut Chewing Tobacco.

Sunday I was having a cleaning orgy, cleaning things that are typically skipped over every week, so that things were nice and clean before I started school on Thursday and my life revolves around homework. I opened our microwave to wipe it out, and the sudden urge of how much I missed Papa, John's grandfather hit me. I hated to clean out the microwave when we lived with him. Papa was notorious for not covering up anything when he microwaved it. And if 2 minutes would sufficiently do the job, he did it for 3, just for good measure. So there was constantly something blowing up in the microwave.

When we went to Abilene with my parents, there was a Gaither's music display. We didn't share the love of the Gaither's like Papa did, but that display in Cracker Barrel, made my heart ache. I missed Papa more that day and more on Sunday than I had before.

Then today, an older guy came in at work, whose hands looked like Gangie's, and I missed him today too.

It makes me wonder, what little things will I miss about my parents. What little things would I miss, if John were to die before me? What would they miss about me? What would they wish that I had done differently? What would they wish that they had done differently?

Absence's

When your absence doesn’t alter someone’s life, then your presence has no meaning either. ~Unknown



If you had asked me 4 weeks ago what my plans were for today, I couldn’t have told you. I couldn’t have forecasted how things would change so quickly, about how my life would change so quickly. I could have only answered with an “I don’t know”, and then a question of why you wanted to know. Mostly because I’m nosey, and I want to know everything.

Today we celebrate the life of someone who’s absence has definitely left an impact on my life. His presence most certainly did, so it makes since that his death would too.

You see, today we are celebrating the life of Papa.

When we moved in with him 3 years ago, we never intended it for it to be a long-term solution, even thought Papa wanted it to be that way. At 29 we both needed a space, and Papa wanted to share his, so at the time it was the perfect solution for us. We gave him the company that he desperately wanted, and he gave us a house.

In the next 3 years, utter chaos ensued. Ok, Not really, but it was definitely a learning curve for all of us. Papa was technology hungry, yet illiterate of how to work the machine. My solution to every technological problem from the computer to the microwave is to “reboot it”. If that doesn’t fix it, do it again, just for good measure. Because Papa was more a hand’s on fix-it type of person, my solution drove him crazy, and I remember him calling me at work a few months ago, and asking me how to fix his computer, and before I could respond, he said “I know, I know, reboot it.” and then proceeded to hang up on me. I didn’t know if I should have be mad at him for hanging up on me or proud that some of my sarcasm had finally rubbed off on him.

We learned so much about David, Dona, and Debra. We heard stories of their childhood antics, things that they have done as an adult, pets, jobs, the Gaither’s, and the people who worked with him at Lowe’s. We learned about Cubby, and Franswah the infamous poodle. We heard the stories about Dona and Franswah, we heard stories about Debra’s hearing problems and the frustration that a parent feels when there was nothing that could be done. We heard about the famous, and sometimes strange people that he drove in his cab. We heard the stories of how he pulled a fast one on Bee-pa and took him for a steak dinner with white wine mashed potatoes. He loved that he had snuck the wine in, and that Bee-pa was none the wiser.

We learned how to tile a floor, how replace a front door, how to repair a sprinkler system, and how to be humble. We saw on a daily basis of the amount of drugs that he took just to keep him functioning. I can’t begin to imagine the kind of pain that he lived with on a daily basis. I can’t imagine going to work everyday and not sitting at my desk crying, but actually working and having a sense of humor about life in general, the strength that he had to have to endure that had to be immense.

I remember his concern when my dad was lying in a hospital bed, and his help with volunteering to fix his own dinner and fend for himself for a few days so that I could be there for my mother. He knew that I was tired and feeling very lost and overwhelmed, and he let me vent and cry, and instead of telling me it would be ok. He just said to have faith.

I remember the conversations that we had when Brad was out of town about the anger and hurt that I felt by my own body’s betrayal. He could relate better than most. He listened while I cried, and he helped me find the courage to grieve for the child that we might not ever have and to move forward. He helped me find peace and acceptance, and then he prayed, and he left verses and thoughts on the table for me to find when I went to work the next few days.

Then, even though he wasn’t really thrilled about me going to Tech, he knew that it was what I needed to do, to start to rebuild my life, and he supported it, even when he didn’t want to. He was proud, but constantly reminded me that the things worth knowing couldn’t be found at a university, and that a degree didn’t guarantee happiness.

He taught me that there isn’t anything that time, a Gaither’s video, and a snack of chips and salsa wouldn’t cure.

At the time, we thought he was only sharing his house with us, but instead, when we moved out, we discovered that he had been sharing a lot more.

We learned that if you wanted to have a real conversation with him, that you first had to find something that he was passionate about, or have a question about something that only his expertise could provide an answer. Getting him talking about anything police related and he could talk for hours; sharing stories of some of the pranks that he pulled as well as some of the cases that he worked on.

Instead of a grandfather, John and I both found a friend. We found someone who cheered us on and laughed with us. We found someone who loved us even when he had seen us at our best and at our worst. We found someone who encouraged us to communicate and to laugh at our mistakes. We found someone that would drop everything if we needed him.

Papa’s absence has definitely caused a gap in our lives and in our hearts. And his presence will be missed.
His friendship will be missed.

Our lives have been changed, in ways we hadn’t really realized or even understood until his death was imminent. Today, I’m thankful for the tremendous impact that his life, his words, and his actions has on my own life. He was a wonderful example of a Godly man, friend, co-worker, and grandfather. Although he often alienated himself from family, they meant more to him than they will ever know.

I’m thankful that he is sitting around telling stories and catching up with the friends and family that have gone on before him. I’m thankful that because of the choices that we have made that some day, we will be together again. I’m thankful that he is pain free, and singing with angels, and I look forward to seeing him again.

Saying Goodbye

I have dreaded today since July 5th. We knew that we would have to make it official and say our goodbyes, and move forward, I just didn't realize how hard it was going to be. I have quickly learned that each person that departs this life for the here-after, whatever that might be, that you grieve for each person differently.

When my Gangie died, I remember being numb. I can't remember much from the days and weeks after his death. I know that most nights I drove around and did my newspaper route, crying like my heart was broken. Which it was.

When my grandmother died, I remember the numb feeling, but I also remember the grief for my childhood. She was a big part of so many different memories, and the more I have developed a love for cooking, the more I miss her. It was still heart breaking, but I don't remember feeling numb, our relationship was different then.

When Grandpa past away in April, it was different. We weren't as close, and I didn't feel the impact like I did with my own grandparents, whom I had a very, very close relationship with. So it was normal. It felt normal.

Yet with Papa, because it's so recent and so new, and because of my own special relationship with him, it's mind numbing again. It's exhausting. I find myself going to bed at night and getting up the next day and I feel like I haven't slept in days. Then I look at my father-in-law and his sisters and can't even begin to imagine how hard it is to lose a parent. I know that your supposed to bury your parents and never your children, but I don't think that either can be easy. I don't think that there is any cure all, other than time.

What makes this so hard is the fact that it feels like we have drug this all out since July 4th. We are just beginning. Even though he's officially been gone since the 16th, until Friday, he won't be really gone.

Amazingly so, I'm looking forward to the memorial service. I'm looking forward to listening to my father in law, and his sisters tell stories about their dad. I'm looking forward to the family that will be gathering to celebrate his life. I'm looking forward to the new memories that we will be making and sharing with our kids and with our cousins kids later.

Because like it or not, death is a part of life, and without an ending, life would be meaningless.

Patience is a Virtue

The past week has been one of the longest weeks of my life. We have waited. We have prayed, we have cried, we have hoped, we have lived. We have survived on little sleep, poor diets and broken hearts. We have waited.

Today, we still wait. Today, we wonder. We hope. We hope for peace. Each day we watch him decline. We watch seziures that result in the brain damage. We pray for him to find peace. We pray for him to let go. We pray that whatever is keeping his body and spirit from moving on, comes soon. We pray for each other. We try to go to work and about our lives as best we can, knowing what the outcome is going to be. We know it's just a matter of time.

I don't believe that some miracle will occur and that Papa will wake up and be really made that we have sold his stuff to pay for his funeral expenses. I don't believe that he is going to wake up one day and be able to speak and talk to us. I believe that death is inevitable.

But what right do I have to not believe in anything? What right to I have to not believe in a miracle? What right to have not to believe in general?

I know when my husband has a severe wreck that I prayed that he was OK. I prayed that he would be ok. I prayed that the people in the other car would be ok. When my dad had a heart attack, I prayed. I hoped that he would be ok. I hoped that he would slow down, I hoped he would be around for a while longer.

Yet each sickness and each event that has occured within the last week, I have simply asked that God's will be done. His will. Not mine. His. It's not that I don't want Papa to be around for another 50 years, but each time I find myself praying, I start out asking for his comfort and his peace, and then I find myself telling God that his will be done. Not mine. His.

So for the past few days I have wondered how differently my thoughts, my faith, my marriage, and my life in general would have been if I had prayed for things differently. If I took the control out of my hands and put it back completely where it belongs. I'm a control freak by nature, I like to know what's going on, and offer my opinion on how to fix it. I like to know what's happening at 2pm tomorrow and the day after that. I like structure, routine, control. Then that gets me to questioning my infertility. I have always said that it was all up to God, but that's been one of many areas of my life that I just haven't been willing to turn over. That I haven't been willing to let go of. Sure, we go about our daily lives, but there is always a part of me that wants a baby, I grieve for the child that I have never had. After the past week, I have been led to wonder what would happen if I handed the control back over. If I let go.

The situation with Papa is definitely in someone else's hands now. We continue to pray, we continue to hope that his comfortable, and that he is at peace.

Still we wonder? What's God waiting for? What's the big plan? What are we missing?

Independence Day

Independence Day. After the last forty-eight hours those words will have a whole new meaning.

Today we wait. We wait for test results. We hope. We pray. We reminisce. We hope.

Last night we talked about the pain that Papa has suffered with. We talked about how hard that would be. We tried to prepare ourselves for the worst, all the time hoping for the best.

Sunday morning John's phone rang and we got the news. Papa had suffered a heart attack in the early morning hours. As we got to the emergency room, we were unprepared for the sight of him laying on the gurney, with a respirator sitting with him, helping him to breath.

We learned that the nursing home staff had found him, at approximately 4 am unconscious and in respiratory distress. They began to administer CPR, and in the process of trying to get him breathing again, he went into cardiac arrest. We have no idea of how long his brain was deprived of oxygen. But we hope.

Sunday evening we heard the results of the CT scan and we were pleased that there was no brain injury, mass, or bleeding. We continued to hope. Yet, we knew that the neurological consult would give us more answers.

Today, we hear the news of his lack of response. My heart just broke. As prepared as I thought I was for this outcome, for the possibility of no recovery, hearing that he was unresponsive as they poked and prodded him, I knew that the outcome wouldn't be what we wanted.

Yesterday, July 4th, was supposed to be a time of celebration and joy. It was supposed to be a day of celebrating our nation's struggle to become independent, to celebrate the birth of our government. Instead, it became a celebration of something else.

It became a celebration of life.

48 hours ago, Papa sat in a nursing home waiting for tomorrow when he would return home. 48 hours ago, things were fine. Until a little respiratory problem became a big problem, that led to a heart attack, that led to oxygen deprivation, that led to severe brain damage.

Last night we were given the prognosis. Last night, a son and two daughters made the choice to give their father his independence. They made the choice to send him home. They gave God the freedom for his will to be done.

And today, we wait. We wait for those beautiful moments when God's divine plan will shine through. We wait for those moments when a child will be reunited with the friends and family that have gone before him. We wait for the moment that his spirit is free from his body and that he goes home.

Over the last few weeks we have felt so guilty about the choices that we have made to move out. To move on with building our life. We have struggled with finding peace about the choices we have made.

Yet today as I write this, and as I have had conversations with Papa's beautiful daughters, I have found that peace. I have also seen God at work in all of our lives in ways that I have never seen Him at work before. And that has been beautiful. The duplex that we are renting fell into our laps. It was perfect. Size wise, price wise, location wise. It took days from the time we looked at it, until the lease was signed. Days. The day we signed the lease was the day that we learned that Papa was coming home from the nursing home. Several days later we told him of our departure from his home. And while there were times of strain and tension on our relationship during the 2 weeks that he was home before we moved out, we all tried to make the best out of the situation. We moved out the day after he went back to the nursing home to undergo 2 weeks of rehab and therapy to regain some of the strength that he had lost.

His two weeks was up tomorrow. He was supposed to go home tomorrow. Now I believe that he will go home tomorrow, just not to the one he owns.

There have been so many moments in my life when I have seen God at work. When I have felt his presence, his comfort, his love. There have been times when I have seen his plan revealed and there are times when it has been harder to find. There have been days where I have questioned my faith, and his presence in my life. Yet yesterday I realized that he knew that today was coming. He knew that our lives were going to be turned upside down and our hearts inside out. He knew. He spent the last two weeks helping us to get ready, of finding our home and setting it up. He spent the last two weeks making sure that we wouldn't have to go back to his house and stay there knowing that Papa would never sit in his recliner or walk down the hall or see his babies again. And for that I will always be thankful.

I can imagine that the next few days and weeks will be hard. I can imagine that as we all move forward with our lives that there will be moments of intense sadness and intense joy as we celebrate his life and as we share our memories of him.

Today I'm thankful that God is in charge. Today I'm thankful that he prompted Papa's daughters to come and that they were here yesterday with their big brother and that he had put the idea in there heads a month ago to come here to see their dad this weekend, even though they decided on a date at the end of the month. I'm thankful that our entire family will be able to lean on him and find comfort and peace in the days and weeks to come. I'm thankful that our family has each other.

Moments

Yesterday after reading Baron's Blog, the words were flowing. Yet today after learning that a family whom I grew up with has lost their 23 year old son to a tragic accident, make it hard to find the words for anything.

I was married at 23. That's something that he will never experience. His life had really just began and it was over in almost the same instant. I can't imagine how difficult it is to lose a child. I can't imagine how difficult it is to lose a sibling.

Yet in the same moment there was joy. Because that's how life works. His family knows where he will spend his eternity. There is joy and peace in that.

So today, my request is simple - say a prayer for that family. For the parents who lost their baby. For the brother and sister who have lost a baby brother. For the nieces and nephews who will grow up without his continued wonderful influence. For the grandparents who recently celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary and their 90th birthdays, who will be burying their grandson this week. Say a prayer for the rest of us who are trying to find peace and understanding at why such an incredible young man's life was cut so short. Then call your brother, sister and parents and be thankful that they are just a phone call away and not facing the alternative that this sweet family is.

~While we are mourning the loss of our friend, others are rejoicing to meet him behind the veil. ~John Taylor

Endings

Beginnings and Endings

This week I have been profoundly reminded of endings. You see, my great Uncle Jack’s life ended on Sunday. While we were all surprised, it shouldn’t have been that much of a shock, as he was 86 years old.

I’ve wanted to vocalize something for days; I just haven’t known what to say. I open word to type out my post, and the words just roll around in my head and they can’t seem to find their way to paper, at least in a cohesive way.

As I was returning home from the store late Sunday night, it dawned on me why losing family, or friends is so heartbreaking. Not only are they gone from your life, birthday parties, and holidays they also take a part of you with them.

My grandfather called me weediewart. It was my nickname that he had given me, probably from before I can remember, because I remember being referred by it often. No one calls me that anymore, which on one hand is a good thing, but on the other, it’s something I miss. And to Jack, I wasn’t Abby I was Abb. He left the last letter off my name, and always had. Even when he married us, he called me Abb. And Sunday night I realized that I would never be Abb again. My Aunt Nita calls me by my full name, unless she was joking with me about Jack’s unique nickname. And even if my entire family took to calling me Abb, it wouldn’t be the same. Then the thought came to me that Jack had taken Abb with him, just like my grandfather took weediewart.

Maybe that’s why death and funerals leave such a gaping hole in your life. You just aren’t losing the person, but you are losing a part of you too. I won’t just miss the Abb reference, I’ll miss a lot more, but the thing I know I’ll miss the most. My name.

I was also reminded this week that life is unpredictable. Here today, gone tomorrow. My grandfather hated funerals. He always swore that dying caused a burden to those still living. Maybe he was on to something. This week I often find my mind wandering back to birthday parties and holidays, and to my wedding and to my Aunt. I look over at my husband at night while he sucks the shingles through the ceiling sleeps peacefully and wonder what I would do, if suddenly he were gone. I can’t even begin to imagine. I remember how terrified I was when he a bad wreck a few years ago, and that was just worry over his injuries. I can’t even begin to imagine how my mom felt when my father had a heart attack last year. I hope that I never have to find out. I can’t imagine how quiet our house would be, and the knowledge that it would be like that from here on out. I can understand why so many widows and widowers remarry and even take their own lives. Silence is deafening.

So this Friday I’ll have “date night” with my family instead of just my husband. And instead of dinner and a movie, we will laugh, cry, and celebrate the life of my great Uncle Jack. I can’t think of a better date, or anywhere else I would rather be.

~The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time. ~Mark Twain

~The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity. ~Seneca

~We understand death for the first time when he puts his hand upon one whom we love. ~Madame de Stael

~Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality. ~Emily Dickinson