Days like today

Days like today are hard. 

Timehop and Facebook memories can be a wonderful thing. I love checking my memories each day to see what I was doing and posting about one year ago ,3 years ago, 10 years ago on this day. I especially love looking at old pictures! 

But on some days, like today, I don't want to open those apps at all. I don't want to be reminded about what happened on this day 10 years ago. I don't want to see the pictures. Because on days like today, it's just too painful. 

Ten years ago today, Austin and I were married. 

We were young, and in love, and happy, and naive about the world. I can remember all the nervous, excited jitters thinking, "This is it. This is my forever." Because that's what I thought it would be. It was what we had both planned for. What we expected. 

But marriage is hard. Life is hard. We learned that quickly. But we managed to still survive it together. We were still us. 

Then, life got hard. And we started to become less of 'us'. And it continued to get harder until we were no longer an 'us' at all. And that was devastating and heartbreaking because it was always suppose to be us. 

Only it didn't stop there. Life continued to be so hard that eventually we became so unlike anything else we had ever been, so far removed from the 'us' we once were. And then, one of us was gone forever. 

This was not the life I imaged on this day ten years ago. This is not what I wanted, not what I had hoped for and prayed for. And yet, this is where I am. 

Looking back on this day ten years ago, seeing the pictures of two happy and in love people who no longer exist... that's painful. Reading the sappy anniversary posts we wrote for each other... those make me incredibly sad. 

And then there was this post. From three years ago, on our seventh wedding anniversary. And the last anniversary we would celebrate. 

I remember first reading this post and being filled with a hopeful joy and love. I remember thinking maybe this could be where we turn it around. I thought we still had a chance at us. 

But now, when I read this post, I feel regret. I feel dread. I feel shame. Because when I read this, I can't help but feel like I gave up on AJ. Like I let him down. Like I failed him.

Before you all start yelling, I know logically, that what happened to AJ was not my fault. I know that. He made his own choices. But just because you know something, doesn't mean your feelings will agree. 

Things got too hard, too difficult. I needed to do what was right and healthy for Jacob and I.

But I also got too angry. I completely let go of the us that we had been and any resemblance of us. 

And then he was gone. Forever.

I lost any chance that we could be an 'us' again. I lost the hope that I had clung to, deep inside, that one day we would find our way back together again. Any dream I had about us in the future was abruptly taken from me. And that's what I'm left with now.

An incomplete us. 

One Year Later

It's been one year since you left us forever. 

There was no warning.
No goodbyes.
No explanation. 

When I think about this date one year ago, it seems that the year went by incredibly quick. But when I think about the past year, it seems nonexistent, like time stopped all together. 

When you left, it brought a painful end to a number of struggles. But it also brought a painful beginning to new struggles. 

Over the past year, I've had thoughts and feelings and emotions that I didn't know where possible to have. I experienced grief on an entirely new level. I've been reading books and articles on grief and they comfort me because I don't think anyone can truly understand what it's like to really understand grief until they experience it personally. It's a strange thing. 

One year ago, our lives changed forever. One year ago, I can remember clearly when I found out, yet the next few days, weeks are fuzzy. One year ago, I started asking questions knowing that I would probably never find the answers. One year ago, I had to tell the sweetest four-year-old that you were gone forever. 

There is not a day that goes by when I don't think about you. Probably not even an hour. 

Sometimes I still feel shocked that you're gone. There is always sadness and pain. And I've also felt a lot of anger. The grief can be all-consuming. 

I've waited over the past year, prayed, hoped, wished for some sort of closure. Maybe a letter from you will show up in the mail. Maybe it wouldn't provide all the answers to the questions I have, but would give me something. I'd be lying if I said I still don't pray for that some days. 

I've struggled to understand. To understand why. To understand what you were feeling. To understand why you felt this was your only way out. To understand if there was something more I didn't know. To understand how you could leave Jacob and me. One year later, I still don't understand any of it. 

You've been gone for one year. Although, if I'm being honest, in a way, you were gone long before then. Yet I couldn't tell you if that makes the physical lost of you harder or easier. 

One year later. I'm still not okay. This is not okay. I'm not sure this will ever be okay. 


--
I believe that the first anniversary* of a death is always going to be extremely hard, yet this week has been more than I imagined it would be. In some strange, cruel twist of fate or irony - I don't know - I have been forced to essentially relive these three days or so from exactly one year ago. 

That Thursday night one year ago, it was Kindergarten Round Up at school. We had pretty much decided that Jacob wasn't going to go to Kindergarten but planned on attending the evening to learn more about the Knights Plus program. This Thursday night, Jacob and I attended the Kindergarten Round Up as he prepares to enter Kindergarten next fall. 

Last year, I don't remember exactly, but Jacob stayed home. I think he wasn't feeling good. When I talked/texted Austin, he decided he wasn't going to come or I told him it wasn't necessary since Jacob wasn't with me. He also might have been stuck working later than he originally thought. I think that was the last time I talked to him. I can't remember if he called later that night to say goodnight to Jacob, as was our ritual. I want to say he did. 

I can't stop thinking about what could have happened if he had come with that night. Would I have been able to see his struggles? Would I be able to tell something was off? What if Jacob had come along? Would seeing Jacob that night made a difference? I logically understand that the outcome was probably never mine to change, but that doesn't stop the thoughts from coming. 

Then Friday. What should have been a normal and uneventful day at the office until everything changed. I almost found myself constantly looking behind me, waiting for a co-worker to come and tell me that the sheriff deputy was there and wanted to talk to me. I left work early; I couldn't be in the building around that same time one year later. I also had a doctor's appointment scheduled, a yearly check-in. Last year, this happened the Monday after it happened. I remember going, feeling like a hot mess of emotions. This year's appointment felt no different. Although there was more anger. Anger that I had to be having these conversations about my mental well-being at literally the worst time of the year.

And Saturday, the actually anniversary date. Last year, there was nothing but fog and sadness. I remember basically nothing. Will today be the same?  

It feels like I've been watching and performing in some slow-moving movie where I know what's going to happen, but can't stop it from happening. It's felt a bit like torture actually. 

This is hard. This is nothing like anything I could have expected. There are so many feelings it's hard to adequately describe how I feel or tell you how I'm doing. I just know that for right now, I am not okay. But for right now, that's okay. 




*Why is there not a better term for the annual recurrence of events that are not happy or celebratory? Can we create one? 'Anniversary' just seems too happy. 

Holy Week in Grief

Holy Week. It comes every year. Lent is always one of my favorite seasons of the church. I appreciate the idea of embracing the darkness because in the end, Jesus will save us all. His light shines brighter than any darkness. No matter how bad you think things are. He will always win.

I've never experienced a Holy Week like this one. Ironically, it's not the first Easter surrounding the death of a loved one. Just one year ago, we lost my Grandpa during Holy Week. But we also knew that his time had come. I understood that his pain and suffering would soon be over, that he would be reunited with my Grandma again and stand in the presence of God. There was grief. But not like a shocking grief.

This Holy Week. There were a lot of feelings. A lot of thoughts about Austin. A lot of thoughts about what it all means, how it all works.

The message on Maundy Thursday was one of love. Throughout the last supper and that last evening, Jesus showed the same love to every single disciple, even Judas, who he knew would be betray him. Jesus tells us, "Love one another as I have loved you." His final commandment.

We will never be able to love as truly and deeply as Jesus did, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. It's not our place to judge others. Our job is to LOVE. All. Always.

I know this message. I think of it often. I remind myself of it when life gets hard and frustrating. But on Thursday, I felt ashamed because of that message.

I thought of Austin. The last few months we had. We had our differences and disagreements. I would get frustrated and angry. I wasn't living out that commandment. I should have been showing Austin love. He didn't deserve to be treated any differently just because we were having issues. He didn't deserve to be judged. Obviously I didn't know all of his struggles. I should have at least shown him God's love.

But I can't change that. And I'm ashamed of some of my actions. But what I can do is resolve to do better in the future. To treat those I disagree with or get angry at with love. Show them God's love and grace. "Love one another as I have loved you"

Good Friday. That was hard. I couldn't help but think of Austin at his ending. What led up to his ending. Did he feel abandoned? By those he thought loved him? By me? By God? Did he feel alone? And I think that he must have. He must have felt those things. And I can't imagine that pain.

I also thought about those of us who love Austin and who were left behind. "No chance to say goodbye. No way to ease the pain of parting." And this prayer: "For the times when we have not loved, even when we could, failing to carry out the simplest act of mercy, we ask the Father's forgiveness."

Then Saturday. The day that doesn't really get talked about. Unless your life is currently stuck in Saturday. Sometimes others will write something that so clearly states what you can't put into words. A friend, Kayla Becker, wrote something on Facebook that did just that: 

I’ve never really identified with the “Saturday” of Easter before. That silent day in between “Good Friday” and Easter Sunday. The day between the shocking grief and the stunning reality of what His brokenness healed. This Easter I’m stuck in Saturday.

We wear our grief like a cloak now. We’re no longer shocked and disillusioned. The weight of loss is just wrapped around us. And we are reeling as we try to put our lives back together around the trauma of loss. And I understand Saturday in a way I never wanted to.

We know the whole story. We know eventually the stone rolled away. The wounds became what healed us.

For as long as I’ve known the grief of the Friday of Easter I’ve also known the joy of Sunday.

But as for the ones actually written into that story, they didn’t know Sunday was coming. They didn’t know the stone would roll. The only knew the enormity of their loss.

In the blur of the visitation and funeral there are a few things people said that I remember vividly. One more than any other. Dear friends of ours wrapped their arms around me and said with more compassion and grace than I can muster...

“We know loss.”

And it was so simple. And it was so profound. When your heart is breaking, sometimes the most beautiful thing another human being can give you is the knowing. They were not indifferent to our pain.

And here they were years from the initial shock of it. And yet, it was still written into them. The knowing.

But in their knowing, I saw hope. They were not unscathed by their grief. They were not the same people they had been before loss. They did not pretend to be. But they knew something we didn’t yet. They knew Sunday was going to come. They used their wounds to heal.

And hasn’t that always been the way… brokenness is what heals. It’s the bridge between Saturday and Sunday.

I have not yet known heartbreak like this in my entire adult life. I am devastated. And I refuse to lie about that.

I won’t pretend this hasn’t rattled us. His death was traumatic and unexpected, and in ways we feel like we’ll never recover. I won’t pretend we haven't asked all of the hard questions. We lie awake at night, our faith deeply shaken.

I have exactly zero answers for all of the painfully difficult questions being asked. I won’t pretend that I haven’t questioned and tried to make sense of it. But it doesn’t make sense. It feels cruel and unfair. It feels painful, awful, and impossible. Because it’s still Saturday for me.

But the impossible beauty of living on this side of the Easter story is that I know eventually Sunday has to come. Even if I’m still living in Saturday. I know.

We might be shaken. We might be a bit like Thomas, begging to touch the wounds so we can believe it’s really true.

Sunday will come.
Wounds can be used to heal.
God is not indifferent to our pain.

Jesus is the bridge between the Saturday we’re in and the Sunday we believe will come.

And I don’t know if I’ve ever really been able to celebrate Easter in the way I will tomorrow.

Sunday will come.

As I was doing some reading, I learned about a Seder tradition of leaving a place set at the table for the prophet Elijah. "We have faith in his eventual return at the same time we acknowledge his absence. The empty chair at the table is both lament and expectation. His absence makes a very physical presence."

The presence of love and the presence of grief. Together. Acknowledge both. Welcome both. Leave the door open. Allow the emptiness a place at the table.

And then. Sunday. Easter. A day of celebration. Of rejoicing. To be honest, it felt odd to celebrate something so amazing as the resurrection of Jesus when I was still grieving the loss of Austin. Throughout the morning, I realized that I need to focus on where Austin is now.

In heaven! For eternity! For Austin, there is no more pain, no more tears, no more sorrow. There is only the absolutely joy of being with God! And that's because of the Easter miracle. The suffering has ended."The great promise of Easter had prevailed." Truly. Easter makes all the difference. And I can celebrate that.

He is Risen. He is Risen indeed.

Memories and Letting Go

It's been one month. One month since he's been gone. One month since every single thing in life was changed. 

Thanks to social media apps like TimeHop, it's easy to remember what happened on this day one year ago, two years ago, etc. A couple of days ago, this picture showed up in my memories... 

There was no caption, but I remembered exactly when this picture was taken. It was on our way to South Dakota. To drop Austin off at an inpatient treatment facility. I remember wanting to get a picture of Austin and Jacob playing so that Jacob would have something to look at while his dad was away. 

And then yesterday, another memory, an old blog post. Again, from one year ago. The Struggles of Addiction in the Family. You see, it was just one year ago that there seemed to be this shift of change in our lives. Although, we had no idea what was coming. 

When I shared this post on Facebook last year, I said it was a raw and rambling post. And as I re-read it, I could feel those raw emotions open inside of me again. Only this time, they were tainted. Tainted with grief, with unimaginable sorrow, with the knowledge that our story did not have a happy ending. 

Re-reading that post was painful. Painful to think about everything that happened next over the course of 12 months. Painful to think about things that were said or done out of anger. Painful to think about how much could change in just one year. Painful to think about how it all ended. Just one month ago. 

I so wish that Austin could have gotten his happy ending. I wanted that for him so much. I couldn't tell you what I thought the future looked like for the two of us, but I wanted him happy, healthy, sober and to be the best dad he could be for Jacob. 

Instead, those of us who loved Austin are left here to deal with this abrupt change; this abrupt end. There will most likely be so many unanswered questions. So much that we will never know. That is probably one of the hardest things. But at the end of that blog post from a year ago, I wrote this: 

"...let go and let God."

In fact, I even have that reminder tattooed on my wrist now. The only thing I can do is to let go of those questions and unknown answers. Let go of what I don't understand. And let God take control. Let God comfort me. Let God bring peace to me. Let God. 

And so that is what I must do. I must ask God to comfort me. To bring me peace. Because I do know that Austin is finally at peace. I know that he is in a better place. I know that he is in the presence of the Lord. 

*Untitled*

I've written a lot of blog posts. I try to be open and sharing about what's happening in my life. I try to make you feel involved. In the past couple of years, I've written about some hard things. Things that aren't fun or easy to share. Things that are difficult to talk about. But I did that because that was life. It's a constant up and down. Highs and lows. 

But this post. This post is one I never imagined having to write. 

Nearly one month ago, Austin took his own life. 

It was a Friday afternoon at work, when suddenly I was told that two deputy sheriff's were waiting up front for me. After a minute of confusion, I did think about AJ. I thought he might be in trouble. I thought maybe he was hurt. But when they told me he was dead, it was like breath left me. There was shock and confusion. Disbelief. I remember asking if his parent knew. I remember my dad (who had come to the office after my mom called him after the deputy sheriffs had stopped at the house first) going to my desk to get my things and driving me home. I remember giving my mom a hug and finally letting the tears fall. 

My mom had called a good friend who is also a pastor. She was soon at the house and I will forever be grateful for her being there with us then. I remember asking questions. Questions I always thought I knew the answers to but now was suddenly questioning. I remember asking if we could wait to tell Jacob. Wait until - I don't know - we knew for sure? It didn't feel real. I didn't want to tell Jacob. 

Telling Jacob his dad had died was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do. We had been somewhat open with Jacob about his dad and his struggles. We had told Jacob Daddy was sick. But now I had to tell him that his dad was sicker than we thought and has died. Jacob was confused and asked some questions, but he didn't want to see me or anyone else crying. He switched to his goofy self to try and cheer everyone up. 

And bless his heart, he's been the shining light in the darkness. He demands group hugs from everyone. He'll literally wipe away my tears and tell me to be happy. He'll joke and dance and be goofy to make us laugh. He'll give great big hugs. 

There's so much more that I could tell you. But what I will tell you is that I felt overwhelmed with the love and support from family and friends and people who didn't know me but knew AJ. The outpouring of love was exactly what I needed. People sharing memories that I had long forgotten or never knew. I clung to those. 

Because here where it gets complicated. AJ wasn't my husband. We were divorced. And while we were doing pretty good at co-parenting, our relationship wasn't exactly in a healthy place. And I'm struggling with that. 

The past couple of year, there has been a lot going on. And I've had to deal with everything that was thrown at me, as it was being thrown at me. There was no time to process anything, it was on to the next thing. Like I was trying to hold a million fragile pieces together. When AJ died, it was like those million pieces came crashing down on top of me. I wasn't just grieving his death. I'm grieving all those things that had been lost. I'm grieving the man I fell in love with nearly 10 years ago. I'm grieving our divorce. I'm grieving the person that AJ was before the addiction and mental illness took over. I'm grieving a somewhat strained relationship we've had over the past 9 months. I'm grieving for the loss of his battle, one that I also tried to fight. I'm grieving for the loss of any future that was taken away from us. I'm grieving the loss of Jacob's father. I'm grieving Jacob's future as he learns to navigate this world without his dad. And I'm trying to figure out how to help Jacob grieve on top of my own grief. 

I feel like I was slightly removed from AJ's life. But the force of grieve and loss has hit me like that wasn't the case. 

I don't share these things with you so you can feel sorry for me, I'm not seeking advice, I don't want to hurt anyone with my thoughts. But I'm sharing because this is real. This is my life right now. And maybe someone else needs to know they're not alone in their struggle. 

I am mad that AJ is gone. I am mad that his demons won. I still loved AJ, will always love him. I still cared deeply about him. I wanted him to get better. I wanted him to be the man that I fell in love with, that I knew he was capable of. But I also know that he is no longer in pain. That he is at peace. And while there are so many of us left here dealing with this loss, this pain, this unimaginable thing, he is no longer struggling. 

Stand in the Rain

The past week.... has sucked. I feel run-down. I feel defeated. I feel low. I feel like I'm just going through the motions. 

At the beginning of last week, I was in South Dakota, visiting Austin at Keystone as part of the family program. While Austin has been working the program and putting a lot of effort into this recovery, it was still a hard day. A lot of information to process. A lot of stories to hear from other families. A lot of your own personal feelings to process. 

I feel hopeful for Austin's recovery at this point but was also reminded about how fragile it is and how easily it could still slip away. I feel grateful that Austin's addiction wasn't to anything harder or his journey more difficult, but still must remember that he is just as sick. I feel unsettled at the thought of how to put our lives back together with Austin sober. I feel hopeless when wondering how to start the process of trusting Austin again. 

The family program was two days but I could only stay on Monday. After 12 hours at Keystone, I made it home shortly before midnight. Tuesday morning I was at the justice center, in front of a judge, explaining why my marriage was not repairable. 

Ironically, after spending the day with Austin at Keystone and seeing him take responsibility for his addiction and sobriety, I started to feel hopeful about our future together. Maybe this could work. I no longer felt that we were at our lowest point. So while I had that hope in my heart, I still logically knew the divorce needed to happen. The biggest reasons being Jacob and financial security. 

The judge said he's sign off on the papers later that day. We were officially divorced. 

On Wednesday morning, I got a message from my dad around 9:00am, my Grandpa R. had passed away. He had been on hospice care since February so while the death was not a big surprise, it was a loss all the same. Luckily, I had been up to see him just a week before but was really hoping to make it up there once more before he passed. But Grandpa was ready to go. And the one thought that keeps running though my head is how happy he must be to be with Grandma again. 

On top of all that, it was of course Holy Week which meant that with a Mom as a pastor and as a member of the church choir, it was a busy second half of the week. Austin also completed treatment at Keystone and moved back to Mankato to the House of Hope, a halfway house where he'll live and continue outpatient treatment. 

Every day feels like I'm just going through the motions. Doing what I need to do to get by, but not much more. With still so much going on at work and taking care of Jacob, I feel like I can't afford to "waste time" mourning the loss of my marriage, wondering about the future with Austin or even properly grieving for my Grandpa. Everything happened so quickly together that I haven't had time or I haven't let myself process all those feelings I know are inside somewhere. Honestly, I'm not even sure how to process these feelings. 

Last Wednesday, as I drove to church for choir practice, it was raining and the song "Stand in the Rain" by SuperChick came across my playlist. You know when you find that song that perfectly describes your current life or a current moment in life, this was that for me. I listened to it on repeat the whole way to church and I think the whole way home. 

So stand in the rain
Stand your ground
Stand up when it's all crashing down
You stand through the pain
You won't drown
And one day, whats lost can be found
You stand in the rain

Death isn't a scary thing

I just finished reading a wonderful book called "Heaven is for Real". It is the true story of one little boy's trip to heaven and back. The book caught my eye at Barnes and Noble and I couldn't not buy it. For some reason, death has always fascinated me.

I don't want to give too much of the story away and I really think that everyone should read this book. You're free to borrow my copy even! But in this book, a four year old boy has to go in for an emergency surgery and throughout the following months and even years, he starts to share with his parents about his amazing journey to heaven during his surgery. He talks about meeting Jesus and how much Jesus loves the children. The greatest thing about this book is that it gives you an insight into the belief of a child - the most pure and innocent belief there is. God talks about how you must have the faith of a child to enter heaven, and in this book, you start to understand why.

Growing up, whenever I was asked what my biggest fear was, it was never death. I was never afraid of dying. And that was because I knew that something greater was waiting for me after I die. You hear about this amazing place that God has created for us. And that He sent His son to die for us, so that we can enjoy that eternal life. How could you be afraid of that? My friends and I use to joke in high school about how excited we were to one day be able to frolic down the streets of heaven paved of gold.

In college, I was fortunate enough to take a course taught by the college pastor (and the man that married AJ and I), Pastor Trachte (PT). This was probably one of the most popular religion courses on campus. Throughout the class we discussed how death is viewed in a number of cultures, visited a funeral home, read books, interviewed other people and heard stories of death and dying. One of the most memorable parts of this class was when another Wartburg professor came to speak to our class. He told us that during a surgery, he had visited heaven. He talked about the hundreds of people he saw, the colors that were indescribable and what it was like coming back to earth.

Hearing these stories or reading these books, you can't help but wonder - 'how can this not be real?' It also reaffirms the idea that one day we will see those who we love once again. Being able to be reunited with our family and friends - what a wonderful thought. Knowing that even though they've left us here on earth, they're still watching us from above.

A couple of summers ago, AJ and I were up in Northern Minnesota for a wedding. On our way back to Iowa, I really wanted to stop in the cities to visit my Grandma's grave. My grandma had passed away when I was out in Colorado. In fact my family had just made it back to Minnesota before she passed after dropping me off in Colorado. Because I was out there I was unable to make it back for the burial. And even though I did make it back for the memorial service, I had this guilt. I felt guilty about not being there when she passed. I felt guilty for almost making my dad not be by his mom's side or to be there with his dad and the rest of his family. I felt guilty. And I carried that guilt for a long time.
So I was determined to visit her grave so that I could properly say good-bye and to also introduce her to AJ. When we got there, we had a really hard time finding her grave and the computers at the cemetery to help you were all out of order. Finally, my uncle was able to direct us to the correct area and we found her. I finally had the chance to introduce her to AJ and then he went back to the car so I could have a couple of minutes. I'm not sure I could tell you know what I said to here that day, but I remember what I felt. I felt the tears coming and apologizing for my guilt. But at that moment, I felt lighter. I felt free. I know that was my Grandma telling me it was okay and that I needed to let it go. It was an amazing feeling.

Once we left the cities, we drove back down to Waterloo. Throughout our drive, there were storms and tornadoes all around us. Luckily we had timed things just right and we missed all the major storms. I know without a doubt that was my Grandma making sure we would make it back safely. How great is it to know that our loved ones are taking care of us like that?! That is a day I will never forget.

I had this post written a long time ago but I figured it would be an appropriate Good Friday post. To me, Good Friday is what makes all of Lent and the Easter story real. For me, Good Friday seems to have the most "human" components of the entire story. Maybe it's because on Good Friday, Jesus goes through the most inhumane acts of pain, humiliation, torture and finally death. Maybe Good Friday makes it all real because when I was in high school at a Christian retreat, we walked through a "live" Stations of the Cross. Seeing each station portrayed in front of you, hearing the banging of nails to the cross and the mourning cries from Mary and Jesus' mother... it makes it real. 

If you haven't had the chance to ever see a "live" version of the Stations of the Cross, I suggest you do it. Or finding a showing of the Passion Play. Or maybe rent the movie, 'Passion of Christ'. (Here is a YouTube video I found, if you're interested) Being able to see the events, processing them, it makes you think. Think about what Jesus must have gone through. What He did for us. For me. For you. And because He did this for us, we don't have to fear death.