A song in my heart

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2 years.

Ugh. You'd think I would be getting used to this by now, but there is something so utterly wrong about those two words when they're in the context of death. The death of the man I loved more than anything. The death of my dreams. The death of a girl who would never be again.

This week I have felt the distance. I have felt the length of time. I have also felt the still very raw heartache that comes no matter how much time will pass. At least a hundred times a day, I'm trying to remember what I was doing exactly 2 years ago, trying to hold on to all the pieces leading up to Jeremy's death.

Don't get me wrong, I've picked up a lot of pieces. My grief is no longer inward and isolated (most of the time), and I am able to smile when I see his face. I am thankful for the opportunity to still make Jeremy proud in this life and carry on his legacy through his stories and the lives of the three beautiful children he brought into the world. But there are some parts that just still hurt.

One part I've noticed this in is singing. Singing was what brought Jeremy and I together (we met at an audition for an Acapella group in college) and it was something we were both passionate about. The night before he died, we had been at rehearsal for an instrumental worship service he and I were going to lead two days later. We never got to sing that night together and I can't remember the last time we were on stage singing together before that (in was likely the week or two before that, I just can't remember specifically). This kills me for some reason.

This weekend, I was able to travel with friends to lead worship at a youth rally in Kentucky. It's been such a long time since I've been able to do that, I forgot how much I missed it. How much it ignites in me. How much I feel Jer's presence (and God's presence) when I go. But for some reason, I can't bring myself to get back up at our church to sing. It's too hard. Because Jeremy should be up there leading worship, and I should be standing next to him. It feels too different without him there.

That same night after rehearsal, we drove home for what would be the last time together. Tired and stressed from a 14 hour day for us both, way past the kids' bedtime, and ready to crawl into bed and call it a day, Jeremy reached over and grabbed my hand...

"I love to hear you sing. And I love getting to sing with you."

I will never forget that moment. It's a moment that I now look back at with foresight - a gift that Jeremy gave me to continue to pursue that passion even when it was hard, even when it hurt. I sang for him until I could sing for me again. 

Now I sing for us both, and I carry Jeremy in my heart whenever I do. Because he's a part of me, and now he's a song in my heart. There will be no singing this week, for my heart is heavy with the memory of my last moments with him 2 short years ago.

But the song is there, and it will return.



P.S. I would like to ask you all to pray for Jessica Woods, who became a widow today after her husband, Ryan, lost his battle with terminal brain cancer. They are a young family with young children, and they have lived an incredible story that will touch your heart. Please visit http://www.grassrootsconspiracy.com/blog/ and read about them and send some encouragement to Jessica and her family.

death colored glasses

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I found an old post I wrote on my personal blog that has given me a lot of new meaning...

12.31.2010

Everything is different now.

Everything I do now has a different meaning, a different pain attached to it. Every movie I see and song I hear has a different meaning now - and they all seem aimed at making me miserable and reminding me of what I've lost. Every smile and laugh is masking hurt and despair. Every thought I have has attached to it a dreadful afterthought. Everywhere I go I am marked with a Scarlet letter, only it's a giant W on my forehead for everyone to pity.

Looking at the world through death-colored glasses makes everything dark and gray. It takes so much more effort to see anything, to want to see anything. It makes it hard to find joy in the little things. Instead it makes me want to wallow in my own self-pity. The only problem is, the world won't stop for me to wallow. No matter how much I've begged it to.

I hate this. I deserve a moment to stop and process. A moment to figure things out. Shouldn't everyone know what an incredible man the world has lost? Shouldn't everyone stop what they're doing? Nope. The world keeps moving without me.

I've survived my first Christmas without Jeremy, somehow, without my consent. Even saying that makes his death seem so distant when it was still just weeks ago. I'm not ready to jump all these hurdles so soon. Or at all, really.  I didn't really face it until today how much I am dreading New Years. I knew it would be tough, but I was trying to face Christmas first. Now, I am getting sick to my stomach thinking about it. Facing a year Jeremy will never see, never be a part of, absolutely kills me. The first year memories will be made without him, the year his son will be born without ever meeting him...

The year I am forced to wear these damned glasses everywhere I go.

I'm dreading every second.

As I am quickly approaching the two year mark next week, I found myself reading this a few times, feeling the pain of these words. Obviously, my glasses have turned a rosier shade since then. It's not nearly as raw, however, it's interesting to me how true this post still is. Death has saturated every piece of my life. It's evident in the decisions I make, the traditions I keep, the way I carry myself. 

Only, I don't dread these glasses anymore. In fact, I wear them proudly. These death colored glasses give me a unique perspective that most people will never get to have. They show the true colors of life, they help me see my priorities, and they constantly remind me not to let what I've lost be in vain. Some things are darker, yes...but others things I see more vibrantly and clear. The misery I found in songs and pictures are now tearful smiles, thankful to have the memories at all. I still mask a lot behind a smile, but the smile becomes more genuine every day.

Once you see the world through death colored glasses, you can't go back. And that's ok because there's strength and peace and yes, even joy beyond the horizon. And you get to keep the glasses as a reminder that you loved and were loved and that life can be rosy again.

Grief is always in season

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I feel that time coming on.

The weeks leading up to Jeremy's death.
The march.

It feels corny to call it that, and I have to admit I've been resisting it. Because truthfully, I have no reason to complain. Life is good. I have an incredible family, a wonderful loving husband, a beautiful home, and great friends.

But, I feel the hole that can never be filled.

I didn't really realize what it was at first because I was trying to focus on being thankful. But I felt sluggish, tired, emotional about everything, unmotivated....not really wanting to participate in life right now. But the more Steve and I talked through it, the easier I recognized it as grief rearing its ugly head. It makes sense because I held on to all those days before Jeremy died - trying to remember every detail and holding on to every piece. I remember my last October with him. And now, I feel him closer than usual from remembering all those little details I've locked into my heart to never forget.

The distinctly annoying characteristic about grief is that it's always in season. No matter how much I want it to go away, it never goes out of style. There may be days, weeks, or even months when it's more obvious than others but it never really disappears. It follows me around to creep up on me at any given moment.

In the bedtime stories that I remember him reading to the kids.
In a silly chord progression in a hymn at church that he loved to sing.
In the smell of fall.
In the talk of applesauce that Caleb wants to bring as a snack to school.
In a situation where I need his particular advice.
In a photo of Tom Hardy that a friend posted on his FB page that looks eerily like him.

I can't escape it. I stopped trying to. I've learned to embrace, yes embrace, this time and soak up the moments when Jeremy feels close to me. Even if it's painful.