7 Things I've Learned from Sadness

"Sorrow is better than laughter, for sadness has a refining influence on us." ~Ecclesiastes 7:3 (NLT)

Sadness...I'm sure everyone just could not wait to click on the title of this post. Ha! I don't know about you, but more often than not, I just want to sweep that word right under the rug. 

Sadness...it's not one of those socially acceptable topics of conversation. It makes us uncomfortable; it makes things heavy and hard. I mean, when's the last time you asked someone how they were doing and instead of the obligatory "I'm fine," they said, "well, I'm sad, how are you?"

And for those few folks to whom you might actually admit that you're sad, they almost always have that knee-jerk reaction of, "why?" I mean, you never ask folks why they said they're "fine." Why sad? It just reinforces the unspoken rule: sadness is not okay.

I've caught myself saying a few times over this last year, "I just don't want to be sad anymore." It's as if I viewed sadness as an item to check off my "to do" list...that I'd finally wake up one day and no longer face this emotion that nobody ever wants in their life. 

Yet, the Creator of the Universe, the Author of Life, who created all emotions, saw fit to make this emotion too. And when I encountered the verses above through a memorial service a few weeks ago, I realized for the first time that perhaps, just perhaps, sadness is not so bad after all. As the writer of Ecclesiastes says, perhaps sadness, if we allow it, can have a "refining influence" on us.

Refining influence.

So, I set out to determine just what sadness has taught me, how sadness has refined and influenced me. Here are 7 things I've learned from sadness...

1. I've learned the great value in being vulnerable. Sadness turns my heart inward to what is broken inside of me. Most of the inspiration behind my writing comes through tears, through a heart made tender because I've allowed myself to feel raw pain. I'd much rather come across as "fun Melissa" all the time, yet I have found that  influence sometimes comes through pulling off my bandaids to expose my battle wounds and scars. It also shines a huge light on my Healer, my Redeemer, who continues to create beautiful things out of the ashes of my loss.
2. I've learned that sadness gives me a lens through which I can see the mess of life, a lens that breaks my heart with empathy for others. It gives me the courage to lean in when others are hurting instead of shying away with excuses like "I don't have the right thing to say" or "I don't know what to say." That's when God speaks through me; His words trump mine every time.
3. I've learned that sadness doesn't have to steal my hope and joy. I've learned to remain open-handed with it. I can't always control when waves of sadness strike, just as much as I can't always control bursts of pure joy. I've found in the "random-ness" of either extreme come the biggest hellos from God, and sometimes even the best stories that I could not make up if I tried. With this has come the freedom to embrace the simple joys of life, to love laughter, and to place all my Hope in the One who is the Blessed Controller of my life.
4. I've learned that sadness is not my enemy. Sure, the enemy, Satan, can use it to destroy me or distract me just as much as he can use my happiness. I have a choice in how I respond to sadness and how I respond to the emotional chaos that often accompanies it. I can choose to lean hard into the Truth of God's promises or choose to be tossed around in feelings that distort my view of God and my circumstances.
5. I've learned that sadness, despite what society thinks, is okay. That I will not dwell in it all day, every day. I finally understand the verse in Psalm 30:5, "weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning." I received comments from well-meaning folks who assumed that I just cried all the time in those early days; they were shocked to see me smile in a photo again. Really? How could our Great God, who is crazy in love with us, not ease the sorrow with at least a few bright spots of joy? Who could survive grief otherwise? 
6. With that said, I've also learned that sadness is not something to walk through alone. I've learned to seek out those safe people who will not tuck their tail and run when I honestly admit my emotions. These folks have been so kind to let me feel and cry and be present in my sorrow, but with an eye to ensure that I don't get stuck in my feelings for too long. I've also found great help through a grief counselor...more on that in another post, but I'll just say, it was one of the best decisions I've made in my grief journey.
7. I've learned what it's like to long for heaven. I've grasped the Biblical concept that this world is not our home. Our home in heaven will have no tears, it will have no sorrow; sadness is not welcome there. So I press on, I endure sadness on this side of heaven, with great expectation that when I am called home and finally turn my eyes to physically see Jesus, I will be turning my back on sadness for eternity.

And that's just about all I've got to say about sadness.

Dearly loved, whether sad or happy,
Melissa

A Weary Widow & A White Flag

It seems I've gotten yet another holiday season under my belt. My "holidays" run from Thanksgiving through my birthday. If I can be completely honest, I feel as if I've been spanked; yes, spanked. In many ways it was as hard as the first.

And, that caught me by surprise.

But apparently, it's "normal" for some years to be harder than others. "Normal"...yeh, there's nothing "normal" about the holidays for this worn-down, weary widow.

Weary. I had myself a weary little Christmas, weary little holidays, weary birthday. I've been asked for the last several weeks how my holidays were. I answered quickly, "they were okay, they were quiet." Apparently, that's not normal things to call holidays either. Sigh.

I finally feel like I'm digging out. I am glad to be in a new year...to good ol' 2013. But I can't fully embrace a new year without taking time to reflect on 2012...and my word for last year...

Release.

I started 2012 with a new song that quickly became one of my favorites, Passion's "White Flag." Singing it always brought images of my hands lifted high, holding a white banner, eyes lifted to heaven, freely giving myself to my Great God. Surrender.

When I chose the word release, I had no idea what that really meant I would surrender this year.

I let go of two big things tied to Tony. One was his Accord that I'd been driving. It was the same car Tony picked me up in on our first date, the car we rode away in on our wedding night. It carried a lot of memories, yet, it was needing more maintenance than this non-car dealing widow could handle. Plus, after experiencing first hand my friend totaling her car last January, I just could not bear the thought of something happening to Tony's car. I wanted to choose to let go. Last April, I drove it to the dealership; I drove away in a new white car, with his blue car in my rearview mirror. Release.

The second was our fixer-upper house we had bought just 2 months before Tony's fall. It quickly became the old ball-n-chain. No offense to my husband, but that house needed all of both of us to keep it afloat. The things I had to deal with over the last 2 and a half years, you just can't make that stuff up. It was put on the market in early August and sold in early October. Only God. I drove by one last time a couple days before closing; the phrase that came to mind was "shattered dream." Still, I felt a huge sense of relief and release of a burden. No regrets. Release.

In the midst of these 2 milestones, I began a program through our church called "Hope." It's one on one mentoring that led me through a process of rediscovering and redefining my identity in Christ. I had no idea how life-changing it would be. It's as if I came to the "other side" of my grief and to the end of myself. I was finally willing to deal with ME, my insecurities, my false beliefs that spring up when I'm trying to operate apart from Christ. It was ugly, sure, for these beliefs have been ingrained for decades. It's a work in progress, yet I continue to find an indescribable freedom in replacing what is false with the Truth of who I am in Christ. Release.

Still, there was an another battle waging war in my heart. And that's the one that really "spanked" me the most. I hit the 2 year mark of my grief last March and this sense of entitlement encroached. Can't I be happy now? Haven't I grieved enough? I don't want to be sad anymore. Can't I take control of the reins of my life? Haven't I earned that? I mean, culture would just wanna find a big bow to tie on my story and send me on my way. There were so many days I wanted that too.

So about halfway through the year, this hit me: "It's hard to surrender to what I can't see." So go the lyrics to yet another song that was a big part of my year, "Whatever You're Doing" by Sanctus Real.

Surrender. God was calling me to surrender without seeing what's ahead. He was calling me to release my story, my future, my hopes and dreams, whether happy or sad, to Him...to the One who sees. Because He sees the bigger picture, the greater impact of my life fully surrendered to Him. I slowly opened my hands and my heart, and He used me in spite of my fear, my apprehension, my days when I told him bluntly that "I didn't sign up for this." He's so good like that. And the ways He's intersected my story with the lives of others over the past year, it's been nothing short of a beautiful collision.

And that, that, is what gives me the strength, the hope, the peace, to raise my white flag, to raise my banner, tattered and torn, to my great God to use for His Glory.

Release.

Dearly loved, with open hands,

Melissa

What I've learned 2 years later...

It's so hard to believe it's been 2 years since Tony departed this earth for heaven. Some days it feels like it was just 2 days ago that I was in his arms for the final time; other days it feels like it's been an eternity. Most days I shake my head in wonder at just how I've made it this long. Only God.

I started this post earlier this week. Tears were streaming down my face as I reflected on this hard milestone. Good thing, I've got one of the best things that's come out of these 2 years by my side - my very own tear-licker, Ralphy Edge. She just tilts her head to one side and loves me through those innocent puppy eyes. Melt my heart.

I've spent today mostly to myself, in quiet; I've thought a lot about Tony, even more about his legacy. His life continues to impact mine, for good, for very good. I would certainly not be the woman I am today without his influence; I am better for knowing him, even if that knowing was much shorter than what I had hoped and dreamed.

It's amazing the things tragedy has taught me. Sure, I'd give it all back for Tony, if I could. I find myself wishing I had learned these things long before Tony's passing, even before we were married.

Best I can do now is carry them forward into my future. Here's a few at the top...

• I've learned not to take myself so seriously. I had to learn this quickly when grief clouded my short-term memory. There were many days when I could not remember one moment to the next; I often mis-placed things. I found it much better to laugh than to cry. 
• I've learned to enjoy the little moments, the little things. I stopped by Godiva today (Tony's favorite), paid way to much for a single piece of chocolate, yet I savored every bite, all 2 of them. And I've taken plenty of "jumping" pictures - just for the sheer fun of it.
• I've learned that the best way to face unbearable pain is to put on my big girl pants and confront it head on. Avoiding it just prolongs the inevitable. And for me, the anticipation is almost always worse than the actual.
• I've learned that presence is often the best gift to offer in times of sorrow. The most comforting times over these 2 years have been spent sitting next to the people who love and care for me the most, and we said nothing at all. 
• I've learned that influence is gained through authenticity. People aren't looking for perfect Melissa, they are looking for someone who is broken and real, who doesn't have all the answers. Though, I'm still learning to quit making excuses for my shortfalls.
• I've learned to stop myself and ask "is this how I want to remember these days?" This is particularly helpful in the midst of a self-pity party. Tony asked me this very question about a month before he died. I was drowning him in a sea of complaints - sleeping on an air mattress, living out of one room in our newly purchased, fixer-upper, under-construction house, while we were without heat in 30 degree weather, and all our things were either in boxes scattered everywhere or covered in drywall dust. I'm not making that up. His question stuck with me.
• I have learned that wise counsel is not optional, it's essential. I'm so grateful that Tony had a wealth of wise folks surrounding him, something he worked hard to establish long before we met. I now call them my "board of directors," and I honestly don't know how I would make  complicated decisions without them.
• I've learned that in my distress, to let others help. I've learned to just be grateful, not to worry how or if I could repay them. Instead, I just look for opportunities pay it forward when I'm able.
• I've learned that Jesus really is enough. His love never fails, it never dies, it never leaves. Never. Sure, the unconditional love between a husband and a wife is like none other, it's amazing. Yet it still falls short, it's limited to this earth. Jesus, only Jesus, is forever. 
• I've learned my God is the Defender of widows. It is not a coincidence that there are so many mentions of widows in the Bible. He cares for my every need; I've just got to continue to Trust Him to control my circumstances, my future, my outcome.

And...I've still got a lot more to learn.

Dearly loved,
Melissa

Comparing Tennis Shoes

Off and on this past year, I start to feel anxious over the amount of stuff I have in storage (in about 3 different places, and that's down from 5!); stuff of Tony's, stuff of mine, stuff of our lives together.  Stuff.  Suffocating stuff.  No one ever teaches you in school what a daunting task it is to figure out what to do with all that stuff left behind.

I honestly don't know all the stuff I even own.  A few months back, I finally cleaned out an extra large storage unit I moved most of our belongings into a few months after Tony died. As I sorted through box after box, bag after bag, memories flooded my mind. I fought most back; I was in "clean out" mode, not reminisce mode. But there was one item that I just couldn't let go.

It stuck out like a sore thumb.

It was Tony's all-white K-Swiss tennis shoes.

Yep, I said K-Swiss, like straight out of the 90s. And these shoes, they were so uncool, so out of style. I recall wrinkling my nose at them when he would wear them when we were dating; I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so I kept my thoughts to myself. I was honestly thinking that one day, when we were married, those tennis shoes would be on their way to Goodwill. I would make it my mission to update his tennis shoes.

And, as his wife, I tried. He stood his ground that they were perfectly fine, they were expensive shoes, and they did not need to be replaced. I bargained, I begged, I attempted many a deal, and I failed. The truth is, Tony just didn't care what people or culture or popularity dictated when it came to those shoes, and really when it came to most things. He was his own unique, sometimes quirky self; he didn't need anyone else influencing him otherwise.

He wasn't much for comparing his life with others; he didn't succumb to the comparison trap.

Those shoes describe so well how I feel walking around in my new "normal" life without Tony. This week I was chatting with another 30-something widow and I just had to proclaim that there was nothing "normal" about our "new normal." Widows who are in their 30s make up less than 1% of all widows. What's "normal" about that?

Still, I long to feel "normal" again. I'm getting there in some ways. Folks who know my story don't so much feel sorry for me, anymore. Yet, when I'm around folks who don't know Tony or our story, I feel as if I just don't quite fit in. And when the unavoidable opportunity arrises to share what has happened in the last 2 years, I mostly get puzzled looks like I must be some sorta crazy for telling of such tragedy without tears. I almost always leave out the way Tony left this earth; that's like giving an unexpected sucker punch to the gut.

Best I can explain it...I'm feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. I'm uncomfortable with this in between stage of life I find myself in. I'm over the intensity of grief, but I'm not done grieving. I'm technically single but don't want much to do with being single. I'm a widow but I don't want my identity wrapped up in it.

I want God to continue to use my story, but I'm struggling with wanting to control my circumstances, my outcomes. I'm wrestling with the "what if's," with the "how's it gonna turn outs."

It's like I've got these K Swiss tennis shoes on, while everyone else has on the latest Chucks.  I'm trying to find my place, my next part of my story, but I've got these things on my feet that make me feel so uncomfortable, awkward. When do I get to upgrade my shoes?

And as my counselor so gently led me onto the other day, I'm finding myself comparing my K Swiss circumstances to all those who are living up life in Chucks, to others whose lives seem so "normal" and desirable and less painful, to others who get to wake up to their husbands every morning, to others who get to walk through life with their spouse regardless of what's on their feet.

Comparison. I know better. I know it's dangers.

And I KNOW the plans, the unique plans God has for me are more than I could have ever asked for or dreamed, if not in this life, then most definitely in the life to come. So a song that is played almost on repeat on the radio right now is so perfectly on repeat in my mind. It's "Whatever You're Doing" by Sanctus Real (lyrics and song can be found here).

Oh, and I should confess that I did give Tony's shoes away to Goodwill a few months back. They sure would come in handy right now as I seek to step out of the comparison trap. I pray whoever is wearing them is not worried about what others think of him. I certainly won't be the judge again!

Dearly loved,
Melissa

Table for One

I've been avoiding sitting at my dining room table alone. The sofa was my eating place of choice.  That was until a few weeks ago when my 3 pound puppy learned to jump up on the couch on her own...and meal time was prime time for her to pull out all her tricks.  I've never given her "people" food, but that certainly doesn't stop her from trying to nab something from my plate.

So, eating at the table was my last resort, eating at my table alone.

Why is that such a big deal?  I mean, I'm not the only one who has to sit at a table of one.  I guess it's just one more reality that what was two is now just one.  It's taken me almost a year and a half to put on my big girl pants to sit there alone.

A friend asked me recently where I was in my grief journey.  I think I'm finally coming into acceptance.  That's not to say I won't have times of anger, or sadness, or bargaining, or all those other "grief" stages.  It seems I've come to embrace my "new normal," as much as I still long for my "normal" before Tony's accident, my table for two.

It's hard to believe that a year and a half is creeping up on me - this Friday.  It was this time a year ago, 6 months after Tony's death, when the numbness wore off and the excruciating pain of grief set in. I honestly didn't know if I would survive it.  Yet, I had told the hundreds at Tony's memorial service via my letter that "Please know I'm going to be okay." It's as if I knew then only in vision what I now know in reality now...I was going to be okay. 

I am okay.

Folks who don't see me in my everyday life find that hard to believe.  I still get those sympathy calls, those sympathy emails and messages, those sympathy stares.  It's the folks who continue to try to put themselves in my shoes, to imagine what life would be like if they lost their spouse tragically.  And the truth is, they just can't; they don't know how hard the journey has been for me because they haven't faced it themselves. They don't know what it's like to walk through tragedy and come out okay...all because of God's strength.  They just see it as overwhelming odds, insurmountable circumstances.

And it is all that and more.

But that's where my Jesus comes in. So often misused is the imaginary verse in the Bible that "God won't give you more than you can handle." Oh, yes, yes, He will. But, that's where His power comes in, His strength supernaturally takes over. That's where we learn that we are not in control.  That's where we learn that apart from Him, we can do NOTHING. 

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the concern and continued care shown to me.  I truly believe God  blesses those who care for widows, for His Word continually encourages His people to do so. I guess I'm just ready to not be the one folks feel sorry for, the one who constantly reminds folks of sadness.  I'm embracing the fact that losing Tony is just a part of my story, it's not my entire story. 

So I press on as one, and as I do so, I'm meditating and memorizing Philippians 3.  In verse 12 it says, "Not that I have obtained all of this or have been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me."

I'm pressing on in the story of Melissa...Melissa Edge, who I pray God continues to use to create beauty out of ashes.

Dearly loved, at a table for one,
Melissa

A marble in the ocean

I'm a little behind on some of my blog posts. Some have been sitting as half-finished drafts for months now.   Blame it on lack of inspiration, blame it on busyness, blame it on grief that literally exhausts me often, if not constantly, oh and blame it on my super cute new puppy (more on her later).  I will just go ahead and forgive myself.

So journey back with me a few months to my wedding anniversary on April 26.  On what would have been a celebration of 3 years of marriage, I threw away another marble from my jar that Tony gave me when he proposed.  There's now 73 left.  If I live to throw all of them out, I will be 104.  I told the good Lord I was okay with that as long as I could keep my teeth.  I'm well on my way - I finally had a cavity-free visit to the dentist!  That's a major accomplishment.

Looking back at my post a few days before my anniversary, I wrote about getting lost in the sea of God's love.  And that's exactly where I journeyed, all the way to the ocean and back.

I met with my Jesus there.

I was joined by one of my best friends, Karen, such a fun friend to have alongside on road trips.  I heart her!  My biggest concern for the trip was to just escape life for a few days and relax.  I made it my goal to "unplug" from technology as best I could.  With Karen's gentle encouragement, I succeeded, somewhat.

It was the day after Easter when we arrived at the beach.  We stayed in a high rise hotel with a view overlooking the beach and the ocean.  It was perfect.

But what was beyond perfect, a message just for me, was what was spelled out with dried up seaweed on the shore.  It said "He is risen."

I took it as my own personal invitation to meet with my Jesus right on that sand, right on that shore, right where the roaring ocean meets mere man, right where the endless sea of God's grace and love washes over my toes and into my very soul.

I stared for hours at the enormity of that sea, at how small I am compared to how large God is.  I wept, I laughed, I dreamed of memories spent by the ocean with my husband, I breathed that ocean air in, and I invited God to restore me.  I reflected on an entire year I survived, I lived through without Tony, a year I never imagined possible.  And I thanked my Jesus for never leaving my side.

He deserves all the credit, all the Glory, forever and ever.

It came time to toss that marble symbolizing what would have been year number 3 of our marriage into the ocean.  Karen accompanied me; I could not bear to do this task I was dreading alone.  I didn't want to let go of that marble, that year, because it represented a year apart from the love of my life.  It's a year I will never get back.  It represented the beginning of year after year of time passing between us.  Like the unceasing roll of the ocean tide, time moves on, and I'm forced to move with it.  I'm forced to move forward, time is relentless and unforgiving that way.

And it was that tide that took away that marble.  I took this picture, tossed the marble into the waves, and then it was gone...forever. 

Yet, I was not without hope, for that ocean also represents the unceasing, unfailing love of my Savior.  I can't think of a better place for my marble to be.

Now I'm 3 months in to living out marble number 4, and I'm shooting for it to be another cavity free year!

Dearly loved, teeth flosser,
Melissa

Fuzzy...

What a hard week I've had, a hard week indeed.  For those of you who understand the Twitter world, I simply tweeted #hardday yesterday, and I was so amazed to have so many of my colleagues stop by my desk to check on me today.  I'm so very grateful to work in such a supportive, caring environment.

Why so hard?  Well, if you're reading this and you really want to know, it all stems from my memory.  It seems that this week, my brain has decided to have flashbacks to the night and day after Tony's accident.  Sure, it also doesn't help that every major network in Atlanta plays commercial after commercial advertising Stone Mountain right now.  I do my best to put my fingers in my ears, shut my eyes, and yell "la la la la" until it's over.  Hey, my counselor told me whatever works to get me past it is just fine.  Funny that it's not much different from my days as a child when we would visit the laser show at Stone Mountain on the 4th of July.  I would react the same way to the fireworks.  Gosh, that place just doesn't hold good memories for me.  Hard.

These flashbacks cause a continual question running a marathon through my head, "Did I really live through that?  Is that really a part of my story? Really?"  I am so very grateful that I don't wake up to that question every day.  Quite honestly, I sometimes go weeks without dwelling on how Tony died.  Sure, I don't go a day without missing him and our life together, but  I'm finding those memories make me smile, more than cry these days.  Comfort.

I did put on my big girl pants and revisit those horrific 12 hours of March 23-24, 2010, with my counselor yesterday.   Part of grief is just "getting it out" and I had not had the courage to do it before now.  It was painful, a little sickening to my stomach, but one thing surprised me in a comforting way:  Some details of my nightmare have faded.  I don't recall it all like I did in those early weeks.  It's a bit fuzzy, and fuzzy is more than okay with me.  Grateful.

I drove home last night with a view of the moon, one of my most favorite reminders of our amazing God.  Atlanta being a "sauna" this week, the sky was hazy, and the moonlight appeared fuzzy.  Chris Tomlin's "Indescribable" came on my Ipod, and I could not hold back my tears.  That fuzzy moon was just for me; it was God reminding me that He knows my pain, He walked through my nightmare with me, and He, my Creator God, can turn what is so clear, yet so indescribably painful to recall, into faded and fuzzy. He reminded me in that moment that He is not only the God of my heart and my life, He is the God of my memory too.

You, Lord, are amazing.

Dearly loved, fuzzy thinking,
Melissa

Solitary Courage

^"The following night the Lord stood near Paul and said, “Take courage! As you have testified about me in Jerusalem, so you must also testify in Rome." ~Acts 27:11

These past few weeks, I've been camping out on the verse above, two words in particular:
Take courage.

I just love how the Lord came so close to Paul and uttered this simple, yet powerful phrase.  Paul was in chains amidst a plot to take his very life.  He was completely by himself.

And, I can only imagine, he was utterly terrified.

Jesus came near him and told him to take courage.

Take courage.

That's what I long for these days.  That is my earnest request of the Lord.

You see, I've reached the part of my grief, my pathway through pain, that I must face on my own.  No amount of family, friends, distractions, work, or play, can walk this journey for me, or even with me.  I must face my pain, I must face this reality of life not being as it should, I must face this "new normal" that's anything but normal, by myself.

It is a solitary road.

And I feel as if I am struggling to keep one foot in front of the other; I'm in survival mode.  I'm learning to face life on my own again.  Sure, I did this one time before when I graduated college, but that was after I had 22 years of preparation.  This time I was given no warning; I'm scared to death at times when I really dwell on that fact.  Sometimes I melt down, wishing I could somehow twitch my nose and be right back in my old life again.

I miss it, and I miss my Tony.

I feel as if I take a step forward on this road and then two in reverse.  I'm back to facing life one day at a time.  I'm back to praying every morning and telling God that if He gives me the strength, if He just gives me the courage to get out of bed, I'm gonna trust Him to lead me through the rest of the day.  That's all I've got to offer.  It's certainly nothing to boast about.

Yet, my Jesus draws near. 

He meets me in my fear, he meets me stumbling along this road, he meets me just where I am.  And, He brings me courage for the taking.  Because though I don't see the end of the road, I don't see what's on the "other side" of my pain, He does.  He knows how scared I am, and yet He knows I'm gonna be okay.  He gives me courage.  He is my courage.

Dearly loved,
Melissa

Silence

I came home from work last week and did something I have not had the courage to do for a while.  I didn't immediately turn the TV on.

I know, that sounds pretty lame.

But it took me intentionally choosing silence over my companions for these last few months, my trusty television and DVR.  It's become more than just a love for my new HDTV.  It's become an escape from the reality of my life, an escape from my pain, an easier way out.

I just could not take the silence.  (Well, silence, except for the dancing elephants on my ceiling, a.k.a. my upstairs neighbors.)  I was afraid of that silence...because the silence gives way to the overwhelming emotion I seem to be face to face with.

Hurt.

Yes, I admit it.  I'm hurting.

And I've been too prideful to just come out and say it.  It took a while for me to admit it to myself, and even longer to actually be okay with it.  I mean, it's been an entire year now, shouldn't it hurt less, shouldn't I cry less, shouldn't I have more good days than sad?

I'd much rather be seen as strong, as having all the answers, of possessing rock star faith against the odds, as overcoming grief or just darn defeating it all together.  As my counselor so eloquently put it, I've been trying to earn an "A" in Widowhood 101.

And now that the first year of my grief is over, there's nothing else to "check off" my to-do list and no more "firsts" to make it through.  All that is left is for me to feel the deep pain from loving deeply and loosing deeply.

Turns out, there's no grade to earn for pain endurance.

And there's no set time frame. And there's no set way to feel it. And there's no easy way to just "get over it."

And swallowing that reality makes me want to very well give up.  

But I press on. (Though quite honestly, I tell Jesus often that I'm okay with Him coming back to earth any day now.  Those of you reading this who don't yet know Jesus, I suggest you get to know Him.)

Pressing on for these last few weeks has meant shifting from "doing" to "being."  That explains my silence on my blog.  I've been focusing on "being" with God, and not "doing" anything for Him.  That's hard work for a Type A, overachiever like myself.

And yet, my God meets me in my being.  He comforts me in my silence. He keeps me company while  I do absolutely nothing at all, He is in my breathing in and breathing out.  He reigns in me being so desperate for Him to meet me in my pain and in my hurting, that my very life, my very next heartbeat depends completely on Him and Him alone.

Silence and being...God's open door into my heart, into my hurting.

Dearly loved, back to blogging but shooting for a B minus,
Melissa

My message in a bottle...

Tony sent me a message in a bottle the morning of our wedding day. He was the ultimate romantic husband, fiance and boyfriend.  Seriously, I could write a book just about his romance skills!

I've had that bottle sitting on my dresser for 3 years now, but have not read the message inside since our special day.  Honestly, I forgot what it said.

Before bedtime a few weeks ago, I had a good ol' cry on my knees as I prayed to my God.  Crawling into bed, that bottle caught my attention.  I was too afraid to open the message inside.  Instead, I recalled the verses in Psalm 56:8 (NASB):

 "You have...put my tears in Your bottle; are they not in Your book?"

It was the Lord reminding me that He sees my tears; He deems each one so valuable as to hold them in His bottle.  Not one is lost.

The next night, I worked up the courage to open Tony's note.  Tears began to flow as I read the one word boldly printed in all caps at the top:

JOY

What? Joy? Really, God?  Of all the notes Tony has written me over our relationship (most that I can't even bear to read just yet), the first one I do is about Joy?

Yes, joy.  Oh, the irony of joy in a bottle that represents my tears.

I look forward to the day when I can turn this irony around as in the verses of Psalm 126:5:

"Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy."

Dearly loved, sowing tears,
Melissa

The Road Less Traveled...

I've felt like I've gotten a big ol' kick in the pants over the last couple of weeks.  I've been wrestling heavy thoughts in my head and battling nasty sickness in my body (also known as walking pneumonia).

I don't recommend either.

Now, I will say my few days away at the beach with my BFF last week were just wonderful.  Quite honestly, I think I'd be going crazy right now without that short bit of sanity, an "unplugging" from my life.  More on that in another post, I've got a lot to catch up on.

Back to this kick in the pants.  Now I'm quite deserving of said kicks in the pants when I mess up, make mistakes, say things I shouldn't, spend too much on myself, hurt someone else with words or actions, and on and on.  Though those kicks hurt, they are often the good kind of reprimand, a wake up call that I'm human, a reminder I need a good dose of humble pie on a regular basis, and an opportunity to learn and grow and change.  I'll take those kicks.

The kind I'm dealing with are of a different kind.  These kicks come when I've done something I consider "good," or in Christian-ese language, what we'd call "God's way," what the Bible calls us as believers to do.  And instead of receiving something "good" in return, I feel that all I get is a kick in the pants, a kick that bruises deep, inflicts pain.  These kicks are no fun, unexpected, and if left untreated, can leave deep open wounds that never heal.

One such kick is this pneumonia.  Now don't be feeling all sorry for me...it's not the first time I've had it, yep I was that "sickly" kid growing up.  It does limit my lung capacity, leaving me easily fatigued.  It's more annoying than anything.  And it was brought on by doing something I thought was a "good deed." I volunteered to help with our 900+ preschoolers who came through our church on Easter Sunday; I was placed in a room with 34 toddlers, a least a third with snotty noses.  Not so good.  I came down with a cold a couple days after, and after a week of not getting better, a trip to the doctor confirmed my cold had traveled to my lungs.  How's that for a kick in the pants?

Surely, I'll recover, yet left untreated, I could easily be like one of those old people who are hospitalized by pneumonia.  My Pop had that once; it was awful.

Now, my heavy thoughts, these hard kicks not just to my pants, but to my heart.  Well, now those I need to battle, I need to wrestle with, I need fight for victory over, no matter how hard that kick penetrates.  If not, they could very well lead to bitterness, and bitterness left to itself can destroy the soul.

They have left me weak, but I'm not backing down.  Jesus overcame the world; surely, with His Spirit living in me, I will overcome these thoughts.

I will simply say that these thoughts stem from feeling as if I entered into marriage with Tony following God's way, God's holy design for one of the greatest gifts He created.  My healthy fear of the Lord, and surrounding myself with friends committed to the same values, would not allow me otherwise.  Marrying Tony and the 23 months that followed were absolutely beautiful, blissful; it was a God-orchestrated love story.  And I would not trade it in for anything.  Anything.

And then, poof; it was gone.  In a second.  Without any warning.  Gone.

How's that for a kick in the pants?  A kick that could have very well destroyed me, left me for dead, well at least dead in my heart.

I've cried myself to sleep many nights, clamoring through my tears, "But, God, I did this right."

But God, in His all-knowing ways, has not left me to battle alone.  He is with me as my Commander in Chief.  He is pointing me to Scripture to help make sense of this all.  He's putting folks in my path who don't try to explain it away, they just let me vent, without judgment.

I feel as if I know in my head the right answers to bring me to victory; my heart has not yet caught up.  And tonight as I prepared for bed, feeling as if I'm coughing up my lungs, fearing this heaviness in my head will visit me in my dreams, a poem I memorized as a teenager popped into my mind.

It was "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.  My two roads "diverged" are one of the world's ways and one of God's ways.  I took the "narrow road," the one "less traveled by" when it came to marriage.

And though I'm reeling from what feels like a constant kick in the pants, a blow to my soul, I will unwaveringly hold to my belief, as it says at the end of the poem, "And that has made all the difference."

And the difference is good.  And the difference is found in Jesus.

Dearly loved, with shoe marks from kicks to my pants,
Melissa

Shipwrecked...

I've been reading through the book of Acts off and on since January.  I finally finished it last night.

I had never really paid much attention to the final 2 chapters, where Paul, as a prisoner en route to Rome, becomes part of a raging storm and ends up being shipwrecked on the island of Malta.

What struck me is that Paul's fate as part of the wreckage was of no fault of his own.  Actually, it says in Acts 27:10, "So Paul warned them, 'Men, I can see that our voyage is going to be disastrous and bring great loss to ship and cargo, and to our own lives also.'" But those in charge of the ship did not listen.

I'm dealing with bits of anger since the one year mark.  Apparently its just a normal part of grieving.  However, it's a new emotion for me in my grief journey.

I'm angry that I had absolutely no control over my entire life being turned upside down over the last year.  I had no choice in my marriage being ripped apart.  I could not have stopped what happened to my Tony.  I was not there to intervene.

Instead, I'm just left to deal with the consequences.  I'm left to start completely over.

I feel as if my heart, my life, my dreams, have been entirely shipwrecked.

Shipwrecked.

Aside from relationships with family and friends, every other part of my life has drifted away like debris floating on the ocean, tossed and turned by the crashing waves. I will never be the same.  And I will never recover the wreckage.

And, barely staying afloat with a plank of faith under one arm and a plank of my family and friends under the other, I wade into an unfamiliar shore.  What other choice do I have, except to drown in the sea of my sorrow?

Yet, I'm so grateful that like Paul, God's grace has met me in my shipwreck.

Acts 27:39 to 28:2 explain:

"When daylight came, they did not recognize the land, but they saw a bay with a sandy beach, where they decided to run the ship aground if they could. Cutting loose the anchors, they left them in the sea and at the same time untied the ropes that held the rudders. Then they hoisted the foresail to the wind and made for the beach. But the ship struck a sandbar and ran aground. The bow stuck fast and would not move, and the stern was broken to pieces by the pounding of the surf.

"The soldiers planned to kill the prisoners to prevent any of them from swimming away and escaping. But the centurion wanted to spare Paul’s life and kept them from carrying out their plan. He ordered those who could swim to jump overboard first and get to land. The rest were to get there on planks or on other pieces of the ship. In this way everyone reached land safely.

"Once safely on shore, we found out that the island was called Malta. The islanders showed us unusual kindness. They built a fire and welcomed us all because it was raining and cold."

My Malta is Buckhead.  And fortunately, like Paul, I find my new community to be so friendly, so welcoming, so kind.

It's been a beautiful collision, running aground in a place I could have never asked for or imagined.  And I trust that my new island is all part of God's perfect plan to gently rebuild and restore my heart and my life.

Dearly loved,
Melissa

New normal...

"How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart" ~ Psalm 13:2

I read these verses this morning.  It was perfect timing because it so describes my current state.

I so desperately want to feel "normal" again.  I so desperately don't want to be sad anymore. 

I realized last week that I was acting as if I was racing toward the 1 year mark, so badly wanting it to come and go.   It was as if I mistakenly thought that March 24th would come and somehow I would miraculously go back to my old self...my old happy self.

I wish I could say that old self was happy and carefree.  Happy, yes, but carefree, not so much.  And really, I didn't have any excuse not to be.  Before tragedy struck, my life was just plain good...an amazing husband, loving family, plenty of resources with a good job, and lots of friends.  Who could ask for anything more?

Yet, I can recount plenty of nights around the dinner table with Tony where I would find something to complain about.  Tony would lovingly remind me, "Melissa, if that is our biggest worry in the world, then life is pretty good."

Now, I can't imagine complaining about petty things like work tension, or a hurtful word from so and so, or not having enough margin in our budget to buy a new outfit or go out to eat.  Typically, the only time I would change my tune was when some horrible disaster struck like it did in Japan.  Then, I'd feel guilty, shed a few tears, give money.  And, as soon as the tragedy began to disappear from the news headlines, I'd be back to my old ways.

I could almost hate myself for acting that way now.

So as much as I am ready to be done with grieving, I don't want to wish it away before it changes me...for good.  As much as I want to despise the term "new normal," I pray I embrace it for the new lenses on life it brings.

Dearly loved,
Melissa

A gift I never asked for...

I started this entry a few weeks back.  It was the first time I sat in my new place in complete silence, and I didn't quite know what to do with myself except to blog.  I'm grateful to have not been left alone for very long so far - I have an amazing BFF, Karen who has been my temporary roommate for these first few weeks, along with a few other sweet friends.

This particular evening, I came in from dinner with my new friend Sarah at Buckhead; I am so excited about digging into new community here.  As I walked away from her car and up the stairs to my condo alone, that gift I never asked for met me at the door.

It's becoming quite the "regular" in my life since moving out on my own, whether I want it around or not.  It joins me at the most unexpected times, the most unexpected places. 

It's been there all along these last 11 months; I just haven't acknowledged it.  I haven't really had to with so much to do, so many folks surrounding me.  I was really hoping I could leave it tucked away in storage, never to been seen again.

But it's as if I unpacked the last remaining box in my condo, and out it came. And, like an unwanted present that is too hideous to re-gift or give away, it looks like I'm stuck with it.

It is the gift of loneliness.

Why on earth would I ever refer to this as a gift?  I'm certainly not thrilled to have it darken my doorstep.  But having experienced it a few years back when I was on my own in South Florida, I can testify that it is a gift from the Lord wrapped up as a blessing in disguise.

It is a megaphone for my God.

When all is quiet around me, He speaks that much louder.

When I have no one else to talk to, I cry out to Him even more.

He shows up in my loneliness, my silence, with His calming, gentle Spirit.

He meets me just where I am and reminds me that though I may be physically alone, He is always with me.

Dearly loved,
Melissa

Running out of thyme...

I was wondering aimlessly around my kitchen last Monday, waiting on my instant grits to heat in the microwave.  That's about the only meal I have on a consistent basis in my new place.

Aimless is a good description because I just haven't dared to fix anything remotely similar to what I used to cook for Tony.  I just don't have it in me; even if I did, I'd probably set something on fire or cut another one of my fingers (just ask my brother who witnessed both of those incidents during my pre-marriage days!).

I began to spin the spice rack, one of our many wedding gifts; I noticed all the jars were almost full, all but one.  The spice that was low was thyme.

How ironic. I am running low on thyme. And the last meal I actually used that spice rack was roughly a year ago, when I really was unknowingly running low on time, time with my Tony.

And time ran out.

I was reading a journal entry from another widow this week.  She writes that she has learned that "heaven is closer than we think."

I think this phrase is a whole lot more meaningful than the all too cliche saying, "Life is short."

Who are we to determine what is short when it comes to life?  Who are we to determine how much time we have allotted in our jar?  I often wonder if God just shakes His head at us on earth trying to measure time that He never intended us to, trying to measure the fullness of life by the number of years we live, trying as desperately as we can to create more time, to stretch the time we've got, to do anything and everything to make our lives last longer on this earth. 

And when life is cut shorter than we think it should be, we try to make sense of the "why."  Well, I am fully convinced that we're just not supposed to fully know "why."  God never intended for us to.  He doesn't measure time or life the way we do.

I stood in church this morning heavy-hearted.  Of course, I carry a heavy heart because of my own loss.  Today added more heaviness for a friend who just lost her 20-year-old son to a brain tumor.  If that wasn't enough, on top of that was more grief for Tony's family riffled again by tragedy, this time his 24-year-old cousin who passed away Friday.

I stood in church and sang the most perfect song to cover my heaviness, to cover my "why," - "How Great is Our God."  These verses say it best:

"Time is in His hands, beginning and the end, beginning and the end."

And if God's got time in His Hands, then it's just enough for me.

How Great is our God.

Dearly loved, with just enough thyme and time,
Melissa

My thorn...

I am a perfectionist.  There, I said it.  I'm coming clean.  I try so hard to live life as "Little Miss Perfect."

Sure, it's come in handy over the years.  My straight A's landed me a full college scholarship.  I've won my fair share of honors and awards over the years.  I've held previous jobs and responsibilities that are hard to obtain by someone at my age.  It is in my DNA to attempt to do everything with excellence, and I do believe that can be a trait that brings glory to the Lord.

But it has also come with its fair share of issues and set-backs, mainly in the physical realm.  I've brought onto myself several random and annoying illnesses over the years (thankfully nothing life threatening)...I can hear the chuckle of my best friend Casey as she has witnessed most of these first hand in the 23+ years of our friendship.

I stress myself out.  I do.  But at least I can be honest and own up to it, right?

And so, it seems, that even in this darkest season, when I could really get away with slacking off, with letting things slide, with shrinking from responsibilies under the guise of a grieving widow, "Little Miss Perfect" just ramps up even more.  I am attempting to become Superwoman...red cape, yellow boots, and all.  I even have a t-shirt saved from a Halloween costume a few years back.

But Superwoman meets grief, and exhaustion, and a constant emotional roller-coaster, also know as my life, and I am slapped in the face with reality.  I have come to realize I can't be who I was before Tony's accident, when I tried my best to balance every arena of life as a perfectly spinning plate on the tiniest point.  I can't always bring my "A-game" to my family, to work, to my friends, though I desperately want to.  There are times I can't even remember what I had for dinner, if or when I paid my bills; I've learned I must write everything down or it is as good as gone from my brain.

It seems I've got my very own thorn in my side.

Paul writes of his thorn in 2 Corinthians 12: 8-10:
"Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong."

I am so grateful Paul gave us these verses.  They give me great relief; they inspire me to embrace my thorn, to embrace my weaknesses.  Lately, I've found myself exclaiming boldly in my most Southern grammer, "God, I've got nothin'...You've got to show up, cause I've got nothin'...nothin' to give, nothin' to say, nothin' to inspire, nothin' to even make it through the day."

And the miracle is...He shows up every time.  He shows up in my nothin'.  He trumps my thorn; He trumps my weaknesses.

And "Little Miss Perfect" can boast about it.  And she can rest in the knowledge that God is strong, she is not.

Dearly loved, not Superwoman,
Melissa

On the heels of dawn...

Well, I did it.  I did.  I put on my "big girl pants" and I moved out of my parents home and into my own place.

As always with me, the anticipation of the event was way more traumatic than the actual day.  I must say, I held up quite well, thanks to my rock-star "mover" mom and lots of family and friends praying and cheering me on.

Quite honestly, the most dreaded step was spending that first night surrounded once again with things that belonged to both Tony and me.  I fell down on my knees by our bed, which I had not even slept in since Tony died.  I cried out to God to give me the strength to even crawl in.  Tears began to flow as I realized that there was just one pillow instead of two.  How would this bed ever feel anything but empty from now on?  Still, I pressed on and into the Lord; I laid my Bible down in place of Tony's pillow. 

Finally, I fell asleep.

I awoke way too early the next morning.  All was dark and quiet in my new place, except for the faint chirping of birds outside my window.  It was the first sign of dawn.

Laying there and attempting to go back to sleep, I had a flashback to March 25 of last year, the morning after the day I learned of Tony's death.  I didn't sleep much that night either; I was awakened by that same chirping before the first rays of daylight.  That day I never thought the sun would rise again; it seemed so unfair for birds to be singing when the love of my life was not there to hear them. That was the first day of my journey into the sunset, my journey into months of darkness and sorrow, my journey into the battle of my life.

And now, almost 11 months later, I'm finding my way to the other side; my time in the darkest of night is giving way to faint rays of light.  Those sounds of birds in the darkness are my reminder that though I'm still grieving, I'm gettting closer to the sunrise.

I'm on the heels of dawn. 

These verses  from Psalm 57: 7-11 express the desire of my heart for this season...
"My heart, O God, is steadfast,
my heart is steadfast;
I will sing and make music.
Awake, my soul!
Awake, harp and lyre!
I will awaken the dawn.
I will praise you, Lord, among the nations;
I will sing of you among the peoples.
For great is your love, reaching to the heavens;
your faithfulness reaches to the skies."

Dearly loved, awakening dawn,
Melissa

The unseen...

The words in my favorite worship song "Tear Down the Walls" by Hillsong United cut me right to the core..."I don't need to see it to believe it."

They inspire me.  They remind me that I don't need to see Christ to believe in Christ.  I don't need to see God to know that He's at work in and around me.  I don't need to see Tony in heaven to know that he is in whole, unbroken, and complete in heaven.  I don't need to see my what is in my future to believe that the One who holds my future has it all in His capable hands.

I just don't need to see it to believe it.

I live that out by clinging to verses of 2 Corinthians 4:16-18:
"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."

I just want to live for the unseen.

Dearly loved,
Melissa

It's just part of my story...

I hate to admit it, but I've grown quite tired of hearing "I'm sorry."  I'm just all maxed out on sympathy.  I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the support I've received over and above anything I could ever imagine.

It's just that I'm beginning to grow accustomed to having this tragedy as part of my life.  I've found myself responding to "I'm sorry" these last few months with, "thank you, but it's all just part of my story."

I mean, what else do I say?  Sure, I could be all dramatic and burst into tears...or better yet, start into an endless monologue about how hard my life is.  But, crying and making people feel sorry for me are just two things I prefer not to do on a regular basis.

My last blog was almost one I didn't post because I didn't want folks to start getting all worried about me.  I posted it anyway because I also don't want folks to think that my journey is all rose-colored either.  I'm still in the throws of the battle of my life; sympathy is just not what fuels me.  Jesus, His Word, and encouragement from friends and family rank top on my list for spurring me on.

And my story, with all its joy, sorrow, and one day, triumph, is scripted perfectly, Divinely, all for God's glory.  It's main character is Jesus; He is IT for me.

I leave you with a few verses from a favorite hymn, "Blessed Assurance"...

"Perfect submission, all is at rest;
I in my Savior am happy and blest,
watching and waiting, looking above,
filled with his goodness, lost in his love.

"This is my story, this is my song,
praising my Savior all the day long;
this is my story, this is my song,
praising my Savior all the day long."

Dearly loved,
Melissa

Left behind...

Some days I feel so left behind.

I feel left behind on this earth, while the one I loved most has reached that ultimate destination, heaven.

I know Tony did not intentionally leave me; he would have never chosen to have me endure such pain and hardship.  Still, there are times I am jealous of where he is, jealous that he no longer has to deal with earthly troubles.

Today was one of those days.  I realized it as I was sitting in a sea of red brake lights on my 1 hour plus drive home.  There's certain things I know for sure I won't miss in heaven, and traffic is one of them.  While I'm at it, I'll add rainy, gloomy days too.  And today, I'll add the old house we own in Atlanta.

I had to put on that dreaded "landlord" hat and deal with yet another plumbing issue.  I tell God regularly that I never asked to be a landlord.

I never asked to be a widow either.

I'm grateful to have so much great support to help me navigate this world without Tony, yet I still find myself getting stressed and fatigued by all that must be done.  It's that "business" side of death that tends to upset me the most.  It is that side that no one ever talks about, the side that is never taught in school, the side you hope you never have to deal with until you'd refer to yourself as elderly.

I must brag on my husband and say that he was very much a man of order.  He took care of everything he could "just in case" so that I would not have to worry.  I never wanted to talk about final wishes or wills or life insurance, but he prepared it all anyway when we were first married.  I didn't know it at the time but it would be one of his most significant acts of love to me.  It has certainly eased my burden from near impossible to at least bearable.

I never asked to be the executor of my husband's estate at 30 years old.  Still, I take this responsiblity very seriously because my Tony entrusted me to take care of it.  I'd do anything for this man, anything.

And so, I carry on, asking God for the strength to not be bitter toward the government, the countless customer service reps, the random strangers that I must deal with to settle Tony's affairs.  Some days I am better at this than others; some days I just have to ask the good Lord for forgiveness.

And on "left behind" days like today, I put on repeat on my ipod the song "Come for Me" by Charlie Hall.  And I press into the Lord, boldly asking him to fulfull my heart's desire...

That on the greatest, happiest days I could ever experience on earth, I would still long to be with Him even more.  And that on the absolute worst days where I just long for heaven, I would wait patiently for Him, holding out hope for those who have yet to know Jesus.

Dearly loved, on this earth,
Melissa