Camel Down

“I can’t . . . do this . . . ALONE!”  

I stared in disbelief at the chaos lying on the dog-hair covered floor. All I did was hang up one more shirt on a rolling clothes rack that’s tucked into the corner of my little apartment and realized, too late, it was literally the straw that broke the camel’s back. There was a loud SNAP! and my four-foot-tall rack was reduced to four and a half inches.

Tears and sobs erupted as I stood there in my pajamas at bedtime. Alone with a minor inconvenience that felt as catastrophic as a Mount St. Helens eruption, I wept in the room again, “I can’t do this alone!”

Then I did it alone.

I was angry, but I did it, saying all the while, “I guess I can do this. I can do this. I’m doing this!” I picked up handfuls of hangered garments, threw them across the sofa and a couple of chairs and finally reached the traitorous pile of poles that lay askew beneath everything instead of standing tall and proud the way they were supposed to. The metal poles pointed to the real culprit in it all – a flimsy plastic joint that had snapped under the overwhelming weight it was never meant to carry.

I hate it when my furniture behaves like me.

The next morning, I stood on the driveway talking with my daughter, Katy, telling her about the late-night drama in my room. “Oh, no, Mama,” she sympathized.

“I had a little temper tantrum,” I said. The corners of her mouth turned up the way her dad’s used to, barely concealing a smile.

“Then I had a fight with your father,” I added, and the smile went full-scale grin. “I feel really silly doing that,” I admitted, easy to understand since her father, my husband, rests in peace in faraway Florida. Another brilliant move on his part. There isn’t always a lot of peace these days if you hang around me. 

“I have to do everything myself now, I told him, all of it while my heart is shattered. It’s like learning to walk again but without legs. Learning to breathe without lungs.”

 My wise daughter nodded, waiting for the rest of the story.

“Meanwhile,” I’d said to Rob, “you’re busy flying around heaven, having tons of fun with absolutely no idea of what I’m going through.” At that point I’d thrown another shirt on a chair. “I’m tired of talking to you, Rob,” I finished. “I’m going to bed. Just . . . go off and enjoy another conversation with Moses or Abraham or Pharoah or somebody, although Pharoah probably isn’t there.”

Looking at my daughter, I confessed, “I worry about my sanity sometimes, Kate.”

Katy, so much like her dad, was chuckling, picturing me telling Rob to go find some ancient prophet to hang out with and leave me alone. “I think, Mom, when I hear you say things like that to Dad, that he’s probably cracking up the way he always did when he got tickled by something. I bet his face was turning red and he was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.”

She’s probably right. My one-sided fight with him sounded a lot like all the other one-sided fights we used to have. I always thought it was because he avoided conflict. But maybe it was just because he was laughing so hard inside, he couldn’t answer me.

Nothing ever got the best of Rob McLeod. Not my temper. Not the opinions of others. And now, I am realizing, not even death.

He’s still my hero.

With thanks to Adair Broughton for permission to use the photo seen above. The original can be viewed from this link: camel bow | my humps, my humps, my sexy camel humps? | adair broughton | Flickr

Untethered

I’m weary. I’m weary of grieving. I’m weary of adjusting. Weary of missing the man I loved to be with. Weary of finding my way in the dark. Everything I once clung to for safety and security, comfort and familiarity, is gone. There are days when I feel like a hapless balloon, escaped from the grip of its birthday party guest. Set loose with no destination in mind, I float along at the whim of the wind, helpless to navigate direction because, in part, I don’t know where I’ll land.

This is faith.

I didn’t know that until now. I don’t think you can know what faith is until it’s all you have left. I knew it in my head. I knew all the right answers—I teethed on a Baptist pew, after all. But I didn’t know it in my experience. Because what I thought I knew had never been tested like this before. Now that it has, I’ve come to this conclusion.

I don’t like to live by faith.

I like to live by sight. I like my feet on solid ground unless I’m in an airplane and even then I can still touch the floor. I feel safe when I have some control over where I am and where I’m headed. Doesn’t the Bible have something to say about not being blown about by every wind of doctrine? It sounds like the wind is a troublemaker. So, whose idea was it for me to be blown about by every gust of circumstance? I didn’t ask for this. I’ve gone to great lengths to avoid grief and loss. More than once in the last year I’ve screamed at my Creator for letting go of the string on my balloon. A lot of good that does. He’s not afraid of heights.

Not long ago I heard my son say on his Sunday podcast that God created everything both visible and invisible. I never used to think much about the things that are invisible. They don’t quiz you on that in school unless you plan to be a microbiologist or an astronomer and even then, if you have powerful enough lenses, you can see things that are invisible to the naked eye. Instead, I memorized dates and places and names of dead people. I learned to manage numbers and pronouns and musical notes. I didn’t learn geography, though, until Rob and I picked up a roadmap and started driving across America, but today I can tell you with certainty that the east coast is crowded and I like Montana. That’s because I saw them in person, not just in a geography book. Which is a pretty good way to see the visible things God made.

But the invisible? From his pulpit, Lee asked the young ones in his congregation to name things that we can’t see. Oxygen, one child told him. Germs, another said. God, was the obvious answer. For being so short, they’re all pretty smart. There were a few others that came to mind for me. I can’t see Rob right now. I can’t see heaven either. And even with the strongest microscope, I don’t think anyone has seen the particles of an atom. We know they exist, but we can’t see them. Like the wind, we see their effects, but we cannot see them. It doesn’t stop us from believing these things are real, though. If we see only their effects, does it still take faith to believe they’re there?

Maybe the altitude is getting to me.

I looked up “faith.” From the world’s most reliable source of information—Wikipedia. Faith is “a firm belief in something for which there may be no tangible proof; complete trust, confidence, reliance, or devotion.”

Then I looked up what God had to say about it. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen…” (Hebrews 11)

Faith confuses me.

Something I can’t see is evidence. It’s proof of the existence of a thing hidden from view. It is substance, but I can’t see it or touch it or smell it or hear it or taste it. There may be no tangible expression for something I firmly believe in. To make it even more confusing, I read that things which are seen don't last forever, but things that are not seen are eternal.

Faith sounds foolish.

How do I know Rob is still alive, waiting for me, loving me, anxious to take me on another road trip, this time through the galaxy? How do I know I belong to Jesus, and I can believe Him when He said whosoever will may come? How do I know God loves me to the moon and back even though He stood by and let my heart shatter in a million pieces? How do I know He will somehow turn what the enemy meant for evil into good?

I don’t. Not without faith.

Because it’s all invisible. For now. That’s the rub. The God of all the universes, brilliance times infinity, wants us to lean into the things we cannot see and come out believing. He wants to give us a new heart so we can trust Him, but walking by faith is still up to us. Rational thinking has its place right up until we can’t explain the way God intervenes—or doesn’t—in the affairs of men. There’s a reason for that.

“For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength.” (1 Corinthians 1)

I don’t know why I lost Rob. Nobody does, though many have tried to explain it to me. They mean well, but they don’t know either. I don’t know why everything I was anchored to disappeared overnight and my life was suddenly set adrift. I am confident of this, though. Rob is still very much alive. He’s more alive than I am. And because of that, I have an investment in the invisible that has changed my point of view.

Oh, I guess I’m just rambling now. Like I said, I’m weary. Untethered. Waiting to see where the wind takes me today. There’s not a lot to do up here when you’re floating aimlessly through the air except think deep thoughts and try to see life from a new perspective.

I’ll tell you what, though. I’ve gained a whole new respect for balloons up here. They may be untethered, too, but they're survivors.

 

Things that are seen don’t last forever, but things that are not seen are eternal. 

This is why we keep our minds on the things that cannot be seen.

(2 Corinthians 4:18)

With thanks to A. Currell for permission to borrow the phine photo seen above. The original can be viewed from the following link:  Going... | A.Currell | Flickr

Titanic

There are many losses when your best friend and lover dies. And mini-losses that appear later, much later, after the numbness wears off and the swelling from your shattered heart begins to subside. That’s when the throbbing pain takes over.

For months I’ve been unable to remember much from all the years Rob and I enjoyed together. Finally, I realized it wasn’t due to shock. It was self-protection. I was putting up a barrier every time a memory tried to show up because it hurt too much to recall all that I’ve lost.

But now I know I need those memories to comfort me in whatever way they can. The problem is, they will still hurt even while they help. I suppose it’s similar somehow to getting a root canal, coarse as that analogy may appear. Pain will accompany the remedy, but there’s no other way to save my broken heart.

I need to remember.

Lately, when the memories float up like artifacts from the Titanic’s debris field, instead of pushing them away, I’m learning to let them materialize. To pick them up. Inspect them. Weep while I hold them in my hands. And let them live again.

It’s a blessing, and it’s a curse of sorts, because now, even though they are cherished treasures from a happy marriage, they are still evidence of what I no longer have. It was my counselor who first described them to me as mini-losses. There are thousands of them, floating to the surface of my mind at inopportune times. They always catch me off guard, leaving me with only two ways of handling them. Either push them away or face them.

I have many friends who have stood beside me in my sorrow, sharing in this loss we all still cannot comprehend. Few of them are single. They’ve taken me to lunch. Visited my temporary home. Laughed with me and filled me in on their lives. And I watch as these couples finish each other’s sentences. Laugh together before I hear their punchlines. Work toward their dreams. All the things. It takes decades of commitment and sacrifice to build a relationship like that. I had that once.

I bought a car on my own for the first time last June. I knew how to do it because Rob and I have done it together several times over the years. I was able to pay for it. Insure it. Care for it. But rarely will I ever relax in the passenger seat. Seldom does anyone help me navigate. If I see a hawk in flight, I have to pull over to snap a photo—no one can do it for me. I had to move the toothpicks to the console because I can’t reach the glovebox from my side of the car. I nearly always drive alone now.

At Christmas this year, it was a friend who came with me to see Christmas lights. I don’t date my husband anymore. Rob and I have driven tens of thousands of miles together across America. We’ve been in forty-eight states together. If I want to pick up the remaining two, I’ll have to do it without him. Now if I travel, I either go on my own or with a good friend. I ate at our favorite restaurant today and ordered the meal Rob and I always shared. Tonight, I finished off his half as my supper. Service for one.

I’ll never hear him call me sweetheart or babe or darlin’ anymore. The endearments were silenced when Rob’s voice was. It was only last week that I recognized this particular grief.

Mini-losses. They feel like major losses. I’ve pushed them away like too many floatable toys in a bathtub, but I can’t keep them all under water anymore. I knew from watching other people live and die that this could happen. It’s a risk to love someone as deeply as I loved Rob. It means someday you might lose them. You might cry your eyes out every day, sleep with their t-shirt instead of with them, and order one sandwich at your favorite sub shop for the rest of your life. It’s scary enough to imagine even those things.

What I never saw coming was the aftermath of disaster. The ongoing parade of pain. Pieces of my shattered world floating to the surface all around me while I tread water and try to survive. As I said, I need our memories now. I suppose if I cling to some of the larger pieces that maybe I won’t drown. Or maybe they’ll form a flotilla and help me find my way back to solid ground.

One mini-loss at a time. Still, I'm not convinced grief is ever small.

It feels titanic.

With thanks to Travis for the use of the photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: Titanic | There would be larger ships and worse disasters at… | Flickr

This Time

It’s a sad anniversary. Not in honor of a wedding forty-five years ago. No longer a celebration of our first date in 1974. That one was always a bigger deal for you than the day we said I Do.  It’s not even the one coming up in February.

A year ago today was the last time we ever lived together. Last night was a year since I slept beside you. The last time I kissed your lips. The last time we had a home. And a life. Dreams. And one another.

A year ago today I lost everything.

I didn’t see this pain coming, Baby. I’ve been bracing for February 19, not January 13. But the nightmare began weeks before we had to let you go. Nine days in the hospital for me, worrying about you from a separate room. Four weeks once I got here, waiting for the phone to ring twice a day. Your sister kept us updated with news from your doctors while we all held our breath and hoped against hope . . .

That you’d make it. We all believed you would. We’d been believing it ever since Dan drove up and called for the ambulances. I was so relieved when they all arrived. I just needed someone to take care of me. To take care of you. To take care of Brody. We were so sick. I was grateful for oxygen. Grateful for doctors and nurses and a place to rest. I knew we’d get well. You always got well, Rob. So did I. But this time . . .

Well, this time was different.

You sent me a picture of you in your hospital bed, blowing me a kiss while wearing the bi-pap oxygen line, tethered to all those monitors. I was so full of hope. And relief. And delusion. We didn’t know how sick we were, did we, darlin’? Especially, how sick you were. It took five long weeks for all of us to realize that this time . . .

This time. It was the last photo taken of you.

I began to cry last week, dreading today. Knowing it would all roll back in on me. The nightmare days I spent in the hospital while the nurses danced around the truth every time I asked how you were doing. The guilt I felt when I had to tell you they were going to release me. The catch in your struggling breath as you answered, “I’m so glad for you, darlin’.” You couldn’t come with me. I couldn’t stay. They wouldn’t let me come back. Not until . . .

The last time I saw you. That’s the next hurdle. That day will be here in a few weeks—when it’s been three hundred sixty-five days since I touched your hand and kissed your forehead and watched you fade away. I always thought you were going to make it, Babe. No one could have had more faith than me that you’d rally and we’d have one heck of a story to tell. This wasn’t the story I had in mind.

I’m talking to God again, honey. I guess you already know that. It’s different now. I don’t even know what prayer is anymore. It’s not what I thought. It’s not what everyone else thought either. But the other night I cried out to Him, asking Him to comfort me and give me hope. Right away Romans 8:28 rose up. For we know that all things work together for good to those who love God.  That’s a tall order. Losing you wasn’t God’s fault, no matter what anyone has tried to tell me. If they believe that, they don’t know God.

The first time I asked God to comfort me after you left was the first time I’ve ever had a vision from Him. As hard as it was for me to focus in those early days without you here, I sat with my eyes closed and tried to wait for hope. I saw God reach for me with His left arm and pull me in close to Him. It was pure and tender, and I knew He saw my anguish. When He turned to face me, I saw his right arm was wrapped around you, Babe. He saw the heartbreak in us and held us close to Himself. All three of us just stood there.

I think I’ve spent most of my life telling people I love goodbye. Waiting until I could see them again. Separation is the story of this broken world. But in that moment, hope pulled back the veil and I saw God’s heart for us. Sharing in our pain. Standing as the connection between us. Promising that He’d make good come out of even this horror.

I don’t know how He’s going to do it. I’m not even sure I believe it. I’m tired of pretending I have all the answers. None of us know. None of us have any idea what we’re doing. You know more than any of us now—you don’t even need faith anymore.

But I do. I need faith. I need hope. I need to get through the next five weeks as the last year finally counts down and I can put the “year of firsts” behind me. If only I didn’t have to. If only this time . . .

I could wake up and you’d still be here.