Illusion of Control

I miss you so much today, Baby. The hurt runs so deep. I saw the hawk flying twice, circling, reminding me that God has me and you’re close. But here’s the rub. It’s pretty obvious. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure this one out.

I can’t see you. Or touch you. Or hold you.

This has been the problem with knowing God all my life. And now it’s the problem with you as well.

They tell me life is messy and we don’t have control over anything. Some call it “the illusion of control.” How do I stop being controlled by an illusion? That’s where the cute phrases come in. “Let go and let God.” And tons of scripture that make it sound easy to stop asking for a clear-cut path or searching for answers to the impossible ‘why’s’. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not unto your own understanding.” “We walk by faith, not by sight.” “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.”

But when your soul has been damaged by people who were supposed to love you unconditionally and protect you, and didn’t, trust becomes a foreign language all its own. You were spared that kind of wound. Trust was second nature to you. Your favorite hymn was my worst nightmare. “All to Jesus I surrender, All to Him I freely give . . . I surrender all, all to Jesus I surrender, I surrender all.” I wrote my own lyrics to that one, which shocked a few people but, as always, my words were honest. “I surrender some, I let go a bit, I can’t see You, I can’t feel You, Take what you can get.” See what I mean?

I don’t want to let you go. How crazy does that sound when it’s already been eighteen months since you asked us to? Eighteen months since you died, and it still feels like yesterday. I don’t know what’s normal in grief. I’ve never been here before. I hardly know anyone who has been here before. Losing your husband, your best friend in the world, half your literal heart, is a lot different than other losses. That’s what’s so hard to explain to people who think I should be able to blow you a kiss, wish you well, and move on.

You were my everything. “That’s what you get when you love someone too much,” somebody told me days after you died. That one went deep. And yet it’s true. You grieve much when you love much. It’s the price of loving full on, no holds, all in. Eighteen months. You’d think by now I’d be used to living in silence here. I’m not. Even counselors get it wrong sometimes. “This is an opportunity,” I was told once. I disagreed and she thanked me for my honesty. This is pain, she also taught me to say when I couldn’t breathe. I thanked her for her validation.

So, you died. Or rather, your body did. Still, I lost everything, especially you. I’m here trying to pick up the pieces, finding my way in the dark with our family, facing every day without you, not knowing who I am anymore. I was half of Us. I identified with Us. We talked about everything. We made every decision together. We carried each other through other heartbreaks and losses. Not anymore. And now I don’t know how to live this life I’m being forced to live.

A life I have no control over. So, I googled “the illusion of control.” Turns out, that phrase isn’t just a clever wordplay. It’s a psychological abnormality. Great. Guess I won’t use that one anymore. I changed things up, simply searching for some stranger’s outstanding advice on how to let go of what you never had control over anyway. That was also a bust. “While we can’t control the events in our lives," the copycats parroted, "we can control our response to them.” Good luck with that. I suppose that’s true when the grocery store runs out of your favorite potato chips. It’s a lie and more condemnation dumped on a shattered heart, though, when your personal world implodes. You can’t control the triggers waiting to remind you that your husband isn’t here to drink coffee anymore, and in America, where coffee is more important than Mom’s apple pie, that means I’m living in a mine field. When that long term memory gets tapped, so do the tears and heartache.

Who writes this stuff anyway?  

So, here’s my take on lack of control. Here’s what I am capable of doing when I hear myself say something you used to say, when I remember the way you looked at me, when I have to chart my own course on a road trip, when I celebrate our wedding anniversaries alone.

Keep. Breathing.

There it is. That’s what I can control. Maybe.

And one more thing. I may not know how to surrender (which I don’t think matters since it’s clear I don’t control anything anyway), but I am smart enough to know deep in my spirit that the One who has control also has me.

And that helps.

With thanks to JoLynne Martinez for permission to use the exquisite photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: The Magician [Square Crop] | Thanks to my Flickr friend Shir… | Flickr

Tick Tock

I will never forget that woman’s face at that memorial. They rang that bell and she put an arm around one child. They called out his name and she held onto the other. The pipes swelled and even from across the cemetery I could see her suck in a deep gulp of air, her shoulders rising as she tried to hold it together while the Celtic strains of Amazing Grace soared heavenward. I watched as she blew out a huge breath, straightened her posture, and resumed a stoic expression.

Looking back now, I realize it was like looking into my future. 

Stiff upper lip, I could imagine her saying to herself. It’s been months. You can do this. You can sit on the front row where everyone is watching you, wondering how you’re doing and thanking God it’s not them. They’re honoring him, remember? It’s been a year. People expect you to be better by now. You owe it to his friends to be here. You owe it to him. The fire service was his life.

It still makes me weep. The things we do out of obligation.

Sigh. She was young, and I imagine that in time she remarried. Most likely she's had a wonderful life, in spite of it all. I'm sure the kids got therapy and turned out okay. It’s been twenty years. That’s a lot of Christmases without him, but they probably made it. Life goes on.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

I didn't want to stare but I couldn't help myself. I felt like I was trespassing on her pain. Look away, I told myself. It’s too hard to watch. How is she even holding up, sitting there on the front row with her two fatherless children? I could never do that. I could never survive. I dug in my purse for a Kleenex and stepped back into the sparce shadow to escape the heat and shift my view.

Rob’s in administration now, I thought. He’s not on the end of a hose line anymore. This is part of the risk. Everyone knows it and accepts it. This will never happen to him. Or to me. I don’t know how it happened to her and her husband. It was unthinkable. Unbelievable. Even unforgiveable. They get so much training. He was so strong. He was always the hero. Now he’s the one being mourned.

I looked at my watch. Was it time to go yet? How could Rob stand there so patiently, attending these memorials and tributes every fall? How could he make himself show up at funerals of men he didn’t even know and yet still considered his brothers? How could he endure the sadness knowing he was helpless to change anything?

I hated this. I should never have come. It was too scary to watch her and know at some shallow level of my own just how deep her loss was. All the dreams destroyed. All the nights while her heart was breaking that she’d have to find a way to console their children on her own. It was so unfair. There must be an explanation. Somewhere. Did he do something wrong? Miss a protocol? Go rogue and abandon his team? Get stubborn and try to be the hero? How could he leave her like this?

I didn’t know her. I could only watch and wonder and try to reassure myself that I would never be in her shoes. Her sorrow would never be mine. Especially if I followed the rules and didn’t deviate. If I stayed afraid and never took a risk. If we remained alert and avoided trouble and lived by the Book, I’d never find myself sitting on the front row in a cemetery where a uniformed man walked toward me and handed me . . .

“The Fire Service extends its deep sorrow at the passing of your husband, Rob McLeod,” his friend said, interrupting my reflection with the folded American flag in his hands.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

Puzzling Pieces

I think I need to explain.  

This blog is where I think out loud. Laugh at myself. Ask the hard questions. Explore the extent of my courage. Reveal my weaknesses. And sometimes hope for a little common sense to show up. This is where I risk exposing my point of view, the details of my journey through life, and what I’m learning in the classroom of experience. Everything I believe is dissected here in the sanctity of my private space and yet you are invited to listen in on my private thoughts—the good, the bad, and even the ugly.

But this is not a place where I invite anyone to try to fix me. No one wants someone else to fix them without asking. What we all need is to be heard. We long for someone to listen. And when we’re in excruciating pain, we need to be surrounded by the comfort of witnesses. "Grief is a natural response to death or loss. It is not an illness to be cured or a problem to be fixed. . . You need someone to see your grief and to acknowledge it." *

I’ve had people tell me that they don’t know what to say to me. They feel helpless or ineffective or useless because eloquence and wisdom evade them. But that’s the perfect place to be. In the absence of knowing what to say, we discover the truth—you don’t need to say anything. You just need to show up.

I’ve been on both sides of pain, as a witness to yours and a participant in mine. I’ve said things I regret because I wanted to be the savior, too, just like everyone tries to be. To come up with the answer to the impossible question and be the hero. I never do. No one does. No one can. In general, attempts to do so end up wounding a broken heart again at the exact moment that they most need comfort.

We don’t know the answers to the hard questions in life and yet we keep trying to explain as if God is on trial and we are His legal representation. We fear that if we don’t defend Him with our anemic reasoning, His reputation might be tarnished. As if.

• ·         We don’t know why a baby dies in a mother’s womb, but we’re quick to tell a grieving mother that she can have more children.
• ·         We don’t know why a father dies of cancer leaving his children to grow up without him, but we think it will comfort them to say that he’s no longer suffering, ignoring the reality that their suffering has just begun.
• ·         We don’t know why a wife dies but it’s obvious to us that it must have been God’s will and that God had other plans for her besides granting her family’s prayers for her recovery.
• ·         We don’t have a clue why a million things go wrong from sexual predators to elder abuse, financial bankruptcy to car accidents, mass shootings to terrorist attacks. We don’t know why avalanches occur or tornadoes appear or earthquakes erupt. We can’t explain how the wind moves or why the Titanic sank or why politics is corrupt.

The common denominator here is that we don’t know and yet we offer explanations to someone in pain when we’re not the ones trying to breathe in and breathe out every moment for the rest of our shattered lives.

Why do we do this?

For so many reasons. I’d like to think that at the core of our hand-wringing hearts, we want to stop the suffering we see in the eyes of those we love. We want them to smile again, laugh with us, find the lilt in their step and hope for a better future. We want to see them whole, to watch them enjoy life, we want the person they used to be before they suffered loss to re-surface.

And we want them to stop reminding us with their tears and anger and depression and questions that we might be in their shoes someday. We are uncomfortable with grief. We are ignorant about grief. Our culture has not taught us that grief is part of life just as dying is, so we don’t know what to do with either one except to try to make it go away.

And when people of faith suffer great loss, if they don’t bounce back quickly enough, praise God soon enough, and get back in the game fast enough, we shame them. We may critique their spiritual walk. We may even question if they really know Jesus. Certainly, we believe it’s our job to set them straight and explain that they have no right to question or complain or cry their eyes out endlessly. They must trust and obey for there’s no other way to be happy in Jesus, as the hymnwriters say.

Life is a no question zone. Put on your happy face and move on.

I thought I had all the answers once. I thought I had suffered and overcome enough to earn immunity from any more trauma and loss. I thought I knew how to pray without ceasing. I wasn’t great at trusting, but I’m a pretty good reader, so I thought if I studied enough and taught what I’d learned and discussed enough books that I’d figure out what God is doing in the world and in my life. I thought bad things happened to other people and that Rob and I would grow old together and never have to live a single day apart. I thought scripture verses would dissolve grief, so I gave them to people in pain and sat back in satisfaction waiting for them to rejoice.

And if the puzzle of their complicated life was missing an important piece, I thought I could share one of my own and it would complete their story. It didn’t matter if their picture was different than mine or the shape didn’t fit. Just pound that funky piece into place so no one would have to look at the awkward hole in their life anymore.

What I do here in this blog space is process my life. I write because it is my glory. It is an outlet for my difficult emotions and unimaginable questions. It’s where I put down “on paper” what I thought I knew and what I was forced to discover. It’s where I move the pieces of my puzzle around and look for a picture to emerge. When it does, I post it. It’s not always the picture others expect me to reveal. But it’s always honest.

I need to explain why I'm here with this broken heart, processing the details of my shattered life while I try to survive without Rob beside me. No one can comprehend how much he meant to me or how rich our relationship was or how safe he made me feel or how much he and I loved each other. No one sees me come home at the end of every day to an empty house where no one waits for me anymore, try to convince myself to prepare a meal that I alone will eat, and in the evening when something I read or watch on TV or see in an email triggers sorrow, that I am alone here with my head bent down, sobbing, trying to catch my breath with no one to put their arms around me and tell me it’s going to be all right.

No one else has the missing piece to my puzzle.

Nor am I the only one in this position. 800,000 people become widowed in America every single year. And I guarantee that every one of them has had salt rubbed into the wound by good intentioned, painful words assuring them that losing half their heart and all of their dreams is God’s will.

I’m not here to destroy God’s reputation. He’s not afraid of my honesty. He’s not easily offended, either. And He has never let go of me. The feelings I am experiencing are normal and real. I’ve taken some hits for expressing them in public, and I’ve also given voice to some suffering hearts who are afraid to speak up.

Remember the elephants who gather around a fallen member, standing still, forming a quiet circle of support? They don’t do or say anything. They just show up.

To those of you who have shown up, you have my eternal thanks. You know who you are. Thank you for being here without having answers. For loving me as I am. For reminding me that we are all human. And for praying for my family.

I say again that I love you. You are awesome elephants. 

*Megan Devine, "It's Okay That You're Not Okay"

With thanks to Shelah for the use of the artwork shown above. The original can be viewed by following this link: fitting the pieces together | Shelah | Flickr

Triage and Trust

I turned on your phone today and searched until the text messages I sent you in ICU appeared. I needed to remind myself that I’d done everything I could to tell you how much I love you and reassure you that we were fighting for you.

Each one spoke of my deep love for you. How you mean everything to me. I reminded you how you'd texted me early on that "we’ve done hard before” and we’d get through this, too. The messages were filled with love and devotion and scripture verses I was clinging to and lyrics to songs that were inspiring and hopeful and encouragement to keep fighting and my confidence that you would beat this. They were cheerleading blurbs, pre-loaded with positive energy, focused on what we wanted and expected and claimed from God, all based on the belief that we should always “stand on our authority” as children of God. Everything I could think of to spur you on, keep your mind focused on the business at hand—getting well again—it was all there, stored on the magic of your smartphone.

I couldn’t read all of them. I was crying too hard. I'd sent the last one on Feb. 16, the day before the palliative doctor usurped Risa’s call and gave us the bad news. You were done fighting and you didn’t want to continue anymore. You wanted to die a natural death.

I shut off your cellphone and put it back in the drawer where I keep it with your Florida Gators sweatshirt and that little piece of fabric that I found wadded up in your pocket for cleaning your glasses. As I closed the drawer, I said for the thousandth time, “That’s why I don’t believe in prayer anymore. Or healing. I only believe in talking to You, God.” Some tell me that’s what prayer is, but what they're really describing is a laundry list where faith is the price of its fulfilment. Well, we did that. We prayed without doubt. Believed without compromise. Faithed without flinching. And we lost it all anyway.

I walked into the kitchen with all of that fresh on my mind, all the words running together, when I realized how much pep talking I was doing in those texts. I'd sent weeks worth of cell phone messages, asking your nurses to read them to you because covid protocol wouldn’t allow us to be there in person while you were fighting for your life on a ventilator.  Everything I texted you was one sided. One desire allowing one outcome. Of course, God would heal you. Anything else was out of the question. It was standard operating procedure, our SOP. Everyone who knew what you were going through was praying their guts out for God to heal you. None of us could imagine a world without Rob McLeod in it.

Except Rob McLeod.

The realization took my breath away, Baby. You knew. You knew for weeks that this one was the one that would take you down. We were hours away from your hospital room. You were there on the frontline fighting for your life. Fighting to breathe. Struggling to stay alive. Facing the truth like the straight up guy you are and relying on the medical experience of your entire career to analyze the situation. You could see the writing on the wall when we refused to look. You knew if you made it out of the hospital, it would be as a broken man facing a life as a vegetable. It was unacceptable.

We were praying for you to live while you were praying to go Home to God.

Slowly, a strong realization rose up in my soul and I knew that in all those weeks I had only considered what I wanted, what I needed, what I thought was best for you and for us. And then it hit me. Nancy was right all along. I talked to her the night before Katy and I drove up to Show Low to ask you in person if you wanted us to let you go. Nancy believes in healing and so did I once. But it’s not our desires that set us free. It’s the truth. “So, you’ve been praying for Rob’s healing while he’s been asking to go Home. Which prayer is God supposed to answer?” she asked me. It was hard. Painful. Impossible to believe. I tucked it away in a corner of my heart where all the difficult things in life are kept under lock and key. Still, I knew. The next day we asked you in person, saw your firm answer, and let you go. You were free. It was our first of many days in prison.

I told God He was a liar the night after we got that call. I had a book full of scriptures and “promises” I’d been keeping to show you once you recovered, and I threw it in the trash. I started calling Him “The God I’m Not Talking To” as I began life as your widow, lost in a whirlwind of pain and shock. I blamed myself for a thousand things I wished I’d done differently, as if I alone have control over anything in this world. I blamed the doctors. The hospital staff. The government, although that one still seems appropriate.

But I missed the truth. I didn’t see it. I was so blinded by disbelief and anguish that I was unable to see it. I suppose timing is everything. If I’d had a glimpse of it before now, I wouldn’t have given it the time of day.

You wanted to go Home. It was your body. It was your life. You love me still with the fervency of true love, but you are a realist. You see the black and the white and have always been a good judge of circumstances, even the horrible, terrible, please-don’t-let-it-happen kind. Some of that was the years you spent doing triage on the side of the road, the horrible job of assessing which patients were the highest priority and discerning which ones would never make it. Some of it was the sturdy faith you always had in God, trusting Him no matter what. The early woundings my heart has suffered make trust difficult for me. You were always the truest version of Jesus I've ever seen in flesh and blood. You loved me like Him, and you trusted Him like I didn’t know how to do.

That day it all came down to the wire. Triage and Trust. It was time. You helped us recognize the unimaginable. You did your best. We did our best. The medical staff did their best. No one wanted it to happen, but you needed us to let you go.

How could that possibly be the right prayer?

I see it now. I was praying wrong. Or, perhaps, it would be more kind for me to say I didn’t know there was another way to pray. And the reason I didn’t know that is because the price of praying for that kind of wisdom is too high. For me. Not for you. I did everything I could to save the man I loved and when that wasn't how it was going to end, I gave you the freedom you asked for. I was praying for healing because I didn't want to let you go. Completely natural. I knew what it would cost me to love you enough to grant what you needed most. It was the last act of love I could give you, but it cost me everything. That's the definition of love.

Finally, standing alone in my kitchen, I was able in some degree to rest in the outcome of what happened, knowing you made that hard call and yours was the prayer that needed to be answered. You simply knew of the two choices facing you, which side of triage was yours.

I was praying for your healing. You were asking to go Home.

Which prayer was God supposed to answer?