Grandma W

Grandma W

Whether the W is for Williamson or if it’s for the Cubs-win flag will be left intentionally ambiguous. She only had to wait a near century to see them win for real! In some ways, this woman embraced being an old lady for as long as I knew her when she certainly wasn’t quite old, like her ornery I’ve-seen-it-all-and-it-ain’t-all-pretty wit. But in other ways, she defied all notion of aging by her strength, consistency, and determination, like by pushing her own lawnmower up the hill by herself out there well into her late 80’s. She was a tough woman with enough personality for two.

As the story goes, she met the love of her life when she wanted to go to a dance and had picked out a dress that just needed a man in a blue suit to go with it in order to be a perfect outfit. So she sent a friend out to collect whatever military guy happened to have the matching attire and was free that night. As it turns out, PopPop was a perfect match for her, more than just the suit. Her life changed dramatically when PopPop was hit by a car and suffered permanent brain injuries. Through that horrible experience and all the incredibly hard differences their life sustained, Grandma never became resentful of him for the care he required but rather continued to faithfully serve and love him, while taking on most of the burden of responsibility for their lives. But in other ways, I think it made her feel like she had to always be strong and couldn’t really show vulnerability. Observing that tough exterior, I grew up assuming that front was all an act, a joke somehow. I poked through it in every way I could and she’d end up laughing through the “oh fiddlesticks” remarks. We shared a love of small things: goodwill shopping, real Mexican vanilla, Karen’s toffee, Trader Joe’s corn salsa, Grandma candy (Good & Plenty), and puzzles in the calm of the cottage. And the things that mattered more too: the feeling of loyalty to family, the love for my mom and the wish that she’d have been able to rest more, my very handsome husband 😂, the joy of singing hymns at the piano, and the love for our Savior whom she now sees clearly. She trusted and loved the one who passed through death and overcame it. Though that final enemy has taken her from us, she has met its conqueror.

You were a pretty great lady, Petunia! I’ll miss you till we meet again.

That Day

This piece was written a few months after the accident but has always been close to my thoughts about that day. Recently, we had a guest stay with us who didn’t know my family. When he heard of our tragedy, he asked an insightful question about if my beliefs about God changed because of it. I thought for a moment, and it was this instance that came to my mind and this what I shared in response. My world did change that day, thoroughly and in nearly every respect, but the God I love did not. He was and is and is to come. I’m thankful for his consistency in all our change.
*Note: I’ve added some clarifiers in ().

I don’t always see God’s direct intervention in my life. I’m aware of His orchestration in a general sense as He maintains our lives. But in a specific sense, I can only see glimpses of how He sets events uniquely on my behalf. And usually only in retrospect. Those moments make the big truths of who God is actually feel personal and real and close.

The one I’m about to share seems so significant and intimate to God’s involvement in my life that it took me weeks before even telling anyone about it (and now years before posting here, but I think it is good and right to share so that His presence might encourage you also). 

The night of August 2nd (2019), I was the last one awake working on a baking project for a cousins’ get-together planned for the next day. With the oven heated and the batter mixed, I plopped the pan in and grabbed my phone to pass the time while I waited. 

A message notification let me know that a friend had reached out to me. We weren’t close so I was surprised to see her name. We’d gone to the same church a year beforehand and had a few classes together but had never connected outside of group events (nor ever messaged about any other topic before or after this interaction. I say this just to emphasize that this felt like and was an otherwise “random” occurrence.).

In one of our classes, we each shared our testimonies describing God’s work of salvation in our lives. Her message that day was to ask if she could read my testimony at a gathering of women from her current church. A little surprised and a little honored, I said sure and went to find a copy of it in my email archives. I sent it along and let her know. 

The kitchen was quiet as the oven fan hummed and the smell of chocolate and peanut butter drifted through the room. It was a little after 10pm (our time). My life seemed good. 

I knew nothing yet of events which transpired then three hours earlier 5,000 miles away.  

With more time to wait, I jumped back to my email and lingered on the still-open thread. “It’s been awhile since I looked at this. I should read through it again.”

My eyes and heart took their time pondering the words and truths written there. Those words taken from Scripture to form my story reminded me in that moment of who God is, what He’s done, and what He’s promised to do. I read through it slowly, embracing my place in this world that He sustains. (It was truly such a peaceful moment!)

Take a moment and read it too. The Testimony of a Believer

Having finished, I closed the phone and knelt down to check how the bars were progressing. They needed more time for the knife to come out clean. I aimlessly sat back down with the warmth of the oven for company. 

My phone rang. 

I don’t think anyone could be prepared for what happened next. (I wrote separately about that moment While the Knife Still Stabs)

It was horrible. It was too much. It’s still unbearable months (years) later. 

I will always hold unanswered questions about what happened that day and why. I don’t expect resolution. I know in the truest version of reality that whatever my God ordains is right. 

But until heaven, I’ll lament the events told to me in that phone call. My limited mind and shattered heart disagrees with God on this. I don’t see in any way how my loss can work together for any sort of good. And to be honest, for now, I don’t want to. 

All that said, I have to recognize that God was with me when that phone rang. He made Himself known to me. He braced my heart with beams of truth exactly as the wrecking ball flew towards me. I am crushed. But something from Him yet remains.

In spite of moments of anger and resignation towards Him, there is a residing awareness of His active presence somewhere in this darkness.

This tragedy did not surprise Him and He has not left me alone in the midst of it. 

1000 for Louis, 621 without Mom

Louis and Nana

Today a couple markers align. Mom would be 62 had God so ordained for her to be with us. Her birthday comes full of drizzly, icy rain in our section of the world but it’s okay when the weather matches the mood. She’s missed by so many and this day without her feels dreary indeed.

One of my sisters commented yesterday about how it feels like Mom and Dad left so many kids behind – not just the ones born to them. There are dozens of examples of so many people who looked up to them as parent figures, who loved them, and felt their love. It’s nice to hear of all those that were so influenced by her in such specific and meaningful ways, of how she won their admiration and respect. At the same time, I know now that all of that means shared pain of not having her here anymore. There’s no way to acknowledge how much she meant without a matching amount of how much she’s missed.

The other marker of the day is that we’ve had 1000 days of Louis. From his first dramatic entrance, to his contented babyhood, and now his toddler days sun-setting into childhood. He’s clever like his Nana. He questions and needs to see the logic behind everything just like her. He overflows with affection for his family, just like her. He’ll come and give us hugs and kisses for no reason all the time. He has sad days like her too and in time we hope to teach him what to do with all those big emotions and where to take his burdens, now so small, but so real to him. I want to be the kind of mom I had. I want to hug him and never be the first to let go. I want him to know without any doubt that his mom loves him just like I’m undoubtedly sure that mine loved me till her dying day – and beyond, however memories, awareness of us, and time work in heaven.

1000 days with Louis, 621 without Mom.

Today, I didn’t celebrate. I didn’t cry either. The pain of Mom’s absence is seared into me; it’s changed me; it’s here to stay. But, it’s quiet for now. The largest section of my heart and soul that misses them so terribly has been (mostly) sorted, thought through, and felt deeply. It’s still messy but the lines run a little neater now, a little more contained, and don’t flood my mind as often now. I know the grief lives there. It’s familiar now.

For Mom, I made sure all my dishes were done last night because she knew a day started best with a clean sink. For dinner, I cooked in the crockpot (that she bought for me) and remembered how she loved to feed her family and everyone else that could stop by. She never overcomplicated food but I mixed in tons of spices knowing she’d be excited about all my experimental cooking ventures. Of course, I cooked too much because just like her, I’ll never figure out how to cook for just a couple people. I tidied the house and mopped with a Piper sermon in the background and followed it up with some Getty’s hymns. I got down eye to eye and hugged my kids and blew raspberries on Verity’s cute little belly till she couldn’t stop laughing. I still call them “sparfgreebs” just like she did even though I’m pretty sure no other family thinks that’s a word. I looked over several times at the brush-lettered “DREAM” board she painted that sits in my windowsill as I thought back to her long list of adventures that never quite happened. She’d be thrilled for our upcoming quick trip to Spain because somehow she mastered sharing others’ joys even when it was things she wanted for herself too. She’d be all about hearing our house-building plans and she’d have already come to visit the spot and fallen in love with the view. She’d have walked with me again up to the castle just like she did when we lived there as a family. She’d fawn over Verity and gush over every photo I’d send of her. But she’d probably have had a heart attack knowing I delivered over here so at least she was spared that! I think she’d be happy with where we’re at right now, all things considered.

In so many ways, the little and the big, I want to be like her: capable, kind, caring, clever, wise, and winsome. But I hope to be able to live out some of the things she didn’t get to be either. The ones she hoped for but ran out of time. Or the things she dreamed about but her time was too full. And likewise, some of the things she wished she wasn’t.

Anyways, here’s to Louis and Mom. They barely knew each other but in the long term, we pray they’ll meet again when all this world will somehow make sense and the days apart are ended. For the life we still have here, we pray that God works in Louis and lets him live up to and surpass the legacy she left behind.

Verity Lina Mae

A new stage of our adventure begins as we await the coming of our first little girl in December! 

So many emotions arise with the expectation of a new human in this world and for us with Verity, this is no exception. Our last year since losing so many of my family members in August 2019 has been devastating and the world was emptied of so much good. In the midst of our personal world stopping so abruptly (and then the whole world literally stopping for such a long season) we came to appreciate that new life is possible. That we could, in at least this way, create something joyful to love. A reason to see the future with an anticipation of life and not just a dread of the next disaster. That maybe, though it seems so unimaginable, maybe some of our best days are yet to come. That somehow, our lives would continue. The hope of more babies in our family felt like one piece of the future that hadn’t been hijacked from us in the accident. 

Confirming our pregnancy brought a new joy to life, and a retrospective sadness as well. We look forward to her future, we long to meet her and teach her and watch her grow and love her through all life’s ups and downs. And yet, we mourn, knowing that there are those gone too soon before her that would’ve loved to do the same and will have no such chance. In that same future in which we feel so much hope for our new little one, we also recognize the absence of all the love stolen from her, the love she’ll never know. 

She will hear of them in the stories we tell, she will mourn them in the adventures they shared with us, she will, in her own second-generation way, feel the loss of them even in me as she learns to identify what sadness looks like and how long it holds on to us. And since we cannot spare her that, we pray that we can teach her where to take these pains of the world that she will be born to carry and all the new ones she may collect along the way. 

Though all her experience of them will be secondhand, we pray that she represents them at their best. 

Her first name, Verity, was chosen years before but became more relevant and meaningful now. Simply, it means truth. This concept represents both our families in how they have oriented their lives in devotion and search for the one Truth, the Giver of all truth. We pray that Verity also finds and follows this devotion.

In a special way, each of my family lost in August animated truth. 

My dad stood strong as an example of how truth is steady, unwavering, unflinching, unaltered by trial or storm. He was truth as an anchor but also as an undaunted beacon, one that would have so gladly led thousands to it while sparing them from the dangers of deceit in this world. 

My mom recognized that truth is universal and yet incredibly specific. That each person is unique in how much truth we understand and have experienced. And of course that we all have more to learn and we can learn some of that from each other. Mom deeply understood that some truths were too difficult to bear alone and must be shared, though she found herself gladly bearing others’ far more often than sharing her own. 

Kent revealed truth as all things beautiful, knowing that if real beauty is to be found, it must be a reflection of its Maker. He exemplified that a life lived in truth can be full of joy, smiles, and laughter. 

Landyn, well… She was the whole truth and nothing but the truth 🙂 In pure, innocent truth, there is no disgrace. No deceit could be found in her and thus she felt no shame. 

As for the rest of our baby girl’s name, we choose a family name on both sides of my family (Lena, Mae and Lena May) though we changed the spelling to be a little more friendly to multi-cultural pronunciation. But the meaning of both brings out a deeper concept when brought together with truth.

Lina means sunlight and pairs perfectly with the effect truth can offer, enlightening what once was dark, life-giving, warming hearts once cold. We hope she lives this well. Another variation means tender or delicate. This meaning also brought comfort as I consider how necessary delicacy and tenderness are when presenting truths. A hard truth delicately spoken may still be sweet.

Mae refers back to the month and springtime and all the hope that comes with it. (In Michigan especially, that’s as early as hope comes…) As simple as this is, we pray that she will always be a hopeful presence to those around her like a fully blossomed spring.

Also, for whatever reason, my mom often called me Tessa Lina Mae, though that isn’t my name, I can hear it pronounced in her voice. The sound of her singing that out seems connected now to this little girl and somehow, that makes it feel like she knew something of this beloved granddaughter. This is the third of her grandchildren that she will never have the chance to hold in life; the second she knew nothing of. But when I recall the sound of this name from her voice, it’s easier for me to imagine her joy for this new life.

The drawing represents our two little gifts that we’ll have this Christmas, Louis and Verity, but it’s set at the hearth of my parents’ house. Many of you carry moments that rest in your heart from this same scene. That home leaves our family soon and we’ll hold only the memories and the blank space of what should have been. It’s heartbreaking that Verity will never feel the warmth from that fireplace as she hears the crinkling of wrapping paper on a Christmas morning. The hymns and Luke 2 readings that lingered in the air over the crackling flames in that golden room will be only a story for her. But, it will be a well-loved story that I hope will touch her heart. At the same time, I hope our own little family will find our version of this happy place and carry on some of the same traditions, always remembering that our future is based on another Christmas babe.

Verity Lina Mae, may God grant you his tender, illuminating truth to live in all your days that you may always be filled with warmth and leave others full of light and hope. You are loved.

A Fatherless Day

Father’s Day has come but now I don’t have him to celebrate. I don’t have him to thank and to show him how much I appreciate him.

Some of my sweetest memories of him were the times he’d open the bedroom door far before sunrise and whisper so as not to wake my sisters, “Tess, it’s time for coffee.” I’d pop out of bed and be ready in two minutes, eyes still closed and hair unbrushed. I don’t know how young I was when this tradition started, the hot chocolate and pancakes with whipped cream. I’d guess three or four years old. As I grew, his coffee shop office changed locations a few times as local places closed or changed hours. His coffee buddies changed too as time and sometimes ideas spread friendships apart and as it brought new ones to the table. I didn’t mind those changes of place or group, because for me, Daddy was what counted. I felt so special to be allowed into this part of his world. To hear the adult discussions and pipe up my own little voice at times. Often, he’d have a book or two along with him if conversations lulled. The authors would always speak to him if needed, but usually, a book on the table was enough to start a conversation about something new everyday. For seasons of my childhood, Dad’s jobs were intense with long hours and few days off. But even in those times, he’d always wake up early enough for a trip to the coffee shop. Getting to spend that time together, even the short car rides, even if it was too early to feel like saying anything, those times let me know him.

As a side note, I was also the first (and for years, the only) of us kids to actually enjoy coffee which made me sure I’d forever won the place as Dad’s favorite.

Eventually, my homework came with me on those dates, and then I too had to rush off to work myself, cutting off those leisurely moments with the hot coffee in hand where time seemed to disappear.

Finally, I moved away and missed those mornings and longed for the tradition of them and that slow time before a day began.

For one of my birthdays, I requested Ovi to give me the “present” of waking up early everyday for the month and mimicking those old coffee dates. Delightful.

Each time we went back for visits, I made sure to make the effort to wake up early at least one morning to go out with Dad again. I remember showing off baby Louis to Daddy’s coffee buddies and being thrilled that those mornings were something Louis would learn to love too.

Dad’s extroverted nature shined in that environment. Every stranger that walked through the door would readily have been drawn into the conversation and offered a seat at Dad’s table. And of course a coupon. He’d buy anybody breakfast, he’d listen to people’s troubles, he’d take in and counter all the debates and arguments, he’d gather numbers and send personalized verses to several of them every day. He was just so friendly and inviting.

After moving even farther away and adding a significant time change, I found on a lot of days that it was easiest to call Dad because he was always awake first. Louis and I would chat with him and “meet” him for coffee as he’d turn his phone around and show us off to all his friends.

August 2nd marked the last time I ever shared with him. Our day here already felt tiresome and Louis and I needed someone to talk to as Ovi had long since left for work. I knew Dad would be the only one awake yet so we pulled up the video chat and, as always, he answered. With his coffee in hand and the stack of current reading on the table, he beamed with joy as he saw Louis and I show up on the screen. “Well, hi there!”

We chatted for a few minutes and then Dad paused as he saw a car roll into the parking lot. He recognized it and jumped up, explaining how he could save the newspaper delivery man time if he ran out to the car and grabbed it rather than making the man come inside. But he brought the phone out with him and introduced us with pride in his voice to that gentleman too.

That morning, I felt defensive for my dad. He’d seen rejection in different ways in his life and each one stung me deeply. Something nagged me that Dad was never well-understood. A smaller misunderstanding had come up that week and again I felt an injustice done against him more strongly than he seemed to feel it for himself. In someway, I felt protective of him and like no one appreciated him like he deserved. And that I didn’t either. And I felt a good deal like this world didn’t deserve him in it. Ironically, it seems God agreed with that part.

The discussion started there with some details of things said but we comfortably slid relating the discussion to books, first some classics like Robinson Crusoe, adding that only as an adult did he realize how profound and symbolic that imagined loneliness seemed, and then he described what he had opened on hand, Church Without Walls, a simply-enough phrased concept that most Christians believe and many forget. After awhile, a restless, sleepy Louis and my own impatience to move onto the other daily tasks drew the conversation to an end. I know he would’ve talked for as long as I let him. How I wish I lingered. Thousands of times, I’ve wondered uselessly, if we had just talked more, could we have pushed all the moments that day a few seconds later, even one second would’ve been enough of a difference to keep my world intact. To keep them in it.

I learned from him in all those hours shared. But I had so much yet to learn. I enjoyed our hot coffees and cookies and pancakes, but there just should be more of them. As a child, Dad made me feel special in those early morning outings, but I looked forward to him taking my babies out too.

I had a great father. I was loved and I loved him. I just hate that only 25 years of my life had him in them. I hate to think that so many more have to pass without him. I wasn’t finished. But I have no choice. So now, “happy Father’s Day” becomes “unhappy Fatherless Day.”

My first motherless Mother’s Day and fatherless Father’s Day have come and gone now. I pray that God’s heart truly is inclined to the orphans for there is so much we need that is just gone.

To Dad, thanks for doing your best for all the time you had with us. We surely didn’t deserve you but I am surely glad that you were mine.

Mom’s Birthday

Mom always dreamed of growing old gracefully. Without struggling too much against the passing of time or its effects, she focused on what was happening to everyone around her rather than what time did to her. I looked forward to seeing how she’d age. Beauty attended her through all the years and vanity never caught up with her. This might have been taken to a fault though as we’d shop with her. For every nice thing she’d try on, she’d stand by the mirrors forcing her shoulders forward and turning her head to one side to evaluate it. I assure you, no garment looks flattering in that posture and we’d laugh and tease her about it. She was beautiful whether she felt it always or not.

Mom poured out energy to everyone but especially her kids and grandkids and never with a demand or request in return. There was nothing she wouldn’t do or give up for us no matter how inconvenient for her. This was never more true than about her time. Her heart was never fuller then when she spent time with her family. Those hours were precious to her. Reminiscently, she’d talk of older days when all of my siblings were still home and we’d road trip together or even when we took the adventure to Europe, the days when her babies were all together and in her presence. Even till last summer, we’d tease her relentlessly when she’d want us to take another picture and she’d come up with some version of how this could be the last time we’d be together.

I can’t believe she was right.

I came to the states with Louis for two weeks at the end of June and flew out on the 4th of July. My parents, as always, drove us to the airport and arrived in way too much time for fear of being late. We walked the halls of the terminal for awhile together and my mom felt the drama of our departure more than I wanted to let her. She was sad, to the point of tears from us having to leave her again. But I was stubborn and didn’t want to give in and admit that I was sad too. I wanted to give her confidence that it was okay, that I liked my life here, and we’d be happy. I wanted to protect her from too much grief. I tried to reassure her that dad would visit us soon to check on us and talked about our plans to come back in the fall for thanksgiving and that we’d be together soon. She regretted that we didn’t take very many walks that trip and I reminded her that we’d walk to see the cows in Virginia come November. I restrained her goodbyes. I tried to make this casual as if we’d say these goodbyes a hundred more times in the coming decade. I don’t even remember if I cried with her.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know she was right to be dramatic. I didn’t know that I should have flung my arms around her and not let go. I didn’t know those hugs would be the very last ones, the very last time I’d feel the comfort of my mom’s love wrapped around me. I didn’t know when I waved at the very end of security to my parents and Landyn waiting there till the last moment possible, that it would be the last time I saw any of them in person. I didn’t know my words of comfort were lies to her.

I should’ve admitted how much they meant to me and I should’ve given them those words. I should’ve cried with my mom and acknowledged how badly our separation would feel. I should’ve showed her how much I still depended on her care and mothering and support to even get through each week. I should have told her the worst part of moving was being so far from her.

I could never find the words to tell her how much she meant to me. I hope she could sense it. Surely, she knew I loved her but it was hard to show sometimes. Even for birthdays and holidays, mom was the hardest to find a present for. Gifts didn’t really impress her so we aimed for just time and events together. The attention (or any offer of help ever) was hard for her to accept. Sometimes it seemed like some of her life mottos were never to be a receiver or never to be a bother to anyone. She took on all the work the world could throw at her and considered it her duty to serve everyone around her to a far greater extent than anyone else I’ve known and she never asked for anything in return. Boundaries weren’t in her vocabulary. Sometimes, in general, that meant a warm and willing welcome at all hours of the day or night to anyone. It meant she could ask anyone about anything and she could make them comfortable enough to answer and open up to her. This made her easy to love in one sense, but sometimes hard to know. She focused so much on others that sometimes I felt like I couldn’t see enough of her.

Sometimes though, it meant people pushed her into helping a little more than what was good for her. I think us kids saw that and we still feel the sting of people who took advantage of Mom’s gracious heart.

Mom was loyal. Maybe to a fault… She loved fiercely. She cared. Our little daily wins and troubles interested her and she gave them importance and meaning. She made life seem so significant. I still can’t find the words to appreciate her enough.

She loved adventure more than her lifestyle allowed her to express. Any day, she’d be ready for a trip to a museum or downtown Chicago, maybe a cubs game, maybe a weekend trip to visit us in Louisville or my brother in Memphis then Birmingham. She loved traveling and castle-hopping through Europe. But even the little things, she was on the go and ready to join any of us kids even on boring errands. She was a dancing-in-the-kitchen-while-banana-bread-baked kind of mom. No one else has come close to her customized double-stanky leg move. She was a read-aloud-for-hours-by-the-fireplace kind of teacher. She was a door-always-open kind of friend. She was a clear-headed, fallacy-catching kind of thinker. She was a constant-puzzler, new-game kind of mind. She was an avid, world-at-your-fingertips kind of reader and learner. She had a Duolingo streak into the hundreds to learn Romanian just so she could always understand our kids someday. She was an in-this-for-the-long-haul kind of wife. She was an unstoppable, babysitting-for-weeks-in-a-row kind of grandmother. She was a memorize-all-of-Romans, sermon-series-on-repeat, counseling-conference-attending kind of disciple.

As much as she gave and adventured, mom was tired. Life wasn’t always easy for her. It takes a lot of energy to keep up with a toddler and in some ways, Landyn never grew past that. And yet mom poured out patience towards Landyn and continual effort to keep Landyn’s every need or demand met. Autism wasn’t the only struggle in her life and yet somehow, mom still gave more than her fair share to everyone around her. She gladly took our burdens and felt them deeply. These worries didn’t leave her easily.

As much as I need her, as much as I still wish she was here to care for and love me and my family, as much as I wish she could’ve come to a point where we could give back to her, for her sake, I’m glad she gets to rest now. I’m glad her burdens are lifted.

Sobs surge through me when the heap of things to tell her rises in my mind. Countless joys and sorrows should’ve been shared with her, the things I want to tell her, the things she’d want to know. Our joys are lessened without her to celebrate our full hearts and our sorrows are tenfold without her compassion. I feel like less of a person without her in my life. Something in me died with her.

Mom would’ve been a pillar in our future. I still wanted to learn from her example. I still need her to ask questions about how to live this life. I still wanted to see how God would work in her and through her. The absence of her beauty and grace plagues me.

Mom, you are wanted here. I hope you know that. I hope you feel appreciated especially on your birthday. There are so many of us that wish you had more of them.

Facing the Murderer

This is a two part post. First, the prep work of the days and months leading up to the sentencing hearing and then secondly, a link to the actual address.

Deep breath. Honestly, of all this tragedy, this is the part that my mind avoids the most. He is the character I would rather not acknowledge. Somehow in this astounding turn of events, a man, whom none of my family had ever met nor likely ever seen, brandished unrestrained power over our lives. In one moment, the impact of his actions outweighed anything anyone else had ever done for us or against us. The scales broke under the load of his irresponsibility and sin.

How can I expect my own thoughts to process such incomprehensible fragility of all that I hold dear? How can I place the weight of this catastrophe on the shoulders of this one man’s deeds? Accepting those two concepts and reconciling them together to the rest of my existence would require me to admit an even harder truth, an untenable reality that my heart resists with all its efforts. This could happen again. Every stranger I see also has this power and could act as the force that strips me of all the rest of who I love. That nothing and no one is safe here.

These are the dreads that flood my thoughts when I have to admit yet again that someone did this. I’m struck by my powerlessness to prevent this. My family did not die by accident. Of all the possibilities that tragedy uses, so many of which leave us with only God to question, my family was taken in such a way that obligates me to not only bring my questions and doubts to God but also to directly interact with my fellow man as the primary cause of this pain.

He had no right to interfere with my family. He shouldn’t have ever been a part of our lives. He doesn’t belong in my story or theirs. I don’t want him here. Not like this. I don’t want him in my mind or my past. I don’t care if he doesn’t even exist. He is nothing to me. And I likewise to him.

And yet…

Our lives have crossed in such a way that I will not be able to forget him, and I venture to guess that he will never forget me either. The day he entered my life will forever be marked as a distinct before-and-after moment. Consequences from that day will haunt both of us till our time on earth ends.

I don’t think of him as often as I would’ve guessed originally. Usually, there’s just no room for him. My parents, sister, and uncle flood my memories and their absence covers so much ground that I can’t see past it. My emotions are consumed by missing them and by trying to love the rest of my family, and do the things that need to be done daily. By the end of each day, I don’t have extra energy to spend or maybe waste on anything towards him. I’m forcing myself even to write out this entry. I don’t like spending time on him. I don’t like giving him credit or a placeholder in the account of my history.

All of those things considered, the week leading up to the sentencing hearing was the most intense, heavy time of my life. The week of the accident is a close second, but all the grief and consequences of that first week were and are still present and growing now. This just added to it. The hearing was on January 13th and I planned to attend. Many people have asked why I made that choice. The courts did not require our attendance though we were requested to complete Victim Impact Statements to allow the judge a full picture of the case. We were also presented the offer to speak to the court in the hearing and to address the offender directly. I tend to prefer handling things verbally when possible just by personality. Shortly after the accident, I knew that I would someday need to interact with the man that caused this chasm in my world. I needed him to see and hear me. I felt strongly that it was my responsibility to speak for my family and that it was his responsibility to listen to what I thought they’d want him to know. This was something I could do for them. The hearing was the formal place given to me to fulfill this duty. Though legally I was not required to go, emotionally and spiritually I felt compelled to make the trip. In an attempt to save Ovi’s vacation time for the hope of brighter days, he couldn’t make it. This meant trekking across the ocean with only Louis to accompany me. Yet, I felt this was unaccountably important. I chose this responsibility. Technically, I could’ve avoided this face-to-face encounter, but I would still have to deal with him as the character in my own mind that did this. I’d be inventing speeches in my mind forever without the completion of him having to listen. I thought it was better to see the real person and not just my imagination of him.

There is a significance in what a court room represents. The imagery of God as judge is reflected in that solemn room. The stately surroundings, the official, sober proceedings, the solemnity affects everyone that enters. This was not just any case, there was no simple solution or verdict that could be handed down to which all parties would be reconciled. This courtroom on that day held in the pages of its files a case of life and death. I don’t know if this was right or wrong but I felt an abysmal burden in my soul during those preceding days. I know what the psalmist means when he was downcast. To feel the waves continually thrown over me. No one should have to talk to the murderer of their family. No one should have to calculate what thoughts are appropriate and right to express in that context. No one should feel the gravity of a lost soul staring at the void in the place of four lives taken. No one should have to lose someone they love in the first place.

It was to God whom we appealed that day, for this world and all its justice is vain. A shadow and reflection at best. I thought of justice in those days. I thought of eternity. Of righteous anger, of fury and wrath. I thought of truth. I thought of culpability. I thought of everlasting suffering and of who deserves it. I thought of the life I’ve been sentenced to and what should become of this man on earth for what he’d done. I thought of what it means to be forgiven. I thought of what we owe our fellow humans or if we owe them anything. I thought of everyone else this action impacted and everything they might be feeling. I thought of everyone that might be impacted the next time he got behind a wheel. It could be you next time in the middle of that intersection. It could be me. I thought of the literal millions of other people just like him that drive under the influence. It hardly matters if one of them ends up in jail for life. Statistically, I’m not safer now. Retributively, I don’t have my family back regardless of what a court decides. Not even the judge could facilitate true justice. I knew I could not expect that.

Sometimes, I thought of just this man as a human. I had five or six awful facts about him, several rumors, none of them favorable. I thought of his parents. Does his life represent how they treated him? Is he like this because of them or are they just as heartbroken as I am? I thought of his wife. How much of his addictions did she share and encourage? What did she say to him that day? Couldn’t she have driven? Shouldn’t she have stopped him? Is she just as guilty? Or was she the faithful, pitiful victim she claimed to be? I thought of his past time in prison and on parole. Who let him out? Why? Were they shirking their own duty, slacking by not investigating his case fully? Or did he sincerely act ready for society? What about the judges in all of his past cases? Shouldn’t they have kept him in jail longer? Are they all guilty too? If any of them had acted differently, would my family still be here?

I thought of God. The perfect righteous judge that will make these wrongs undone. I thought of what he promises to sinful people. I thought of redemption. I thought of my own end. I thought of my family in heaven. I thought of Christ and wondered if what he accomplished applies here. I thought about my responsibility to represent him in front of a man who may see no other example. I thought about my dad and what he’d say. About my mom and what she’d ask. About Kent and what he’d imagine. About Landyn and how she wouldn’t care a bit.

During those weeks, life seemed absolutely unreal. The struggles of eternity and the weight of suffering closed me off from everything in normal life. I felt almost ghostly, floating between my family and this man. Try making a grocery list amidst those thoughts. Instead, all those heavy contemplations, this battle for keeping my own soul and fighting between my responses, this family destroyed, this murderer punished, were a part of a story that belonged somewhere else, a show or a book maybe, or in a Lord-of-the-Rings style Middle Earth battle of good and evil. My ruling-ring-sized burden spoiled me for this world. Even in the Shire after all was settled, Frodo was never the same. I get that now. “There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?” I knew my rest would not come from whatever closure a trial could bring. My rest is still in the future. But this was part of the Mount Doom journey which our life now demands and I had a speech to write for it.

No words would be sufficient. But I had to come up with some. You can find the delivered version HERE.

I cleaned up my thoughts just enough to make sure some hard truths would be clearly seen. I left the edges bleeding. I wanted him to see contrast sharply. And I wanted emotion to spill over to him. I wanted him to feel this and not walk away unchanged. I don’t think anyone in the courtroom did. Dry eyes were not to be found. Not in the officers, nor attorneys, nor Mr. Collins himself. This speaks to how much my family meant to the world and the power of who God is and will prove himself yet again to be. I don’t know how God will use any of this suffering. In some distant future, justice will be served and my family will be restored. It just feels like too long till then.

Daddy

“I think back to my 18th year in time… finishing HS and heading to Moody for ministry training where my future was all ahead in full. Didn’t know what the 40-year career path would be but now I’m past that and looking once again at the next path which seems wide open and piled high with blessings.” ~ Bobby’s reflection to me upon turning 64

It’s Daddy’s birthday today. The first one in my life that I won’t be able to be with him or talk to him or eat carrot cake with him to celebrate.

Getting old didn’t bother him. Actually, nothing much bothered him. His life didn’t turn out how he thought it would, but he loved it. Whenever he was concerned about something, it only showed in his excitement and zeal for how good things could be. He was never defined by worry or fear or disappointment in the state of things. He picked his battles and fought for everything he felt God wanted from him in this world. For everything else, mostly the stress and pettiness that consumes so many, his mind was unstirred. He simply tossed them under layers of ideas and enthusiasm till nothing remained but his pure passion for potential. He just didn’t do stress. His personality kept him chilled out, unfazed by worry. I remember one story when he had to go in for a medical check-up and they needed to get his heart rate up. He had all the staff impressed over how long it took on the treadmill running in his loafers before his heart rate moved.

But his calm, collected nature didn’t dampen his passion or excitement. His life spoke of strength and energy. From the boldness in his practiced, confident voice to the glisten through his lens-covered eyes to the very broadness of his muscled, skilled hands, his youth never left him even in his oldest age.

He never did busyness either. It seems so easy to fall into the trap of over-scheduling and the low-level panic that comes along with crowding our time. His life was full, but never too crowded for what’s important. Dad never needed a close-call or near-death experience or loss to remind him or teach him what mattered. He just knew it.

Fear never led or mastered him. Not of circumstances, not of what-ifs, surely not of what people thought of him. Although, he had a couple of exceptions that might make you chuckle. Germs were on his radar to the point that he’d make sure to stick with bottled water on most of his trips and unpeeled bananas. Everything else had to be thoroughly cooked and washed down with a hot cup of coffee. For some unknown reason, salmonella was his idea of everything that could possibly go wrong from food. You couldn’t convince him to eat a lesser-done egg or even cookie dough and it was a constant bother to him that us girls would finish off the batter to all the baked goods in the house. He was a master chocolate-chip cookie baker and homemade hot fudge too. Just to clarify, I don’t think he ever had salmonella or even knew anyone who did. Another oddity from his perspective, any bug bite you found was surely from a spider. Also, he flossed obsessively and urged all of us with his nightly reminder to “only floss the teeth you wanna keep.” It always sounded like something his dad might have said. I guess everyone has their quirks!

Bobby cared about the world. All of it. He wanted to know what was going on in the lives of people in his backyard to the townsfolk in the farthest corners of the globe, places he tried to get to as often as possible. Triumphs and tragedies caught his attention from articles, stories he heard, and books he read. And of course all those tales interested him and necessitated a retelling to anyone nearby. He made plans for how to get involved with everything going on in the world. It would’ve taken a hundred men living twice as long as him to complete all the grand designs that hatched in his mind. But that never stopped him from dreaming.

He’d be completely up-to-date on the Corona happenings but being isolated would absolutely shred him to pieces. He was social to the core and terrible about staying home. I got that from him too. There’s too much adventure in the world and too many people to know to stay home for long. I’m glad he’s not quarantined now. He’d still try to go out for coffee. He was sure a good cup of hot coffee would kill any virus anyways. I don’t know exactly what heaven is like, but it seems accurate that he’s getting to socialize with new people and some old friends too and hearing the stories of how God worked in their lives. Nobody’s sick by him. No one’s too busy. No salmonella, spiders, or cavities. He’s free.

The path he walked on earth was indeed a short one. Far too short. He should be sixty-seven today. But he isn’t. As one of my nephews put it, now he’s “sixty-heaven.”

Daddy, I wish I could drink a coffee with you today. My pile of blessings is so much smaller without you in it. Cheers to you from down here where we miss you like crazy.

Staying Afloat

Written on March 2nd:

It’s been 7 months now. Though without counting I couldn’t accurately guess how much time has passed.

When I write and post here, sometimes I’m letting you, whoever you may be, see me in my depths of grief. I’m able to express myself here in a way that far extends what most people would witness of me in real life. But to balance that, I should note that in all of the horror that my life has turned into, I still have woken up every day for the last seven months. Everyday so far, I’ve gotten out of bed. Everyday I’ve interacted with other humans. Everyday I’ve loved those left for me in this world.

Most days, I’ve eaten. Most days, I’ve laughed. Most days, I’ve felt moments of joy or hope.

If you see me in daily life, you’d know that I still celebrate the little soul I get to watch grow in my son. You’d know that my eyes still light up when Ovi opens the door to our home after a day’s work. You’d see that I sometimes look forward to things and get excited about possibilities. You’d see that I’m at least a semi-functional human who still puts forth effort to participate in society.

But in the background, in the night, in the wanderings of my thoughts, I fear and expect that my mind, my heart, and my soul are permanently disabled from this accident and the weight I’ll carry from it. I will walk with an ever-present limp for the rest of my life. Somedays may hide it better than others but it will be there always, whether you see it or not.

The intensity of this tragedy is almost undiscussable. It is not a casual amount of suffering to which others might relate. In most contexts, our pain is too great to even share with others. Opening up about my loss to anyone or even describing the bare facts of the accident to someone who didn’t know can instantly shut down a conversation. It’s just too much. Or sometimes a barrage of well-intended yet grating or shallow answers pour forth. Someday I’ll probably do a post with recommendations of how to interact with those who are grieving. I don’t feel like I’m an expert yet, though I do have plenty of what-not-to-dos. There are a few who have come alongside our grief well and we’re thankful for those. Often people who know, ask how I am, and sometimes I honestly sense them pleading with me to just say I’m good. Or that we’re okay, or fine. As if I could just say enough to let them feel better. I understand that sadness, especially unresolvable sadness, makes people uncomfortable. Trust me when I say that my whole life has been made “uncomfortable” on account of it. If I let you read my answer here, and if my grief makes you too uncomfortable, you have the liberty to lock your home screen, shut your computer, or otherwise remove yourself from my situation. I cannot and don’t wish to obligate you to engage or acknowledge our lament. But if you happen to ask in real life, know that I might give you a less than comforting answer.

The truth is that misery, absence, separation, and loneliness pervade our hearts. So many moments in so many days, the waves of sorrow swell and surround me, my lungs are filled and my breath is taken. There are four souls that I miss desperately. Everyday adds to the list of things I wish I could share with them, questions I wish I could ask them, hugs I wish I could feel again. I want them here so badly, to be a part of my life, to let me be in theirs. I want to hear their perspectives on what’s going on in this world, to bounce ideas off them from the books I’ve been reading. I want them to see Louis walking and celebrate each new word he says. I want them here to welcome their new grand babies into this world and rejoice with their widest smiles. I want to take Landyn back to Disney and show her how Louis gets excited by Ovi’s Mickey Mouse watch screen. There are thousands of these wants that are now impossible. My family loved us and we loved them. Immeasurably. Now that measure is gone. Nothing on earth can replace it. No one can say the right thing to fix this problem. I can’t work hard enough or be good enough to bring them back. I can’t pay a fortune to retrieve them. I can’t do anything at all to lessen this loss. Neither can you. Or anyone.

So we must now continue to live with an emptiness in their place that makes black holes seem bright. We live looking forward to the next life when our cup will be overflowing. When emptiness will be filled. When wrongs will be undone. I have no expectation of being fine till then.

But I find myself in good company as I mourn. Out of 150 chapters, the psalmists spent at least a third on his various laments, crying out to God in the shadow of this world’s agonies. I discover my own thoughts voiced in Ecclesiastes as it describes hating life and how everything under the sun feels vain and pointless at times. To a far greater extent than I wish was true, I sense a closeness with Job as he suffered so much that was so disconnected from anything he directly merited. My heart harmonizes with Paul and Timothy when they admit their desire to depart and be with Christ for it will be far better. Jesus himself sends a blessing for those who mourn and exemplified grief personally. He shed unrestrained tears.

We will find moments of joy in this world God has left for us. We will dream and make plans again. We will look to him for hope. But God himself does not pretend that this world is fine. He gave us no command to deny the painfulness of sin and its effects or to stop ourselves from feeling them. He is grieved by death, his enemy. Only he can and will ever make this world right again. And till then, we live in the wrongs and just try not to add more of them. We’ll just keep trying to stay afloat on our raft of hope as the waves of sorrow crash over us.

Merryless Christmas

This year, the season of joy and cheer is devoid of merriment. There are no lights twinkling brightly, no bells jingling softly, no reunions to look forward to. The world is a colder, darker place and light has abandoned it.

This year, all I see is a weary world. I see no rejoicing. Empty places fill my view. My soul is full of sadness beneath life’s crushing load. My cup overflows with curses. The gladness and blessings must have landed elsewhere this year. Maybe on you. And may you be better for them.

For now, the joy of Christ’s coming is lost to us in what feels like the 400 years of his silence beforehand. It’s overshadowed by the agony of what death really means. The pain of separation that I’ll carry for the rest of my life is too present to feel any joy of being with others. This is the cursed world we live in. This is the reality of what sin brings. This is the burden we carry till Christ’s return.

This is why his first coming was miraculous. But it was not enough.

Now, we still wait. Carrying the weight of the world’s suffering that he has felt and has promised to end. We wait for those promises to be fulfilled.

Christmas and Easter brought hope to the world. But that hope has to meet us in this wretched darkness that life has become.

There are too many years yet to live and to wait till God makes all things right. Too many weeks of not seeing my family and hearing their voices. Too many moments wanting to share with them and… and them still being dead. Too many mornings, even Christmas Eves, when I awaken in tears amidst a nightmare envisioning a crash I didn’t even see.

This is indeed a cruel world. Nowhere is safe from the affects of sin in this mangled place. The deep wounds of this blow are thrashed over my mind in such a way that every thought attempted must pass through them. Not a single one crosses untainted by the anguish and gloom of what death has done. It is ever-present. This world is a beastly place, a shadow of what it ought to be. Any moment of forgetfulness to that fact is a blessing.

And those seconds come, when my composure appears unaffected, when smiles come and even laughter, but the grief lies there, waiting for its time to show itself again.

There’s a big picture out there somewhere. Maybe from there hope exists and something makes sense. Maybe from there joy can be seen on a horizon to come. Someday he’ll make his blessings known far as this curse is found. From there maybe the day is visible when the chains shall be broken and the oppression that lingers over my soul will cease.

But I only live in this second. In this tiny moment fighting to take each breath against tears that somehow keep coming.

This year, the cheer has deserted us. My soul is downcast. And the new year brings no chance of change. What has been lost cannot be regained. This Christmas is without merriness.