God was so gracious to me, allowing me just the right amount of time to sit and cry. He knows me well, and how I could have easily slipped into the permanent position of sitting and staring off my deck to the west, waiting all day for the sunset just to feel the peace of it sinking into the mountains. I spent most of the year after Jim passed doing just that. Most days, with my box of Kleenex, (and typically a bottle of wine), I took every chance I had to just sit in a chair on that big deck, thanking Jim for it and my comfortable home. I imagined all the years he squared his jaw, leaned a broad shoulder in, and put those iron hands to work, making everything happen for us. And while I knew that I had made contributions, the truth was, he was the reason it had all gotten done. I didn’t feel less because of that. I felt honored to have been among the ones he had done it for. I missed him. I grieved him. I cried buckets of tears and talked out loud to God and to Jim and to the birds. I felt so small, and I felt planted in the chair that Jim built. The most peace I felt was watching the sun gently tuck itself in. The moment when the mountains turned from blue to purple had become sacred for me. The sun had done its work for the day, and as it silently floated down to rest, I could let it carry my pain to lay with it for the night. Somehow that worked. Somehow I knew, that like the sun, my Jim was at peace and surrounded with beauty after all his hard work. This was enough to quiet my hurt long enough to put myself to bed for the night.

Quietly and without me noticing, the Lord positioned my heart to receive hope, and then He put it there. Slowly I began to remember that the sun didn’t snuggle into those hills west of my home… it kept going. It was gently floating past many hills, and valleys, and cityscapes. That big, glorious ball wasn’t only existing to create some purple mountains for me to enjoy in the evening… it was gracing the entire world with light every single day.

“It has a much bigger job to do… and so do you”, whispered Jesus in my heart. The Lord, with all the tenderness of a daddy helping his little-one up off the driveway after a bike-wreck, gently dusted the gravel bits out of my skin, wiped my tears and smiled into my eyes. He held my face, and through my sobs and snot-bubbles, nodded His head to say,

“You can do it, my love… get back on, keep pedaling… I’m right beside you”.

My thoughts started to travel beyond the mountains. I started to ask myself about the hopes of my heart. I asked God to reveal them to me, and help me allow myself to let them exist. Hoping meant moving on. Moving on was leaving Jim buried along the trail. I still despise the words “move on”. I understand them, I just don’t like the feeling of the coexisting “left behind”.  The Lord helped me transition that hurtful image to a more digestible “step forward”. I don’t know why that feels better to me, it just does. I can step. I learned to do it as a tyke. I’ve thankfully been able to do it most of my life. A step is just a step. It isn’t packing up and moving. I do realize that many steps can take you a long way, but for some reason, just taking steps is less daunting.

So I took my first, few shaky steps, with no direction or real plan. Sometime early in the year after Jim passed, while praying in the shower one morning, I had the notion to pray for a person. Not for one to appear, but to pray for some person, a man who existed right then, who I didn’t know. Some guy who was just living his life, and maybe struggling with some of the feelings I was… somebody who I could bless with prayers for help and support and encouragement. I started to pray for this very specific person. I didn’t know anything about him, other than he needed my prayers, and that we were living something similar. I did have the understanding he was special, and likely someone that God would bring into my life someday, but I had no notion of when that would be, or what it would be like, or if it would be anything beyond standing next to him at the grocery store one day. My relationship with this man was unknown to him, but became a daily hope and encouragement to me. As my heart wrestled with where to step, and all the tools I needed to do it, I prayed for this man in all the same ways I did for myself.

          “Lord, give me courage. Help me step outside of what I’ve always known and explore beyond the mountains. Make me unafraid of what lies past them. Give me a drive to move in a direction you can use. Make me able. Make me willing. Make my gifts evident and help me be bold enough to let others see.”

          This person was real and in the flesh. He had a job and bills and people and situations to navigate, much like me. I didn’t know where he was or who he was with or really much about him at all, but what I did know, was that he was working on branching out too. He needed much of the same things I did to do it. And somewhere in his heart, he thought about me sometimes too. As an odd little bonus, I also had a rough idea of what he looked like. Who knows why, but I knew he had dark hair and light eyes, and was shorter than Jim, but taller than me. I knew his build was similar to my own, and that his hands were my favorite. Slowly and really almost unconsciously, I started to develop a strong affection for this person out there. We were connected, and Jim didn’t mind. In fact, all I could imagine Jim saying was,

“You’re fine, and you know damn good and well I am too. Don’t worry about it, he gets you in all the ways I didn’t. Don’t quit. Take it. You’re welcome!” (If you know Jim, you know.)

I didn’t tell anybody about my imaginary friend. I didn’t talk to anybody but God and Jim about him. I started thinking of him as I drove to work, or did the dishes, and when I watched the sun go by in the evening. We were living life separately, together and we were taking steps… and I started to believe they might be leading us to each other. He got me through without ever laying eyes on me. I thought it would be years, before we met, but turns out it was months later at a hot-dog stand at a chili cook-off. It turns out that I knew him the minute I laid my eyes on him. Did I actually realize this was the person? No. But for some reason, that made zero sense at the time, after my friend having to drag me into social situations all day, I was instantly drawn to him from a long way off. His sheepish smile, looking bashfully at the ground, leaning up against a fence-post in his yellow shirt, baggy jeans and green crocs, (yep crocs). Every sense was suddenly heightened and I needed to speak to this person. Without thinking, I asked my friend who he was because he was visiting with her dad at his hot-dog stand, and she very unceremoniously said,

“Oh you mean Beal?”… and I learned later she said in her head, “The guy in the crocs?” 

I said yes, and my friend being the best, marched me straight up and ordered us another hotdog. She said I quickly plunged my left hand, still wearing a wedding ring, into my pocket when I was introduced. I don’t remember doing this, but I soon realized my interest was very thinly veiled when my friend’s step-mom broke the moment with a question, “How long has it been since your husband died Audrey?”  I should have died right there, but I found myself relieved she’d asked and gave the answer. WHO WAS THIS WOMAN FLIRTING WITH SOME RANDO AT A HOTDOG STAND?? It was me. And I wasn’t flirting. I was stepping onto the pedal, and Jesus had His hand on the back of my seat. And when He gave that gentle shove, I took off. And I imagine Him standing there with His arm around Jim’s shoulder, both of them beaming, watching me pedal.

In the coming weeks when our relationship began to unfold, I realized at some point that this was the person I’d been praying for. Not long into our conversations, he shared with me how he’d taken a solo tour of Europe earlier that spring. He told me how he’d never done anything like that before, but that he’d always wanted to. He told me about his journey as a shy, unconfident kid, whose time in the military had taught him he was capable of much more than he thought, and who at some point decided to just start living life. He told me how he’d mostly watched his friends living their own stories, and that he felt it time to start making his own. As he told me about the wonder he’d experienced at seeing the pyramids, and walking on the same stones that men did at the dawn of civilizations, I felt my curiosity start to awaken. I felt something inside of me, urging my feet to step into that wonder about the world. I realized that I’d been praying for Beal during the planning phase for his trip. And at some point, I felt myself being thrust up under the wing of God, to a birds-eye view of my life. I saw what God had done, and my cup overflowed. God’s plan for my life was good, even when it didn’t feel good. I shared this with Beal, who I think was pretty shell-shocked, but was kind enough not to call me nuts. At some point, we realized he’d met Jim, and that Jim had told me what a nice guy he was. It all came together.  Gratitude is all there is.

Beal and I have taken many steps together in our 4 years. I’ve seen Paris from the tower, strolled in the mists at Stonehenge, sipped wine overlooking Trevi Fountain, visited the grave of Caesar, felt the wind in my hair on the Attica plateau, and sipped hot drinks at a Christmas market in Vienna. While I revel in every single new experience, I have been praying for God to show me some ways I can exalt His name through our travels. As much as I’ve enjoyed every minute, I know God well enough to know that the desires of my heart are planted by Him, and for a purpose. I’m asking Him for an understanding and direction for that, and I believe He will make that clear at exactly the right time. In the mean-time I’ll keep pedaling, keep stepping, keep going, won’t quit.

For the past couple of years, we’ve had the desire to walk “The Way of St. James”, 280 km up the Portuguese Coast to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Spain. Also known as the “Pilgrimage of Compostela”, or the “Camino de Santiago”, this trail is a network of pilgrimages that end at the supposed resting place of the apostle James of Zebedee. I am not Catholic, but I can certainly appreciate what a pilgrimage can do for the soul, and I’m looking forward to taking some steps in a new place with the hope of Jesus in my heart. People walk the Camino for many reasons, and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what mine is. I look forward to getting out at a time we’ve been cooped up for a while, I always enjoy exploring new places with Beal, I am all about tasting some lovely Portuguese and Spanish dishes… but what do I hope to find out there on the trail? I’m really not sure, but I know I need to go. I am driven. I want to push through the blisters and fatigue, and I want to arrive at that cathedral on foot with my best friend. This is a far cry from our usual leisurely trips, but there is a desire in our hearts to do it. We have some lofty goals to retire early and see every ounce of the world we can while we can. This trip feels like the start of that, and like something we need to do.

I’m scared we won’t make it the whole way. I’m scared I’ll feel ashamed and disgraced if we end up hopping a bus, especially since I’ve told everyone we’re going. I’m afraid I’m not prepared enough. I’m afraid I won’t enjoy it. I’m afraid of tragedy. I’m afraid of phone-calls. I’m afraid of loss. I’m afraid of chaos. I’m afraid of trusting God. I’m not proud of my fears, but I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t have them. As much evidence as the Lord has given me of His goodness, I still sometimes doubt it. I’ve learned to surrender those thoughts, even the ones about His nature at His feet in total honesty. He meets me there every time and I praise Him for that and everything else. SO, here we go. The coming weeks will amount to packing, trialing equipment, breaking in shoes, and doing more research. We love that part almost as much as going, so I’m going to revel in it. And I’m going to pray that God will reveal to me what He’s doing in my steps. I’ll be taking a lot of them, (around 360,000 if my calculations are correct), over a few weeks. I’ll be seeking and looking for God in almost every one, I hope. I know He goes before me, and I know He’ll be there, revealing what I need along the way. I pray for ears to hear and eyes to see. I pray for courage and wisdom and strength. I pray for Beal and I as we walk together, knowing that God will reach each of us in the way we need. I’ll pray for my friends and family as they come to my heart, and I’ll pray for my community, near and far. I know we don’t need to walk a trail in Europe to find Him, but I believe He’s bidding us go, and so go we will. There is a drive in me for the first time in as long as I can remember, and I thank God for it. I’m grateful for all the places He’s led my steps so far, and I’m joyfully anticipating where He’ll lead from here. There’s a common saying shared among pilgrims on the Camino. “Buen Camino” means “good journey”. Is there any better wish for each of us as we embark on this trail to eternity? Heaven is a rich reward, but the Lord came for the journey too. He came for abundant life and He offers it to each of us in one way or another, right in the middle of our circumstance. Welcome it today. Enjoy the steps, and don’t be afraid to take them. Look for Him in the midst of them because He’s there, even when you don’t feel it. He’s guiding, He’s leading, He’s orchestrating, He’s loving us through all of them, even when they don’t meet our finite definition of “good”. Buen Camino, my friends. May the Lord guide your steps, may the Lord bless you and keep you, may you walk in His ways and delight in His will, today and all the days to come. His journey is good for us all.

My tree is up, gifts are dutifully getting wrapped as the daily Amazon shipments come in, meals planned, schedules made….but there is a definite stiffness about it, and a constant lump in my throat that spills out frequently. I would have bought her an obnoxiously huge rocking horse and made Beal help me cover it in glittery paper and bows. I would have fluffed all the layers of her dress out across my legs as she sat on my lap at church. I would have fed her a little whip cream from my finger out of site from her parents. I would have curled up with her in a blanket at bedtime and read her the story of Jesus’ birth while running my fingertips over the dimples in her hands. I would have saved her from Santa if he scared her. Oh what lovely and painful thoughts these are.

I’ve thought a lot about my grief, and about how my Christmas has lost its shine this year. I’ve taken my complaints about this to God every day, after mechanically reading a bible chapter. This morning, after one such complaint session, I spent some time rehearsing a song for Christmas Eve service in the car on my way to work. Singing always lifts my heart, but even this has been dampened by my outlook lately.  I caught myself grumbling about it inside. As I turned a corner and headed East, the sunrise hit me in the face. The chorus of the song filled the car: “Glory, Glory, to the Light of the World….Behold your king….Behold Messiah…Emmanuel, Emmanuel.”   And in that moment, a flash filled my mind. A flash of what Christmas IS. A flash of the Light and Hope and Fulfillment that is JESUS. It has nothing to do with the bustle, or with who is physically with me and who isn’t. As I opened my mouth to join the song and tears wet my face, the Lord gifted me with the precious thought of how Charlotte is spending her first Christmas; cradled in the arms of the Messiah Himself, with the Light radiating from Him outshining anything we can plug in on earth. Whip cream from my finger pales in comparison to the banquet laid out before her, with her Grampa Jim and other loved-ones sitting around the table. The rocking horse is a team of golden-haired ponies, and the story is coming from the lips of God Himself.  As much as my heart aches for what is lost, how can I call myself a Gramma if I can’t at least appreciate the joy that surrounds her now? What do I want for my children? I want abundant Love and Peace and Joy and Contentment. I want Comfort and Safety and Warmth.  This is what I pray for every day, and admittedly lose sleep over sometimes at night. This little one has had all of that and more, right from the start. How Blessed and Favored is she? It IS her first Christmas. She’s spending it with Jesus, (who is the very definition of Christmas Himself). The grief I feel is just my frustrated love that wants to reach her. My rocking horse may not be able to get to her…but my love certainly can, and praise God for helping me remember that. This IS Charlotte’s first Christmas, and I will celebrate it by allowing God to renew the Joy of His coming in my heart and mind. That is the best gift I can give her, and she’s gonna love it. This Christmas, we again anticipate, Lord willing, Charlotte’s little sister celebrating her first Christmas with US next year. Sometimes its hard to let yourself hope, but God has given us every reason to do it.

Babies are hope of a new beginning. God knew this would make sense to us, and so came as one. The new beginning that Jesus brought was worth every ounce of praise there is. He made a way for us to be with Him. He is the answer to all my pain and fear and sorrow. Where I was once separated and without hope, I now have every reason to celebrate every day I live, AND the day I die. I have reason to hope no matter what this life brings, and I can learn to live without the fear of what that might be. I can let go. Does that hit anyone else in the guts? We can let go. The death-grip with which I cling to so many things can be released. You know when you’ve driven on icy roads for a few hours and your fingers cramp when you finally arrive home and can let go of the wheel? That’s where I am I think. God is telling me I can let go. He’s lovingly placed his hands over mine and urging me to just allow the tension to leave. He knows the cramps will happen, He knows it will be sore for a little while…He knows when I feel sudden movement, I’ll flinch and instinctively flail and grasp at the wheel again. He knows. So if you find yourself in that sad place this Christmas, don’t judge it…let it be and look to God. Even when others find it confusing and give you the “chin-up, cheerio” speech…let them and look to God. If you love presents and cookies and bows…enjoy them and look to God. If you can succeed at nothing else…When God offers a reminder of your reason to hope…let it make you hopeful. The sad and stuck place is real, and I think OK to admit to, even for Christians. Greater. Is. He… not me…. HE, who is in me. He loves, He gives, and sometimes He takes away; but the truth of His salvation is real no matter the circumstance we find ourselves in. I don’t understand it all, and my impulse to try and control causes me to beat my head against it sometimes. I don’t always trust with full confidence, and that feels awful…but praise the LORD that the Truth isn’t dependent on my ability to do it well. Praise Him that Jesus came, that I understand the Hope I can have because of it. Praise Him for not leaving me alone in my sad and for Grace and Mercy for my attitudes in it. Praise Him for caring for our precious Charlotte better than we ever could have. Praise Him for reminding me she is OK, and that she’s not gone forever. Praise Him for the hope I have for the day I get to meet her, and for the time I hope to have here with her siblings until then. Blessings to you my friends, this Christmas and always. If it’s not all joy and glitter for you, please know that God has the answer for that, and He’s offering the same Hope to you in your moment. Merry Christmas, here’s to the renewed hope that comes with it.

He stopped mid-stride to turn his head over his shoulder seductively, “Soon baby… Soon we can walk around like this whenever we want.”

Once the crippling spasms of laughter subsided, I kissed my husband, who had mercifully dressed himself, and sent him off to work.  As much as I adore this man, I admit that the cloud of worry about sending my daughter to college had fogged my ability to see some of the possibilities that lay ahead.  I had been spending a lot of energy tuning in to this process of “letting go”, carefully analyzing my reactions, as well as keeping hawk-like watch over every aspect of my daughter’s preparations. I worried about her packing too much, and too little, and making sure she had cleaned all the dirty dishes out from under her bed, and the locker-room out of her car. I scrutinized her moods, watching for signs of anxiety, and carefully calculated my responses, making sure I was in-tune to what she needed, and above all, guiding her with nearly invisible influence to ensure as smooth a transition as possible. It was a big job and I was going to revel in my last moments as that kind of mom. My husband, who’s own mother had been considerably less co-dependent in her approach, watched me juggling my invisible (and mostly non-existent) influence, motionlessly shaking his head.  He knew very well that after I had “busied” myself, with all this hub-bub about physically and emotionally preparing for this ginormous transition, that it would all come down to huddling with me in bed, feeling my tears run down his chest, and reminding me it would all be ok.  Oh how right he was.

So once we finally dropped her off and after a few nights of soggy huddles, I could feel the edge wearing off and the fog beginning to lift. One morning, while shuffling the dogs outside, Howie-the-Havanese stopped at her now-empty bedroom door and scratched. He was wondering why she hadn’t come out of there for so many days. I opened the door and he trotted in, jumped up on her bed, nose to the blankets, searching for the missing girl. He did this for a few heartbreaking moments, before flopping his body into a sad little heap on her pillow. He laid there, nose to tail, eyes lifted up in the most pathetic expression of loneliness. UGH. I stood in the doorway, ready to completely come apart, when the image of my darling husband sauntering out of the bathroom flooded into my mind. I determined to give his recommendation a try.  I went out to the kitchen and brewed up some of my favorite French-press, poured us each a frothy cup, arranged a fruit plate, a couple of bowls of granola….and here’s where it gets interesting….shed my P.J.’s, right there in the kitchen and carried the tray of goods to my still-in-bed hubby. 

His eyebrows raised as I entered, “Hi, Sweetheart”. 

As there were no plans for the rest of the weekend, with the curtains tightly drawn, I declared a moratorium on clothing.  We decided that it must be good for the skin to just breathe in its own air once in a while. This was self-care at its best and I reveled in it.  Naked Coffee progressed into Birthday-Suit BLT’s for lunch (with a splatter guard carefully placed while the bacon fried), then Nude Netflix, Nothing-On Naps, and Buff Burritos for supper. As the day drew to a close, and we’d finished all the Disrobed Dishes, we lingered over our State-of-Nature Sorbet, and Exposed Earl Grey. What a turn the day had taken! There’s always, always something one can do to brighten the mood.

When I shared my new-found coping mechanism with my daughter her reply was fantastic, “You know what Mom, I should be totally grossed out by that story….but good for you man. Choose Joy. “

Since then we’ve been forced to don clothes many times. But fortunately, there are many other perks.  For example, its much less expensive to purchase king crab-legs for TWO rather than three or four, (and they pair nicely with mac and cheese by the way). And while you may feel bad about sending your kids to bed with a belly-full of popcorn and Milk-Duds for dinner, or to school after a bowl of monkey-bread for breakfast, when it’s just you and your partner…somehow that guilt turns into a euphoric, satisfying enjoyment. How about eating out? Gone are the years of pointing around the table and sternly reminding your kids that “water is fine”.  The glass of wine with my dinner is still less than the 2 extra entrees.  Oh, and you guys, the LAUNDRY…. enough said?  And that funky smell from their rooms? You won’t believe how nice your car is without abandoned french-fries and sucker-sticks under the seats.  As much as I know you have learned to love all these little signs-of-kid-life in your home, I propose you can also learn to love the absence of them when your kids leave home. The temptation exists to cry when there is no pee to clean off the bathroom floor. But the opportunity to celebrate this exists at the same time…and lets face this…it makes a lot more sense.

On the flip side of things lost…we can look forward to the things gained. Our general intelligence, for example; it is utterly amazing how much more smart I have become to my children now that they navigate independently. I am their personal Wikipedia on a large variety of topics, and I admit I’m enjoying it. When my oldest called me the first year he and his wife filed taxes together, baffled at where all their money had gone… I’ll admit I smiled a little inside. I love getting the call from the grocery store, asking me what that cheese is called. I love when my kids call me and ask me to pray with them. What precious gifts they are, and continue to be their entire lives, no matter where they are in the world.

I don’t know about you, but I thought I had become a prayer warrior the day they were born. It wasn’t until the day they were out on their own that I understood how much more rich and full my faith had to become to survive the fears associated with this. I thank God for ministering to me about how these precious beings are much-less mine than they are His. My Gramma once told me that a mother’s reasons to worry don’t decrease once they leave home. In fact, she said, the troubles only get bigger. I have yet to live a more terrible ache than watching my children suffer some of the most grievous pain life has to offer.  They lost their Dad at ages 21 and 13.  I have helplessly watched as my son and his wife cradled their lifeless newborn, willing her to take a breath. The troubles have indeed been big, but praise the God of the universe, HE IS BIGGER. This light and momentary affliction is doing a great work and I will trust in Him.

“For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen, but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal” – 2 Corinthians 4:17-18

This kind of trust is something I’m learning is the most important key to living a peaceful life. My kids’ lives’ are not my own. MY life is not my own. God is sovereign, and worthy of my trust and my praise. God’s work in this area of my life is the biggest “perk” I can describe. Trusting Him gets a whole lot easier when you realize He’s a whole lot better at caring for them than you. Even when it hurts, and even when we don’t understand.

So here we are. We miss our kids. But we also thank God that they are out in the world like we always hoped they would be. Whether they’re in college, or working, or flopping around like a fish-out-of-water, we wouldn’t change the chance we got to parent them for anything.  Above all we can thank God for the opportunity to learn to trust Him more.  There is no greater skill I know to navigate the hardest places in life. The opposite of fear and pain is Trust. The battle against our flesh in this endeavor is one we will never fully conquer this side of Heaven, but Praise God He is here to help at every angle.

So now HOW in the world does this tie in with my Naked-Coffee story?  IDK. (insert the shoulder shrug emoji)  Here’s my take: while Naked-Coffee may not be everyone’s cup of….tea?… It’s a good example of rolling with the punches, choosing to take life a little less seriously when we can, and allowing ourselves to be vulnerable. God knows the struggles of our hearts we don’t show to anyone else. He knows how fiercely we cling to those kids and He knows the places we need to learn to trust Him more.  He is the author of their outcome and we can and should let go of those fig-leaves we cling to. We are always “naked” to Him.  When everything is stripped away, and we are cleansed by the blood, there is no adornment that could ever make us any better than that. We can let go of the need to “control”. We can “stop holding God accountable to a version of good that He never promised us”, (Lysa TerKeurst).  We can trust that our future, no matter what it looks like, is never beyond the Will of the Most High God, and who friends….WHO is more qualified? The transition to this place is not easy for most of us, but oh the benefits available to the Christian who pursues the death of that “little-g god” inside that wants its own way.  My way is all smoke and mirrors; concealer and baggy tunics. God knows who I really am, and He knows better what I really need at every single turn. No matter how my insides may scream to understand what that looks like sometimes… when I let go… when I present myself to Him, “naked”, tear-stained and grimy… just as I am… He will meet me there every time with all the Mercy and Grace and Love there is. By His spirit, I will cling to His truth, I will look to what is unseen, and thank Him for it.

The voice on the other end of the line was out of breath and asked, “Are you sitting down?” 

And immediately I wasn’t, and I didn’t want to. That sentence never creates the calm that it intends, but it was more than that. I could feel the panic in my brother-in-law’s voice. I could feel how desperately he didn’t want to be making this call.

“Jim collapsed….they’re working on him…I don’t know Audrey…I don’t know”

          But I did. That sinking feeling in my gut, and the very real understanding of “working on him” that my nurse-brain acknowledged brought a clear and precise vision of what was going on. This was bad. I immediately started moving in slow motion. I felt it come over me; this intentional slowing-down.

I nodded to the phone and heard myself say “Ok. Call me when you know more.”

I sat down at my desk and called a couple of friends to set prayers in motion. I prayed too, but oddly…overwhelmingly… I didn’t really have to speak prayers. I felt the Holy Spirit immediately taking my spirit by the hand in some kind of cruise-control override. I was being held. Immediately swept up. Surreal, quiet, peaceful, clarity of mind took over instantly. Some of that was years of experience as a nurse. Breathe, slow down, think, but most of it was God. In the words of Disney’s Woody, “this is the perfect time to panic”. But I didn’t, and I didn’t even have to try not to. My head flipped through the files of the moment in anticipation of a couple of very big, very scary things coming next. Either I’m getting on a plane to Northern Wisconsin to rush to my husband’s bedside, “Oh Lord, he’s gonna make a terrible patient. How will I keep him from pounding fence-posts with a fresh chest-zipper…?” OR I’m not getting on a plane. I’m not going anywhere, there’s nothing to do. “Oh Lord, please no.” I slowly paced the house waiting for more information, I called my mom asking her to pick my daughter up from track practice. Jim’s shoes by the armchair brought the first slow tears. I called my son and told him to get ready to go, not sure which direction yet. Called another friend who somehow showed up in time to sit at my feet and hold my hand as I sat on the couch and received the run-down over the phone from the EMT about the course they’d administered.

The words I remember were: “cardiac arrest…epinephrine…CPR…arrhythmia…unable to resuscitate…expired…time of death…”

He was 44. Strong-as-an-ox. Bigger than life, just not bad genetics. Still in that slowed-down place with God holding me up, I remember very clearly my 13 year-old baby’s face as she came through the front door. “Mercy, she looks like her Daddy,” I thought. Her chin was already hard. Her heart understood something was bad and in her Dad’s style she was already irritated by it.

As I held her face in my hands, very close to mine, I heard myself say, “He’s gone baby. Daddy’s gone.” 

It was while my arms weakly tried to contain her violent sobs that my own flood came. I felt my inside voice repeating “Jesus, oh Lord Jesus, help.” And He did. I heard a man outside on the porch sobbing, saw the agony on my Mom’s face. There was my Dad. He sat on the couch next to me and took my baby girl into his arms with all the tenderness of a new-born transfer. I stood up, I hugged someone…and someone else. People entered, one after another. Every hug exchanged love and compassion and a desperate desire to ease our pain. Jesus was there, and my inside voice kept on, “Jesus, oh Lord Jesus, I love you.” My college-age son and (now wife), Ellen walked in, an expression on his face I’d never seen, his collar soaked with tears. I could feel his entire core tremble as he threw his arms around my shoulders and wept, the voice in my head crying, “Jesus, Oh Lord Jesus, I need you”.  At some point I went into my bedroom and closed the door. I scanned the room, and buried my face into Jim’s side of the closet. I hit the bed, face-down in an armload of shirts, willing the particles of his scent into my lungs. This is when it happened.

My inner voice came out, muffled but out loud, “Jesus! Oh Lord Jesus, Thank you that he was mine. You have received him already. Please tell him I love him. Tell him better than my lack-luster kiss did when he left last week for Wisconsin.”

          God’s answer was immediate. I literally felt arms wrapping around my body. My mind did a quick double-take… was this really happening? Yes it was. The warmth of a Heavenly hug persisted and squeezed a little tighter. My entire being filled with a loving, perfect, unexplainable peace. It was so quiet.

The voice in my mind was no longer my own. It said, “This is what he felt the moment he left his body Audrey. He wanted me to show you. All is well. All is peace. All is love. No fear. No pain. Brilliant light.”

My flesh started to grasp at it and I gulped on the tears as I cried out “Tell him I’m sorry! Tell him I never meant to take him for granted! Tell him…..”

The voice inside interrupted, “Is that what you want to hear from him? Apology? Regret?”

My answer: “no”

The reply changed my life: “He doesn’t either. All is known here. All is understood. Love remains. Your flesh will feel sad Audrey. But hear me now. It is ONLY sad. It isn’t consuming. It can take nothing from you that you don’t give it. Be sad for now, but know and remember what you’ve been told today. God is with you, Jim is with God. All is well. He loves you. I love you. Trust in Me.”

Lots of things happened in a flurry over the next days and months, most of which I was only semi-conscious for, but my point here is to convey to you the miracle that happened that day and carried on for weeks after the death of my husband. That hug on my bed. Those answers to my heart-cries. Those were miracles. The Creator of the Universe… no matter how you feel about Him…took time and actually made me feel touch and love and hear His comfort in the midst of the worst pain I could imagine at the time. My inner criticizer (The Valley Girl), likes to shush me when I tell this story. She wants me to know that anyone I tell about it is only going to feel left out. She reminds me that anyone I share it with is going to think that I think I’m special and that it only happened because I’m such a “perfect Christian”, (a huge oxymoron, btw).

And what time has taught me to reply is this, “Yes Valerie (I’ve named her now)…. I hear you. Thank you for your input, as always, but here’s the thing sugar: God didn’t bring me through all this and show up in such a palpable way for me to keep it to myself. I’ve taken your words under advisement, but I’ve gone to a higher authority on this one and I’m going to trust God with the outcome of sharing this. Tell ya what Val… you can sit the rest of this one out. No worries though, I’ll for sure call you next time I try on a bathing suit.”

I’m the kind of Christian who isn’t all that good at quoting scripture…or studying it for that matter. I so aspire to be that girl who’s eyes pop open every day and have the first place I look be in God’s Word. But the truth is, there are more days in the week I open my Facebook before I open the Good-book. I ain’t proud, but there it is. As sloppy as I can be with this, God has brought me far enough to know that if I wanna know what He thinks about something, I almost always have access to that information in His Word. So as I pondered how much of my “hug miracle” to share, and wanting to make sure my motives were in-line with the miracle-giver, I went to His word about it:

• “It has seemed good to me to show the signs and wonders that the Most High God has done for me” Daniel 4:2
• “And they have conquered him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, for they loved not their lives even unto death”. Revelation 12:11
• “But in your hearts honor Christ the Lord as holy, always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and respect” 1 Peter 3:15
• “Oh give thanks to the Lord; call upon his name; make known his deed among the peoples!” 1 Chronicles 16:8.
• “Therefore do not be ashamed of the testimony about our Lord, nor of me his prisoner, but share in suffering for the gospel by the power of God” 2 Timothy 1:8.
• “So everyone who acknowledges me before men, I also will acknowledge before my Father who is in heaven” Matthew 10:32

So ya, thanks, but no thanks Valerie…Bye Felisha…peace-out. My acknowledgement to Valerie-the-Valley-Girl is the following caveat: If any part of my miracle had not been able to stand up to what God’s word says is true, then I would have followed her advice and clammed up.

My Miracle was the embodiment of Matthew 5:4 which says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted”.

God didn’t take that moment of my greatest grief to tell me how the world would end, or who to vote for, or criticize my reaction, or anything at all that contradicted what I know or can find to be true about what He has already said. He simply showed up, met me right where I was, and offered exactly what He said He would, with confirmation that was very hard to deny in that moment or any moment since it happened.  God comforted me in my grief. He just did. He did it in a way that I could physically feel, and some of you may have a problem believing that, or approving of my belief about it and that is OK. I have not the intent or the energy to strong-arm you into anything. My intent is to tell you what happened. My intent is to tell you that God IS willing, and available, and real. I have had experiences since that day that try and undermine the “proof” I witnessed. Valley-Girl-Val and her friends are always working to get me to despair and to doubt what I know to be true, but here’s the wall they are beating their heads against: It happened. I know like I know I currently have 10 fingers that it happened exactly as I’m relating to you here. More hurt has come, more hurt will come, but no matter how my flesh fights against the truth that a good and loving God is in charge of my life and knows what’s best for it, I cannot erase what was done. I cannot make it untrue. My doubt and my fear and my despair does not stand up to the evidence He has provided. To call it a “gift” sounds so incapable. It was the key. He gave me the key that day to every single struggle that will ever come. Even if I don’t feel that physical element, or hear the words clearly in my head again this side of Heaven, it happened once, it accomplished its mission and I feel the need to follow it up with my own. As much as I am good at telling you how it felt, and about the things that grief has taught me, I desire to be even better at helping you hang on to God through the worst. If you are one of those people, (like me for much of my life), who doesn’t have this eye-opening, shock-you-out-of-yourself experience to validate your faith, then consider this: Maybe my experience, and my wild conviction of its reality and insistence to share it with you….and your willingness to hang in there reading this post… is YOUR experience? What if today, God is speaking to you through what He did for me? (Valley-Girl-Val has stopped smacking her gum and is staring at me with her mouth agape).

I pray with my whole heart that this is true for somebody today. I pray that by cooperating with God, and opening my mouth about His goodness, my story will somehow become part of yours, and that it may cause you to open your mouth about Him too. Somebody needs to hear your story and receive the same healing you have. Pain and grief and “sad” can never outdo what Grace can. Ask God to help you to help spread some.

God asks you and me to grow and to stop being fooled by the same things that have stumbled us in the past. (Ephesians 4:14-16) Isn’t it lovely to know that He knows we’ll struggle with that? If He thought we’d be able to take Him entirely at His word, He would not have needed to show up and heal the sick, blind, lame and dead. The Bible is full of one account after another. He knew we’d need that. I think He knows we need it still. So now, for what it is worth to you, you’ve read another one.  It’s not raising Lazarus, but I can tell you it was no less impactful for me at that time. And in the telling, I pray His will is done.

What is my job if not to fly far and wide, gathering worms, (aka chicken nuggets and breakfast cereal), and poking them at those tiny beaks?

What is my worth if it isn’t daily provider, caregiver, counselor and teacher?

How will I know if their wings are dry and their lunches are packed and their sheets are clean?

How will I know if the sore throat is strep or test-anxiety if I can’t touch the forehead and look at those eyes? (Because one look, and a Mom just does.)

What can I do that will ever fill the days like questions and stories and homework and meal prep and snuggles and meme sharing and nagging?

Most of all, will they do those things well without me?

As I slide my fingers over the frets of the song that has been parenthood, the sound that I hear is sweet. As I remember all the nuggets, and English papers, lectures, cuddles, and memes… I realize so very quickly that the nest can never be empty.  It can be lonely, it can be quiet, it can be still… but “empty” will never be correct. 

How full it really is; brimming with love and light and promise. How grateful and Blessed am I to have helped guide these creatures through their firsts. How beautiful and hopeful is all that lies ahead. How amazed am I  to watch this unfold. What was created will never go away. In the end, the memory serves as proof of life, (whether I remember it all or not). The shadows of what once was will cast their influence over the path of what will be. I did it. And once in a while, I’ll get the opportunity to do it some more. I’ll get that phone call or text. I’ll share the recipe for lasagna or the procedure for getting an insurance quote, and I’ll revel in it.

It doesn’t matter where they go or what they do… I am their Momma. No greater thing have I ever been, (until of course I am someone’s Mamma’s Mamma, and then I think I’ll be really good at that too).  For now, I will miss the way it was once. I will grieve the way I used to be a Mamma, because that is worth a tear or two. Each one that rolls down my cheek is confirmation of something worth missing. So the truth I acknowledge is this: My tears are evidence…There’s nothing empty about my nest.

Anyway….what’s the point? What is it we’re doing here? What’s the frequency, Kenneth? I guess the bottom line is, I like to write. And I’m just arrogant enough to believe that what I put down may be helpful, or interesting, or at the very least, entertaining to you or someone else. So, here we are, me writing, you reading… and hopefully maybe even you returning the favor with a comment or two, in the spirit of connection.

The ugly facts are that I’m someone who’s experienced a fairly heavy dose of sudden and tragic loss. To bullet point it, I’m a wife, a mother, a widow, and a wife again with a granddaughter in Heaven.

As soon as I deconstruct it to that level, my inner criticizer, (I call her “the Valley Girl”), has her eyes rolling so violently that I should surely be able to hear them grazing the walls of her skull. She’s telling me how self-important I am to think that my comparatively minuscule grief somehow makes me an authority, and in her annoyingly “like” filled vernacular, she’s announcing with a pinched face, “Like…you are totally NOT, like…any kind of smart person about this”. Isn’t SHE delightful? Am I the only one with that voice? I mean, she’s not the only one, and the minute I say that I sense your eyebrow raise, while wondering if Schizophrenia is on the list, but hear me out. I’m a girl with an idea to write, and that inner voice, who I’m learning not to entirely ignore because she’s got some good insight to my inner workings…is at all times threatening to undermine my resolve to follow through. SO… I have acknowledged her. I have patted her on her sticky, high, Aqua-net hair. I have thanked her for her input, and here I am anyway.

The youngest of my two children is about to leave for college. When the first left, there was 8 years until the second, so while that was sad, (and it was,) I took great solace in knowing that I had a while before having to transition to the kid-free house. Well here I am, and I’m shakin’ in my tattered Birkenstocks. While most of me would rather staple it down, I feel a page turning here, and I’d like to take advantage of the clean page to jot down some things; thoughts and stories about where I’ve been so far, what I’ve learned, what God has done, and where I hope to go from here. My hope is that anyone who might be interested will come along too. So let’s together make like Tiny Tim – let’s let God carry us and prayerfully Bless us, every one.