Ripping Off the Band Aid

Yesterday I watched the final episode of the final season of Good Witch on Netflix – for the third time.

This left me in a quandary. Do I start over again for the fourth time or do I let it go and move on?

I know I need to move on. The Good Witch has been therapy for me since Brad died, but it is like a band aid, never meant to be a cure-all. The wound needs air to heal. It is time for me to let the wound breathe.

Doing so sent me into a panic.

I have been watching a lot of sermons online lately. Ravi Zacharias is one of my favorites. Although he recently died, he left behind a wealth of inspiration and knowledge. He is my favorite type of preacher – the teacher-preacher. He is not afraid to speak truth plainly and does so in love. It is raw, honest, yet he has the ability to do so without judgment. I would like to be that bold and brave in my faith.

Yesterday, he said something in a sermon which stuck with me. He said that Christians who pray can be carried by God. Christians who do not pray carry themselves and wind up feeling exhausted.

I am feeling exhausted. My prayer life has not been what it once was since Brad died. Luckily, He has never left my side and has still worked through me in amazing ways at work. However, if I do not start nurturing my roots again, the tree, the part seen by the world, will begin to crumble. I can already feel it begin to crumble.

I am in a vicious cycle. Eating right, exercise, prayer – health in all areas is needed for mental and spiritual health – for deep roots. But I have been stuck and could see no way out. God is my out, my way of escaping the unhealthy cycle. I got down on my knees and prayed a simple prayer – help. I need You to get me unstuck.

Another favorite pastor, Louie Giglio, spoke about our new day actually beginning before we go to bed. So, that night, instead of watching Netflix until I was too tired to stay awake (numbing my feelings and keeping the anxiety at bay), I read my Bible and then made myself lay with my thoughts.

I wondered, is my addiction to the Good Witch – and James Denton characters –  healthy or harmful? Is it an acceptable coping mechanism or is it turning into nothing better than watching pornography or drinking too much alcohol? What is it about this man and this show? Why can’t I let it go?

As I lay in bed talking to God, I realized I am walking a very fine line. Right now, Mike Delfino and Sam Radford are symbols of my life and emotions. The anguished grief of Susan with Mike’s death, losing the love of her life, that is my current emotional state. The Good Witch – Sam and Cassie – that is my hope, my desire. I want to be so confident and together like Cassie with a pure love like Sam. Susan and Mike are where I am – Sam and Cassie is where I want to be – not necessarily romantically speaking – just emotionally speaking – a complete wreck vs. healthy and whole.

Right now, the Good Witch is a band aid. However, if I choose to begin again at season 1 episode 1 for the fourth time, it will become a crutch – I will move beyond temporary aid to unhealthy and sinful addiction.

It is time to remove the band aid and face the grief head on – to heal.

This caused a great deal of anxiety last night trying to fall asleep and even worse this morning.
I woke up early – what used to be my normal get-up-and-start-the-day time. Prayer followed by my exercise. I started last night with Bible reading and a plea prayer for God to help me today.

He did.

I got up and had my prayer time, but as time for my jog approached, I felt panic creep in. Then, I recalled a quote from Mother Teresa about our need for silence if we are to be able to hear God. Then, a sense that it was okay – even necessary – to forgo my normal workout routine. Instead, I went for a walk – slow and steady – no ear buds, no music, no podcasts, or audiobooks. Just me and God.

I remembered a dream I had last night. I finally gave up the military dream. Then, out of the blue, I got a call from an Air Force recruiter asking if I was interested in learning to fly planes. I was getting the chance to learn to fly AND to do so while wearing an Air Force uniform! I gave up my dream and now my dream was coming true.

God, what does this mean? It certainly isn’t my dream of Brad getting his life together in this life. He’s dead. Is it my military dream? My dream of becoming a published author? Is it the dream of waking up three years from now, being ordained, board certified, M.Div graduate, having done all the hard work to get over Brad, finally be able to be self-sufficient? Wouldn't that be nice! Like on Desperate Housewives - one season to the next they jumped forward five years. Wish we could do that in real life.

Is it the simple dream of being happy again? To make it 24 hours without once thinking about Brad? Of him FINALLY no longer having a hold of me for bad or for good? It took me almost ten years to heal from the bad. Now, in his death, the not so bad and good that I never dealt with is creeping in and demanding so much time and attention.

Maybe it’s the emotion of the dream. I was at the crossroads – go after the dream or not – and I was scared. What if I can’t do it? Learn to fly? What if I fail?

What if I fail? At least I will have tried.

One thing I have learned is how important it is to deal with our stuff as it happens. I am not grieving any of the tough decisions I made in the recent past such as the fact that I did not talk to Brad the last two years of his life. I know exactly why we stopped talking. It was the right thing to do and I did the hard work of dealing with it at the time. Now, however, it's stuff (like the possible misarrange) that I never dealt with which is resurfacing. There really is no such thing as burying our emotions. They will eventually find their way to the surface. Better to face this grief stuff head on right now.

It’s time to rip off the band aid.

After my walk, I participated in our weekly church staff meeting. I did not want to participate, but something said in a video I saw earlier in the week about full health is to “lean into it”, whatever “it” is that we want to pull away from when we feel overwhelmed. So, I joined the meeting.

Almost immediately, one of my friends sent a text asking if I was okay. Is it that obvious that I am not okay today?

Then, another friend started praying for me and the tears came. I had to take a time out. The flood works came, but I was able to rejoin the meeting. Both in sharing the truth with them, crying, and “leaning into” the meeting, I felt better – still tired, but a different kind of tired. Not like I am carrying the weight of my faith on my own shoulders, but a release kind of tired – a healthy kind of tired.

This season in life truly SUCKS! Today really SUCKS! But there is one thing I often remind my patients that I remind myself of today – a point of wisdom shared with me back when I was going through cancer – God will certainly give me more than I can handle, but He will NEVER give me more than HE can handle – and that makes all the difference.

Would I rather go start my fourth viewing of the Good Witch? You betcha! Will I never watch it again? I’m sure I will.

However, right now, I have no choice but to let the wound breathe if there is any hope of it healing. If this tree is going to stay upright and continue to thrive, I must nurture the roots.

After all, I want God to carry me. I am so tired of carrying myself. I’m exhausted and in danger of collapse. Another reminder from Louie Giglio – it’s okay to not be okay – one step, one breath, one prayer at a time.

Jessica Claire

Honestly, I look forward to having multiple days when I do not feel the need to write. When I do write, it is because the thoughts and emotions are too much to contain.

This morning started off like any other Wednesday (my Saturday). However, without the sound of a television or radio, I felt the beginnings of a panic attack and had no clue what triggered it. I attempted an exercise my therapist gave me to help bring these hidden emotions to the surface, but no luck.

On Wednesdays, I often meet a friend for lunch. On my way there and home, two songs erupted my emotional reservoir.

Smokey Mountain Rain by Ronnie Millsap

Ronnie Millsap is the musical hero of the main character of my manuscript, He Calls Me Daughter, which I have not touched in well over a year – since I went back to school. The song, I Wouldn’t Have Missed It For The World is actually an integral part of the theme. I often refer to this novel as the book of what should have been and what could have been. It flips the script of my cancer journey and marriage.

My first thought is – maybe it’s time to pick it back up again, even if I only manage to get to one paragraph a day.

Then, thinking about the main male character, I thought again of Brad and the pink polo shirt – and my little girl. (pink polo shirt blog entry)

Maybe both my visions came true after all?

I cannot stop thinking of my (our) little girl. Now, I imagine her in heaven holding hands with her daddy. Maybe she was the one to welcome him home. What a surprise that would have been for him. I never told him about her.

Before the writing of this blog, only a handful of people ever knew about her – and no one but me knew anything before this past year. And before that incident at the hospital, I never allowed myself to consider what my heart believed to be true.

Back around the holidays, I had my first experience as a hospital chaplain with a stillborn birth. It was a beautiful moment to help this young couple say goodbye. The nurse and I encouraged the young mom to hold her son and I touched him as I blessed him.

Afterwards, something dormant in me snapped. It brought me back to a restroom years ago and the bloody glob in the toilet. The image haunted me until I pulled a few friends aside and shared with them. Then, I shared with my therapist.

I remember staring at that strange bloody glob and wondering . . . I thought about taking it out of the toilet and burying it, but immediately told myself that was a silly idea. After all, I had no way of knowing for sure. Besides, I was on the pill. But the pill is never 100% - hence, the bloody blob. Anyway, even if . . . well . . . it had no chance at life. I flushed and never told Brad. Soon, I forgot all about it.

But as I told my therapist, I think my heart always wondered. When I was 15, I saw a video of abortions at different stages. My bloody blob looked eerily similar to the bloody blob in the first trimester. This was not the last time this happened, but this was the one I remember vividly.

At the time, my therapist and I were working on my head/heart discrepancies – and she reminded me how I was well versed in allowing my head to have all the control back then. Of course I would rationalize it away. However, if there was nothing to it, I would not be haunted by these memories now.

Jessica Claire – that’s what her name would have been. I knew it would have been a girl. Growing up, I wanted boys and my sister wanted girls. The family joked that, for that very reason, she would have boys and I would have girls. She has two boys.

Once, my grandpa, Clarence, remarked that none of his grandkids would name a child after him. That got me to thinking. I would – sort of – after both my grandpas – Jesse and Clarence – Jessica Claire.

Had Jessica Claire lived, she would be around 12-15 years old now. 

I forgot about it again until Brad died and I started thinking about the pink polo shirt. Now, I have this vision of Brad and our daughter holding hands in heaven. I imagine that when he first died, she was there. “Hello, Daddy.” What a beautiful surprise that would have been.

It’s funny. When I think of that pink polo shirt vision – of Brad holding hands with a little girl, I am not there. I always assumed I was. I also assumed the girl was adopted. But maybe not. Maybe the girl in my vision was our girl. Maybe they are together now. Both very happy and whole.

That vision makes my heart happy – still, it brings tears to my eyes.

Harden My Heart by Quarterflash

That is what I used to do. That’s what part of me wishes I could still do. However, after Brad and I separated, I vowed to do just the opposite in order to heal.  This thought reminded me of a book idea I once had, but could never work out.

I was going to be called I Miss My Rose Colored Glasses. It was going to be about a woman whose husband dies and she goes insane – functional insanity. Her marriage was so idyllic that when he dies, she copes by imagining that he is still alive and that he turns into this horrible, abusive person. Creating this fantasy is the only way she can cope with the idea of leaving him - or rather, of letting him go.

My marriage to Brad was not all terrible, but it was certainly not idyllic either. Now, after his death, my thoughts of him are a bit idyllic. I can see how easy it could be to fall victim of the mind and lose all touch with reality in order to cope.

Maybe after I get through this trauma, I can revisit this book idea, too.

What If Jesus Had Taken That Step?

It never occurred to me until after watching a message by Louie Giglio about mental health that when we say Jesus was fully human and can fully identify with our humanness, this means EVERYTHING – every aspect of our humanness – and brokenness – our hurt and pain and suffering – even SUICIDE.

What? Really? How?

Imagine Jesus, after 40 days without eating or drinking – in the desert – Satan tempts Him to throw Himself off the side of a cliff. Growing up Christian, hearing these stories all my life, I imagined a great spiritual battle between Satan and God – a literal embodied Satan and a literal embodied God in Jesus. Of course God is going to win. Duh!!!

What if we flip the script? What if, instead of this great superhero scene playing out in my imagination, I see Jesus as fully human, hungry and desperate - just like me - longing for escape? I know what I am like when I am hungry and tired after just a few hours without sleep and not even having skipped a meal. How would I feel if I had been stuck – alone – in the desert for 40 days without food or water? How helpless and hopeless would I feel?

What if Satan was not a literal embodied figure standing next to Jesus? What if Satan came to Jesus the way he comes to all of us? In our thoughts? Preying on the weakest parts of ourselves?

That image of Jesus fighting Satan in this way changes how I see things. As He stood on the edge of the cliff, thinking about how terrible He felt in the moment, knowing that life was just going to get harder for Him – being persecuted, hated, suffering on the cross to die for our sins, and the world ever after acting ungrateful for His sacrifice? How tempted was Jesus – the fully human man – to take that fateful step off the ledge?

But He didn’t. (reference Matthew 4:1-11)

But what would have happened to us if He had? 

One of Louie’s many points is that the lie Satan tells us – that people are better off without us – is, indeed, a terrible lie. There are damaging cyclical effects. Imagine our suffering and fate had Jesus stepped off that ledge and the angels did not come to His aid as Satan said they would.

In our head, we may be able to rationalize the truth – that the person who committed suicide was not leaving us, did not choose death over us, but our hearts will never be able to understand. Our hearts will feel guilty, hurt, angry, lost, confused.

Louie reminded us that while Jesus hung on the cross to die for us, one of His closest friends was taking his own life (Judas). Let that truth sink in. (Matthew 27:1-7)

We are doing a great injustice to our world if we refuse to talk about these issues. When we keep silent, the lie grows stronger and gains control. When we remain silent, the lie that we are alone and that no one could possibly understand makes our silence even more damaging.

Louie’s point – it’s okay to not be okay (most of us are not okay), but Jesus IS. Believing in Jesus, loving Jesus, putting all our hope in Jesus is not going to make us feel better right away and make the pain miraculously disappear, but holding onto His promise will keep us alive, keep us going, give us a miracle of a new day. However, we need one another to tell our own stories and to support one another.

This has never been more true in our lifetime than it is right now.

Last week, a man drove into the parking lot of the hospital where I work and took his own life. He was not affiliated with the hospital, but this is where he chose to come – I imagine because he knew he would quickly be found.

Although no one here knew him, I can tell you that it has still had a tremendous negative impact on the staff who were here.

It reminded me of the first suicide that took place at Belmont – the incident which made me realize that law enforcement was not my calling and that I no longer belonged at Belmont. My co-chief, a former police officer, and I worked so well together. He took control of the logistics, freeing me to see to the spiritual and emotional needs of my officers.

Although never confirmed, I believe the student chose the campus 1) to protect his family and friends from finding him and 2) because he knew he would quickly be found. This incident still haunts me all these years later and I never even knew the kid.

A friend of mine asked how this could happen, how no one saw the signs. The friend who asked this question had once been suicidal with a plan. She told me her plan not long before COVID quarantine began. Even though she was past that incident, COVID isolation worried me. I worry I will miss the signs even though I check on her often. She assures me that I need not worry unless she stops sharing with me.

Still, having once been suicidal myself, I know all too well that those of us with severe depression are masters at manipulation. We keep our thoughts to ourselves and paint on a happy face for our public appearances. Had I succeeded in taking my own life back then, I am willing to bet that a ton of people would have been shocked.

I am not suicidal now, but that is only because I have been in therapy most of my life. I know the importance of confronting it – taking prescription medication, talking regularly with my therapist, being honest about my needs with family, friends, and co-workers, self-care, and lots and lots and lots of prayer.

When I was a kid, I was certain no one was going through what I was going through. I felt hopeless and helpless. Still, I knew Jesus. He saved my life more than once.

I did cut myself, though. The thing about cutting is that it (however temporarily) morphs the emotional pain into physical pain – and physical pain I could identify, understand, and treat. I no longer cut myself for the same reasons I no longer think of suicide, reasons listed above.

Now, as an adult, I still struggle with anxiety and depression. However, because I have learned coping skills, I no longer feel hopeless or helpless or alone.

I remember the last time I had a suicidal thought. I was newly married. We were living in family housing on campus at Belmont. All seemed right with life, but something was still wrong and I could not pinpoint it. I took a bath, and when I dipped my head down into the water, I had this urge to stay there and drown. I wanted to die.

This scared me because it had been so long since I had a suicidal thought. I got out of the tub and told Brad. We sat on the floor of the living room and I cried in his arms. He comforted me and also scolded me. He was angry at the selfishness of my would-be suicide. How could I do something like that to him? Leave him to be the one to find my body, to ask the questions, to leave him alone?

Brad reminded me of how selfish and destructive suicide can be. I felt shamed, but safe. I may have found it hard to live for me, but I had a new purpose – living for the man I vowed to love.

I still sometimes think life would have been so much easier if I had died - how often I prayed for death while going through cancer - still thinking people who die are the lucky ones, but this is a far cry from being and feeling suicidal. There is a difference and only those who have lived it can truly understand. Now, I wonder why God kept me here and realize I may never know the answer, but every time I am able to be with a patient or family in their most dire time of need, I am thankful that God chose me to be the one to comfort them. 

So, this is my story. Are you brave enough to share yours? If you have never been where I have been, are you strong enough to admit it and still walk along someone who has?

Read more of my story HERE..

Watch the Louie Giglio message HERE.

If you need to talk with someone, call the hotline. If you want to talk to me, do it. Day or night. If I don't answer the first time (I rarely answer numbers I do not recognize), don't take this as a morbid sign. Call again. Leave a message. I WILL respond. (If it's the middle of the night, keep calling until I answer. I am partially deaf and will not hear the phone ring if I'm laying on my good ear.)

210-859-1824

Guilt Free Obsession

Yesterday marked two months since Brad died and the day one of my closest friends officially moved far, far away.

After work, while walking down the driveway with Bailey, I contemplated the day:

It still seems so unreal – sometimes like it just happened and other times like it happened ages ago.

I thought about the funeral. A few people said they were glad I came and made comments about understanding my need to divorce him all those years ago. I sensed that they were saying it almost in either an accusatory tone as if I abandoned him or as a sense of admiration for the strength it took to walk away. Either way, I felt angered, as if they believe what I did was an easy decision to make or an easy thing to do. The mantra swimming in my head since Brad died is how doing the right thing is NOT easy. If only people knew how extremely painful it can be to do the right thing. It was painful to do the right thing then and it is still painful. I would love to ignore my hurt like I used to, push it deep down, and go about life as if losing Brad meant nothing. I would love to turn off the feelers, but that is not healthy. So, I do the hard work and allow thoughts and emotions of Brad to have free reign. My therapist has given me great strategies to actually aid in bringing them to the surface when they get stuck. I must face them and walk through them if I am going to heal.

I thought about something I almost posted on FB – but I bet people are tired of my sad posts – thinking, “Hasn’t this gone on long enough, Renee?” My self-reply, “But it’s only been two months.”

After Brad and I divorced, I took a DivorceCare class which taught me the “average” cycle for grief is three years. During the first year, all we can think about is the year before, when things were “normal”. During year two, we think back to all the firsts without that person. Then, during year three, we begin to develop a new normal. I also learned that this grief process can sometimes take shorter or longer, depending on the circumstances. So, two months into a minimum three-year process – no, it has not gone on long enough.

I remembered a conversation with my therapist, telling her of my pink polo shirt memories and the soupy conglomeration of my head and heart. I have this peaceful image of Brad with me. In death, he is the Brad I hoped for with the pink polo shirt, the man who chose me over his addiction, braved the hard work, and healed – the two of us together. At the same time, Brad can be all Michelle needs him to be for her. For a brief moment, the logical/theological part of my brain wants to argue, but my heart wins. Who says it can’t be this way? We don’t know for sure what happens in death. We are confident of some things, but we cannot even begin to fathom the rich depths of life after death. As my therapist interjected, if it brings you comfort and peace right now, what’s wrong with it? Let the heart win. I have – readily and easily.

But, man, Brad, things sure were easier when you were alive. It was easy not to be taken in by you because I saw what the addiction had made of you and it was easy to see how much better off I was being out of that. Now, in death, you can be who I needed and wanted you to be and that makes letting go and saying goodbye that much harder. In life, I forgot all the good we once shared. In your death, that’s all I can think about.

But I’m not overcome. Work has been wonderful. Strange to say considering how busy it has been – three COVID deaths in one week and a few other deaths. I thrive in my chaplain role in these situations, though. And Brad’s death has made me so much better. I have lost loved ones before, but never one that hurt like this.

I remember talking to a woman after my first post-Brad death. I began saying what I normally say. Granted, I still believe in what I normally say – and I avoid all the helpless Christianeze sayings which do nothing to truly comfort. Still, as I spoke the words, they felt hollow and wrong. For the first time, I knew the truth of what I was saying, but now I heard it from a mourner’s perspective. I stopped in mid-sentence and said, “You know what? There is nothing I can say to make this situation any easier for you or that can take away your pain. I don’t know why this happened and it’s going to hurt. But one thing I can guarantee, God will be with you every step of the way, even when you cannot feel Him.”

During another visit, all I did was rub the back of the family member, saying very little, and letting her know that it was okay and normal – when she said how bad her chest hurt or how she felt so many different emotions or didn’t know what to do or think or want. She thanked me profusely afterwards and I was reminded of something I was told early on in ministry – sometimes simply being there is enough. I get that now.

As we headed back inside, I thought of my obsession with the Good Witch, and especially Sam and Cassie. Why is that the only show I want to watch? Why do I crave it like a drug, eager to watch the next episode before going to work or after work – or all day if I’m off with nothing else pressing to do? Why do I listen to the Good Witch Spotify station so often? Why am I obsessed with a relationship that isn’t real and that I don’t believe exists in real life? Why am I in love with a fictitious man who bares a striking resemblance to James Denton? (Joke because the character is played by James Denton.)

The answer hit me quickly. First of all, I know I like the show because it is safe, sweet, and predictable – something I need right now. As far as my love affair with a fantasy man – exactly because he is not real. As long as I escape into the world of Sam and Cassie, I feel happy – it removes me, however temporarily, from the reality of my grief over Brad.

It is a safe escape, pure and simple. During one of the recent deaths this past week, two interns were involved with the patient and family. They were both amazing with the family. Afterwards, I pulled them both aside to let them know how proud I was of them. They both showed remarkable compassion, something that cannot be taught. I learned that it was one intern’s first day and the other’s last. What a way to start and end. I talked with them about the importance of self-care if they are going to make a career out of a high-stress job like this.

Doing the right thing can be painful and sometimes requires therapy – and therapy comes in many forms - some healthy and some not so healthy.Since the day I was interviewed for this chaplaincy position, I have been bombarded with reminders about the importance of self-care, a lesson I pass on often.

The Good Witch – and Sam and Cassie – are my most effective self-care strategy right now, so I will allow it – guilt free.

Right Here Waiting

On my way to work this morning, I heard Right Here Waiting by Richard Marx. The song caused me to smile and shed a few tears all in the same breath as I recalled Brad sharing with me a conversation he once had with Marx about this song, a conversation which, according to Brad, seemed to offend or annoy the songwriter/singer. It would seem that Marx was not impressed by the indecorous wooing power of his music and voice.

“I took for granted, all the times

That I thought would last somehow

I hear the laughter, I taste the tears

But I can't get near you now.”

This verse transported me back to our first off-campus apartment in Nashville. I remember his gentle embrace waking me when he came to bed each night. As I silently lay in his arms, I prayed for our love, this incredible closeness, to last forever. Obviously, that prayer went unanswered. 

Sometimes, because of all the pain we later caused one another, I forget how deeply and intimately we once loved each other.

I thought of the final season of the series, Desperate Housewives. Mike, looking as rugged and handsome in death as he did in life, the only difference is the white t-shirt, looked upon his family as they drove away. So many emotions wrapped up in this final scene.

Mike – free from all his earthly worries and cares. At peace – Brad. Not fair.

Susan and MJ – still mourning the loss of the love of her life and his father. When her daughter asked her if she could see herself loving again, she said something to the effect that a person realizes they are getting older when they no longer dream of a future, but can be perfectly content with the memories. Mike and Susan were a once-in-a-lifetime love.

My relationship with Brad was tumultuous at best, but I once believed he was the love of my life and that we only get one of those in our lifetime.

Then again, Cassie (Good Witch) once reflected on her wonderful marriage to her first husband (who died) and said she thought it was selfish to think anyone could be so fortunate as to experience two great loves in one lifetime. (Spoiler alert – she did.)

For me, I hope for the future, but I do not dwell on it. For now, I cannot even think about it. The thing about grief is that, at least in this season of it, I am stuck in the past with my memories. I suppose that is why I cannot even watch new shows. I am re-watching, once again, old favorites. I have said it again, they are comforting and predictable.

What shows am I re-watching? Definitely NOT Desperate Housewives. Once is enough. Too much drama and chaos. I watch Good Witch and Grace and Frankie – one heartwarming and sweet, the other laugh out loud funny.

In one episode of the Good Witch, Dr. Sam Radford says he thrives on chaos. He is an ER surgeon. I thought about this while at work yesterday. It was an unusually busy but rewarding day.

I was asked to give communion and last rites to a COVID patient before they transitioned her to hospice care. The rules of the Catholic Church will allow a non-Catholic to perform this in emergency situations such as this. After talking with the family and giving them options, this is what was decided.

Toward the end of my shift, while making one last round through the emergency department, I was stopped by a nurse who informed me of a woman brought in by ambulance who died. I stayed late in order to be with the family.

During both cases, I lost my voice as I attempted to pray and had to pause in order to collect myself. I have learned that tears are okay as long as the moment remains about the family/patient and not about me.

Three things occurred to me after the day:

1) I, too, thrive on chaos. It's days such as this that fill me with energy, purpose, meaning, and hope. I was made for this and, although it is weird to say, I enjoy these moments far greater than the routine visits.

2) Before Brad’s death, I used to compartmentalize everything – the facts from the emotions – the head from my heart. Try as I may, I could never bring these two together. Now, it is all one big soupy mess – well, not mess exactly. It is more like the potato soup from O-Charley’s I loved so much and ordered all the time when I lived in Nashville. When made right, there is no picking out the potatoes from all the other yummy ingredients. It is the delicious blending of the ingredients which make it so wonderful.

3) My gift – what makes me so good at my job, especially the chaotic days – is my compassion.

I used to think writing was my greatest gift. Then, I realized that it is compassion which makes my writing so heartfelt. I know I am a good chaplain – and it is not because of my education or skill, but because of my compassionate nature.

But what to do with this gift? How to use it?

I know some have questioned why I keep such an intimately personal blog. I have written about this once before, but it bears repeating. Years ago, while trying to publish my first manuscript, I hired a professional editor. She told me that although my book was the best she had read in a very long time, I would never find anyone who would risk publishing it as is. She suggested I either tone down the story-line and publish in the Christian market or replace Jesus with a generic god and publish mainstream. I refused to do either. The truth is, Christians suffer – and for the Christian, our hope and salvation from human suffering comes from Jesus Christ alone. I disliked Christian fiction because it seemed to largely ignore that bad things still happen to believers and the story always seemed to be wrapped up all nice and neat. That is not reality, though. Sometimes, there are no happily-ever-afters. 
By ignoring this reality, we are portraying a potentially damaging spirituality. If we, as Christians, are not willing to speak truth, then what is the point of us?

Years later, when I got cancer, my sister set up a blog for us to be able to keep friends and family informed. This blog became my way of dealing with my life. Instead of writing about Christian truth from a fictional perspective, my life became my way of sharing real-life struggles and the hope I found in Jesus. I have said it over and over again – I have no idea how anyone gets through tough times without Him. Life is hard enough as it is. I cannot imagine going through it without Jesus.

Writing is my passion, my therapy, my gift. However, in the end, it is my compassion which fuels my writing.

Another thing many people know about me is that I dreamed of being in the Air Force. Now, there is a possibility that I can still serve in the military as a chaplain. I have been praying and contemplating this option. I think back to a dream I wrote about recently - the football team and band - wanting to belong and wear the uniform, but not belonging. This portion of the dream is still with me - and I wonder if it is about my military dream. I have always said the best people to serve in certain situations are those who have lived it. Hence, why addicts make the best addiction counselors. So, does this mean I will never/can never/should never serve in the military in any capacity? I have no idea what a soldier's life is like, but I do know grief. Could it relate? Should it? I don't know. Either way, whether I ever get to serve in this way or not, what would make me successful is not so much any past military experience as it is my compassion. After all, I was never in many of the positions my characters found themselves in, but, because of compassion, I could still feel what they felt.  

Maybe I should stick with my plan to one day work in a cancer hospital. 

So, how I end up making a living is not as important as how I use my gifts. In any of these settings, compassion is what motivates and drives me. 

For now, when thoughts become too intense to contain, too painful to ignore, I write until those thoughts are free. 

I struggle with how I can mourn someone who hurt me so deeply and so profoundly. I feel guilty for caring less about Brad’s current wife’s pain than my own. Still, I know I am not the only one who has ever dealt with grief and I know others who haven’t experienced it yet will one day. That is part of being human. I also know that the only way I got through divorce and cancer is the only way I am going to get through this – and that is the story I long to share – through my own life and my own words – because of compassion.

I hurt. I hurt deeply. Still, I know I am never alone. Jesus is with me. I feel Him. He holds me and carries me. He can do the same for anyone. As Reverend Tony Evans reminded me this morning, Jesus can and wants to, but He will never force Himself upon us. He must be invited in. This relationship is two-sided. It requires effort and action – but when we do we will find shelter under His wing. He will open His wing for us, but we have to make the choice to seek shelter there – the power of faith vs. the power of unbelief.

Tony Evans - The Power of Unbelief

Right Here Waiting video

The Pink Polo Shirt

After work yesterday, I stopped at Walmart to pick up a few grocery essentials. As I walked the aisles, I wordlessly talked to Brad – and questioned God. Why is his death so difficult for me? I feel like the person from the COPD commercials with the elephant sitting on his chest. When I jog, rather than the physical exertion releasing the tension, my breathlessness feels more like an oncoming panic attack. I cannot escape him or ignore him. For the first time in my life, I somewhat understand how those with ADD feel.

Brad suffered all of his life. It crushed me to see periodic photos of him on social media and see his withering body and to know, whether I wanted to admit it or not, that he was dying.

I prayed for him constantly, asking God to release him from his pain – whether that meant taking him home or healing him here on earth. I prayed also that God would heal him here – in this life – so that his family could experience his healing and joy with him – so that healing can take place here – now – and he would know true peace in this life.

I suppose I am somewhat angry with God for answering my prayer, but not in the way I hoped. Still, Brad is no longer suffering. He is healed, whole, happy, and at peace. So, why does it hurt so bad that he is gone?

My conversation with Brad:

I am angry because you took away my healing. You are free. I am still here and you are not. I am left with your ghost, with our ghosts. By dying, you took with you any hope of our reconciliation. I never hoped for us to get back together, but I did hope we could become friends – real friends – as I thought we had become before that horrid day you butt-dialed me and I had to face the truth as I listened to your drunken conversation with Michelle. You forced me to face a truth I did not want to face and to make a decision I did not want to make. I hit the floor of the kitchen and cried. I was in so much pain. Still, I longed for the day when we could be truly reconciled.

But would that have ever been enough? Honestly, I would probably have been jealous that Michelle got the sober, happy Brad that should have been mine.

Remember that day you asked me if I saw us divorced or together when I thought about our future? It was the last time we . . . I held onto you, cried, and whispered we were going to be okay. I believed it. When you asked the question, I said I had two equally vivid visions – one vision was dark and grey and we were making each other miserable, hurting each other – divorced.

In my other vision, I saw you and I standing in a procession at the front of the church, holding hands with a little girl – our adopted little girl – joining the other families in dedicating their children. You were sober. We were happy – truly happy and whole. You wore khaki pants and a pink polo shirt.

That is why I am so angry with you, Brad. The Brad I knew would never wear a pink shirt. You thought pink was a “sissy” color for men. You thought it would make you look weak. The Brad in my happy ending vision of us cared nothing about the color of his clothing because he knew the color is not what made the man. Your heart belonged fully and completely to Jesus and your family. All your demons were a distant memory, no longer controlling you.

Even before you died, I knew that the Brad in the pink polo would never be a reality for me, but your death sealed the coffin of this dream for good - for real. All hope is lost, gone, never to return. I will never know a Brad in a pink polo shirt and this is the reason I mourn you. This is the reason I am angry that you died. This is why I am angry that you left me – twice.

I recently read a post on FB about why those with high anxiety enjoy watching the same shows over and over again. This familiar repetition is predictable and comforting.

When I miss you most, I find comfort in the predictability of the Good Witch. It is strange and difficult for me to admit, but I long to find a love like Sam one day. I’m not sure why the love story of Sam and Cassie intrigues me so much when all other love stories nauseate me. Perhaps it is the fact that a woman who lost the love of her life and the man with trust issues and a broken heart find love again. I identify with both of them. Perhaps it is their age. Perhaps it’s the simple fact that I am enamored with James Denton. Whatever it is, after you died, I have been longing for a Sam in my life – not here and certainly not now – but someday.

Maybe the death of my pink polo shirted Brad has opened me up to new possibilities – once my hurt and anger subside.

Sam is a romantic. I used to think I was a romance cynic. What I have come to realize is that I became a cynic as a defense mechanism. The only time you tried to romance me is when you were apologizing for something. That kind of romance disgusts me. After your death, I looked through old mementos and saw the deflated balloon you once randomly brought to my work and the cards and notes you used to leave me. I was all in then. Your romancing me had nothing to do with an apology in the beginning and it worked. I knew how you felt back then. We lost it somewhere along the way – and I know just when and how. I want to be romanced again. But again, not here and not now.

Brad, thank you for releasing me – finally – but I’m still mad at you. I’m still hurt that you never gave me and the pink polo shirted Brad a chance. You chose oblivion in the bottle over me and I resent you for it although I do not blame you. I do understand how strong a pull your demons had on you, but still . . . you could have chosen differently. You could have chosen me and that unnamed little girl and a pink polo shirt.

Make a Memory

Last night I had the oddest dream involving my high school football team, marching band, Bon Jovi, Donald Trump, and my mom. I spent the morning attempting to decipher it all. It took a women’s conference speaker and a song to unpack the symbolism for me.

The football team: I wore the jersey and led the procession onto the field for what I imagined to be a fun-loving, gender-blended game between the alums and the current senior class. When we arrived on the sidelines, I realized I forgot the pads and helmets. The individuals who had carried me in on their shoulders pointed out that the players all had what they needed. I looked around and noticed those from my senior year team suited up and ready to play. I realized in that moment that I could wear the jersey, but could not participate.

In the next scene, I arrive first to an impromptu Bon Jovi concert. Acting like the true fan that I am, I got super excited and giddy when I noticed Jon Bon Jovi walking toward me. I reach out to touch him, but he looks straight through me as if I do not exist. Without ever acknowledging me, he speaks to the marching band from my high school. Although I stand in front of the drum line, I am not wearing a uniform and I do not have an instrument. I am not a member of the band. JBJ encourages them and tells them how excited he is to have them join the band for the night’s performance. I realize I am an invisible outsider. The object of my longing and affection stand in front of me and surround me, but no one notices me. I long to belong, but I am a nobody in this moment.

I move to the other side of the stage once I see my mom. She points out Donald Trump on stage. He is there to introduce the band. The band stand behind him and Jon stands next to him. They welcome him, but cannot hide their look of contempt. Trump sees my mom, points to her, calls her by name, and walks off the stage toward her to greet her with a warm embrace. My mom embraces him back and she introduces him to me. He greets me with an affectionate handshake. Both my mom and JBJ are Democrats, and they both welcome Trump, but I notice the difference. The band welcome him out of social obligation because it is the right thing to do as a sign of unity for a fractured nation. My mom welcomes him because, although their politics are vastly different, she still likes the man and can be friends with her political enemy.

There is a ginormous blowup object beside us. JBJ is talking with the workers who invite him to ride on it as they fill it with air. I watch as he lays down and rises along with the balloon. However, the balloon begins to arc and I notice the danger he now faces. He could slide head first off of the balloon – and that is exactly what begins to happen – and as it begins to happen, I grab on tight to Trump and bury my head into his chest. He stands still, allowing my frightened embrace.

JBJ falls and hits his head. At first, he begins to rise and say he’s okay, but then immediately lays back down and admits that maybe he is not okay. Trump walks back to the stage to distract the audience while emergency crews check JBJ out. I realize what I had done and laugh and thank Trump for being so graceful with me. He shrugs and says no problem and I believe him. JBJ is okay and makes his way back to the stage to begin the show.

 . . .

This morning, I watched part of the Desperate for Jesus 2020 conference on YouTube. Katherine Wolf shared her remarkable story of triumph. At one point, she mentioned how it took her five years – not five months or five weeks or five days to overcome her tragedy and write a book and start speaking about finding joy in dark times. It took her five years, and twelve years later, she is still fighting.

Romans 5:3-5 – And  not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.

This stopped my racing mind because God spoke this verse to me many years ago – long before my suffering began. At first, I thought, “lucky her – only five years. It’s been almost ten for me and I still feel like I am enduring the suffering.” Then, she continued, “. . . even if it takes ten year (pause) or twenty.”

The fact that I still cannot tolerate a ton of silence and still struggle with concentration reminds me that I have not yet healed from Brad’s death. He is still on my mind constantly. I have moved on. I am back at work and enjoying it. I am laughing again and meaning it. I even managed to get through my summer M.Div class – and come out with a B+. (Considering I hoped for a C, knowing my overachiever status could not pull out an A in my current condition, and considering this professor is supposedly a tough grader, I was ecstatic with the outcome.)

Other good has come out of Brad's death as well:

I had a semi-secret crush for several years on a guy I worked with. I hated it and was thankful nothing could come of it because I knew that if he returned my feelings, I would make a terrible mess of his life and mine. I was in no position to date and love again. At the time, I thought it was because I was still so focused on me and my own growth and healing. I realize now that I was still tied to Brad. Even though we had been divorced for a long time and even though I had not talked to him in two years, there was still something connecting me to him. As long as this connection remained, there was no way I could be free to truly love anyone else.

Well, after Brad’s death, I felt that connection, whatever it was, untangle and disentigrate. I feel free and healthy and whole.

Not only do I feel free and healthy and whole from that unhealthy connection I had with Brad, I also feel free from my secret crush. I no longer have that emotional attachment to him.

I have been released twice.

When I first realized this release, I thought that my crush was not so much for the man as it was the fact that he was the polar opposite of Brad. Then, I realized he and Brad were not so very different. I am attracted to passionate men and both men were/are passionate – just about different things. Both men have baggage and they both clung desperately to something to help them cope – but one chose alcohol and the other chose work and faith.

I honestly do not know why losing Brad would cause me to stop having romantic feelings for this other man – except maybe that I no longer feel a need to be validated by him or anyone.

I have a quote from John Cougar Mellencamp posted in my office – the secret to his success – go where they’re not. I fell in love with the quote the moment I heard it. I knew it was significant for me, but I did not – and still do not – know why or how. Go where? Who are “they”?

Before Brad died, I often got this feeling of wanderlust – a need to run away. After Brad died, I still feel wanderlust, but now it is a desire to run to something rather than run away from something. Unfortunately, I have no idea what I want to run to.

. . .

Again, unable to stand much silence, I listened to my Bon Jovi Spotify channel as I got ready for work this morning. (You Want To) Make a Memory begins to play. I sit on Bailey’s bed-steps and listen. The song reminds me of Brad. After our divorce and before he got remarried, I used to imagine that was us 5, 10, 15 years down the road, running into one another again, both of us having done the hard work to heal and improve ourselves, realizing we still love each other, and reconnecting better and stronger than ever. “No hope for that now, is there, Brad?” I think to myself.

Then, I reflect on the video. In the video, it appears that JBJ is a ghost. “Well, maybe it’s not so far fetched, huh, Brad?” I muse.

I miss Brad – who he was and not who he became. I miss us –  who we were and not who we had become. I miss the early us, the young kids so in love – us against the world. I miss what we could have been. I miss the "could've, would've, should'ves" (line from one of Brad's songs).

I do not begrudge any of it. In the end, I know he loved Michelle and I know Michelle loved him. I am thankful for that. Still, I miss him, too. I suppose that maybe the reason I fell out of love with my crush is because I realize that I am still in love with who Brad and I once were.

. . .

Back to the dream and what it all has to do with Brad and crushes and disabled speakers and wanderlust.

I suppose Brad and the crush are both JBJ. The crush never did see me the way I once hoped he would and Brad never will again – but he did once.

The football team and band – my longing to belong, but knowing, at least for now, I am on the outside. I am in the dark place. I have work still to do in here. The good news is that I do see the light and I know that no matter how lonely I may feel, I am never alone. Jesus has never left my side and he did not make a mistake with me. I am beautifully and wonderfully made and I am right where I need to be for now. I may not have any idea where to go or who “they” are yet, but I have no doubt that even if I never figure it out, I will still get there. God will see to that.

The Trump thing – has nothing to do with politics. It has everything to do with the heart – and who I want to be. I want to be authentic. I want to do the right thing because of who I am and because of who lives in me. I do not want to do the right thing because it is the right thing in order to present a certain image or message. I want my life and the way I live it to speak for me.

So, here’s to Brad, for having loved me well once and reminding me that “there is something about Renee” (another line from another Brad song) whether I see or feel it right now or not.

Here’s to being in the season of suffering, trusting that “suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint [me], because God’s love has been poured into [my] hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to [me].”

Here’s to memories and to one day “going where they are not.”

Here’s to the journey . . .

Click HERE to watch Bon Jovi's (You Want To) Make a Memory video.