Sometimes I feel like I wake up every day and feel as if I'm starting all over again in accepting this new realiity. Today marked four months since your passing, but I truly feel as if it was just this last week. While much has been accomplished in these last four months, in my dazed mind, it has all amounted to nothing more than a big blur of confusion and emotion.
The new home is very nice. Andi, Harry, and I are in and settled. I was blessed with so much help in getting moved in. Family and your dear friends have been amazingly helpful. Your “boys” rocked it on moving day and really helped me out. They once again showed me what it’s really like to share true bonds of friendship.Getting to this point of being moved in and settled has been quite a journey. On top of the other endless tasks to do, I worked pretty hard at getting our Ogden house packed up and ready to go. I spent many an afternoon up there in our home, packing up what seemed like our every memory. I somehow know you know of the endless tears I shed while doing so.
My journey of the last four months has obviously held many excruciating moments, but those afternoons spent packing our life up was perhaps one of the most heartbreaking. While I feel confident in the steps I’m taking, and confident that you feel confident in them, I still feel great heartache in letting go of the place we made our home. How I love our Ogden home.
I will never ever forget the pivitol moments that defined our lives there—
When you proposed to me in your room—what later became our room.
When you dug up and repaired the leaky foundation…With Harry as your sidekick.
When I tiled the kitchen with Lori and painted the upstairs with Chris.
When we fought over every additional piece of furniture I brought into that house.
When we cleaned up four different basement floods….even more if you count when the sewer line broke. That brought on some pretty awesome mood swings.
When I flooded the laundry room and cried in your arms.
When we were dating—How we’d spend countless hours talking in the living room or cuddling in the “little room.”
Addressing wedding invitations in the living room as we watched movies.
When I gave you your first haircut and you got mad at me for just about taking your ear off.
When we fought and made up. So many many times.
When I took one pregnancy test after another as you waited anxiously.
When we found out I was pregnant again after the miscarriage….How we immediately kneeled and prayed in gratitude and how we prayed we’d have a successful pregnancy this time around. That was Sunday, December 9, 2007.
Yelling for Harry out the front door.
Raking leaves, shoveling snow, mowing lawns.
Watching an endless array of movies with you.
Sharing so many leisurely moments exchanging our thoughts about life and our dreams and goals.
When the whole P.A. school thing went down—there was one afternoon I’ll never forget. I came home from school and you were in the office next to the kitchen. That afternoon we both ended up on our knees in tears for the challenges we were facing and the lifetime of heartbreaks we were feeling. I remember holding you and knowing at that moment that there was no turning back…That we as a couple were for real and that we had each other’s backs no matter what….That no matter what we had ahead of us, we were going to be together. –Our commitment to each other was so empowering. We knew, even amidst the disagreements and differences, that we were solid. That nothing was going to break us. And truly, nothing did. Not PA school, not a miscarriage, a robbery, not losing jobs, not losing money. Not family disagreements, not poor decisions, not financial strains. Not endless hours spent away from each other. Not a lost knife or a favorite broken sign or a flooded laundry room or even a cracked tv. Not a crying baby, nor a hot temper, nor even a wounded heart after a thoughtless comment.
Yep, Michael. We were committed. And it was in our solid little Ogden home that gave us a place to figure all that out and go through that process together. It was in that home that I became a wife and you became a husband.
And then of course, it was there we became parents.
I will always cherish that home, in heart and mind.
When I had your family come over a few weeks back before the move, I had them go through some remaining items of yours. I wanted to share dinner with them one last time in that home and I hoped to allow them some time in that place that so very much defined you. I asked Daniel to pray for the house and I don’t think I’ll forget the heartfelt prayer he offered. He asked for that sacred home to be blessed and cared for—that your blood, sweat, and tears put into that home somehow wouldn’t go to waste.
I so appreciated that evening with your family. I needed them to feel what I had been feeling at that house for many days at that point. I needed to know my heartbreak wasn’t solitary, and to see my true heartbreak at leaving it all behind. That evening will be a memorable point in this journey, I think. It was hard being there with them without you. It brought it all “home” again and gave me another awful taste of the depth of this loss.
But when moving day came, we got it done. I would be so ungrateful if I didn’t acknowledge the many caring hands and the wonderful place I have to now rest my head. I have spent the last three weeks putting it all together. I didn’t anticipate the need to rush to get it all together, but then again, I’m not surprised at my need to do so. The past months I’ve often wondered why I’ve been so anxious to get settled in this new home, and the answer makes sense. I think I’m just a typical woman who needs to “nest” and create a nice, safe place that will allow me room to somehow get a hold on this new reality.
Part of getting a hold on this reality means getting a routine back. We need familiarity. But I also know myself to be a person that needs order. I’ve been longing for it.
Yep, now I need a chance to get settled, stop the madness, and let it all set in. It’s true that I’ve been running away from any too much time to dwell on the devastation. And there’s a place for that. But being here in this new home forces me to see there’s just no running away from it. I certainly wish I could run away from the devastation, though, as I lie in bed at night and stare at the empty side of the bed. I also wish I could run away from the countless times I find myself yearning for a little help with a tired and grouchy baby girl. I wish you could be here to help me move furniture, hang heavy pictures, and organize all our crap. I even wish you could be here to tell me I’m rushing too much and that I need to slow down and “do it right.” I mostly just wish you could be here as I stare at the stars through these windows at night.
I’ve never had a house or windows tall enough to reach the view of the stars. How beautiful it is to look out and see them shining. I think of you each time I gaze at them. Sometimes the glow of the stars makes me feel like I have more than just the gaze of the stars upon me. And I appreciate that.
As I lay in bed at night, right outside my window I can see the mortuary lit up on the hill. For some crazy reason I like that. You’d think I’d hate that place, and a part of me does, after Chris and especially after you, but I still like that I can see it. It reminds me of those sacred times holding your precious body. I know I’m weird, but I savored those moments after your death. I’ve just loved your body and will long to hold it from now ‘til I can touch you again.
So yes, it’s definitely disorienting and more than a little weird to be here. But the location feels like home and I sure appreciate the new ward members who are being so nice. I am very blessed to have such a nice place to continue life in. In some sick and twisted kind of way, I guess it's a way for Andi and I to start with a clean slate, so to speak.
Michael, I miss you more than words can tell. Sometimes I feel as if my heart is literally and physically breaking as I continue each moment without you. Every ounce of my being longs for you so, so badly. Truly not a minute passes by that I don't think of you.
But Andi, my other angel, is doing very well. We have a good home. Harry’s getting more and more happy each day as he barks at the new neighbors. And together, much to my chagrin sometimes, Andi and I are still alive, even after these horrific months. I know I ultimately cannot allow myself to ignore these positive things.
Your headstone was put in this week.
As I stare at it, the usual pain of devastation runs its course through my veins. It just cannot be real.
Aside from my emotions, I was glad to see it put in. I wanted it to represent you as best it could. I thought long and hard about it and feel happy with the final product.
The saying on the back came from one of your poems to me and I feel so proud and grateful to put it there. You said it so well.
Last week I ran to the cemetery on a dark, rainy evening. As I sat there under the moonlight feeling your body near, I couldn't help but feel so frustrated in thinking of the countless work and sheer grit effort we put into building our marriage and family. And now it all comes down to this?...A headstone and a broken heart?
My frustration continues as I think about that stupid journey I took in getting you in my life and heart. Let’s be honest…..Just like most people, in my single years before you, I had my share of broken dreams and confused identities. And when we met each other, well, let’s face it—Perhaps we weren’t each other’s picture perfect dream come true. But in time we became each other’s best friend. And in time, no matter how cheesy or nostalgic or inaccurate I may sound, I truly believe the hand of God led our hearts together.
I’ll never forget the dream you had that miraculously led you to me, and I’ll never forget the confirmation I felt in my efforts to know if I should marry you.
I also believe the hand of God continued to stay its hand in our marriage. Did we have a perfect life? No. We fought. We disagreed. We dealt with each other’s imperfections. We may have had moments of questioning our life’s paths…especially in the beginning.
But here’s the deal. I heard this cheesy song on the radio the other day that says it best—It’s the first song on this blog’s playlist:
I set out on a narrow way, many years ago
Hoping I would find true love along the broken road
But I got lost a time or two
Wiped my brow and kept pushing through
I couldn't see how every sign pointed straight to you
Every long lost dream led me to where you are
Others who broke my heart, they were like northern stars
Pointing me on my way into your loving arms
This much I know is true
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to you
Yes He did
I think about the years I spent, just passing through
I'd like to have the time I lost, and give it back to you
But you just smile and take my hand
You've been there, you understand
It's all part of a grander plan that is coming true
Every long lost dream led me to where you are
Others who broke my heart, they were like northern stars
Pointing me on my way into your loving arms
This much I know is true
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to you
But now I'm just rolling home into my lover's arms
This much I know is true
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to you
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to you
So we were led to be together. We worked hard and gave it our all to stay together. And we gave each other our hearts.
And now I look at your headstone and think, “Was it worth it?”
Was it worth all the dumb fights, the looking past faults, the sacrificing of personal agendas, the compromising, the endless work….?
Was it worth it, even now as I face this very grim reality? As I feel a loss greater than my weakened soul can scarcely comprehend…?
And will it be worth it as I now face life as a widow and watch my daughter face life without her dad?
Yes can be my only answer. Yes, yes, yes.
I will never regret giving my heart to you. No, life wasn’t perfect, but we found safety, friendship, and true unconditional acceptance in each other. Through each other, we learned what marriage really meant:
It means to be humble enough to want nothing more than to offer your mate anything it is that would make he or she happy. It’s growing together and sharing that vision of a couple progressing. It’s seeing the good things and embracing the hard stuff. It’s enjoying every moment spent with each other, even if those moments are few and far between because life is crazy hectic.
It's waiting for those priceless moments of being able to hang out and laugh with the person you love the most. It’s sacrificing personal agendas and helping each other out. It's believing in and having faith in the greatness of your other half. It’s treating your union sacred by showing true loyalty in the words you say and don’t say.
Marriage is absolutely loving the fact that what you share in your relationship is so special and unique that it cannot be repeated, retold, or duplicated. What you share in a marriage is a God-given relationship that allows for a safe place of total openness and acceptance that cannot be explained. We had that…even in what may be considered just a short five years. We had it and more.
Oh, Michael. I don’t know what our future holds, but how can I ignore God’s hand in our union? And consequently I must trust that there is indeed a grander plan in all of this. A grander plan that allows us, even if for a few sacred moments, to rise above this suffering.
I love you~
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