Monday, May 28, 2018

Memorial day

Ryan used to be annoyed when people would said “Happy Memorial Day” or when they thanked him for his service on Memorial Day.  Memorial Day is not a happy-welcome-summer day - it is a somber day in which we remember those who died while serving.  It is also not a day for those currently serving or for previous Veteran’s - those each have their own days in which we should acknowledge and thank them.  But today we remember those who are no longer with us.  For us, we remember Ryan on Memorial Day.
🇺🇸 
The poppy on Memorial Day represents the first flower to grow after the ground has been disturbed.   It became a Memorial Day symbol after being mentioned in John McCrae’s 1915 poem, “Flanders  Field.”
Kate’s water color painting of poppies she gave to me. 🌺 
We love and remember Ryan today and aways. 💕 🇺🇸
Charlie got to meet Captain America last week at Disneyland.
He was Ryan’s favorite Marvel character, and so now Charlie’s!
TAPS at Ryan’s funeral 🎺 
Air Force honor guard at Ryan’s funeral 🇺🇸 

Sunday, May 20, 2018

holistically dualistic

This month my assignment was to read about the idea of “dualism,” or the duality of the mind and the body, and then write a response about how I see these ideas play into my personal Christian spiritual formation.  Just a brief background - the idea of dualism asserts that reality is composed of two independent, often opposing, principles, usually labeled as “mind and matter.”  The philosopher Plato saw the mind as “pure” and matter as “evil,” or at the very least saw matter as being an imperfect and corrupted copy of what the perfect mind could conceive of.  But as children of a God who created us with both mind and body, how do we respond to that?  Are mind and body “opposed” to each other?  Or are they even separate, independent parts?  And of course did the incarnate Christ himself demonstrate a duality, coexisting as both human body and divine mind?  These thoughts in themselves are both intriguing to me but also kind of leave me wondering where to go with it all...
So here is where my rambling thoughts went during the crazy month of May… I really, really like dwelling in the knowledge that I am God’s “ceaseless spiritual being.”  After Ryan’s death two summers ago, I really needed to hear that my spirit/heart/soul require ongoing transformation because they are the “part” of me that carries on into eternity. The reality of that not only brings me hope, but it provides the motivation I often needed to “keep going” and to “do this grief thing” right.  Thoughts of my presence and Ryan's presence in the eternal Kingdom also gave me fresh motivation to trust that there is a way to “do life” correctly on the days I did not “feel” it.  But the idea of bringing my physical body, which is temporary, into this thought process of my own spiritual transformation were met with much less than enthusiasm...  In fact my first thought really was to simply settle into Plato's view of duality - good spirit versus evil matter.  I mean, I can work on my spirit and then kind of “ignore” my body and the physical reality I live in because they will all at some point perish away, right?  But I just do not think that is the way that God wants me to see it all...
So I started with death.  I really could not begin to contemplate and wrestle with these ideas of physical body without thinking about death.  And all this in a month – May - in which a wedding anniversary, Ryan’s birthday, and Memorial day fall within, followed by the anniversary of his death.  May is a heavy month when it comes to realizing and acknowledging Ryan’s death.  So as I prepared to take my children to visit the cemetery last week, our annual visit on his birthday (daddy day), I had to help an eleven-year old and a fifteen-year old acknowledge once again that their daddy’s physical body was put into that ground. Even as I struggle to grasp these “big" and weighty ideas, I also feel the full weight of guiding my children towards an understanding of the body/spirit relationship.  I know in my mind that God made our bodies to honor him and yet I have the blatant reality before me that our bodies do not last.  My children’s daddy is not physically here.  My spirit and soul seem worth “working on” because they are the parts of me that will go into eternity but I know my physical body will one day be put in the ground as well.
In thinking about death, I can easily see my eternal heart/spirit/soul as the center of all importance, simply due to its unceasing nature.  That is THE part that will matter as I pass into eternal life.  “At ‘physical’ death we become conscious and enjoy a richness of experience we have never known before” (Dallas Willard).  And I really needed to focus on how important my eternal soul is at a time when it would have been so easy for me to become entangled in the sorrow of my physical reality or be consumed by my loss of Ryan (him in the “seen” world), all these past 23 months.  I needed to hear that Kingdom life (life in the spirit) is available now and that my spiritual, non-ceasing soul is the focus of that life, even as I was consumed in grief and now as I am busy with the demands of the physical and social reality in which I live.
But God is quickly dismantling any idea of mind and matter being opposed to each other.  Yes, I needed that “eternal” focus for a time.  It served an important purpose.  In a lot of ways it saved me from pain and trauma that could so easily have consumed my person.  But there is also a danger when we focus too much on the spiritual, at the expense of seeing the physical as “corrupt,” evil, or simply unimportant due to the fact that it is by nature perishing and passing away,  “One can immediately see all around us that the human body is a primary barrier to conformity to Christ.  But this certainly was not God’s intent for the body” (Dallas Willard).  I think the point is that both parts – spiritual and physical – are completely essential to each other.  And essentially good.  Essentially good.  Our spirit/heart/soul and our bodies that extend into the physical world, were both created by an intrinsically good God.  That alone is reason to place value on our whole selves. 
And I think to move forward with life I also needed to see the value of my current, physical reality.  My physical body IS important and the care of it is intensely important because it is so intimately tied to the formation of my spirit and my heart.  I could easily get “stuck” focusing on the eternal and miss out on the blessings of the others all around me right now.  My temporary body has value partly because is it where I find and am found by others.  It gives me five senses so that I can speak, write, and read these words before you right now.  It is how I find you.  It is how you find me.  It was how I found and knew Ryan.  Just the fact that my physical body is the means of my interaction with  you and other children of God gives it enormous value.  But also, my body is the created container, the crucible if you will, where spiritual formation takes place.  The habits that I choose to indulge or rid myself of are bodily actions that can bring me closer or further away from my loving God.  I needed to realize how my body plays the active role in placing my spirit in a position to interact with the Kingdom of eternity now.  “The body is not just a physical system, but is inhabited by the real presence of Christ” (Dallas Willard).
So I think if I had to use a philosophic label for all these rambling thoughts, I would say that we are created to be “holistically dualistic.”  “Dualistic” in that the spirit (our heart and soul) and the body (our presence in the physical and social world) are two distinct parts of our person, but “holistic” in that these two parts are so intimately interconnected that neither can be referenced without understanding the other.  Neither can be valued without valuing the other.  In fact neither can function without the other, they are like different types of threads that are woven together to form a whole person.

Dallas Willard
saw this cool sun halo last week

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

41st birthday

Today would have been Ryan’s 41st birthday.  I would be a lot more emotional but we have a busy day of writing class, appointments, schoolwork, field trip with friends, and then a clarinet concert tonight.  But I want to continue our tradition from last year of celebrating a “Daddy Day,” so I think we are setting aside Friday to celebrate Ryan, visit the cemetery, and then do his favorite things and eat his favorite treats.  Charlie especially needs to see this happen and I think Kate does too, but without showing it as much.  And I think keeping track of Ryan’s birthdays is also helpful to me because it just occurred to me that on my birthday this year, in October, I will turn 39 and that was the age Ryan was when he died.  And then about six weeks after my birthday (40 days after it to be exact), I will then be older than Ryan ever was.  It is weird to think that as I age, Ryan will always kind of stay about in his late 30’s to me because I can’t picture him older than that.  But then if you go back and listen to the podcast I shared in the blog entry just before this one, I picture the idea of all of us all being in our early 30’s for eternity - that being the age when our bodies kind of “peak” from growth of infant to our “best” adult self  (physically, not necessarily mentally or spiritually or emotionally but we get take most of the mental, spirit, and emotions with us into eternity, so those have the opportunity to continue to “grow” from now forward, unlike our physical bodies).  After 30ish, our bodies begin to deteriorate back down.  I love the idea that our eternal selves would be the “peak” of what we have on earth because eternal life does not have deterioration.  I could write much much more on those thoughts but for now, and probably will at some point, but for now here is a picture of my beloved Ryan in 2013, when he would have been about 35 years old.
This is how I choose to remember Ryan because this was taken
at a time when he was happy and “well,” before depression really
took over and perhaps what he will be/is for all eternity.  :)

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

lessons beyond the grave

I had the privilege of attending a conference hosted by my Renovaré Institute program at my alma mater, Westmont College, in Santa Barbara tonight where Richard Foster, author of the book Celebration of Discipline, spoke.  Richard Foster’s words are always so straightforward, thought-provoking, and yet filled with love and grace-infused wisdom, just like his books are.  It was also a nice evening to just reconnect face to face with some of my beloved fellow students and faculty from Renovare.  I will not see most of them again until our third semester residency in November of this year.  I also got to reconnect briefly with two of my instructors tonight, Nathan Foster and Chris Hall. And on the drive home I decided to listen to one of the older Renovaré podcasts to fill the time during the hour drive.  I randomly picked a podcast from May 2015 simply because it had Nathan Foster interviewing Chris Hall and it felt like familiar friends to listen to their thoughts and conversation as I drove.  Most of the Renovaré podcasts are great and thought-provoking to listen to but I just had to share this one in particular tonight because anyone who has suffered a loss would find this conversation both intensely thought-provoking , but also abundantly hope-filling.  It’s a discussion about heaven, or life in the eternal Kingdom, and I found myself intrigued by the ideas and pictures Chris Hall paints of our life with God for the 10,000+ years.  It is worth the 25 minutes to listen!  Enjoy!

Podcast Link from May 2015:
Lessons Beyond the Grave

Richard Foster Renovaré Westmont
a picture I took on Saturday from Grass Mountain hike

Saturday, May 12, 2018

mothers day

“I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you.” (Jer. 31:3)

Thursday, May 10, 2018

deep roots

I fear this blog entry may be a rambling mess as I attempt to organize some revelations I have had that may only make sense in my own head and not translate well to paper (or screen), but I am nevertheless going to attempt to verbalize them because God is good and sweet to me and I want to remember the lessons I am learning.  It starts with Psalm 1, which was the first long passage (whole chapter) of Scripture I ever memorized:

“Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the Lord and on his law he meditates day and night.  He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither.  In all that he does, he prospers.  The wicked are not so, but are like chaff that the wind drives away.  Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous; for the Lord knows the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked will perish.”  (Psalm 1)

I memorized it years and years ago and I have since had to go back to remind myself of the exact wording.  But this week I ran across a commentary on the first psalm by Dallas Willard and I felt it so fitting to my life that I decided to “rememorize” the words again.

“The image used here is that of a tree planted by water canals.  No matter what the weather or the surface condition of the ground, its roots go down into the water sources and bring up Life.  As a result, it bears fruit when it is supposed to, and it’s foliage is always bright with life.  It prospers in what it does.  And likewise the man who is rooted in God through his law: in whatever he does, he prospers.” (Dallas Willard)

I so much want to be that tree, the one that can weather any storm and the one that can bear good fruit, no matter the surface conditions, because I am deeply rooted in God’s living waters.  That image speaks to my soul so deeply, so much so that I feel like I need to find a painting of a tree with deep, well-watered roots to hang in my home as a reminder to me of those words and that longing.  I delight in the image of the tree by streams of water and I pray that I can delight in the law of the Lord (his best and good intentions for me) just as much.  And that is where I sit in awe of God this week... 

You see, the verses God put on my heart this year to study and memorize come from the first chapter of Joshua.  Yes, Joshua.  I really bristled at that at first because, seriously, what do Joshua and I have in common?  Joshua was with Moses during the exodus and he was Moses’ right-hand man through the desert.  He is the one who took over leadership of the Israelites after the death of Moses and was commissioned by God to lead the military conquests of the land of Canaan that eventually led his people into the Promised Land.  Exodus, desert, military conquests...  I really have been wondering what I am supposed to learn from this story... But the words God has put on my heart, and right in front of me in some weird and obvious ways, over and over, are the words he spoke repeatedly to Joshua before he began his military campaigns: “be strong and courageous.”  One of my mentors said that God had asked a lot of me and those are fitting words of encouragement.  And another had a vision of a door in front of me and the words “be strong and courageous” as what I needed to hear to enter the door.  I admittedly prefer at most times to sit paralyzed in my fear and insecurities than to approach a door, even a door that is filled with goodness and light.  It that respect, I relate much more to Moses who argued with God about not being the one to be picked for anything because he was not adequate... 

So in the midst of pondering what those words and ideas mean and why being “strong and courageous” is being spoken into my life, I run across the familiar and comforting words of my beloved Psalm 1.  And God is starting to tie things together, in that wonderful way that he always does...  I realized today that some of David’s thoughts in that first psalm compare to what was said to Joshua: This Book of the Law shall not depart from your mouth, but you shall meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do according to all that is written in it.  For then you will make your way prosperous, and then you will have good success” (Josh 1:8).

That may not seem strange to anyone, it is of course God’s instructions to us - to meditate on his law day and night.  It is for our own benefit and it is the way our roots soak into his tender goodness.  God spoke that wisdom to both David and Joshua, just as he urges each of us to also soak in his law so that we may prosper and thrive in and through anything.  But what really struck me was that this verse from Joshua - the one that mirrors my beloved first psalm - is sandwiched smack in between these words in verses 7 and 9:

“Be strong and courageous... only be strong and very courageous... that you may have good success...” (verse 7)
“Have I not commanded you?  Be strong and courageous.  Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go” (verse 9)

Is it not a weird thing that the “paraphrase” of my favorite psalm (about meditating on God’s law both day and night so I can be a prosperous tree and one with good success/good fruit) is sandwiched in between the words “be strong and courageous,” on both sides of it?  I mean I read that verse, verse 8, several times this year as I struggled with those “strong and courageous” lines before and after it, but I didn’t really dwell on it.  Then I read Psalm 1 this week, with Willard’s commentary, and see it right smack dab in between.  

I love love when God ties things up in neat little bows because I do badly need obvious and tangible signs to teach me.  I am still struggling to understand why and how I am to fulfill the be “strong and courageous” that is being spoken into my life in this season but I know any strength or courage in my life will flow forth like fruit on a tree that has been rooted deeply into the living waters of God’s law.  I delight in that process.  

Tuesday, May 8, 2018

May 8th

Seventeen years ago today I married this guy.  Today is my second May 8th without him.  Below are some pictures from when we were engaged and during our first year of marriage, 2001.  I think the part that makes me the saddest is that the details of these memories are starting to fade, his face is starting to fade, and the one other person who knows the stories behind these memories is not here to remind me of them and laugh and share them.
Hawaii 
Arkansas
Hawaii 


Disney World Florida

Disneyland California
San Simeon, CA

Friday, May 4, 2018

transition

I think I have realized that I have an unique way of dealing with grief and I am not sure it is “right,” but in this journey there really seems to be no “right” or “wrong,” there is just what is.  In the past my “griefs” have always had to do with transitions, usually specifically moves.  I remember grieving the end of high school when all my best friends and I scattered to different colleges.  That grief felt like fear, fear of the unknown as I left home.  I remember graduating college and grieving the end of that period of my life.  I cried as I cleaned out my college apartment and said good-bye to college life.  And then each military move brought some level of grief - I have many memories of a moving van pulling away from a now-empty house and trying to be excited about the new home we would set up or new adventures we would have, but usually accompanied by memories of just sobbing as I stood in an empty house hugging dear friends, hoping time would slow down.  When we left Florida, I cried all the way to the Alabama state line.  When we left DC, a snowstorm (and a lost cat that had to be retrieved) delayed our move a day, leaving me happy to have “one more day” with friends but knowing I was just delaying the inevitable good bye (or “see you later” as we would comfort ourselves with!).

But regardless of the grief memory, the coping strategy was usually the same for me - avoid thinking about what I lost, focus on what is ahead, and give it all enough time to not feel so raw and painful.  So after leaving Florida, I focused on settling into DC.  But the pain of that transition left such an imprint on my soul that just seeing a picture of the gorgeous gulf coast shore left me aching inside.  I kept pictures of Florida hidden from my view.  A mention of a friend from there sent me choking back tears.  So I distanced myself a bit.  I just avoided all thought and picture and idea of Florida until I felt settled in DC.  Then sometime around six months after the move, I could begin to look back at our time in Florida with a fondness that rivaled the pain.  And by a year out, I could look through pictures of my little children splashing in the waves with their friends and genuinely smile because my mama friends and I spent hours each week sitting on those sands, talking about life and children and homeschooling and hard stuff, while our children built sand castles and envisioned sea life aquariums and dodged jellyfish in the warm gulf waters of our backyard.  I treasure those moments! The process was the same for leaving DC, etc... Initially upon arriving in Texas, the picture of a cherry blossom or a TV show that took place in downtown DC would easily send me into waves of grief, missing my “home” there and our many brave field trips navigating DC traffic with other mamas and their kids so we could see Smithsonians and monuments and sites full of history, beauty, significance, and fun.  And, again, about six months in, I felt more settled in Texas and could begin the process of looking back at our DC memories again.  The places and the people and the circumstances have changed, but my coping strategy has obviously been to put the loss (and any and all reference to anything associated with the loss) out of mind, focus on my new situation, and after six months realize the pain would not be raw anymore.  By a year out I would be able to revisit my memories with a tender and sweet remembrance that was no longer blinded by pain.

When I lost Ryan, however, I knew my old coping mechanisms were just not going to work.  This was too big.  I could not possibly transition from a life with Ryan to a life without him by simply ignoring any and all memories of our life together and focusing on my new reality.  This is because there was nothing positive about my new reality.  With each new move I was grasping at the making of new friends, the settling into new routines, and the exploring of new areas to distract myself from my grief until I could feel comfortable and secure enough with my new life to revisit memories of my old life.  When Ryan died there was no “new life” that could rival my “old life.”  So I just waded through the grief, reaching the six month mark and realizing I could still breathe and I was making new routines.  Reaching a year and realizing I may actually want to move forward, since the alternative was to stay stuck in grief, and then working to figure out how to do that.  By eighteen months, I realized I had indeed successfully put together a new and functioning little life with my kids and I, here in California, with roots and new friends and school and somewhat happy routines.  And now, as I approach two years (next month) I realized I am looking back at my life with Ryan with fond memories that are beginning to rival my pain...  I did not think that was even possible.  After two years, I can look at a family picture and genuinely smile.  I can tell a story about something Ryan did or said and genuinely laugh.  The pain and the sorrow are still there (they always will be) but the “rawness” has largely softened.  It happened gradually, without me realizing it.

There are still certain things that will occasionally trigger a raw wave of grief - these are usually in the form of unanticipated surprises at an unexpected time - but my every day memories and thoughts of Ryan bring me joy mostly equal to my sorrow in a way I never realized would happen.  Or could happen.  In fact I think trying to talk about Ryan during the last two years has felt forced and difficult, but like something I just had to do.  It made me uncomfortable in that I either had to choke back tears or that I really was not truly being authentic.  I think I simply was not ready.  I was in that “first six months after a move” kind of space where I did not and could not think about our previous home because it was too painful.  But I think I felt like I had to keep trying because I did not think I would ever get to the place where I felt transitioned into a new life without him.  And yet here I am.  I almost feel sad to be in this spot because it means I have indeed transitioned into a life without Ryan.  And it is not a life I ever wanted.  But because it was forced on me, here I am.  I am in a new place.

And I think it has been a few surprising “firsts” that made me realize the transition.  After Ryan’s death, there were a few things I said to myself that I would never do or visit again.  Most of them small and silly things, but significant to me.  One example was to make homemade pizza.  Ryan used to make homemade pizza and he would tweak the recipe each time, trying to get the perfect crust.  And his pizzas were always delicious.  I remember unpacking the pizza pans after our move here, thinking that I would never see those used again.  But somehow last month I had a craving for homemade pizza and Charlie, still being on his “chef” kick, was willing to help me make the dough.  So we made homemade pizza!  And it was a lot like Ryan’s and we ate it, remembering Ryan, and it was a good evening.  A year ago I would have cried salty tears into the dough if you had asked me to take out Ryan’s pizza pans and make his pizza recipe.  But I have transitioned into the kind of person who can make and eat Ryan’s recipes with equal amounts of joy and sorrow.

The other thing I have noticed that makes me think I have transitioned is my feelings toward military life.  I am done with it.  Just done.  After Ryan’s death, I was so glad we lived near a base here in California because my entire adult life had pretty much been living on or near a military installation.  The rhythms and routines on base are familiar to me - and to my kids.  We shop at the exchange and the commissary, where we see service members in uniform.  We know the language of a conversation about what it means to stay in a TLF during a PCS or a TDY.  We identify as a military family.  And I was comforted by that in the early months after Ryan’s death.  I know my kids were too.  And I am, and will forever be, so thankful for the military family that has been there for us during these times, from my amazing CAO to the support on base to all my military friends who check on us from across the miles.  I am full of gratitude and love for each of you all.  But I am ready to say we are not a military family anymore.  We were, and I treasure those memories in the deepest ways.  But I have transitioned out of that role now.  I noticed it in little things, like choosing to shop off base or not feeling an interest in engaging in base events (the community and church events seem to be where I gravitate now).  Again, I have slowly felt that for awhile and am just realizing it.  Today confirmed it.  Today I went to the base library for the first time - we use our community library and just have never had a reason to go inside the base library.  Today being May 4th (Star Wars day), the library on base had a children’s event that my sister invited me to (she is a civilian who works on base).  My kids were interested to go see anything Star Wars, so we went and they, being avid bookworms, of course found a few books they wanted to check out.  I went to the counter while my kids were looking at books and I inquired about what information was needed to check out books.  And I was reminded that military library accounts are always under the active duty members’ name.  So I filled out the library form as best I could but of course had to leave the fields for “squadron organization” and “duty phone” blank.  When I turned in the form, the librarian kindly said I could check out books today but I would need to come back to give her my husband’s squadron number and duty phone.  I sighed.  And I told her I could not do that because my husband is deceased and I asked what the policy is for dependents without a sponsor.  I had not had to have that conversation in a very long time.  The poor lady immediately was very uncomfortable, mumbled something about being so sorry, and then would not make eye contact with me.  She said of course they would make me an account without that information.  I smiled at her and said thank you and then there was a long awkward pause as she struggled to figure out how to input me in her computer when the system is clearly not set up for my situation.  I don’t fit in the system.  She was uncomfortable and I felt bad that I caused her uncomfortableness.  And I realized I am done.  Just done.  I am done with being a piece that does not fit in the system any longer. And I am okay with that.  I did eventually get my account set up, my children checked out their books, I wished the frazzled librarian a good day, and she looked relieved that I was not upset or impatient.  And I was not upset or impatient at all, I mostly felt awful for having caused this lady’s obvious uncomfortableness at my situation and I just do not want to be the military widow any longer.  It was this kind of situation that made me realize I do not “belong” on base anymore because I do not want that identity anymore.  No, no one on base is telling me I do not belong - if anything, they all go out of their way to accommodate for me.  But I think it is kind of like walking around my old high school or college campus - I have memories there and I am always welcomed back as an alumni, but I don’t “belong” or am not active there anymore.  I think I feel that way about military life now too.  I do not mind the occasional memory or event, but my life has moved forward and is different now.  I want to form my own new identity now.  I kind of surprised myself to realize how true that is.  When people ask if we are a military family, I answer with, “we were.”  And that feels right now.  And now I get to define what kind of “family” we are or what kind of person I am.  My situation does not define me.  That is huge for me to embrace. 

The final bit of change I have felt recently, that goes with the idea of forming my own identity, is the feeling of hope that had not been present before.  I have spent almost two years going through the motions of life because I have had no choice.  And I have had joyful moments mixed with sorrow, but all of it with a kind of numbness of knowing that “someday” things would be okay and non-numb again.  Maybe it is kind of like when I would move to a new duty station and make just the beginnings of a connection with another mom or I would see my kids begin to settle into making friendships - those actions gave me hope that we were making a new home in our new place.  And the hope encouraged me forward to pursue the new friendship or activity or to want to build new connections.  For the first time, I feel that kind of hope.  I am looking at my future with a few ideas and dreams in mind, instead of just a deer-in-headlights stare at what will happen next.  In just three years my daughter will be off to college, my son in high school, and I have a desire in my heart to plan what my next season of life will look like.  It is almost a little exciting to think about and that glimpse of hope is driving me forward in action to do new things.  Ryan had said in his final letter to me that he hoped that after the stages of grief that I would live for myself.  My reaction to that at first was anger - how could I ever live for myself when half of me was ripped away and gone and the other half engulfed in sorrow??  There was no “self” capable of living.  Well, Ryan obviously did not understand that stages of grief do not pass away as the sorrow of his death is forever carried with me, but he did understand that I would one day be comforted by him cheering me on.  I can almost picture him proud of me as I make decisions about my future and actively “do” things to live my life.  God is so good to comfort me in all this too, often with little glimpses of Ryan smiling at me or shaking his head at me in quiet laughter when I so obviously mess up.  I do not mean that in a literal way, but just that I have thoughts of Ryan guiding me and cheering me on that I think is God touching my heart in a way that comforts.

And so as I go into May, which includes what would have been our 17th anniversary, Ryan’s 41st birthday, Memorial Day, and then the anniversary of his death in June, I am not consumed with sorrow.  I am not the person I was a year ago and I surely am not the person I was two years ago.  There have been transitions, some abrupt and devastating, some slow and sweet, but here I am, still breathing, still learning, still grieving, still journeying, and also still transitioning, but with a hope that I pray sticks around and continues to grow. 
City of arts and flowers
flower fields near my house 
cherry blossoms in my yard 
cherry blossoms in my yard 
homemade pizzas  🍕  
Pictures with friends in Florida:

 

 

 



 Pictures with friends in Washington DC:




 

💕

Spiritual formation
🌻 
Delphinium