A Band-aid for Your Bleeding Heart

Carson, mister, what do you think you're doing?

I'm in a hurry. I fight it, trying to embrace the art of slowful living, to make sure my family knows I am present It's my nature, always trying to get as much done as possible, as quickly as possible, and as a result of that the laundry is washed and our house has been vacuumed and the kids are dressed, but I'm feeling hurried and empty --not taking time to feed myself, physically or spiritually-- before scurrying to get out the door. 

We're heading to Rochester, to the hospital waiting room, to be with good friends of ours who are currently experiencing one of the scariest times in their lives -- a brain tumor and a delicate operation. 

Carson probably sensed the angst in my heart, as I told him our morning plans, and now, when I'm trying to make sure I have everything we need for our drive, over an hour one way, he's sorting through a drawer in the bathroom, pulling things out and making a mess.  

I'm finding a band-aid, so Gina's mom feels better.  

He shoves two packets, white with blue lettering, into his Lightening McQueen backpack, now lost among the toys and coloring books and super cool silly bands, and he's ready to go, trusting that band-aids can fix brain tumors, because, when you're almost three, band-aids can fix anything.

I was taken aback. And as I drove through the pouring rain, my heart bleeding because it's October, I kept thing about the faith of a child, the simplicity of it. 

----

Anne of Green Gable and all of Instagram deem this month best of all. I use to think so too, October is beautiful, yes, but now bittersweet. 

Two years ago it changed, when what I use to associate with this season, the crunchy leaves and crisp air and pumpkin spiced everything, was replaced with memories of a month of prayer, of fear, of faith, of death. 

I still so vividly recall that morning, the shock and numbness that came with the news of his passing. The overwhelming grief, and in the months that followed, the anxiety that I would be the next mother grieving over a son.  

My faith was, and still is at times, so shaken. And on days like today, anniversaries of death, where I want to honor and remember, but don't quite know how, the longing for heaven and for wholeness is intense. 

I need a band-aid for my bleeding heart.

Ev, we haven't forgotten you. You left imprints on our hearts and called us to pursue relationships above all else, with family, with friends, with God. 

Today, and every day, we remember.

"There is a peace that cometh after sorrow, of hope surrendered, not hope fulfilled; a peace that looketh not upon tomorrow, but calmly on the tempest stilled. A peace that lives not now in joy's excess, nor in the happy life of love secure; but in unerring strength the heart possesses, of conflicts won while learning to endure. A peace there is, in sacrifice secluded, a life subdued from will and passion free. 'Tis not the peace that over Eden brooded, but that which triumphed in Gethsemane."  -Jessie Rose Gates

I've Been Missing You

Dear Cheryl,

You've been gone for a year now, and in that year not a day passed by without me thinking of you.

I've relived so many memories... memories of you and I Black Friday shopping together, fighting crowds at Tanger Outlet in Lancaster County, PA, and coming back almost empty handed; of buying matching shoes polka-dotted in multiple colors, just because we could; of making up a secret code to communicate without anyone else knowing what we were saying (Dar de dready, dor dar de dwhat?); of mopping Grandma Weaver's kitchen floor at midnight because there was absolutely no way we'd let her do it at that ungodly hour, and besides, we were up and had no intentions of going to bed any time soon anyhow; and of sneaking out late at night to go on long walks, making the most of our time together, because time together didn't happen very often and we both felt it was extremely precious.

You were the life of the party, full of humor and whit, friendly to anyone and everyone. People loved to be around you because you loved people.

It's been years since I last saw you, and an entire year now since you died, but I still find myself at times reaching for my phone because I want to type out a quick text to find out how you are doing, ask about your boys and Jason, and just catch up on life... Reality pulls me back each time as grief washes over me.

Life moves on, but the pain of loss is still there.

During the month of April you've been on my mind even more than normal, and I know why. It has to do with dates and anniversaries - both have a way of bring up memories and emotions I thought I had worked through. But it also has a lot to do with me being pregnant too. My sweet little baby could arrive any day now. I think of what you must have been feeling, of the joy and excitement, but also the nervous anticipation for what was ahead of you... though you had know idea what lay ahead; none of us did.

I think of this, because while I do hope for and expect a good outcome, I now know, more than ever, that nothing is certain in life. I'm not going into childbirth with great fear, but I do at times feel apprehension that I didn't feel with Carson. Apprehension that is there not because of the intensity and pain that comes with labor, but because if things don't go as planned, I can't bare the thought of saying good-bye. Not yet, not with Carson so young and my life with Herm barely started.

You probably didn't think of these things. You were eager for the joy ahead. And the joy ahead - heaven - was so much greater than anything you could have imagined, I'm sure. But Cheryl, here on earth, and with my small and very limited comprehension of things eternal I can't quite wrap my mind around your death being something of joy, for the pain in my heart still is raw and deep.

You looked so beautiful and at peace as your body lay in the casket, your precious newborn in your arms... It's those of us you left behind who wish circumstances would have been different, that we wouldn't have to know life without you. We feel that absence deeply, and so I cling to the memories of you, for those are things of joy.

I've been missing you,

Sarah

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To Truly Seize Life

As the days on the calendar neared the close of December and 2014 gave way to 2015, I was still reeling, deep in grief, after the tragic death of my childhood friend, Ev. 

When the life of someone young, someone filled with so much passion and exuberance, is taken away suddenly, and your fervent prayers seem unheard, useless, it's so easy to question everything you thought you knew. And it was in that state, shaken and angry, broken-hearted and unstable, that I began a new year. 

But in the deepest part of my being, I still believed — I still believed that He is good and merciful and loving and sovereign.

So, in spite of my head and my heart not aligning, one screaming 'Meaningless, totally meaningless' and the other gently whispering 'Be still and Know', the phrase Seize Life! was born to embody the coming year.

Ev left a legacy that valued relationships above all. At such a young age he had already figured out that success isn't based on title or position or financial gain, but rather on how well you love God and love others. I wanted my life to carry on his legacy  

Had I know what lay in store for 2015 I would have scoffed at the phrase.  I was unaware that the hard work of grief was only just beginning, that in a year where I so desperately wanted to Seize Life! I would be faced, yet again, with death. My beautiful cousin, Cheryl, and her perfect newborn son, our beloved dog, Rambo, a dear Jamaican lady I befriend during my year in the West Indies, all gone from this earth — leaving my heart shattered and soul crushed.

To know how it feels to grieve deeply, one must also know what is it like to experience great joy. And there were, tangled within this year of sorrow and grief, many, many moments of joy so strong I thought my heart would burst.

2015 — I am so grateful for those moments; for the numerous road trips and flights where we got to experience new destinations and revisit old ones; for the miracle of life growing at a rapid pace before our eyes in the form of a toddler with energy unending, and that of new life growing deep within me; for the sure and steady love of a man who cherishes my heart. I am grateful for slow mornings at home and evenings on our deck as the sun sets beyond the horizon; for health and strength and a puppy who is chewing her way into our home and hearts, one shoe at a time. And I'm grateful for challenges that stretch me; opportunies that overwhelm me; for old friendships that, like cheese and wine, are getting better with age, and new friendships, still tender and budding.

Yes, tangled into this year of bitter was so much sweetness, and I am truly grateful. 

But as for resolutions and words and phrases to build the coming year around, I have only one: To keep a journal. I want a safe place where the joy and heartache that was and is to come will be recorded — And the rest on which this fresh slate of a New Year will be built upon? I'll be leaving that up to the Good Father and the year, 2016.

Happy New Year!

He was the Best Dog Ever

We had a pretty rough week over here. Our dog, Rambo, has been sick for the past month. We had taken him to the vet and after a few days of antibiotics he seemed to be slowly recovering. His energy still wasn't back to its normal level, but he seemed happy and content. He was eating and drinking again, and even though we weren't back to running together, he was always so excited to join Carson and I on walks. But last Monday he took a turn for the worse. Every thing he ate came back up, and eventually he quit eating altogether. He was severely dehydrated and no matter how hard we tried to coax him, he wouldn't drink.

I took him to the vet again, and from what the blood work showed, his kidneys were failing. We had to make that hard decision. Sometimes loving means letting go; but letting go was not easy.

When I married Herm I knew that the dog was going to be a part of my life, I can't say that I was super excited about the idea at first. I made it known that Rambo was Herm's dog, and under no circumstances was he to be in MY house. I couldn't handle finding dog hair here and there... but even in that cold winter of our first year of marriage, my heart began to soften. On days that I wasn't at work I would let Rambo hang out in the foyer, and just before Herm came home I would take him out to his box in the garage. It was our little secret.

Rambo almost always tagged along with us; if we were heading to PA for the weekend, he'd go along. If we were going out for just the day, he was with us.

The summer I was pregnant with Carson Herm was working out of town quite often. I would go along with him when I could. One week in particular we were down in PA. Herm would leave for work early in the morning, and I would have most of the day to relax and spend time with my in-laws. I was running as often as I could, trying hard to stay fit and active throughout my pregnancy. I got up early one morning, and dressed for my run. After grabbing the leash and a few other things I headed out to get Rambo. But when I reached the shed where he was tied, he was no where to be found. He managed to slip the chain and headed off on a run without me. In desperation I walked through the wooded area for a while calling for him. Finally I decided to start on the run, bringing the leash along with me. Surely I would find him. I ran the block, all 7 miles of it, only to return to the place we were staying to find Rambo laying in the shade on the deck, eager to see me. I chewed him out for making a woman who was 20 weeks pregnant run 7 miles without her dog; he gave me sloppy kisses and begged to go on a run.

 Just before hunting season Herm and Rambo were often out in the woods together, spending many hours scouting out spots for tree stands and looking for deer rubs. They loved time together like that. Every evening when Herm would get home from work, he'd throw Frisbee with Rambo. And every night he'd go tuck him into his bed out in the garage.

Carson adored Rambo. In fact, "Bambo" was his first word. He spent countless hours out on the deck or in the yard playing with him, climbing over him, tugging at his ears or pulling on his tail. They shared ice cream cones and table scraps - Carson would try to slyly slip unwanted bits of food, veggies and such, things he didn't want to eat, to Rambo -- and when Carson thought I wasn't looking, he'd be drinking out of Rambo's water dish. Rambo took in all in stride, his was so gentle and watchful of Carson. Even after Rambo was sick, he still hung out with Carson, putting up with his toddler antics. Just last week I glanced out the window to see Carson curled up next to Rambo and, get this, chewing on this puppy-claws. 

 

 

 

I could go on and on with stories. Stories about how he peed on my basil plant pretty regularly, but it wasn't until near the end of the harvesting season that I discovered it. Stories about how he chewed through who knows how many leashes and ruined shoes left on the deck overnight. I would get so frustrated with him at times. But he was a loyal friend, a faithful running buddy. Just like Carson thinks the bank drive-thru is all about free suckers, Rambo thought the bank was a doggy-treat vending machine because the tellers were always sending something out for him. 

I know he was just a pet, but he was our pet. And now that he is gone our house seems quiet, our family small. Carson keeps calling for "Bambo", wanting to play Frisbee or tug on his tail. He doesn't understand that Rambo won't be coming back home. And Herm and I, we are taking it just as hard. 

He was a good dog, the best dog. And we miss him sorely.

When Memories Are All We Have Left

Life can change in an instant. 

Two weeks ago I was thinking about Cheryl, and how I should text her to find out how she's doing, and beg her to come east for the family reunion this summer. It had been years since I saw her, and I had yet to meet her husband and toddler son. She was due four weeks before the get-together. Surely she would be up for an 18-hour road trip with a newborn.

Growing up we were extremely close, but many miles separated us. Life took us to different parts of the country and across oceans. When she married, I was living in Jamaica. And when I got married circumstances interfered and she wasn't able to be there. But we still kept in contact - She was the type of person who, even after long spans of time apart, I could connect with as though we had talked just days ago. She was a kindred spirit.

But I was busy at the moment, and the text was forgotten.

Now, I would give anything to turn back time and send that text. But it's too late.

I met her husband and precious toddler son. We embraced each other, tears flowing, as we stood next to the coffin holding Cheryl and her newborn boy. There is no words at a time like that. Nothing can make it seem okay or dull the pain. How can life possibly go on when all we have left are the memories? 

The past week has been incredibly hard. I feel like I'm gasping for air, desperate to breath again. By now I should be a pro at facing death, as though there is a 6-step plan to grief and after it's complete I just move on. But as multiple people have told me, grief is hard work. Exhausting. Draining. You never completely heal. And I know what Jason is feeling is a hundred times stronger than what I feel. I can't comprehend it.

How do you move on after something like this happens? It feels irreverent in a way to go on with life. Yet, that is what Cheryl would want. She was so full of life and joy. All I have left of her are sweet memories and albums filled with photos. And for all of those memories, I am thankful. 

Yes, the past was incredibly hard, and to be honest, it feels like I am only now starting to grieve. But I've been wrapped in prayers and love from friends near and far, and I've felt it. Thank you.

Life is so precious, don't take it for granted. 

It's Not all Joy

I used to wonder what it would feel like, the death of a loved one. 

The only death that had tainted my world was of great-grandparents, the elderly, dying in the most natural way, old age. There is pain and sadness there too, but it seems natural and fitting. It is the way of things. I couldn't really relate to what others experience when tragedy strikes, catching them off guard. Preying on the young and innocent, the strong and able, snatching lives without warning.

Now I know, and I wish I didn't. 

The season of life that I'm in right now seems to revolve around life, especially new life. Friends are announcing their pregnancies, or counting down the days to their due dates. Newborns are welcomed into the world, dotted on by aunts and sort-of-aunts, and toddlers run wild. Hardly a week goes by where I'm not reminded that 'Carson needs a playmate' by well meaning friends or complete strangers.

This season is full of joy, surely. But it's not all joy.  

I've grieved the loss of life, too. With friends who's dreams of arms full of baby were crushed when the bleeding started, and friends who buried their newborn, never getting the chance to hear him coo or cry. I watched as dirt was thrown onto the coffin of my closest childhood friend, and now, today, tears streak my face again, salty, as I grieve the news that my cousin, Cheryl, and her precious newborn son, died during childbirth. 

What should be an occasion of celebration and joy, has now become a living nightmare for her husband and their little year-and-a-half-old toddler son.

Tonight, again, I know all too well what death feels like. It's suffocating and numbing and heart-wrenching. But there is grace-sufficient woven in, and I'm praying that grace will fill our midst.

I have so many unanswered questions, and to be truthful, I want to scream 'What the heck were You thinking?' But I know that in times like these I can't trust my heart - with the ups and downs and unsteady beat. So instead, I cling to what I know is True: 

That He is good. That He is merciful. That He is loving. That He is sovereign.

And I cling to the many sweet memories I have of our friendship. Her life was short, but it was full. And, for it, I'm so thankful.

I miss you, Cheryl.

I will be glad and rejoice in your unfailing love, for you have seen my troubles, and you care about the anguish of my soul. Psalm 31:7

Tomorrow, for Ev

"Therefore, since we are surrounded with such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us."  -Hebrews 12:1

For several months I've been training for this day--tomorrow.

Tomorrow I will lace up my sneakers, and I will set off, praying for strength and swiftness of feet. 

This isn't just another race. We are running for Ev.

Ev's race is over. He ran swift, and he ran well. To us, his friends and family, the race came to an end all too soon. We were left with an emptiness. We miss his presences, we miss the joy and laughter he brought to our lives. There isn't a day that goes by without us thinking about him, and wishing that circumstances would be different, that he would still be with us in person, not just in memories. He got the better end of the deal, certainly. He is well and whole, and because of that, we are thankful. But that doesn't dull the pain. 

Each day of training brought with it emotion. 

Some runs brought tears, others laughter. And I am learning that there is healing  in both--to allow yourself to cry when you feel like crying and to laugh when you feel like laughing.

Ev's life was full and beautiful. At twenty-one years of age, he experienced more life than what some people, who pass on of old age, find in their entire being. 

His legacy is strong in my memory, and tomorrow I want to seize the race, just as he seized this life--with passion and vigor. Enjoying it. Loving it. Embracing the moment.

Tomorrow as I run, he will be forefront in my mind. As will his family and friends, those of us left behind, rejoicing for his gain, and aching for his presence. If you would, join me in prayer--pray for strength and endurance for our team, that we could run well the race marked out for us. But even more than that, pray for Ev's family and friends, those of us longing for heaven. Those of us desiring, more than anything, that, like Ev, we would live this life fully, loving others, and serving God with all our might. His life and legacy pushes us all to be more, to walk in our calling.

Ev, I will be crossing the finish line tomorrow, ending the relay for our team. We are running for you, and each day we are closer to the day when we can join you. We will see you again... but not yet ... not yet. 

Yes, to some this is just another race, but to me it is so much more.

Hey Soul

I run to a beat.

Not to the tempo of a song, but to the constant, always there, yet always changing, sound of nature. To the wind whipping through my hair and the sun kissing my sweaty face, to the rain splattering down my back and the mud splashing at my feet, to the birds chirping in the distance and the deer watching silently, hidden among the trees.

Lately though, I've been running to the rhythm of my heart, to joy and the laughter, to the sorrow and the pain, to the anger and frustration -- so often anger and frustration.

I feel it welling in my soul, accumulating, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

Some days I'm drowning in it.

Follow your heart, they said, when you are unsure and filled with questions unanswered. 

But I argue, do you really want to follow your heart, with its ups and downs and unsteady beat?

Mine has been pulled a thousand different directions. If I used that as a guide, I would most certainly be lost.

Instead, when the doubts and fears and questions flood my soul, when all hope seems lost, I cling to what I know is true.

That He is good.

That He is merciful.

That He is loving.

That He is sovereign.

As I'm out training, running for Ev, my heart is so raw.

He should be coming to our 'carb loading night' the evening before the race as an honorary team member, just like last year. He should be at the finish line this year, cheering us on, just like last year. Instead, his memory is what will push us harder, faster, throughout the day. It's what will cheer us across the finish line.

Yes, my heart is raw and broken and so very unstable, so instead of following it, I cling to the Truth.

Today and every day my soul needs reminded - that He is good, that He is faithful, that He is loving, that He is sovereign over us.

A Tribute to Ev

It was such an honor to be asked to share memories of my friendship with Ev at his funeral yesterday. The service was a beautiful memorial to a life lived with passion and love for people and for God. To know Ev, to be his friend since childhood, was a blessing. He is sorely missed - but the fact that he is with the Father and is completely well is glory. 

Dear Ev,

I wish I would have been asked to share memories of our childhood at your wedding reception or thirtieth birthday party. Reminiscing those years with you, both of us digging up childhood antics and reliving them together would be my choice. I want to hear the stories from your point of view too.

Our friendship started 22 years ago - with our parents being such close friends, it was only natural that we, too, would be friends.

I remember a time where you and I weren't quite cool enough to keep up with our older brothers, so when they deserted us, we started our own club. I was the bossy president and you were the member who had to pay an initiation fee. You obliged. However, willingly? I'm not sure.

We spent countless hours out in the hay loft of that dairy barn. We built forts among the hay bales, complete with tunnels and dead ends and booby traps. We played cops and robbers, freeze tag, and broom sock out there. Burying each other in the soybeans, freshly harvested, still in the grain wagon and walking through those cow pies, soft and warm, letting the smelly contents squish between our toes was pure bliss. I think I even convinced you that mud puddles taste sort of like chocolate milk if you are thirsty enough. The kitchen tap was a good 200 yards away, and we were so dehydrated that we wouldn't have made it that far.

Summers were spent swimming in the pond, playing king of the raft or having diving and flipping competitions with our brothers. We would beg our moms to let us go out before lunch, and as soon as lunch was over we would be begging to go out again. The thirty minutes we had to wait so our food would settle before swimming was an eternity in our ten year old minds.

In the winter we were back on the pond, although this time we were bundled up and playing hockey on the ice.

One summer day I was at your house when you got home from school. You were going to ride in the combine with your dad and invited me along. Climbing into the cab barefoot, I somehow managed to pinch my big toe in the door, immediately the nail turned black and eventually fell off. You were so worried about me and kept asking if I was okay.

I could go on and on with memories of those carefree days, of "night out" every other Friday, where you and your siblings would come to my house or vice verse, so that our parents could enjoy a date night without the trouble of finding a babysitter, of biking the Outlet trail on Sunday afternoons, of riding the four wheeler at full speed through the fields.

Peers would tease you about me, and you were quick to tell them that I was a girl and I was a friend, but I was not your girlfriend.

Our friendship did change as we reached our teenage years. While we no longer did everything together, we still hung out with the same group of friends and saw each other often. You had such a quirky sense of humor and could always make me laugh. You also had a very caring heart and put effort into relationships. To many of us, you were a very close friend.

As we got back to your house after riding in the combine that day I pinched my toe, you proudly told your older brothers that I was the bravest girl you knew, because even though it hurt like crazy, I didn't cry at all. Ev, today I am trying so hard to be brave, but the pain of losing you, my closest childhood friend, is so much greater than anything I have ever experienced physically and the tears won't stop coming no matter how hard I try to hold them back.

Your life has been such an inspiration to me. You lived those 22 years with passion and energy, and I wish I would have told you how much I admire you before you were gone. Because of you, I want to grow in relationships; because of you, I want live more fully.

I love you. I miss you.

Sarah