After Some Time

So, I haven't yet decided what to call this post. I guess that after I see what flies off of my fingertips, I will come up with a catchy heading to get people reading this story again. We shall see.


From 2006 to 2008, life goes on as before Danny's death. We still speak to A monthly or so, and we keep in touch with our parents, Dave and I. We relish life. We have learned that every little moment in time is precious ... so very precious ... that we don't want to waste a single one.  We spend as much time as we can involved in church activities for it is there that we are beginning to truly heal. Our hearts are beginning to feel a bit less empty and a bit more understood. C is back in school and is going to classes from 8am until noon, then coming home and homeschooling from 1pm until roughly 5pm. We found ourselves doing a lot more family things with a lot more families. Neither Dave nor I enjoyed being at home alone much, even with Crissy, so we didn't spend much time there. When we didn't have guests, we weren't there. 

We learned to enjoy showing tourists the places in La Paz that we loved. Our favorite restaurants, our favorite beach spots and the local hang outs that only local folks knew about. The best places for tapas, the best bar in town for a Corona or two, and the best place to hear live Mexican mariachi bands.

I began working on a scrapbook of Danny's life sometime within this second year, I don't recall the exact date, but I only got about a layout (or 2 pages) done every month or two. It simply never made it past 6 pages and, even now, I can't finish it. I find that whenever I open the box with all of my "Danny moments" in it, I am hit with a wave of nostalgia that threatens to drown me. I cannot allow that and so I close the lid. I cry ... just a little. How do you write a life story with pictures that only show so much of who a person was? How do you show the different facets to the diamond that was that young man, my Danny? I do not know, nor even pretend to, so at some future date, I may finish the scrapbook. Then again, I may not.

I frequently pray that my family will forgive me for withdrawing after Danny's death. For becoming so introverted that I felt no one could ever understand my pain. I simply have never loved anyone so much in my life ... and I fear that I never will again. I wonder sometimes if that makes me less *human* than I once was. To not really want to feel the closeness just in order to feel the ripping away that will surely, at some time, come. I am afraid.

Life is fragile, but love is more fragile still. We all do the best we can but I would challenge us all to do one better. Do not be afraid to talk about how you feel. Do not be afraid that people will make fun of your emotions, they may .... but it really doesn't matter. Your life must be lived by you FOR GOD. He is the only one who really, truly matters. 

I have come to understand that part of my purpose in this life to help others find the Jesus that I have found. The One who loves me no matter what. The God who doesn't get mad at me when I yell at Him, but who understands every single thing I have gone through. You see, He lost a Son also. Not at 18, but at 33. Not because He was taken because of His basic sin nature, but because He was taken because of MY basic sin nature.

I am finally finding my footing and being comfortable with who I am. I may laugh a little louder than I need to, cry a lot more easily than I should and find solace in things that no one else would understand. But I am ok with that.

 I pray that you find that comfortableness too and are able to live with it as well.

Time Marches On

So here, finally, is the truth. TIME MARCHES ON ... I do not want it to and, in fact, become quite enraged at times that it does. Sometimes it feels as if all of creation, including God, has forgotten that my Danny is no longer here with me. I know that's not true in my head, but my heart finds it much harder to process and agree with that statement.

As the first year blurs into the second, I am struck with how *usual* life seems to be. Everything seems to run the same as before. The car still starts when I turn the key in the ignition. The fire still lights when I put a flame to the propane at the stove. C is continuing to grow up and mature. A and C have both surpassed their age in years by this early childhood loss of their brother, their protector, their closest and dearest confidant. I frequently wonder how bereft they must have felt at the loss. A had met Danny when she was 7 and he was 5, but C had know him all of her 10 years of life. I cry. Whenever I remember that my girls lost a brother, something I never had, it makes me unbearably sad even now and I am moved to tears.

The tears come much easier as the time passes. I had the errant thought that once the initial time of mourning was over, I would be more like myself. That I would be less emotional. Things did not quite work out that way. I quit wondering what people think of me and when some little girl at the airport blurted out to her mom "Hey mom, why is that lady crying? Do you think she is ok?", I just smile sadly at the mom. Usually, she shushes her child and I am left thinking that I will never again be able to say to Danny "Hey, do you mind here? We're watching a movie!" when he incessantly talks through the whole thing, wanting explanation after explanation for what is going on in said movie. Or how I'll never get to see him be best man in his sister's wedding. 

During this time, a bit after the 2nd anniversary of Danny's death, I asked a dear friend in Alaska if she had any work for me. She responded with "I always can find work for you, dear friend." So I go. I spend 10 weeks working at the new women and children's shelter; organizing the donations room, networking new computers, everything to keep my mind occupied. Then I do it. I drive out to the cabin where we had said good-bye to Danny on September 1st, 2004, as we set out to Mexico and he to Oregon to stay with his dad. I stood on the porch and in no time at all found myself overwhelmed with feelings of remorse. Questions ran through my head unfettered by logic or reason and I had no answers. Nor do I now. "Why didn't we make him go with us?" "Did I love him enough while he was here?" "Is God punishing me because I wasn't the mom I should have been?" On and on they went. There is nothing worse, in this life, than questions there are no good answers for. I have always said that I don't believe in regret. Well, until Danny died, that was more true than not. But I have hurt a lot of people in my life and I do believe that Danny was among those injured. For the injuries that I inflicted along the way, whether knowingly or unknowingly, I am sorry.

I no longer hold myself responsible for Danny's passing. I know that when God put Danny on this earth, it was just when I needed him most. And God knew how long Danny would be here. 

At that point of my life, things would have gone so much more wrong than they did if Danny had not been in my life. He was the reason that I quit my self-destructive behaviors. He was the cause for my wanting a better life than that of an abused woman living with an abusive husband. He was my reason to go on when I didn't feel like going on. He was with me through two divorces, neither of which was pleasant OR amicable, and he was consistently by my side. There was an incredible bond there that I had never felt before and, quite frankly, have never felt since. Nor do I expect to ever feel that bond again.

He was the love of my life. There. I said it. And God didn't strike me dead. 

Someone said to me shortly after Danny's death "Well, perhaps God took Danny because He felt you were using him as a substitute for God." Well, I choose to not believe that for a second! I loved my son as any good mother loves her child. Unconditionally. With tons of love and heaps of caring for him. He was like an extension of me and I didn't go anywhere he could not go for the first 5 years of his life. I quit going to bars ... at all ... because if Danny couldn't be there with me, it wouldn't be near as much fun!! He was the apple of my eye and that never changed.

I have gone to Danny's grave exactly twice since we buried him. I cannot go back. The inscription carved on the stone is beautiful and a true expression of who Danny was, but he is not there. Yet even knowing that does not stop my heart from ceasing to beat when I stand at his grave. I was in fear for my very life both times I stood there. I was totally convinced that when Danny died, I would die to. I did not. Physically, I am still very much the same person. A little heavier, definitely older and yet no wiser than I was then. I am still no closer to understanding why he was taken when he was. The difference now is that I am at peace with that. For me, the most interesting thing is that I am at peace with Danny's death, not knowing why he died and feeling like it's ok to not have all of the answers.

Do I still grieve for my son? Yes. But the most important thing I have learned is this ... "Even when I don't know or understand God's plan, HE DOES!" Thankfully, I have a dear Father who is watching over me even as I burst into tears in front of Him. When I scream into the night that I don't understand, He does not judge me but loves me just the way I am ... where I am ... for who I am ... and WHOSE I AM.

The biggest difference for me now is that I have a little tape recording in my mind that constantly plays "I am a child of the King. Look at how He cares for the smallest of these, His creatures ... surely He will care for me." And He does. When I am awakened out of a deep sleep at 2:30am now, I know it's because He is talking to me. I do my best to listen. I pray that what I write here helps others to know that He is real. That He is unchanging. That His love is unconditional and remains the same.

Read this, then close your eyes and visualize what I describe here.
     You are standing at a chasm, with God on the other side. You look all around but see no way  to get across to your dear and best friend. The Jesus walks up, kisses your cheek and says "Don't worry my child. My love for you has made a way" and He proceeds to lay down, spreading Himself over the chasm so You can walk on Him to get to the Father. As you walk across, you can't help but notice the nail holes in His hands as His arms are splayed wide. You are struck by the awesome incredibleness of this, the BIGGEST ACT OF LOVE EVER. You walk across to the Father and, falling to Your knees, You beg His forgiveness for every thing you've ever done wrong. Every lie you've ever told. Every soul you've ever injured. Every person you have cut to the core with your tongue. You are moved to ask Jesus "Why? Why were you willing to do this for ME?" His answer is simple yet poignant ... "Because My Father desired a relationship with you but His holiness kept Him from you in the state you were in. Because of the first man's sin, you were lost to Him. That saddened me so I did the only thing I could think of ... I died in your place."

WOW. Even in the grieving process, or perhaps it's really especially through this process, it is imperative that I remember that God has suffered the greatest loss of us all. Through no fault of His, His only Son, suffered and died so that we could be in relationship with Him. Please remember this ... If God didn't want us to know Him, we wouldn't. If He didn't desire a relationship with us, with YOU, Jesus would never have died on the cross.

He loves us all. Every single one of us. No one more than another. We are all equal in His eyes. And for that, I thank God. Ever. Single. Day. Every. Single. Moment.

One-Year Anniversary, Part II

After I wrote this, I realized that it is really an extension (or explanation, if you will) for some of the things that happened in Part I of the one year anniversary story.

Firstly, while my parents were in La Paz in 2006 I was able to take a trip to New Orleans and spend 10 days with Dave. This was the first time we had seen one another since he left back in September of 2005 so it was much needed. We had time to reconnect. I also got to see New Orleans; not at it's best and most colorful (or so I've been told), but 6 months after a devastating hurricane and flood had wiped out most of the old areas in the city. I was there in time for Mardi Gras. I've had people tell me that "New Orleans is a sinful city and Mardi Gras is a dirty party where everyone shows everyone else their body parts", but truthfully? That is not the Mardi Gras I witnessed. 

There was death all around me in New Orleans and I was consistently reminded of my own mortality. Dave drove me through what was left of the Fifth Ward and Lake Ponchartrain. I cried and cried. Everywhere you looked, on the front of the house was a mark, much like a cross. In each section was a number that notated these things: upper left = number of residents; upper right = number of dead bodies; lower left = number of pets; lower right = number of dead pets. These numbers were on every single solitary house throughout the city. It was how the dead were noted before the water receded enough that the bodies could be collected and accounted for. I cried. The entire time we were driving through the city, even through the relatively untouched French Quarter, I couldn't stop. This was not a loud sobbing but more a constant stream of tears running down my face. I didn't even bother wiping them away because more would come as soon as my face was dry anyway.

At one house, one on the lake that had a dock/garage, the power of the water had drove a large power yacht up the floorboards of the 2nd story and out a gigantic picture window area at the front of this massive two story house. The entire house was a loss. I cried more. But then Dave took me to a small Lutheran church he was attending while he was there and I met some beautiful southern people. The pastor and his wife had us over for a bar-b-que. Imagine ... these people had just lost a great deal of their earthly belongings yet they extended hospitality to us. Wow. Talk about radical hospitality. They lived it.

The Parades at Mardi Gras were indeed something to behold. The floats were very imaginative and very creative and the people were the nicest I have met in a very long time. Everyone was personable and chatted. Not a single person talked to us about how bad they had it; in fact, they were all actively trying to help others who had lost more than they had themselves. I have often thought back and wondered *how much of nothing is more than nothing?* I mean, where do you get the strength, faith, grace, love and servant's heart to serve others "less fortunate than you" ...when you ARE the less fortunate?? These people, to the very single person we talked to, never talked about their own loss but said instead things like "Oh my lordie, did you hear about Marie over on C Street? She lost everything but her house. Let's go over there and see how we can help her out." Again, showing God's love for the downtrodden, broken and despondent. How much more like God's love can anything be?

I had a wonderful vacation with Dave. One that was free of paying bills, running a business, caring for a 'tween daughter, daily errands and honey do lists, and mostly free from the weight of always trying to be someone I was not. No one knew me here so I didn't have to be happy. I could cry at the drop of a hat or at absolutely and surrounded by all of this devastation, it didn't seem remotely out of place. In fact, I almost felt at home in New Orleans. I can certainly tell you that is where the healing began. That is the time where several moments of realizations hit all at once and made a gigantic ball of memories that I will never forget. I thought of Danny often and knew that he would have loved New Orleans because he was a pretty colorful young man himself and he would have loved the flamboyant style of Bourbon Street and the French Quarter. I know that I did. The blues bars, the jazz clubs and the food were all as good as I heard they were and I enjoyed them to the fullest. My eyes were opened to how blessed my life truly was. I mean, in the great scheme of things, I had lost a son. Some of these wonderful people had lost everything and everyone that was dear to them. I can only imagine a loss so devastating that it must have left some rooted to the spot and unable to gain any forward momentum. I mean, truly, without family and seemingly without anyone to care, why bother moving forward? Who would there be to move forward for? To? I have thought about this long and hard and, quite frankly, these people will always be the heroes of this story to me. They picked themselves up by the bootstraps and got on with life ... got on with living. Which was more than I was able to do on some days.

Secondly, when I returned from New Orleans, I found myself in a more active and vibrant role as part of the worship team at our wonderful little church. Did that mean I didn't question God? Nope, it sure didn't. Did that mean that I was "all better"? Nope, not even close. Did that mean that I was learning to trust in a God I had thought had forgotten all about me for 25 years? Yes, it did. It meant taking a huge leap of faith and trusting that God wanted to use me in this particular way. Was it hard? Of course, but some rehearsal days were worse than others, just like some Sundays were harder than others. My heart was still missing a piece and God was showing me, in little pieces, that the puzzle could be put back together, it would just be missing a corner piece. My life could still have purpose, if only I'd allow God to use me.

Next, Mother's Day of 2006 came and went without major incident. I say without major incident because what I remember is that we went to church, worshiped and praised a wonderful God, listened to a tremendous teaching and sharing on moms, and then had a brunch. At no time during the teaching time was I in the sanctuary. In fact, I was in the outer terrace area sobbing. And my heartache did not simply vanish overnight because I was walking hand in hand with my best friend Jesus again. In fact, there were days and nights that I didn't even get out of bed. Dave had come home at the end of April, so this enabled me to simply "quit life" or "check out" when I felt overwhelmed. This happened all too frequently. On top of feeling overwhelmed, I lived in constant debilitating fear that C would be taken from me all too soon. In fact, I had to leave all decision regarding where she could go, who with, etc up to Dave. I knew it was irrational, some would say silly, but it was a very real fear nonetheless. I know now that satan planted that fear but at that time of my life, it didn't matter why or how it was there ... it was real to me. 

It was during this time that I believe I came to realize how much Dave truly loved and understood me. Not one time did he question my inability to move and when I was paralyzed by fear of something C was proposing to do, he quickly took over and made decisions for us. I never doubted that he had mine and my families best interest at heart. He is a terrific dad, husband, counselor and my best friend. Forever. I could not have made it this far, even, without him. Second only to Jesus, he is my *earthly rock* and I thank God for him each and every day. Without hesitation. I do not know what I would do without Dave in my life. It is that simple.

One Year Anniversary

February 16, 2006

It seems so wrong to me, on an instinctual level, to call the passing of a certain period of time relating to a death an anniversary. For me, anniversaries have always been pleasant things, much like birthdays. Anniversaries and birthdays are celebrations of milestones in our lives, pleasant times we want to remember. I, personally, have always associated the word "anniversary" with pleasantness. That is, until now.

My sisters (all three of them!) and my folks arrived on or about the 12th of this month for a visit. Dave is still gone to New Orleans, so everyone thinks it is best that I not be alone on this day. I don't really have any feelings about this marking of the passing of time, one way or another.

No matter what, Danny is dead. I can, and in fact must and do go on living, but that does not mean that my life is as it was before. I know this. I am unsure if my family, as much as we love one another, really understands this.

 I have always been somewhat emotionally fragile, and when I was a little girl, would cry at the drop of a hat. If mom or dad just looked at me wrong I would break out in tears.  Imagine with me, if you will, a tall thin champagne flute glass sitting in the middle of a table that is not quite level. When you fill the glass to the very tip top, it just barely fits. But when you turn to walk away, the simplest motion, perhaps the brush of your skirt on the edge of the table, causes the unstable glass to sway and some of the precious liquid to spill over the top. This is what it feels like to be emotionally unsure of who you are and that you are so full of despair and hopelessness that the slightest breeze could possibly tip you over and upset the balance that is now your life.

With my family here in La Paz with me, I find it is infinitely worse. I have only nephews, and 5 of them at that, so they are common topics of conversation. When a sister would mention "Oh, B is doing so and so" or "L is with this really nice young lady" I would break into tears. Did I want this to happen? Well, of course not! But happen it did. What used to be an easy conversation between sisters who were closer-than-this became strained. There was a feeling of sadness and loss in the air. When I lost Danny, he wasn't the only one I lost.

One of the connections that I had always had with my sisters, the *boy* thing, was no longer there. How do I relay to them what is going on with my daughters when every time they bring up their sons I break into tears?? I no longer have the ability to relate about those moments in time. "MJ jumped his dirtbike and got hurt just the other day." I answered "C got a "B" in her Spanish class." I found it difficult, at times impossible, to talk about anything, even small things. Things like going to the mercado (market) for fresh fruit and veggies didn't interest me. I didn't want to walk along the beach anymore. I moped ... a lot ... while they were visiting. I mean, I did what I needed in order to make them comfortable at the b&b. but that was all I could do. I did not have the ability to "buck up" and share in the laughter as it occurred. It was as though I was standing just outside a picture window that looked into the house that was my life but couldn't participate in the moments that made up my life. I was bitter. I don't know that I realized it fully at the time, but I see it now. Don't get me wrong ... I did NOT want anything horrid to happen to my nephews, or my brother-in-laws, or my dad BUT I did NOT want what happened to Danny to happen either.  The question "why me?" reared it's ugly head much too frequently and I would sit on my pity-pot for an unhealthy period of time, until someone would say "Don't you think it's time you dealt with this?" or perhaps a more pointed "You know, Jean, it's been a year and you are still angry and bitter. In order to maintain some sort of motion, you need to keep your forward momentum going. That means that you need to talk to God and get this stuff sorted out before it kills you!"

While the family was there, I had a reason to get out of bed in the mornings. I would get the coffee ready the night before and set it on the timer to be ready for early-morning coffee. Early morning on vacation in La Paz is somewhere between 8 and 10 am, depending. I usually rolled out of bed closer to 10 on those mornings, but no one seemed to care. The family helped getting C off to school on those mornings and for that I was grateful. I really had no interest in who was coming or going, if the doors were open or shut, and whether or not our business survived really ceased to matter to me. 

For a while, anyway, I fell into a "functioning depression" of sorts.  I heard the term a lot from friends "functioning alcoholic" or "recovering alcoholic" and likened myself to a "functioning depressed person". What that meant was that I got up every day and did the things that were expected of me. I showered, I took care of my personal hygiene, I got dressed and then I would walk the dogs on the malecon (boardwalk) by the bay. When we had guests while family was there, I did what I had to do ... no more ... no less ... just enough to get by.  I simply did not care!! 

I remember a friend saying to me "Do you think C misses Danny?" and I spat out angrily "How would I know what she feels? She will NOT talk to me about it!!" Of course C wouldn't talk to me about Danny's death, because each and every single time she tried to that first year, she would be met with a flood of tears. Me sobbing and unable to accurately express why did not alleviate the pain that I know she must have been feeling too. Danny's death quickly became a subject that we just left alone. Buried. Deep. Never to see the light of day. Oh but it did. And when it did it was not pretty...

I was sad all the time. Not just a sort of "oh, today I'm a bit unhappy" kind of sad but a "piece of my heart has been taken out, stomped on and replaced" kind of unhappy. A deep seated, painful kind of unhappy that even the worst person on earth should never feel. The kind of sadness that makes you question your sanity. The kind of sadness that, even when you try, is the hardest thing you've ever had to shake.

Earlier I said that I have always been emotionally fragile, and that is a true statement. In spite of that, however, I am also a survivor. In my family, I have always been "the strong one". Emotional? Yes. Strong? Yes. I do not know how those two work together but they do. No matter what happened, everyone knew that I would be ok because, well, I always WAS. Nothing could stop me from my mantra of "You either do what you set out to do or you die trying." Well, almost nothing.

When you lose a child, the loss is more poignant than any other thing you will ever feel in your life. Life certainly doesn't prepare you for death. At least, not the death of a child ... your child. There is a time that, thinking back, you remember hearing of someone else losing a child and you think "Oh, my goodness, I am so sorry for those parents but thank God it isn't me." Only now, this time, it IS you and you don't know what to do. This is a grief so profound, so utterly unexpected that there is no place to put it.

I don't ever expect to "get over" losing my son. I don't believe there will ever come a day that I will be able to wash my hands of his death. There is no pretty ribbon to wrap around the box named sorrow and tie into a nice neat bow. Death is not pretty. It is, in fact, messy. There is no way to easily explain what happens during this grieving process. I can only tell you that it is different from person to person, and each person will take their own unique time to work their way through the process. For it is that ... a process.

I will tell you that every night, when I had a night terror and recurring dream of the accident, I would wake up crying or even screaming. While Dave was not home, I would call on my precious Heavenly Father to sit with me, and He would. Throughout the entire time of Dave's absence, my best friend Jesus never let me down. He never disappointed. He held me in the circle of His arm's embrace. He showed me His love, once again, in the rising and falling of the ocean's tide. 

When I needed a more "earthly friend", He provided those as well. There were several people who were, and remain to this day, my mainstay and helpers of my faith in Him. Sure I questioned Him and His wisdom. I would be lying, and therefore remiss, if I said otherwise. I knew always, in my heart of hearts, that He knows best. That doesn't mean that there weren't moments in time that I was drastically overwhelmed by this loss. I believe, however, that even that feeling He understood ... and He loved me still ... no matter what. 

I am thankful that Jesus gave His life for me, in a different kind of light. I honestly know, not think or believe, but know beyond the shadow of a doubt that God knows how I feel. That He walked the walk and now He is teaching me, by examples in His Word, how to walk the walk and talk the talk.  I pray, most sincerely, that I do not disappoint.

Christmas 2005

I realize it must seem odd that I would *jump* to Christmas 2005 from the previous post of mid-fall, early winter, but it is the next important date in my journey to the new normal that would become my life and my way of looking at things.

I do not want to dwell on the words that were used in the last post as they were only reminders of the negative emotions that one may feel when a loved one, especially a child, passes through our lives up into the more close relationship with the heavenly Father. 

Danny's birthday was December 15th, so of course pre-Christmas right up through his day of death, February 16th, are the hardest days of the year to deal with. Memories simply flood my heart and soul. My dreams are inundated with birthday parties and Christmas celebratons of the past. 

One especially poignant memory is of a shared birthday party between A and Danny. Both of the kids were small-ish, about 9 and 7 if memory serves and they wanted a "joint" birthday party. Now, Danny was really into matchbox and micro-machine cars while A was super into Barbie. Hmmmm ... what to do ... I know, we'll have a huge Costco sheet cake and split it right down the middle!! Costco rocked the cake and even iced the two halves differently; one with pink frosting and the other with a green frosting with a black road somehow colored onto it for the cars. I remember this as being the largest party the kids ever had, and it ended up being over 30 other kids. What fun was had when they broke the pinata and got that serious sugar high from all of the candy in it. 

The picture, along with several hundred others, is still in my head but in the *storage part* of my brain.

That's another thing I learned to do and do quite well. I sectioned off parts of my brain that remembered certain things and would not allow myself the luxury of looking at those things/memories unless and/or until I would not break into tears doing so.

For instance, I still remember all of the times that Danny would walk in the door and I would ask "You hungry bud?" and he would say (standard reply), "I could eat!" Even now, when I hear that phrase my heart hurts and the tears rush to be shed. Danny was over 6'4" and had two hollow legs, so he was always hungry! 

So December 15th comes and goes, and I am unable to move. I don't even get out of bed. At the beginning of December I knew this day would come. After all, time marches on and the world does not stop because I am grieving. In fact, I come to the full and utterly dis-satisfying feeling that the world does not revolve around me. What?? Honestly all I want now is for the world to stop turning, flowers to stop blooming, the sun to stop shining, voices to stop singing, friends to stop caring and my life to stop living. Remember, I warned you, this is an honest blog and there were, undoubtedly, moments that I didn't care whether or not I was alive. It simply did not matter to me one way or the other.

I found out who my true friends were. People who I never thought cared about me at a "heart-level" or any deeper than surface anyway called to see how I was. Asking if there was anything they could do for me, my heart would hurt because I wanted to say "No, are you blind?? Do you not see that I am dead inside?? That when my Danny died, I died too??"  That is what I wanted to say. But I never did. I simply replied with "Thank you so much for calling. Just showing you know and care means so much to me." 

PLEASE don't get me wrong. The statements that I made and the words I said to these true friends were just as true as the first statements that I could have said but did not. I simply could not be selfish and say what was on my mind and in my heart when I knew that these people were calling because they cared. Whether or not I believed it before this, I believed it now.

Everything I did was rote. We had a business to run, and Dave was in New Orleans (this was right after Hurricane Katrina and he did personal security work), so I focused largely on the business and shoved my feelings of grief deep down inside. I remember sharing them frequently with my good friend but now I wonder what that must have cost her at the time. I mean, there is no way that one person can help another person with the grief process without it costing them something of their own. First off, the time investment is huge. The emotional investment in the grieving person is larger still. One would really have to believe in the person who was/is grieving a huge amount in order to walk this road with her.  I had never really thought, until writing these thoughts down, what my dear friend must have felt after each time she interceded for, prayed with and shared in my pain. Now, thinking on these things, I am humbled and deeply apologetic that I never realized any of this until now. WOW. 

The first Christmas after Danny's death was the toughest one. C and I went and got a bunch of toys and kid's stuff and made stockings for all of the kids at our church. We had a lot of fun doing that and the kids really enjoyed getting them. I cried every time a child would give me a hug that day but, quite honestly, it still hurts my heart a little every little person's hug I get  ... to this day.

I sit here writing this now, and remember wondering what Danny looked like in heaven. I know that he is in heaven playing catch with his great-grampa George and holding his baby cousin Mark in his arms. He never got to meet this cousin ... none of us did. But because they are all in heaven, I choose to believe that God allows them to know one another in this perfect paradise even as they wait for other family members to join them. This is a single choice that I make in order to maintain my sanity and live a somewhat *new normal* kind of life.

Please do not feel it necessary to correct this choice of mine based on Biblical scripture or other reasons you may have. As I said, it is solely my choice to believe this way. Good, bad, right or wrong, this is how I choose to maintain my sanity. 

C and I argued ... a lot. I couldn't shake the feeling that  something horrid was going to happen to her so I became super overprotective. Most of the people she hung out with at this time were missionary kids and/or preacher's kids so I don't remember worrying as much when she was doing things with that particular group of friends. I do remember, however, that when she wanted to do something with her secular friends I was much more harsh and unsure of whether or not she should be hanging out with said friends. I also fell back into the super bad and irritating habit of cussing  ... a lot. I don't think there was any particular catalyst other than the feeling that my life, all of a sudden, was out of my control. When Danny died, there was one thing that I quickly realized ... life is never IN my control, nor is it really mine TO control. I also believe this is the most frustrating realization of my life. 

C and I talk quite a bit about the time we were alone in Mexico and our memories differ greatly. That is another thing that I worry about. I realize now that the loss of Danny was OUR loss, but I know that at the time I treated it as though I was the only on affected by it. For that, I am sorry. 

It continues to amaze me how God works in the life of a believer when there is a question that involved His sovereignty. He quietly shows me His love every day, with every new breath that I am allowed to take. He shows me His creativeness with every wave that I witness breaking on the shoreline at the coast. He shows me His love for vivid colors with every single sunrise and sunset that I am allowed to see. He tells me He loves me with the birdsong every morning at my window. I am reminded of His majesty with every mountain peak, every eagle and every flower that I see coming to blossom in His time. 

"In His time, in His time, He makes all things beautiful in His time ... Lord my life to You I bring, may each song I have to sing, be to You an offering ... in Your time."