In My Weakness...

It’s a long story but just know that after a teeny four-decade hiatus from the church, I found my way back about 2 years ago.  Living Streams has been home ever since but, the first time I attended, I felt like I was in a foreign land.  I took a seat in back and watched as an entire band, complete with guitars, drums and keyboards, filled the stage.  St. Cyril never had a band.  The minute they started playing, people started dancing.  There was certainly no dancing in Catholic church.  Then, as if on cue, people started raising their arms and hands into the air; some with their palms facing toward the stage, others with their arms to the sides like an airplane, and still some with just one hand in the air, with their index finger pointed toward the sky. The lead singer of the band literally dropped to his knees mid-song.  I quickly scanned the room to see if anyone would come to his aid only to learn that there were some people in attendance also on their knees.  

What in the hell is going on here?  

I had never seen anything like it.  I was uncomfortable and I wanted to leave.  Yet there was something oddly entertaining about watching the folks with their arms in the air.  Also, the band was amazing, so I stayed.

I would continue to attend church regularly while still amused by those who outstretched their arms in worship.  I got involved in small groups, even volunteered with the Worship Team, but never got into the arm-waving-thing...it just wasn’t my jam.   

Then one day I attended an out-of-state Women’s Conference, a Christian event put on by the Daily Audio Bible ministry.  It was transformative.  It was life-changing.  It was impossible not to raise my arms in worship.  My hands were in the air during every single song.  Once back at Living Streams, I was a full-fledged member of the outstretched-arm club.  When the music came on, my arms went out.  It was automatic and resistance was futile.  Music on = arms out.

Then June 23rd happened.

Church hasn’t been the same since.  Ok, church is the same but I’m different.  Listening to the band the first few times back at church without Aaron was torture in the way that music stirs something in your soul that cannot be ignored.  My throat constricted in an effort to remain as composed as possible and I couldn't wait for the last worship song to end.  Meanwhile, the outstretched arms all around me served as a reminder of my rigid and uncomfortable stance.  I’ve become who I was prior to attending the Women’s Conference, I thought as I shoved my hands into my pockets, standing motionless against a backdrop of bodies moving to the rhythm of the music.

But, with each service that I attended, it got a little easier.  In fact, I attended church this morning and sang along with the band for the first time since June 23rd.  But, my arms still rested safely and securely by my side, not once reaching out, not even a little.  The minute I begin picturing holding my arms out, tears well up in my eyes.  Why are outstretched arms synonymous with tears?

I came up with an answer:  Vulnerability.  

We humble ourselves when we wholeheartedly worship with our arms outstretched and our hearts lifted to the Lord in praise.  Humility and vulnerability live in that space and when I’m humble and vulnerable, I can’t help but cry.  It’s a surrendering.  It’s coming into a place of weakness where in my vulnerability, emotions have a way out; tears find their way down my cheeks and sadness easily walks through the once locked door that strength so fiercely guarded.  

I hate it.   

I am sick of crying and especially sick of doing so in public.  But, there are still tears and they need a place to fall.  And truly I know that in my weakness, He strengthens me.  But, weakness has to come first.  Vulnerability has to be the pathway to allow strength to follow.

Later in the afternoon, I visited my friend, Tresea, at Lululemon where she works part time.  There was a wall where people had written down short phrases and words of encouragement.  While she was busy with a customer, I scanned the squares reading each one and until my eyes fell on one square where someone wrote “vulnerable & strong”.  

The word 'vulnerable' is written first.   

Next Sunday I vow to be vulnerable.  I will reactivate my membership in the arm-waving club by outstretching my arms to God in praise during worship.

There won't be enough Kleenex in the world that morning.

Piece for Peace

I feel like my heart has been ripped into tiny pieces of emotion, each piece baring its own label:  Denial.  Sadness.  Depression.  Despair.  Betrayal.  Anger.  

It's that last piece - Anger - that I hate the most.  It feels like an unwanted guest.  I'm okay sitting with sadness...that makes sense.  And, give me more moments where I just don't believe Aaron's gone; denial being the 1 or 2 minute vacation I take daily when I spray his cologne and could swear he's in the next room.  Depression, while not my favorite, is my new normal.  And, yes, I sometimes feel betrayal over the way Aaron left me, but sadness and depression win the emotional war so often that I forget betrayal even exists.

But that feeling of anger that washes over me and causes me to purse my lips and shake my head in disgust...

I don't like it.  That can emotional piece can go straight to hell.

I do not want to be angry at the man I loved the most in the world.   I just want to feel love, compassion and empathy toward him. 

But, I do feel angry more than I care to admit.  I feel my hands tightening over the steering wheel as I drive away from my post office with mail addressed to Aaron; mail I'll eventually give to his dad and it breaks my heart every single time.  His dad doesn't want his son's mail.  He wants his son.    

I feel angry when I remember the promises Aaron made to me that will never be fulfilled; promises to take me back to the Grand Canyon, to ride our bikes to Zion National Park, and to be married someday.  He said he would never leave me and promised to love me forever.

I'm angry that my cabin, the place to which I'd escape to rest, recharge and center myself now feels like a black hole containing a void so large that I'm almost positive it can never be filled.

I'm angry when I see his mom cry over the loss of her son.  I'm angry Aaron didn't ask for help; like he was some puzzle we were just supposed to piece together and now it's like it just sits on a table unfinished....all of us feeling like failures because we didn't get it right.

But, I still can't stay angry at him for long.  

I remember his green eyes that lit up with his smile, the way he would look at me when I told him I loved him and all the times he would act goofy to make me smile.  

And, I remember that all I ever wanted for him was for him to be happy.

No, I don't sit with anger very long.  I just love him too much.  That piece of my heart that wants to surge with anger is always quickly replaced with compassion and love.  It's a tradeoff that I easily make every single time.  My anger piece for his emotional peace.  

Love wins every time.  

From the darkness....into the light

It was like being in the ocean, getting pummeled over and over again by massive, crushing waves.  I had no energy to try to stay afloat nor could I - the ocean was that relentless.  I couldn't breathe.  Each wave came with an undercurrent that pulled me under water.  I felt like I was drowning.  

This was my life after I witnessed my boyfriend take his own on June 23, 2016. 

On 6/23, everything that once provided me joy and comfort was stripped away.  My boyfriend, who I love more than anyone on the planet, was gone.  No "goodbye's".  No "I love you's".  Just gone and in the most sudden, violent and tragic way imaginable.  

My house became a crime scene.  The bedroom in which I peacefully slept for the past 15 years was the set for the horror flick that would play in my mind at every waking moment.  My dogs were whisked away to be boarded for an undetermined amount of time.  I was whisked away, too.  For seven nights, I altnernated staying with Aaron's family or with close friends who immediately took me under their wing.  I often times woke up disoriented.  I lived out of a grocery bag. I got dressed in the same clothing I wore the entire day prior.  I never did my hair; I don't even remember caring enough to look in the mirror.

The mornings were the worst but not in that split second where the cobwebs veiled my current reality.  Instead, it was the moment the cobwebs cleared that I was catapulted back to hell on earth. For a split second things seemed normal and then I'd grieve Aaron's death, as if for the first time, all over again.  It was unbearable.  When my eyes opened to reality in the morning, I would immediately wish it was nighttime so I could close them again.  I would only sleep for four hours a night but it was a blissful unconscious freedom.  The nights were short and the days were long, though.  And, I hated being awake - every waking moment felt like torture and mental anguish.

I wanted the pain to end.

And, I thought about suicide for 16 straight days after the incident.  The literature says this is normal, especially after losing someone you love in the same way.  But it felt far from normal to me.

When you're in a seemingly inescapable hell, you'll do anything to break free.  This knowledge is why I can't stay upset with Aaron.  I know his pain and torment reached a level much bigger than his ability to cope with the onslaught of his emotions.  My anger toward Aaron always quickly turns to compassion.

For me, a day wouldn't go by where I wouldn't beg God to take me Home.  When I wasn't negotiating with Him, I was thinking of my own exit strategy.  One day the thoughts were more intense than usual  - it was the first time I had been in my room since Aaron died and I had a major melt down.  My friend Tresea just happened to text me as I was lying in a broken wreck on the floor, in the same spot Aaron drew his last breath.  She asked me what I was doing and I texted back "In my room...I'm not doing well".  She came right over and held me for over 20 minutes while I broke down in tears.  I think she saved my life that morning.

But, those kinds of moments were fleeting and my thoughts to end it all were not.   I have other guns in the house.  I could do exactly what Aaron did and be with him and my mom.  Aaron went instantly... 

...Fast forward to today.  

It's been a month and four days since Aaron died and here I am authoring a new blog entry.  I get up and shower every morning.  I wear clean clothes.  I do my hair.  I get outdoors to meet people for lunch and dinner.  I weight train.  And, I even catch myself smiling and laughing at people's jokes.

So, what happened?

The grace of God happened.  I learned that grace can live in the space we call hesitiation.  When someone says "I hesitated", it often carries with it a negative connotation.  But that slight pause in my thoughts allowed grace and then logic to enter the picture.  

I'm done, I just can't take this anymore...

...but....what would that do to Aaron's parents? - I love them so much!  What would my dear friends think?; I love them so much, too!   How can I be so sure things won't get better?  

Those are the questions that reveal themselves in moments of grace and hesitation. Those moments that hang in the balance...those few seconds that make way for the important, logical questions to follow, I believe, keep more people alive than we'll ever know.  

Looking back, I fell prey to two very big lies: 1) that I wasn't strong enough to pull through and 2) that life wasn't worth living.   I knew I no longer wanted to fall prey.  It was crushing my spirit; Satan was winning the battle.  

So I did the only thing I could think to do.  

In the early morning of July 9th, when I had finally had enough, I reached for my Bible. I retrieved some index cards and a pen out of my desk and began feverishly writing down scripture verses to help me grow stronger.  On Face Book, I posted a picture of the first 5 index cards I wrote out and asked friends to comment with their favorite verses as well.  

Many friends commented with verses.  And, I ended up with an arsenal of scripture on which to meditate when I felt weak.  A dear friend of mine would later gift me with a small photo album which included more verses in addition to sentimental photos she retrieved from my Face Book page.  She left some pockets intentionally empty so I could insert my own index cards.  Today, I carry this everywhere I go.

By the afternoon of July 9th, I felt free from suicidal thoughts, though I worried if they would return.  They never did.  I haven't had a setback since.  Sure, I believe therapy helped.  

But, God saved my life.

The reason this Blog is called Pray To Not Fall Prey is to honor the struggle that I went through in the early days but more importantly to serve as a reminder that praying and reading scripture was the light that penentrated the dark days.  (John 1:5)

Matthew 26:41-42 ~ Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

He went away a second time and prayed, “My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done.”

God is bigger than our doubts. He is bigger than our struggles. He is bigger than our pain.  I went through 16 days of hell but I'm grateful for the experience because it has changed me for the better.  I know the road toward healing still stretches out for miles and miles and there will be more lows than highs. But, not always.  And, I am never alone.  My friends and family provided me strength when I felt weak and God carried me when I could no longer walk.  

He is a good, good Father. It's who He is.  

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