Redemption and Restoration After a River of Tears
Welcome 2019: I chose the word Gather this year as my word.
Last week I bought a handwritten sign that said: Gather. I hung it in my dining room, somehow thinking it might feel welcoming for new friends to come and for family to feel their presence is precious to me. Living alone is an adjustment. Living alone is......well, lonely. This past week I came to the conclusion that my heart is fighting feelings of insignificance. Who do I matter to? Who would even know if I didn't wake up tomorrow morning? I don't have a spouse or children who need me. I have become fluent in the language of loneliness. What to do with such thoughts? What if there is no one to gather at the table with me. Why choose a word for the year that causes pain?
Everything about the "widow" banner I wear is difficult. Adjusting to being physically alone is difficult but tucked deep down in my heart I know that I am not special to anyone. To take in the magnitude of that fact takes my breath away. I've been special to someone for 35 years....and now he is gone. How does one even begin to move forward in life.
It's been said that life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards, so I began to think about the enormous losses in my life in such a short time. The cancer diagnosis of our beautiful daughter and the grueling months of chemotherapy for her took such a toll on our entire family. Our secure little sweet spot was turned upside down by a stage 3 cancer diagnosis to a healthy young mom of three. Soon after she finished chemo and settled into remission, my mother died. Although my mom suffered with dementia for several years, the finality of losing her seriously affected me. Just a few months after my mom died, my dearest Sam was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer and we began nine months of treatment, weekly trips to the cancer center and trying to hold our businesses and family together, all the while receiving bad news that our treatments weren't working and would subsequently stop. I put unrealistic pressures on myself to continue to work full time while dealing with the impact of our diagnosis and a thousand other details that demanded my attention. Businesses closed or were sold, companies were wound down and literally my entire life seemed to collapse. Could I even survive financially and emotionally from what was happening let alone support Sam through the dying process. It all hinged on me to hold everyone and everything together. Saying goodbye was impossible to someone who has loved and walked with me for 31 years. I was losing the only man who really understood me.
When Sam died it didn't feel real that he wasn't coming back. We planned a celebration of life service but even that was surreal. I became robotic, just walking through each day, stuffing the enormous grief down into some tiny unused part of my soul because I had to continue to work and to manage our companies until things were dissolved. Just five months after Sam died, on February 12, 2018, my father died. He died alone at his nursing home. That part deeply troubled me. No one to hold his hand. No one there to love him as he slipped into eternity. My dad was not ill and I didn't expect his death. He began to experience some dementia but his death came as a surprise to me. I went to Illinois two days after he died and helped with arrangements and cleaned out his room. Both of my parents gone. Now I am officially an orphan and a widow. On September 15, 2018 the ambulance came to take me to hospital. The diagnosis: a stroke due to hypertension and stress. After 4 days in hospital, and one week later I hired movers to pack up my house, which was now sold, to move to West Kelowna.
Just as I began to resume the healing journey, and two days after I arrived at my new home, on September 28, 2018 my sister died. It was unexpected. I knew she was ill from a digestive disorder, but I thought she would rally, almost up until the week before she died. Her death shook me to the core. We had never been close, but we had reconciled and began communicating after Sam's death. She called me weekly and truly wanted to rebuild trust with me and I was hopeful we could forge this new relationship. Now, that possibility was forever gone.
Since the death of my sister, dealing with the effects of the stroke -- numbness on my left side and various other difficulties -- I am now dealing with a broken foot, having stumbled from the stroke spasms. Each day is challenging. Reconciling the last 18 months with today seems impossible. What happened?
I read about this true story of an amazing man, Job, a deeply religious man, living 1,500 to 1,000 years before Christ lived. He had about 11,000 servants and vast agricultural holdings. He prayed continually for his 7 sons and 3 daughters. Because God allowed it, over a period of time, Job lost everything -- all of his servants, his land, his children died and he lost his health. Job 19:13 talks about even Job's friends and family turned against him. Job's wife urged him to curse God and turn away. Amazingly, Job shaves his head, tore off his robe, put on sackcloth (a sign of extreme grief) and raised his hands to worship. Ultimately, he knew what was happening was for God's good and glory.
When I think of what I have been given through my experiences, I am humbled and grateful that I am still standing (although somewhat shakily!) and see the world through new eyes of love and compassion for others who also are going through hard times. I know pain and sorrow in a way I could never have imagined. I can now hold someone in pain and truly feel the hurt, not just provide lip service of how much I care. I can feel the raw pain with others in a profound way. I have a new love for women in crisis and young moms who are struggling with the hard tasks of motherhood. I have learned patience and humility that the sweet spot of life can be taken away in an instant. I take nothing for granted. My identity is not in being someone's wife...it is being a daughter of the King, a beloved woman who has her own worth. I gently pick up the dream God is putting into my heart and I am stepping out in faith.
A gift I can give myself is stopping to listen, to ask God to create a new perspective in me with my weak and fragile spirit. I pray to be bold and brave, to have hope and to give hope away to others who are feeling weak and numb from pain and the stresses of life. I don't pretend to be brave or to have supernatural courage. I am fragile and I continue to struggle, but it does not define me. I forgive myself for my failures during Sam's illness. I am asking God to make a fresh start in me, to shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life.
The greatest restoration comes after a river of tears. I will stay the course. Somehow, this, too shall be for my good and for His glory, so I will walk through it.
Sometimes all we have to hold on to
Even if the healing doesn’t come
Last week I bought a handwritten sign that said: Gather. I hung it in my dining room, somehow thinking it might feel welcoming for new friends to come and for family to feel their presence is precious to me. Living alone is an adjustment. Living alone is......well, lonely. This past week I came to the conclusion that my heart is fighting feelings of insignificance. Who do I matter to? Who would even know if I didn't wake up tomorrow morning? I don't have a spouse or children who need me. I have become fluent in the language of loneliness. What to do with such thoughts? What if there is no one to gather at the table with me. Why choose a word for the year that causes pain?
Everything about the "widow" banner I wear is difficult. Adjusting to being physically alone is difficult but tucked deep down in my heart I know that I am not special to anyone. To take in the magnitude of that fact takes my breath away. I've been special to someone for 35 years....and now he is gone. How does one even begin to move forward in life.
It's been said that life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards, so I began to think about the enormous losses in my life in such a short time. The cancer diagnosis of our beautiful daughter and the grueling months of chemotherapy for her took such a toll on our entire family. Our secure little sweet spot was turned upside down by a stage 3 cancer diagnosis to a healthy young mom of three. Soon after she finished chemo and settled into remission, my mother died. Although my mom suffered with dementia for several years, the finality of losing her seriously affected me. Just a few months after my mom died, my dearest Sam was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer and we began nine months of treatment, weekly trips to the cancer center and trying to hold our businesses and family together, all the while receiving bad news that our treatments weren't working and would subsequently stop. I put unrealistic pressures on myself to continue to work full time while dealing with the impact of our diagnosis and a thousand other details that demanded my attention. Businesses closed or were sold, companies were wound down and literally my entire life seemed to collapse. Could I even survive financially and emotionally from what was happening let alone support Sam through the dying process. It all hinged on me to hold everyone and everything together. Saying goodbye was impossible to someone who has loved and walked with me for 31 years. I was losing the only man who really understood me.When Sam died it didn't feel real that he wasn't coming back. We planned a celebration of life service but even that was surreal. I became robotic, just walking through each day, stuffing the enormous grief down into some tiny unused part of my soul because I had to continue to work and to manage our companies until things were dissolved. Just five months after Sam died, on February 12, 2018, my father died. He died alone at his nursing home. That part deeply troubled me. No one to hold his hand. No one there to love him as he slipped into eternity. My dad was not ill and I didn't expect his death. He began to experience some dementia but his death came as a surprise to me. I went to Illinois two days after he died and helped with arrangements and cleaned out his room. Both of my parents gone. Now I am officially an orphan and a widow. On September 15, 2018 the ambulance came to take me to hospital. The diagnosis: a stroke due to hypertension and stress. After 4 days in hospital, and one week later I hired movers to pack up my house, which was now sold, to move to West Kelowna.
Just as I began to resume the healing journey, and two days after I arrived at my new home, on September 28, 2018 my sister died. It was unexpected. I knew she was ill from a digestive disorder, but I thought she would rally, almost up until the week before she died. Her death shook me to the core. We had never been close, but we had reconciled and began communicating after Sam's death. She called me weekly and truly wanted to rebuild trust with me and I was hopeful we could forge this new relationship. Now, that possibility was forever gone.
Since the death of my sister, dealing with the effects of the stroke -- numbness on my left side and various other difficulties -- I am now dealing with a broken foot, having stumbled from the stroke spasms. Each day is challenging. Reconciling the last 18 months with today seems impossible. What happened?
I read about this true story of an amazing man, Job, a deeply religious man, living 1,500 to 1,000 years before Christ lived. He had about 11,000 servants and vast agricultural holdings. He prayed continually for his 7 sons and 3 daughters. Because God allowed it, over a period of time, Job lost everything -- all of his servants, his land, his children died and he lost his health. Job 19:13 talks about even Job's friends and family turned against him. Job's wife urged him to curse God and turn away. Amazingly, Job shaves his head, tore off his robe, put on sackcloth (a sign of extreme grief) and raised his hands to worship. Ultimately, he knew what was happening was for God's good and glory.
When I think of what I have been given through my experiences, I am humbled and grateful that I am still standing (although somewhat shakily!) and see the world through new eyes of love and compassion for others who also are going through hard times. I know pain and sorrow in a way I could never have imagined. I can now hold someone in pain and truly feel the hurt, not just provide lip service of how much I care. I can feel the raw pain with others in a profound way. I have a new love for women in crisis and young moms who are struggling with the hard tasks of motherhood. I have learned patience and humility that the sweet spot of life can be taken away in an instant. I take nothing for granted. My identity is not in being someone's wife...it is being a daughter of the King, a beloved woman who has her own worth. I gently pick up the dream God is putting into my heart and I am stepping out in faith.
A gift I can give myself is stopping to listen, to ask God to create a new perspective in me with my weak and fragile spirit. I pray to be bold and brave, to have hope and to give hope away to others who are feeling weak and numb from pain and the stresses of life. I don't pretend to be brave or to have supernatural courage. I am fragile and I continue to struggle, but it does not define me. I forgive myself for my failures during Sam's illness. I am asking God to make a fresh start in me, to shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life.
The greatest restoration comes after a river of tears. I will stay the course. Somehow, this, too shall be for my good and for His glory, so I will walk through it.
Comments
Post a Comment