No Less God Within The Shadows
THURSDAY
Our world is a ticking time-bomb. At any given point something catastrophic will happen inside my father’s body. We have no idea what or when, but nonetheless, know it’s coming our way in the next few days. As a family, we are walking hand in hand in the pitch black waiting for the ground beneath us to give way. We can’t see the gaping hole nearing. We can’t feel the cooling of the air or hear the echo of our voices as we get closer to the canyon’s edge. We are walking blind. What I would give for a flashlight.
My eyes are intently glued to my dad. Every one of his grimace, missteps, or winces sends my heart into palpations. He grabs his chest during lunch and we all exchange nervous glances. In the afternoon, his speech and motor skills start to become impaired.
This would mark the beginning of the end.
My head is resting on Emersyn’s stomach in the darkness of her room. She lovingly strokes my hair and wraps her tiny warm hands around my face. It’s been a hard day and she picked up on evidence of my crying instantly. Swollen eyes, blotchy neck, a forced smile. I tried hard to regain my composure before entering her room to say goodnight, but apparently, my efforts were in vain.
“Jesus will come get Papa. He will be in Heaven and not sick. He will always be in your heart. It’s gonna be ok Mama.”
I think there is a reason God tells us to have faith like a child. Unapologetic … unfiltered … unwavering … faith. They don’t deconstruct and try to rationalize. They don’t question. They simply … believe. It is why right now my four-year-old daughter is able to have more clarity and peace than me. I know she truly doesn’t understand what is going on in this moment. But then again … maybe she understands more than me.
SATURDAY
As I look outside I see one of my most favorite views. A thick blanket of white covering everything in sight - its perfect and crisp lines magnified by the backdrop of a crystal clear blue sky. The sun is reflecting off everything it touches, making the world I see so incredibly bright. All is quiet. All is still. The purity of the snow makes everything it covers unblemished and perfect.
These days used to bring me so much joy. Now I fear they will forever remind me of my dad dying. Kelley helped shift my perspective and said that instead it should remind me of him living. I like that much more.
Maybe, we were given this day as a tangible reflection of the promise Jesus is about to fulfill with my dad - his once scarlet sins being made white as snow; his life becoming unblemished in God’s eyes because of the purity of Jesus’ sacrifice. I think snowy days may make me cry from now on. But once the tears suppress, I will smile and thank God for Jesus. Because of Him, I know the goodbye we are about to experience isn’t forever.
Oh Dad ... how I wish I could talk with you. You are still here but I know we’ve already had our last conversation. I’m afraid what this next 24 hours will look like. I’m not sure how we got here. You have been sick for so long, but right now it feels like we just found out. I don't think I ever really believed you would die. I feel cheated. It’s far too soon. I need you.
People say we are “lucky” we had you so long. I say … it wasn’t long enough.
My view has now shifted to something unimaginable. You are passing right before my eyes and yet, I still cannot comprehend what is happening. I vacillate back and forth between complete denial and a searing pain that steals away my breath. I’m scared to leave your side. We are listening intently at the spacing between your breaths … counting the number you take per minute. I can see color fading from your fingertips and your toes. I can see your heart working overtime, as it’s sped up beat reverberates throughout your entire chest. We are checking for signs of pain and monitoring your medicine intake.
I made you a promise weeks ago that I wouldn’t let you hurt. Right now, I can’t say I’m feeling very confident in that promise and our ever-growing responsibility to keep you comfortable. We are armed only with a much too complicated regiment that’s penned out on a piece of notebook paper. An hour of training from a hospice nurse and poof … we suddenly are qualified and equipped for end of life care. Fastest certification of my life.
My brain is skipping in an attempt to picture a world you are no longer in. It’s making me more and more nauseous the harder I push to imagine it. I’m trying to get a glimpse into what I will experience when you are called home. I’m starting to feel suffocated, as I see ANOTHER blanket of sorrow beginning to slowly descend over us. It took so long to climb out of last time. In this moment, I don’t feel as though I have the energy to do it again. I don't know if my heart has the capacity to see my family -and especially my mom- so broken and be powerless to take the pain away.
How is it possible that we are staring face to face with more heartache and another great loss? How is it possible that we are nearing another day that will draw a thick black line dividing life into what was “before” and what was “after?” Our family's timeline is already marked with one that emerged when Logan died. I think I -naively- always believed it would be the one and only.
I now realize that in this life … we are simply living between lines.
And yet, even in these shadows, I know God is here. I know there is nowhere we can go that He cannot -or will not- follow. I believe He is still good. I believe He has a plan. I believe He loves us more than we could ever comprehend. My foundation in Him is firm, even though my world feels as though it is crumbling beneath my feet. This all feels so dark and scary. But I know the truth.
THERE IS NO LESS GOD WITHIN THE SHADOWS.
As we enter another long night, we will need to hold firm to that truth more than ever before.
FEBRUARY 9TH 2020
At 10:38 in the morning, our family lost something that cannot be replaced on this side of Heaven. At 10:38 another line was drawn on our lives forever. Most importantly …
AT 10:38 MY FATHER WAS FINALLY FREE.
Jesus took him home and put an end to the suffering he endured for so long. No more tears. No more shots. No more transfusions or chemo or labs. No more fear. Heaven’s gain was our loss.
I’d like to think at 10:39 my dad met his grandson for the first time.
Out of respect for my dad and the privacy of my family, the details of this day will remain private. Written - but never shared.
Today was sacred and will forever be etched into my heart. I am grateful God allowed my dad to be surrounded by his bride, his children, and his very best friends as he left this world. Twelve loving hands embraced my father, as Jesus finally reached out HIS HAND to bring him home.
In the middle of shock and unbearable pain, I feel immensely blessed to have witnessed love in it’s purest form.. It was selfless and untarnished. It was excruciating and searing. It was executed in a manner God originally designed and my dad deserved nothing less.
Mom, Kelley, Jordan … I’m in awe of you all. Seeing the physical manifestation of your hearts for Dad has forever changed me. Blessed to be one of the original five.
MONDAY
This morning I feel like I am waking up from a surgery where something was amputated. I’m still under the effects of lingering anesthesia and everything is fuzzy. I can tell something is gone ... but I don’t fully understand what. I can tell it hurts ... but I don’t fully understand how bad. It will not be until the anesthesia wears off that reality will be able to sink in. Soon the pain will not be masked and I will fully understand the gravity of what is no longer here.
I WROTE A POST LAST NIGHT THAT LEFT ME FEELING NUMB - LIKE I WAS LYING.
My dad didn’t die … he’s MY dad. He can’t just not be here anymore. That doesn’t even make sense. He’s in his bed sleeping downstairs, where he always is in the morning. I’ll go check on him in a few and kiss his head like I always do.
The lie I told myself faded quickly, as I started reading all the comments emerging from friends and family and felt the buzz of my phone every few minutes in my back pocket. In front of me were words I have written before to others - but ones that were now directed towards me and MY family. Pump the breaks Jamie … this is just a bad dream. Hopefully I will wake up soon.
Unfortunately, I would quickly learn I was already awake.
I am both numb and raw … calm and panicked. “Claustrophobic” seems to be the best word I can come up with to do justice -in part- to the tension we are sitting in. I’m claustrophobic thinking I will never see my dad again in this life. I’m claustrophobic knowing I will never be able to talk with him or tell him how much I love him. I’ll never be able to hug him or fill his plate with cookies. I’ll never be able to cover him and my kids with a blanket, so they can watch a movie together on the couch. I’ll never get to look out on the patio and see him bundled up and staring at the stars. I’m claustrophobic because half of my mom has died and now I worry I will lose her too.
These new realities swell inside me. I do my best to drag myself out of bed, carry on a lucid conversation and pack Sullivan’s bag for school. As the clock ticks, the pressure in my core continues to build. My mind races and makes itself sick repeating, “He is gone … he is gone … he is gone.” I can feel myself needing a release or I’m sure I will suddenly not be able to control the urge to frantically run through the house searching in all my dad's favorite places; sure I will find him somewhere. I want to start screaming but the breath in my lungs is not able. Sobs emerge instead. I cry until I no longer have the energy to continue. Moments later I find myself -once again- numb and raw ... calm and panicked. I pick myself up off the floor and find another distraction.
This cycle will continue for days, weeks, months and even years. All that will change is the frequency and duration of such meltdowns. I remember this back and forth dance from my past.
THIS IS THE REAL FACE OF GRIEF.
I yell at the kids for being too loud and say, “Quiet guys! Papa is sleeping down- …” The words stop abruptly once I realize the error in my statement. Similar scenarios would happen all throughout the day - each one cutting deeper and deeper into a very fresh wound.
I wonder how long it will take my brain to realize he is truly gone?
In the words of my brother, “Relief and grief are not exclusive.” I am in pieces but I am also so relieved my dad is no longer hurting. I spent countless hours in the last weeks BEGGING God to take him home. For those of you who understand what it feels like to beg for something you love more than anything to be removed from your life, I am truly sorry. It takes an unimaginable amount of suffering to be pushed to such a desperate place.
Right now, knowing my father is safe and restored is a soothing balm to my bruised and battered heart. But it’s only topical. The wound is far too deep to be soothed. I know the longer I go without seeing him and the harder life gets without him, the effectiveness of that balm may fade. I will become further removed from what I witnessed and what he endured and although his freedom WILL ALWAYS BRING ME PEACE, I know the sentiment will not always hold the same weight or have the same ability to temper my grief as it does now.
Today my relief and my sorrow are coexisting on the very same plane - their weight is equally distributed, keeping the scale balanced. Tomorrow, grief may win. Day after that? Only time will tell.
All I know is that right now … I just miss him.
TUESDAY
I had a nightmare last night Dad. I dreamed you had died. It was awful. I woke up with my heart beating out of my chest and a sickening chill shooting from my head all the way down to my toes. For a nanosecond, I exhaled deeply.
Oh thank you Jesus, it was just a drea- ... again I am cut short mid-thought. The heaviness blankets me and I can’t take a full breath.
I take a shower in an effort to escape for a moment. For some reason, it has always been my hiding place. I run the water cold and upon being forced to exit see the pile of clothes still crumpled on the floor that I wore the day you died.
GUT PUNCH AGIAN. I CANNOT ESCAPE THIS.
My brother Jordan has to go home tomorrow and it scares me. Having him here brings comfort that will leave when he does. He is like a barrier protecting us -partially- from the brutal reality that is waiting for us when he is no longer here. The house feels SO EMPTY, but his presence makes the gaping hole feel not as deep as it actually is. I fear when the dust settles, we will oh-so-carefully peak over the edge and see that its depth … actually goes down for miles.
The more days that separate us from February 9th, the more “normal” will do its best to reintegrate itself back into our lives. Jordan will be gone. The flowers and food will stop. Work, school and swim lessons will continue to fill my schedule. And yet, as the days go on this sorrow will get heavier and sink in deeper, because “normal” is no longer normal.
The world I see is a different color now. I will continue to walk and talk and smile. I will make dinner, play with my kids and spend time with those I love. I will go grocery shopping, clean the house and carry on with my life. I may look unchanged in your eyes. I may look ok. Don’t be fooled … I will never be the same again.
Our family will never be the same again.
WEDNESDAY
Life void of hope is what all face without a relationship with God and the promise of Heaven.
This is unbearably difficult, but if not for God this time would be nothing but desolate - this road, nothing but dark. We have hope solely because we have Him. So right now, even in the middle of this valley, I CHOOSE HIM. I CHOOSE HOPE.
Someday someone will hear your story Dad and because of it, they will choose HIM too. So very proud of you Papa … wish you could be here to see it.
"So I will praise You on the mountain
And I will praise You when the mountain's in my way
You're the summit where my feet are
So I will praise You in the valleys all the same
No less God within the shadows
No less faithful when the night leads me astray
You're the heaven where my heart is
In the highlands and the heartache all the same."
- Highlands, Hillsong United
I love you Dad. Save a seat for me.
Much Love,
Jamie
