Wednesday, January 2, 2013

A New Year.

It's a new year.

Four months ago, my world exploded. I saw and touched my husband's dead body, called and told his mother her son had died, talked my children through the news of their father's sudden death, planned and celebrated his "celebration of life" service, hosted many of Lynn's family members and other family friends, spent hours being kicked and screamed at by my scared and confused daughters, met with lawyers and bankers about all kinds of "after death" details, spent hours on the phones changing account after account...

In the last month, I have pushed through too many firsts.  I have had my 29th birthday, our 9th anniversary, Christmas services at our church, Christmas Eve (though I didn't make it to the service and sent my brother and daughters on without me), Christmas Day, all the post Christmas family gatherings, and now... New Years.

A new year...

How can I possibly comprehend the changes in my life over the last four months?  December was like riding in the back of a truck, feeling the bumps, the wind on my face, trusting the driver, but keeping my eyes closed.  Now that I am home and away from family and all the diversions they bring during our visits, reality is a like a firm punch in the gut.  A cold burning...  The canon ball has dropped once again into the pit of my stomach.  I no longer have the sacred bubble of grief those first few months afforded.  I can no longer linger in the comforting warmth of denial.  I find myself standing in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of winter, snow covering all that was once familiar and warm, bitter winds tearing at my face and arms and legs...

A new year...

I have tried to be hopeful and positive about the year to come, to rejoice with the world as the calendar turns once again, unveiling a clean slate, an empty canvas, a new today.  I have meetings to book, schedules to make, budgets to create for 2013. There are goals to set, words to write, songs to sing, and progress to be had...

But I feel stricken to my knees at the brutal awareness of Lynn's absence.  What is a clean slate when it is empty of any hope of seeing my husband ever again?

How do I cope with a new year?  With all that is lost?  The terrifying canvas before me laughs at me with its gleaming whiteness.  It mocks me with its limitless scope of possibility... What will you do to me, 2013??  Where will you take me?  Will there be anything familiar or comprehensible or good?

If there was any way for me to avoid taking the path that God has put in front of me, I fear that I would take it.  I would shy away, cower at the pain that lies ahead, in every step, in every breath, in every change.  O Father, if it is at all possible, let this cup pass from me! (Matt 26:39)  Before me lies a great death.  A death of myself, of all that I was, all that we were, of all that we had hoped and dreamed.  Planning a new life in a new year is like burying my husband in the ground, one shovel of dirt at a time.

I am angry.  sorrowful.  grieved.  bereaved.

But You are the author of my story.  You hold the paintbrush that touches my canvas with heavenly strokes...  My bottom line is, and (by God's mercy and grace) always will be... Nevertheless, not my will but yours be done.

Oh, God help me.


  1. No human knows your pain. We may say we understand the pain in the pit of your stomach, we may have experienced it ourselves. but the pain you feel is your own. People ask what they can do for you and the answer is nothing. I'm sure everyone that knows you and your daughters wish they could take away the pain and fix things for you. We don't know why things like this happen, we may say and believe that it's God's plan but that doesn't make things feel better. It's not fair, we don't understand and we don't like it. The only thing we can do and the best we can do is to keep praying for you. One breath at a time, one step at a time, that's all you have to do.

  2. "Oh, God help me." He will,Honey. Each faltering step...each minute.You are NEVER alone.

  3. Natasha -

    I stumbled upon your blog doing a google search of Psalm 139. Once I had read a couple of your posts, I realized it was no accident that I was here. You see, I too lost my husband suddenly. I was a 34 year old widow. Widows were supposed to be blue-haired ladies and old men, not young mothers with children.

    While I have no words to ease your pain, I can offer hope from a bit further down the road. A little more than 5 years has passed since that fateful day for me. The hard work of healing has taken place one day at a time in the arms of Christ, and so will it be for you. You will emerge from the Valley of the Shadow of Death a stronger woman anchored in Christ if you allow the slow process of healing to take place and trust that God is indeed in control. There is no pit of grief too far from the loving hands of Christ. Keep asking for God's help. He hears you.