The Live Dare: A Cry for Help

I had a thought this morning as I deliberated this post from May 10th:

My highest place of exaltation is often at my lowest point in life.


Entry from May 10th, 2017:

I made a promise to you in the bathroom last night, “I’ll give you a year, Lord.”

The desire to die to be with Bill is so overwhelming, I don’t desire to fight it’s pull. But these words in his final letter to me cause me to stay the course,

“I want you to be strong and live a beautiful, fulfilling life…”

“Lord, I am giving you one year to rekindle the desire to live again.”

I promised I wouldn’t kill myself even though I tried to propel my feet to sprint until my lungs collapsed and my heart stopped beating.

“Help me, God.”

Help. How do I do this, how do I go on when reminders of his fingerprint cause an ache so deep, it penetrates beyond the marrow, into my invisible soul.

I turned on Fox News this morning. I guess missing the routine of you. Yet, without your endless commentary at the screen, this made me sadder still.

I am scared. I stood in the bathroom last night, it was after I picked up your death certificates earlier in the day. They said you were there, somewhere beyond my sight, but your box wasn’t in yet. I guess some misunderstanding in shipping or something. So I left you there, and went to the bank.

I attempted to change the accounts with the simplicity you put on paper, but it was not that simple. They are requiring me to create a new account for just me. You made special passwords, like loved ones carve into wood of initials only significant to them. I had to change them.

I was in the bathroom last night, standing there. Feeling lost. I’m not sure who I was talking to, you or God, but I told one or the other this simple statement, “I will give it one year.” I don’t feel desperate to kill myself to be by your side, but I am not sure how to navigate in this sorrow. But not to be too impulsive, I will give it one year.

Later, Ky cries herself into my bed, and I comfort her. Her pain was delayed compared to the others. I knew this would come and find comfort in the fact she is opening up.

In the midst of her tears, she looks at me and asks me not to leave them. They need me. I don’t understand. How did she know I thought of leaving?  She was not home when I was in the bathroom.

She says she’s worried I am going to kill myself. “How do you know?” She’s says she is not sure, intuition, or something like that.


Okay, God. We have a year. Beginning today. I promise I will not take my own life.

A couple days later, Ky comes with tear-stained-eyeliner-smudged eyes, and shares the truth of how she knew I was contemplating hurting myself:

She was standing in her bedroom and heard a voice say, “Go in there with her.” She wasn’t sure, but the voice sounded like her dad.

“Mom, I think I heard Dad.”

He declared in a loud voice, “Go in there with her”.  In with me.

When she said through snot, “Don’t leave, we need you.”

How did she know? You God.

I held her close and told her that was her Heavenly Daddy. Isn’t it like HIM to use a voice she ached to hear to deliver a message of help to me?

God knew I needed someone to come in, not only comfort and encourage me, but to make me know HE is near to my brokenness ,and is with me through this, carrying me, comforting me.

He also knew Ky needed to hear her daddy’s voice, and hear her Daddy’s Voice.

I cling to this verse today in my reading:

Blessed are those who take refuge in him.  Psalm 2:12

Uprooted in Grief and Fear

I feel the vice grip of fear entangle me this morning as I contemplate writing a blog post, talking myself out of such an endeavor, that God really didn’t nudge me at all.  Justifying my disobedience with the fact I am still horribly grieving most days, and He wouldn’t ask such a thing of me while I am still entirely too down and out.

I am writing after all, so what is the difference whether I keep it private, or post it anyway?  Just a matter of logistics, and maybe a few dedicated followers who actually read my ramblings. Not a big deal.  Or is it?

That, and was I perhaps playing the “victim” card I verbally speak against on almost a daily basis?

“I am not a victim.”

“I am not a victim.”

“I am not a victim.”

The exhilaration of His guidance at the possibility of blogging again had me leaping at His quick response to an inward request for clarity on the inaudible whisper I was certain was from Him in the first place.

I guess I am afraid.

I see a sign post today, laying flat on its back from the storm.  I ponder its uprooting.

I mean really, Harvey has hardly made an impact here, so the fact that it is a casualty, hasn’t weathered the storm at all and is down for the count, has me feeling like if it were a person, she would be playing the victim card herself.

She is too tired to hold up any longer. Too emotional to weather the pain.

“Let someone else alert others of the approaching curve ahead,” she would say if she weren’t an it.

Instead she lay there broken.

It is time to write publicly again. I say this with a bit of trepidation in my fingers as I type the commitment.

Yesterday, as I read a book’s introduction, the author quotes C.S. Lewis on fear and grief:

“No one told me that grief felt so much like fear.”

Yes, I’ve stayed away from this outlet more out of fear than anything else.  Fear of what?  Fear of a subtle shift of writing “to” instead of writing “from”.

It is a slight deviation that keeps me on the shallow end instead of the depths. Wondering if people will read what I write and feel compelled to rescue me from myself.  I get it.  As I read through the first entries of this writing journey post Bill, I see me too near the ledge, feet teetering too close to the edge, close to jumping out of this life, into the after life.

But, I am still standing here today.

Actually I have made it 111 consecutive days of writing, meeting God at the kitchen table with Bible in hand each morning.

Yet I know my writing is beyond my own healing. It is meant for God to be known, especially so in the midst of this inescapable darkness.

I have many moments that blow my mind away of how God is moving in the midst on my behalf.

But, I don’t want to get ahead of myself here.

So, to keep me from compromising, I’ve decided to continue on today privately, but begin to post from former days and move forward from there.

They are choppy at first. Raw.  Difficult. Unedited.

My hope is you glean a glimpse of His Glory in the midst of such darkness.


Today I leave you with the initial entry from May 8th:

Sitting outside staring at the last of the blooms from the tree that was planted in honor of the man who died of cancer. No, not my husband, but the former occupant of this residence.

We just made it back today after a whirlwind of memorials in two states, and in exhaustion hit the bed as I stared at a pic of the two of us, and cried myself to a deep sleep.

I feel this thought creep up–would this not have happened had we not moved into this home? I mean, really, the eeriness of the similarities has me wonder. They moved here. He got sick. Died. We moved here. He got sick. Died. What if when it happened, we just moved? Would chemo have worked at that point?

I know.  Josie don’t go there. You are not superstitious. I know.

I’m just heartbroken.