Three Years Without You

My dearest love...

Three years ago today you departed this world for one infinitely better. Three years. It sounds and feels like an eternity. So much life has happened in these years without you, and with every fiber of my being I resent the relentless passage of time that tugs our life together further and further into the past. You gave me a lifetime of love in eight short years, and that's exactly what our story feels like - another lifetime. I look at my life now, at our sweet daughter who had only just entered the world when you left it, and wonder if you would even recognize me now. The transition from wife to single mother was almost seamless. With everything in me I long to make you proud, to honor your extraordinary life and carry on the work that you were only just beginning. Everything I do is for you, and always the nagging question...is it enough? Are you proud of me? Would you be happy with the life I am forced to choose for your girls?

You always encouraged me to write. You told me to stop spending so much time cooking and cleaning, and to write a blog instead. You were always the first one to read and "like" every single one of my posts. In the schizophrenia of shock and grief after losing you, I couldn't imagine ever publishing a single world into the cybersphere again - posting a thought that I might vehemently deny within days, or hours. But I had to write, because it was all I could think to do to honor you. I want the whole world to know you, Nate - to catch a glimpse of the best man I've ever known, and if the only way to do that is through my writing than I will never, ever stop trying to capture you on a keyboard. 

I blogged regularly at first, letting my raw feelings spill over into virtual journal entries. The empathy and comments from strangers were cathartic somehow, reminding me that we were not alone - not forgotten. I witnessed your story capture those who never got to meet you in life. But somewhere along the way, I ran out of words. I let my blog go untouched for over 14 months. I knew that with every click on a new post, my readers would be hoping for some kind of assurance that the girls you had left behind were finding peace, moving forward, entering some kind of resolution. Public grieving after Year Two, well into Year Three, started to feel belabored, exhausted - and yet, I couldn't think of anything to say that didn't revolve around you, my love, and the hole you left in our lives. My grief became more and more private. No one except me could possibly understand the void carved into my very soul at the absence of my husband, my soulmate, my best friend, my provider, my listening ear and strong shoulder and steady giver of the advice I needed so desperately. 

And so, I simply fell silent. I became absorbed in the all-consuming task of parenting a newly minted two-year-old without going insane, started new friendships and deepened lifelong ones, resumed daily life with my family, made new traditions with your family, rented a big old farmhouse in the country - how you would adore this house! - and read hard books that forced me to grapple with issues of faith and my relationship with God. In the hubbub of the last year, it has been hard to silence the constant clamor - to find the solitude necessary in the present to relive the ever-receding past. The highlight of these past 14 months has been two pilgrimages to my personal Mecca: Prince Edward Island. 

When I was 7 months pregnant with Elissa and you asked where I would go if I could go anywhere in the world, I interrupted you as the words "Prince Edward Island!" bubbled over in a gut reaction of ecstasy. Images of sun-kissed red cliffs rising above sapphire seas, rimmed by fields of rippling grass dotted with lighthouses and lupins had inspired my dreams since I was five years old and my mom first showed me the film Anne of Green Gables. And of course you, still courting me after four years of marriage and determined to make all my dreams come true, immediately planned a surprise trip and presented me with our "Adventure for Kindred Spirits" itinerary the day before we left! You whisked my heavily pregnant self through the Northeast and around the entire Island in just four days, leaving us both dizzy and in love with this secluded corner of paradise. 

It was everything I'd ever dreamed of, and so much more. Last summer, when I thought I would crack under the strain of solo parenting and attempting to turn life right-side up again, I could think of only one reprieve - going back to the blue and white inn nestled at the back of Memory Lane, next to the famed Green Gables. I wrote to the inn owners and was immediately welcomed by a veritable flock of kindred spirits. It was the perfect balm for my shattered heart, and I spent June, July and August on an island of grief, surrounded by a sea of tears that enveloped me the moment I ventured into the solitude that unlocked all the suppressed pain of the last two years. I felt you here with me, Nate, in a way that I never had before. You were with me along the stretches of lonely beach, biking on red dirt roads, washing dishes in our tiny cottage, wading through the fields of waving grass. I buried myself in journals of our relationship, losing myself in a love story that was so riveting I couldn't put it down - though of course I knew the beautiful-turned-horrific end. Then, at the cries of our waking daughter, I surfaced to the brutal slap in the face of reality. Every day the shock, the disbelief, the gut-wrenching pain of your absence that literally left me writhing. I didn't know how to live, Nate. The numbness of that first year was a mercy compared to the agony of coming face-to-face with you gone, because how could I survive it? And yet, I was grateful for every tear, every sob wrenched from deep inside me - because, my love, you deserve all the tears in the world. I would cry an ocean of them for you; I would drown in their salt just to find you again. 

If I could sum up last summer in a sentence it's this: longing for life to be over so our family could be together again. Your absence colored everything; the beauty surrounding me was tinged with the awful reality that I must explore our paradise alone. I could scarcely breathe through the suffocating loneliness. 

This year, I've been back in Prince Edward Island for the past month. I purposefully got off social media so I could clear my head and immerse myself in the beauty of this present moment. And Nate - to tell you this feels much like a confession - I have realized just how far I've come in a year. I had to plumb the depths of my grief and despair, wring every ounce of anguish out of my severed soul before I could begin the slow crawl to the surface. To breathe, and live again. The revelations are slow in coming, and they take my breath away with all the force of a gut punch. One day, watching Elissa in her bath, I realize: I feel happy more days than I feel sad. Squealing down a steep hill on our bike, the wind whipping our faces, I realize: I'm excited about my future with my girl. It's going to be beautiful, albeit broken. It's going to be good. I'm trying to shake the guilt of finding joy and hope in a world without you, because Nate, I know that's what you want for us more than anything. A lifetime of grieving you feels appropriate, but frankly, you would hate me for it. 

If you could tell me one thing on this day, the third anniversary of your death, it would be to LIVE. To make my mark in the world. To give Elissa the love and adventures and zest for life that she would have had with two parents. And Nate, more than anyone else I've ever encountered it was you who taught me how to live full, live well, live extraordinary. It was you who raced through life at breakneck speed, seeing and doing everything, and yet skidded to a halt at the perfect moment to just be. To inhale a beautiful sunset, letting the last rays of yet another unforgettable day wash over you. To stare at a rumbling ocean for hours, thinking deep thoughts that no one but God was privy to. To gather me up in your arms - baby belly and all - with no other intent than to drink in my nearness. And here, on this island, I feel it again. We are one. You have taught me and shown me about life, and for the rest of mine I will strive to apply your lessons and teach them to our daughter. 

At the end of our whirlwind babymoon three years ago you stood on the top of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia, breathless with excitement as we watched the sun set and I froze beside you. Tonight Elissa and I will climb back to the top of Cadillac. We will watch the sun go down and imagine what it would be like to stand on that mountain with you, nestled on either side of the man who is the center of our world, warmed by the fever of your intoxication with life and its beauty. We adore you, Nate. Passionately, relentlessly, forever. You will always be our knight, our muse, the one who has gone before us to exemplify a life well-lived. 

Cadillac Mountain, July 2014

The Most Generous Man in the World

I wrote a little story for my dad's birthday, and wanted to share it here so everyone can know how amazingly generous he is. Happy Birthday Dad, I love you!

Once upon a time there was a man with a wife and six children. They lived in a little house and were very happy. One day, the man decided to sell the little house and move to a big, beautiful house up the road. His children played games in the huge yard, slept in spacious bedrooms, and explored the comfortable neighborhood. They were even happier than they had been in the little house. The man worked very hard in the big house. He kept the lawn cut, the trees trimmed, and the pool sparkling. He threw massive parties for his children and their friends. Everyone loved the big house. Everyone loved the man's parties. 

But the man didn't stop there. He wanted his children to see the world, and so he would pile them into a big gray van that he had bought, brand new, and take them on spontaneous trips. They traveled up the coast to Canada. They traveled down the coast to Florida. The man bought his children things and memories. But that wasn't the most important thing. He gave them the gift of relationships, that couldn't be bought with money. He liked to have his children sit up front with him and talk. He spent time with each of the six children, listening to them, learning about their hopes and dreams. And when the man spoke to his children, it was with wisdom and understanding. He taught his children about God. He showed them how to love God and each other. The man raised six children who became best friends. 

When it was time for the man's oldest child, a daughter, to go to school, the man let her choose where she wanted to go. He took her to visit the school, and when she was accepted, he sat down and wrote a check for the first semester, and for each of the semesters after that. Sometimes the man ran into hard times financially. Often his children never even knew. He did everything he could to give them the best life possible. After the oldest daughter graduated from her expensive school, she planned an expensive wedding. And the man worked harder than ever before. He worked long, long hours all of the months before the wedding so that he could walk his daughter down the aisle in the setting of her dreams. 

Three years passed, and the man gave his second daughter a wedding just as exquisite as the first. He sent his third daughter to an expensive school. And he worked harder than ever to make it all possible, to make his children's dreams come true. At last, it seemed, life began to slow down for the man. The full nest began to empty as, one by one, his children set out to make their own way in the world. Then, terrible tragedy struck. The oldest daughter found herself alone in the world with her newborn baby girl. And the man once again made a home for her. He moved to the basement of his own house and gave his bedroom to his daughter. He found furniture and pretty things to make her smile. He bought her crepes and coffee and listened to her when she was confused. He loved her baby girl like his own. 

Every year brings the man closer to retirement age. Every year, the man works harder than ever. He brings his mother into his home. He drives to North Carolina, Kentucky, Alabama, and Canada to visit his children. The man does not stop working. He does not stop praying. He does not stop loving. He does not stop giving. He is the most generous man in the whole world. 

Overwhelmed

When Nathan and I lived in Houston the local Christian radio station (KSBJaaay!) provided constant background music in both of our cars. One new song by Big Daddy Weave, "Overwhelmed," was played more often than usual. I vividly remember making the trek downtown for a prenatal doctor's appointment right before Elissa was born, as "Overwhelmed" played for what seemed like the tenth time that day. The words brought me to tears as I visualized the glorious relief I would feel once our daughter had entered the world. In my imagination, the thrill of beholding her face to face after the agony of giving birth would feel very akin to dying and entering heaven. I knew that what happened in that delivery room would be a holy moment, that heaven would touch earth and I'd be compelled to worship.

"I delight myself in You, in the glory of Your presence / I'm overwhelmed, I'm overwhelmed by You..."

Elissa's birth was every bit as painful, glorious, and miraculous as I'd anticipated. Three weeks later, in a single instant that obliterated our euphoric new family life, Nathan was hit and killed by a drunk driver. I immediately went home to Maryland to be with our families, but a few weeks later found myself back in Texas for his memorial service. As I once again drove those familiar highways with KSBJ playing in the background, my grief seemed punctuated by the same refrain, over and over again:

"I'm overwhelmed, I'm overwhelmed by You..."

It seemed like every time I started the rental car "Overwhelmed" was playing on the radio. I knew it was no coincidence. In the midst of overwhelming feelings of pain, betrayal, and anger towards God for allowing this to happen, the lyrics nonetheless became my anthem:

"God I run into Your arms, unashamed because of mercy / I'm overwhelmed, I'm overwhelmed by You." 

My once-solid faith that I'd clung to for 26 years was in tatters, wrecked by the one thing I was sure would never happen: losing the one person I couldn't live without. Yet as I visualized Nate at home and free in the arms of his Creator I knew that the words of this song were an apt description of what he was experiencing, even as we who were left behind struggled to keep breathing, to make it through another day. I found a measure of comfort in my own devastation knowing that he was in the place he was made for, fulfilling his eternal destiny.

Fast-forward twenty months later. Elissa and I are spending the summer in Prince Edward Island, at an idyllic inn on Memory Lane (I kid you not). Nathan brought me to this same inn exactly two years ago as a surprise last hoorah before we became parents, both of us clueless as to what would befall us just months later. This place was meant to be a part of our story, and before I even realized the connotation of the road name I brought along a bag stuffed with the journals I'd kept during our years together. I've spent the last month poring over hundreds of handwritten pages, documenting the ups and downs from our days of first meeting and falling in love, to fights, passionate trysts, joy, laughter, heartache, and everything in between. And I've only made it to 2008!

I never imagined how painful a trip into the past could be. Though we had the best marriage possible this side of heaven, I've felt acute pangs of grief and guilt over so many things I should have done differently in our relationship. Ways I could have loved him, served him, cared for him...missed opportunities because I was too absorbed in my own selfishness.

Our early years of dating were particularly rocky. We grew up together in many ways, hours apart at different schools with very different pursuits, and though we longed to be together it was agonizingly unclear at times whether our paths were ultimately meant to converge or separate. Woven between the stories of conflict and confusion are my journaled prayers for Nate, reminding myself over and over again that he belonged to God and that God would fulfill His purposes for him, regardless of how our future together played out.

Today it hits me, reading once again the many ways that I'd failed Nate in spite of my best efforts, that he is now overwhelmed by a Love like he never imagined. Nathan struggled his whole life to believe that he mattered to others, that people really cared about him. It hurts more than I can express to admit that, even knowing this, there were so many times that I didn't do enough to convey my love for him. I love him more wholly and passionately than anyone can ever know, yet all the love in my heart fell woefully short of what he needed and deserved.

As I am devastated once again that I couldn't be a more perfect wife, I find my grief turning to thanksgiving. Impulsively I start to praise God for dazzling Nathan with all the love he was created to eternally behold. I thank Him for holding Nate in the palm of His hand, guarding him from countless unknown disasters until the moment that he was destined to enter heaven. In January of 2008 I wrote in my journal:

God, please give me Your heart for Nate and use me to show him how special and wonderful he is and how much You love him...

It is overwhelming to me that God gave me this priceless treasure of a man for eight years, that I got to love him with everything I have and thus be a part of showing him God's love on earth. Yet the story was never meant to end with us. Tim Keller describes how Jesus embraced the cross, "knowing that no matter how dreadful, on the other side would lie the joy of being with us. We are his reward." This. This is overwhelming Love. And until I can hold Nate again I will rejoice that he is safe in the arms of his Father.

Nathan and I at Green Gables on July 4, 2014

Elissa and I on Memory Lane, June 2016