Relentless

 I am supposed to be writing a paper for my Hermeneutics class. My first semester of seminary is going very well. Hermeneutics class is my favorite, so far. It's all about grammar, syntax, literary and historical context, interpretation of meaning, and the Bible. So, essentially, 90% of my favorite geeky things. My other class is Introduction to Transformational Leadership. I can best describe this as one of those courses you have to take, and it could be really good, except...its not. All you need to know is that I read nearly 1,000 pages of text that comprised our midterm exam. Not one page of these 1,000 were attached to our weekly lessons, discussion topics, or lectures. Not a one. Eh. There's always that one class, isn't there? Nevertheless, my goal for today is to finish my paper for Hermeneutics class. It's due Monday, so there's still time...theoretically. My mind is just having a hard time focusing on exegetical interpretation. It is completely understandable why.

A couple of months ago, I was listening to the "Family Life Blended" podcast. If you are in a blended family or know someone who is, this is a great podcast to listen to. Ron Deal is the host, and he runs a ministry offshoot of Family Life ministries called...Family Life Blended. His newest book Preparing to Blend was really helpful for S and I as we prepared to create our blended family over the last year. Podcast Episode 85 featured Evelyn Husband Thompson. She is the widow of space shuttle Columbia commander Rick Husband, who died while reentering Earth's atmosphere in 2003. Within the conversation, the subject of the calendar came up. Ron Deal made the comment that his wife (they lost one of their sons unexpectedly to illness several years ago) considers the calendar to be the most relentless piece of the grief journey. Just think on that for a moment; the calendar is relentless. Ugh. Yes, yes it is.

Today is the 3rd anniversary of Andrew's death. Even if I didn't have a calendar, I would know it was November. My cells feel it. My mind knows it. My heart aches for it. November 15th comes every single year, and it will continue to until Jesus calls me home. The thing is, though, it isn't just November 15th. The tsunami of grief that I lived and breathed in those many months has calmed down to occasional waves. Just like the waves come ashore with the tide in a fairly predictable pattern, my waves of grief have settled into a fairly predictable pattern. The pattern tends to follow the relentless calendar. I feel a wave settle on me around February 23rd, which was our wedding anniversary. Mr. M and Little Miss's birthdays are usually accompanied with a wave. This last year on Little Miss's birthday, my wave was a bit bigger. See, this last year she turned 5. She has now officially lived longer without Andrew than she did with him. Cue a crashing wave. Mr. M hasn't hit that same milestone yet, but the relentless calendar keeps moving along. Andrew's birthday in August signals a wave, naturally. And November. Like I said before, even if I didn't have a calendar, I would always know when it is November. These first 15 days of November trigger waves of varying intensity. I have found, though, the biggest wave, the most powerful wave, the wave that has knocked me on my butt every year for the last 3 years, has come on November 14th. It seems that as the day stretches on, as the sun sets and evening falls, the tears flow. A dam breaks inside of me, and I can hardly breathe. As the night moves on, and the hour creeps closer to the 15th, the intensity increases. I don't speak much; mostly I'm not sure whether words or tears will flow. I try to keep myself as busy as possible. And I cry. 

I cry, because, once again, the relentless calendar is approaching the anniversary of the worst day of my life. I remember the minutes and the hours of that day, and I cry. I recall the darkness and pain of the days that followed, and the chaos and grief of those months in the storm, and I cry. I thank God for Andrew, and I cry. I praise God for his mercy in ending Andrew's earthy suffering, and I cry. I sing praises for the two amazing children God has blessed us with; children who miss their dad, but who are thriving in our new family, and I cry. I marvel at the graciousness of God and his blessings, for the new husband and father he brought into our lives at just the right moment, and for the new family that is being built daily, and I cry. I think about the fact that November 15th is a day of new life for the two women who received Andrew's kidneys, and I pray for them, and I cry. I curse the relentless calendar, and I cry.

Grief is so messy and unpredictable. One never "finishes" grieving, at least on this side of eternity. Grief is a lot like a surgical scar. The immediate days following surgery are just plain painful. Your flesh has been sliced and literally sewn back together with a needle and thread. When I had my hip reconstruction surgery in 2021, I was one part horrified and one part fascinated at the six little stitches that were the only thing keeping my incision closed, particularly immediately after surgery when my incisions were so swollen. After time, you get the stitches out, but the scar is still sensitive. You learn ways to avoid aggravating the scar; what clothes you should wear, how you should sit down or move. Inevitably, there comes the first moment when you bump or hit the scar. The pain that radiates throughout your body is the reminder that while the scar itself may be scabbed over, it is not healed. Months and even years pass. The scar is still there, but most of the time, it doesn't bother you. However, there are still moments; maybe the weather changes and the scar is irritated, or you get a sunburn over the scar. In those moments, that scar becomes very real and very apparent. For a few hours or maybe a few days, it is never far from your mind. You begin to look forward to the day when the scar no longer bothers you, because you know from experience that it won't be irritated forever. You will return to life as you now know it. The scar will just be a scar. 

God is gracious and faithful. Jesus Christ is my living hope. I am forever grateful for the years I was with Andrew. I have memories to last me a lifetime. I have, in my opinion, the very best of him living in my house every day. The God who knew the exact number of Andrew's days before a single one came to be also knew my days would continue, and my life would move forward. The same God who met Andrew at the gates of Heaven that day three years ago, is the God who answered the prayers of me and my children, bringing us a wonderful man of God to continue His story of faithfulness. The joy we experience in our new blended family doesn't remove the scars of grief. Without those scars, we wouldn't be where we are today. Andrew's death changed the course and trajectory of our family forever. (It did, but it didn't.  It changed it for me and all of us who are humans living on this earth. God already knew that part of the story, and everything that has come after, and will come until eternity.) I would have to think for a very long time to come up with things that haven't changed in the last three years. Except for one. My Father has not changed. And He will not change. The calendar will remain as relentless as it always has been. My God will never change. His presence and promises are the salve that soothe the scars of grief. 

"Very truly I tell you, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices. You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy." -John 16:20

I'm still singing. Today, I'm singing Andrew's favorite song, "Grace to Grace".