I've been thinking about traveling to Israel and the emotional toll that is likely to take, and I've been thinking about writing a blog about it for a while. Sort of an emotional shower before I go, I suppose. A good mental scrubbing.
A subtle shift has happened inside of me, with the progress of my grief. I don't buy into the "stage of grief" model for a few reasons. While I do think there are stages, it seems that each individual is unique, and there are millions of possibilities for what those "stages" might be, how long they might last, and what might be next. I think of it more like healing, a sort of injury, which takes place in it's own time in each person, and generally leaves some sort of scar. Perhaps I've reached a new point of healing.
I see that when we lose someone it makes a sort of wound. Generally, a bleeding, gaping wound. The Bible says that when a couple marries, they become one. When one half of one dies, that leaves a pretty big hole behind. Eventually, this begins to heal. It doesn't feel like it at first. There's just this aching hurt inside of us. But like all wounds, it does start to heal, and we begin to feel that healing. Every now and again, something makes you realize that you actually are progressing in the healing.
That healing point seems to be that the pining, as in, "I'm "pining away" for him," is diminishing. Not that it's gone, exactly. Not always, at least. But it's STARTING to be gone. That's the thing. There are still times when I miss him so much it feels like an acute pain inside me, like the burning, stabbing need that I felt immediately after his death. But not all the time, now. Not every day. As I move through time toward this trip, I realize that much of the time the excitement of the anticipation and the thoughts of my time there fill my heart and my mind so completely that I am unable to think of much else.
It is more than just the replacement therapy of the trip. It's a sense of change inside of me. Like when you've hurt your leg or ankle; it's that moment you realize that you can stand on it again. Or after an illness, of it finally passing, and the symptoms easing, so you can rest. That feeling of the fever breaking. That's how it's feeling.
It's a good time for it. 19 months in, I am getting tired of dragging this chain behind me, this rattling mess of grief. I have been tired of the tears for so long I can't express it, but it's more than just tears. It's the sense that there is always this heartbreak that pulls me down. This terrible tragedy. It's depressing, frankly, and it's not the life I ever wanted to live.
It's also something that weighs down my future. It's a story that I must tell any future men that I know. It's a story that I must tell my future friends and future acquaintances. It's something that will always be on me, like an invisible tattoo that no one can actually see yet still generates conversation. It's not that I mind talking about it, exactly. It's that I mind having it to talk about to begin with.
My friend, Glenda, who amazes me, shared with me that this time I am visiting Israel is a time of repentance; the month of Elul leading up to Yom Kippur. It's fitting. I am turning away, repenting of my past life, being healed to walk into the future of my new life.
May my God, Yahweh, open up my heart to what is ahead. May he remove my heart of stone, and replace it with a heart of flesh. May he bring me shalom.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Why I DON'T wish people would watch what they say.
I hope that I can say this carefully, without causing anyone any unnecessary pain. I'd like to make it understood upfront that I am only discussing my own experience, and in no way intend to pass judgment on the reactions and feelings of others. I endeavor to avoid doing so below, but if I failed, I'm sorry in advance.
I still suffer from the effects of the trauma associated with my husband's suicide. I have a number of lingering symptoms. One of the most impacting, for me, is a hypersensitivity to violence, death, and specifically suicide. This is common for people who have been close to someone, or participated in, the sudden death of someone they love. I also have a certain sensitivity to conversations about specific topics, such as marriage, and suicide.
I participate in websites and therapy groups committed to folks like me; folks that have lost someone close to them to suicide. Oftentimes these folks are very traumatized by the casual way suicide is discussed socially. Common expressions can often set off a crying jag or trigger painful memories of traumatic events. For example, I often read stories where folks were in social settings and someone made statements like, "if that ever happens, I'll just kill myself." Or, "just shoot me." I understand their pain.
These sorts of statements are common and even normal in our society. Yet for some people it leaves them in an emotional state of pain. Typically in these stories, the person who suffered the trauma tells how they corrected the parties involved, reminding them how incredibly insensitive their comments are. In discussion groups, they tell how they confronted the offending individual, demanding apologies and that they change the way they speak.
I've been party to such experiences as having thoughtless people who should know better do and say things that they should know better about. Playing songs about suicide, and passing judgment on anyone who would kill themselves, popping off about how weak a person must be to take their own life, and judging the dead when they are not here to defend themselves. My response has been to simply walk away.
It hurts me. Just like it hurts me to be watching my favorite TV show and have a major character commit suicide, and just like it hurts to watch YouTube videos were children and dogs are hurt. These things hurt me. But in my opinion that's no reason for anything to change.
There are number of reasons that I say that. It's not my job to tell the whole world how to talk. It's not my job to confront strangers and demand that they comply with my emotional state. It's not my job to police anyone's language.
All of those are good reasons, and there are more reasons, but the most important one is this; I'm not the center of the universe, and I don't want to be. I don't want all of my friends and family to walk around on egg shells all the time, terrified to offend me or hurt my fragile feelings, waiting to endure the next lecture. Certainly, I'm appreciative when folks take the time and energy to think about my needs, but my needs do not trump every conversation and every single social event.
I think about my own language, and word choices I make. I think about how I love using colorful speech, and $.85 words. I think about how everybody has problems, every single person that I know, and that I don't want anyone to feel like they cannot talk about the problems or their feelings because my own fragile heart might break under the strain of it, or worse, be subject to a tear-filled lecture for every single verbal gaffe they made. Besides which, how can I expect everyone around me to somehow anticipate what might offend me? The scope of that is just ridiculous.
There's one other very important thing. It's not their fault. It's not anyone's fault but mine and Storm' s. We did this to us. He did this to me. I'm not really angry at the insensitive person, I'm angry at Storm. The only reason I'm so super-sensitive to all of these stimuli is because of what Storm did to me. Lecturing some hapless soul in a DJ booth for saying, "if you don't like this one you should just go shoot yourself," is not going to bring Storm back. Crying at my family members for putting on a movie which they knew ahead portrays a suicide is not going to bring Storm back.
Certainly, people should not make rude comments about suicide. It's a subject matter that we take much too lightly in this country, and one that is often a socially taboo subject to discuss in a serious way. Let's just face it; it doesn't make good small talk. But I don't want those people to be super-sensitive, too. I don't want them to be because it means they understand what this feels like, and I never want another human being to understand what this feels like as long as the earth exists. Someone saying something so insensitive means they are innocent and ignorant of how it feels to be left behind because of suicide. I don't want anybody to ever have this feeling again, and so I would rather walk away and let them be ignorant than to force them to confront these horrible feelings; and it still won't bring Storm back. Sure, it might make me feel better for a moment that I have vindicated the pain inside me, but within five minutes I'm going to start remembering the look on their face, and feel like I spread my guilt and pain like a plague on all humanity.
I try to take opportunities to talk about it and share with people whenever it's appropriate and whenever I think it will help. If folks asked me how Storm died, I tell them and answer their questions. I try to be honest, and I don't hide my devastation or my tears. I don't make it their fault that it hurts me to answer them; in the same spirit I don't make it their fault that they don't know how it feels to be left behind by suicide.
People's words generally don't offend me. For me, there are much bigger triggers. Regular old music, average pop music that we listen to every day in every store and every elevator and coming from every car; that's like lemon in a wound to me. Why should I have to listen to that? Don't people understand that I have an association to almost every one of those songs since Storm was a DJ and played music constantly? Every memory I have with him is connected to music. Certain television shows will make me cry. It's ridiculous to expect stores not to play music or show Mythbusters because it might upset little old me. Yet, it's the same way I feel about correcting people for using common phrases.
Proverbs 18:7 - A fool's mouth [is] his destruction, and his lips [are] the snare of his soul.
This is the truth, and it always will be. We can't stop others from being fools, but we can stop ourselves. So, please, when you talk to me, say what you're going to say, and don't apologize unless you actually owe me an apology. Don't worry about every word, and don't be upset if I cry. Let's talk about it openly, if you like, or we can just move on to something else. I know you didn't mean anything by it.
I still suffer from the effects of the trauma associated with my husband's suicide. I have a number of lingering symptoms. One of the most impacting, for me, is a hypersensitivity to violence, death, and specifically suicide. This is common for people who have been close to someone, or participated in, the sudden death of someone they love. I also have a certain sensitivity to conversations about specific topics, such as marriage, and suicide.
I participate in websites and therapy groups committed to folks like me; folks that have lost someone close to them to suicide. Oftentimes these folks are very traumatized by the casual way suicide is discussed socially. Common expressions can often set off a crying jag or trigger painful memories of traumatic events. For example, I often read stories where folks were in social settings and someone made statements like, "if that ever happens, I'll just kill myself." Or, "just shoot me." I understand their pain.
These sorts of statements are common and even normal in our society. Yet for some people it leaves them in an emotional state of pain. Typically in these stories, the person who suffered the trauma tells how they corrected the parties involved, reminding them how incredibly insensitive their comments are. In discussion groups, they tell how they confronted the offending individual, demanding apologies and that they change the way they speak.
I've been party to such experiences as having thoughtless people who should know better do and say things that they should know better about. Playing songs about suicide, and passing judgment on anyone who would kill themselves, popping off about how weak a person must be to take their own life, and judging the dead when they are not here to defend themselves. My response has been to simply walk away.
It hurts me. Just like it hurts me to be watching my favorite TV show and have a major character commit suicide, and just like it hurts to watch YouTube videos were children and dogs are hurt. These things hurt me. But in my opinion that's no reason for anything to change.
There are number of reasons that I say that. It's not my job to tell the whole world how to talk. It's not my job to confront strangers and demand that they comply with my emotional state. It's not my job to police anyone's language.
All of those are good reasons, and there are more reasons, but the most important one is this; I'm not the center of the universe, and I don't want to be. I don't want all of my friends and family to walk around on egg shells all the time, terrified to offend me or hurt my fragile feelings, waiting to endure the next lecture. Certainly, I'm appreciative when folks take the time and energy to think about my needs, but my needs do not trump every conversation and every single social event.
I think about my own language, and word choices I make. I think about how I love using colorful speech, and $.85 words. I think about how everybody has problems, every single person that I know, and that I don't want anyone to feel like they cannot talk about the problems or their feelings because my own fragile heart might break under the strain of it, or worse, be subject to a tear-filled lecture for every single verbal gaffe they made. Besides which, how can I expect everyone around me to somehow anticipate what might offend me? The scope of that is just ridiculous.
There's one other very important thing. It's not their fault. It's not anyone's fault but mine and Storm' s. We did this to us. He did this to me. I'm not really angry at the insensitive person, I'm angry at Storm. The only reason I'm so super-sensitive to all of these stimuli is because of what Storm did to me. Lecturing some hapless soul in a DJ booth for saying, "if you don't like this one you should just go shoot yourself," is not going to bring Storm back. Crying at my family members for putting on a movie which they knew ahead portrays a suicide is not going to bring Storm back.
Certainly, people should not make rude comments about suicide. It's a subject matter that we take much too lightly in this country, and one that is often a socially taboo subject to discuss in a serious way. Let's just face it; it doesn't make good small talk. But I don't want those people to be super-sensitive, too. I don't want them to be because it means they understand what this feels like, and I never want another human being to understand what this feels like as long as the earth exists. Someone saying something so insensitive means they are innocent and ignorant of how it feels to be left behind because of suicide. I don't want anybody to ever have this feeling again, and so I would rather walk away and let them be ignorant than to force them to confront these horrible feelings; and it still won't bring Storm back. Sure, it might make me feel better for a moment that I have vindicated the pain inside me, but within five minutes I'm going to start remembering the look on their face, and feel like I spread my guilt and pain like a plague on all humanity.
I try to take opportunities to talk about it and share with people whenever it's appropriate and whenever I think it will help. If folks asked me how Storm died, I tell them and answer their questions. I try to be honest, and I don't hide my devastation or my tears. I don't make it their fault that it hurts me to answer them; in the same spirit I don't make it their fault that they don't know how it feels to be left behind by suicide.
People's words generally don't offend me. For me, there are much bigger triggers. Regular old music, average pop music that we listen to every day in every store and every elevator and coming from every car; that's like lemon in a wound to me. Why should I have to listen to that? Don't people understand that I have an association to almost every one of those songs since Storm was a DJ and played music constantly? Every memory I have with him is connected to music. Certain television shows will make me cry. It's ridiculous to expect stores not to play music or show Mythbusters because it might upset little old me. Yet, it's the same way I feel about correcting people for using common phrases.
Proverbs 18:7 - A fool's mouth [is] his destruction, and his lips [are] the snare of his soul.
This is the truth, and it always will be. We can't stop others from being fools, but we can stop ourselves. So, please, when you talk to me, say what you're going to say, and don't apologize unless you actually owe me an apology. Don't worry about every word, and don't be upset if I cry. Let's talk about it openly, if you like, or we can just move on to something else. I know you didn't mean anything by it.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Dreams and demons
My friend Jeff, who still lives in the duplex next to where Storm died, tells me he was feeling pretty crappy and sick. He woke up one night and Storm was standing there. Storm said, "Get off your ass and do something." So he did, and ever since then he is feeling entirely much healthier.
Storm doesn't visit me here. Storm doesn't visit me in dreams.
After Storm died, I didn't dream for a long time. I think that was a mercy and a comfort granted to me by my Father Yahweh. There were no dreams of any kind, and that was just fine with me. When the dreams started coming back, they were disjointed and broken, like shattered glass. Right before I moved, I was waking up from a recurring falling water dream, but I'm sure I just felt overwhelmed. The first real dream I had was a few months ago. It wasn't a bad dream, but I woke up feeling that way. Praise Yah again and again for Pepe, my catty cat.
Sometimes, right before I fall asleep, I wake up from those tiny, little dreams, usually with the sensation of falling or twitching. Lately, those tiny dreams have sometimes been dreams of Storm. Good dreams, but they still hurt, and wake me, and make me cry. Dreams where he touches my hand, or puts his arm around me. They make me want him so bad. They make me miss him so much.
I don't know if this is him reaching out to me in the only place he can, between sleep and life, or just my brain reflecting the desires of my heart. I know that my Torah tells me that I am not to consult mediums or to commune with the dead. I don't reach out to Storm. I don't seek his face. I don't search for signs. He made his choice, and that choice was death over me. So be it. If that was his choice, I wish he would say what he has to say, and then leave me in peace. There can be no comfort from the dead. He owes me an apology. I owe him one. I think that is the only thing either of us has left to say.
Which brings me around to the subject of demonic oppression. After my front-row seat to suicide, I know that demons are real and active in our world. I have been reading a course on spiritual warfare. One of the potential signs of demonic oppression is a seemingly unsolvable problem. The problem that came to my mind was mowing.
I have issues with grass, and lawns particularly. I'll save that rant for a different blog, but as in almost everything, the evil of man has turned a beautiful creation into something damaging and ugly. As my husband knew my feelings on the matter, and wanted grass anyway, it was understood that he would tend it, and he always did. I never had to mow. I never had to cut it. If it needed love, he gave the love.
Fast forward to my first real home, and the giant backyard. I intend to turn it into my backyard garden escape, but right now, it's just a big field of grass. I hate loud, gas-filled machines, so I bought myself a cute little push mower, which is a great work out, and a good way to spend some time. However, that little guy is a maintenance tool, not a cut down tool.
It started with a friend saying he needed to make some money. I offered him $40 to cut the grass and clean up after dogs. He agreed.
Then he didn't show. For two weeks he said he would, then he didn't. Then it rained. And it rained, and it rained, and the grass grew and grew and grew. I felt the anger coming up in me. Every time I looked at that grass growing, I felt more and more helpless, more and more abandoned, which made the stress tornado tune up inside of me.
After the rains, I tried to mow it. I gave it the old college try, but it was a total fail. My little pusher was not up to the task. Mostly, it just knocked it down.
So I figure...ok...I'll power up my gas powered weed-eater, and kill it with that. Except...it wouldn't start. I thought it was my fault. I'm fairly incompetent wish such machinery, and a little pissed off at this point, so I was probably doing something wrong. Except I wasn't. My brother came over, twice, and together, we tore the thing apart. New spark plug, fresh gas, clean carburetor, no start. Still I'm watching my grass, now waist high, not be cut, and the city is bugging me about the weeds on the other side of my fence.
Through it all was a feeling of anger and hopelessness. It took full will not to break down and scream and cry and break something. I was so tired, and so angry, and so tired of feeling so angry and helpless. This was all Storm's work, not mine. It was his job to run the smelly, loud machinery. His job to cut down the offensive grass, and even his job to tear up the dirt for my garden. This is why I had a husband!!
Right after Storm's suicide, I had a lot of angry episodes. Screaming, breaking things, tearing screws out of walls, throwing my hands up in helplessness. It wasn't like me, I didn't like it, and I felt like it was out of my control, which only made things worse.
I haven't felt that frustrated anger, that stress tornado twisting up inside of me, for a long time, yet any time I went near my lawn, tried to solve that problem, it started all over again. It burned inside me, and kept me from completing this task.
I was reading the spiritual warfare material, and I decided this must be the work of a demon. If it could cause me to be provoked to anger, it might cause me to sin, which would give it access to come in and torment me. I rebuked the demon, in the name of Yeshua, and prayed for a resolution.
The next day my brother asked if I would like him and our neighbor Jeff, the one who saw Storm
bitch at him, to come over and mow my lawn. It was Jeff's idea. This is not the first time that Yah has worked through my former neighbor Jeff, and I knew that's what was happening here.
The grass is cut. The back fence is in compliance, and the dogs, and the people, have a place to be again. The children can play in the play house, and the work in the back yard is actually getting done. Very ugly cinder shelves have been erected poorly in the tent-storage, and the back patio is empty of pots, trash, and other miscellaneous items that had lived in there since we moved in. Tomorrow I will maintenance mow, and maybe knock down the bits they couldn't get to for time.
Next week I hope to entice my brother to come build a wood rack on the back patio, and we can get that reorganized so that I can use my cinder block. I am going to use all of my block to create the garden beds. So one project leads to the next, and then the next. Breaking the blockage of the demon, who sought to drive me to anger, has opened up the floodgates and let all manner of blessings through.
The anger is mine. It is not demonically driven. I can allow it to flow over me and then away, or I can allow it to engulf me and lead me into sin. I pray that Yah gives me the strength and courage to pass the next test.
Storm doesn't visit me here. Storm doesn't visit me in dreams.
After Storm died, I didn't dream for a long time. I think that was a mercy and a comfort granted to me by my Father Yahweh. There were no dreams of any kind, and that was just fine with me. When the dreams started coming back, they were disjointed and broken, like shattered glass. Right before I moved, I was waking up from a recurring falling water dream, but I'm sure I just felt overwhelmed. The first real dream I had was a few months ago. It wasn't a bad dream, but I woke up feeling that way. Praise Yah again and again for Pepe, my catty cat.
Sometimes, right before I fall asleep, I wake up from those tiny, little dreams, usually with the sensation of falling or twitching. Lately, those tiny dreams have sometimes been dreams of Storm. Good dreams, but they still hurt, and wake me, and make me cry. Dreams where he touches my hand, or puts his arm around me. They make me want him so bad. They make me miss him so much.
I don't know if this is him reaching out to me in the only place he can, between sleep and life, or just my brain reflecting the desires of my heart. I know that my Torah tells me that I am not to consult mediums or to commune with the dead. I don't reach out to Storm. I don't seek his face. I don't search for signs. He made his choice, and that choice was death over me. So be it. If that was his choice, I wish he would say what he has to say, and then leave me in peace. There can be no comfort from the dead. He owes me an apology. I owe him one. I think that is the only thing either of us has left to say.
Which brings me around to the subject of demonic oppression. After my front-row seat to suicide, I know that demons are real and active in our world. I have been reading a course on spiritual warfare. One of the potential signs of demonic oppression is a seemingly unsolvable problem. The problem that came to my mind was mowing.
I have issues with grass, and lawns particularly. I'll save that rant for a different blog, but as in almost everything, the evil of man has turned a beautiful creation into something damaging and ugly. As my husband knew my feelings on the matter, and wanted grass anyway, it was understood that he would tend it, and he always did. I never had to mow. I never had to cut it. If it needed love, he gave the love.
Fast forward to my first real home, and the giant backyard. I intend to turn it into my backyard garden escape, but right now, it's just a big field of grass. I hate loud, gas-filled machines, so I bought myself a cute little push mower, which is a great work out, and a good way to spend some time. However, that little guy is a maintenance tool, not a cut down tool.
It started with a friend saying he needed to make some money. I offered him $40 to cut the grass and clean up after dogs. He agreed.
Then he didn't show. For two weeks he said he would, then he didn't. Then it rained. And it rained, and it rained, and the grass grew and grew and grew. I felt the anger coming up in me. Every time I looked at that grass growing, I felt more and more helpless, more and more abandoned, which made the stress tornado tune up inside of me.
After the rains, I tried to mow it. I gave it the old college try, but it was a total fail. My little pusher was not up to the task. Mostly, it just knocked it down.
So I figure...ok...I'll power up my gas powered weed-eater, and kill it with that. Except...it wouldn't start. I thought it was my fault. I'm fairly incompetent wish such machinery, and a little pissed off at this point, so I was probably doing something wrong. Except I wasn't. My brother came over, twice, and together, we tore the thing apart. New spark plug, fresh gas, clean carburetor, no start. Still I'm watching my grass, now waist high, not be cut, and the city is bugging me about the weeds on the other side of my fence.
Through it all was a feeling of anger and hopelessness. It took full will not to break down and scream and cry and break something. I was so tired, and so angry, and so tired of feeling so angry and helpless. This was all Storm's work, not mine. It was his job to run the smelly, loud machinery. His job to cut down the offensive grass, and even his job to tear up the dirt for my garden. This is why I had a husband!!
Right after Storm's suicide, I had a lot of angry episodes. Screaming, breaking things, tearing screws out of walls, throwing my hands up in helplessness. It wasn't like me, I didn't like it, and I felt like it was out of my control, which only made things worse.
I haven't felt that frustrated anger, that stress tornado twisting up inside of me, for a long time, yet any time I went near my lawn, tried to solve that problem, it started all over again. It burned inside me, and kept me from completing this task.
I was reading the spiritual warfare material, and I decided this must be the work of a demon. If it could cause me to be provoked to anger, it might cause me to sin, which would give it access to come in and torment me. I rebuked the demon, in the name of Yeshua, and prayed for a resolution.
The next day my brother asked if I would like him and our neighbor Jeff, the one who saw Storm
 |
| View of the Yard (The cat is Thing.) |
 |
| The area behind the fence. |
The grass is cut. The back fence is in compliance, and the dogs, and the people, have a place to be again. The children can play in the play house, and the work in the back yard is actually getting done. Very ugly cinder shelves have been erected poorly in the tent-storage, and the back patio is empty of pots, trash, and other miscellaneous items that had lived in there since we moved in. Tomorrow I will maintenance mow, and maybe knock down the bits they couldn't get to for time.
Next week I hope to entice my brother to come build a wood rack on the back patio, and we can get that reorganized so that I can use my cinder block. I am going to use all of my block to create the garden beds. So one project leads to the next, and then the next. Breaking the blockage of the demon, who sought to drive me to anger, has opened up the floodgates and let all manner of blessings through.
The anger is mine. It is not demonically driven. I can allow it to flow over me and then away, or I can allow it to engulf me and lead me into sin. I pray that Yah gives me the strength and courage to pass the next test.
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
14 Months
The Torah warns us not to marry an unbeliever, and even the Brit Hadasha, the New Testament
warns us not to become unequally yoked.
At the time that I met Storm, I had decided to turn my back on men and specifically relationships with men. I don't blame the men so much. In all of my failed relationships in my life, I have no choice but to admit that I am the common denominator. That being the case, I had decided to remove myself from the equation.
Of course, that's when I met Storm. I'm certain I would've stayed far away from him if I hadn't thought I was immune to him. Silly me. I had made the decision to turn away from men in large part because of my own confusion about the Bible and the way men behave. Whatever I was looking for, I wasn't finding it in the men around me. Storm changed that. When I met him he was a theist of sorts but not a believer in the Bible. However, in him were the principles of Torah, and a love for me that filled in a lot of the rest.
There were many ways that he was already avoiding paganism and complying with Torah. He didn't keep most of the holy days, or holidays, that other people kept. Having discovered the hypocrisy in Christmas and Easter and all the rest he had decided to decline to participate. When I told him that the Biblical holy days were important to me and he saw the sincerity from which I approached them, he did his best to help me live them. By helping me live them he really had no choice but to obey them. He took to the Sabbath like a duck to water. Right away he appreciated the idea of resting for an entire day and spending that time with his wife.
There were ways he kept Torah instinctively. He never lied, he accepted responsibility for his own actions, and he understood that a man had to be the leader of the home. He loved me not as he loved himself but more than he loved himself. He treated me like a precious jewel, his love, his Rose. He gave to charity off the top of our crop each year, and he let the neighbors come in and pick to their hearts content when we were done with our harvest...well, usually WHILE we were harvesting. He was annoyingly generous, kind to widows and old people, and cared about what happened to the earth.
Honestly, it would take me too long to list all the ways he fit. In my heart I knew what a blessing it was that I had met a man who instinctively kept Torah and who was totally supportive in my keeping the holy feasts, eating kosher, and honoring my sabbaths.
I knew in my heart that he was going to come to believe. I prayed for it every day. I tried so hard to show him the fullness of the truth. Eventually, he came to believe. He confessed with his mouth that the Bible was true. He confessed with his mouth that he was meant to be a man of God. He confessed with his mouth that Yeshua lived, died, and was resurrected. He believed. Yet he rejected.
I've learned a lot about pain these past 14 months. One of the things I've learned about pain is that sometimes you wrestle with it. Or maybe, it's more like the things you wrestle with hurt? Either way, there's wrestling involved, and that's always exhausting.
One of the comforts that believers normally try to give to one another after a loss is to say, "you will see them in heaven someday." I don't have that comfort. Storm didn't want to go to heaven, even if it meant being with me for eternity. If ever I walk into the light and am surrounded by my family and friends, my husband will not be one of them.
That is what I wrestle with. That is one that I tossed and turned over, one that I cried out in my pain. Yeshua said, "whoever believes in me shall not perish." Yet, believing was not enough to set Storm free.
But why? HOW? How is it that the Word can be true and that someone who loves the truth can see that it is true, and still not want the promise and the blessing that is offered? I just can't understand it. I had been so convinced that if he could to see the truth of it, he would accept, and he would be free of his demons and his pain. He would drink the living water, and experience the blessings of the spirit.
I was wrong.
Yahweh may have finally shown me an answer to the why and the how. A very good friend mentioned how people want to be their own God. I have thought about that a lot. As I have thought about that, I have realized that is the why. There have been other occasions this week when the concept has come up, without my seeking it out. Why would someone reject God, reject Yahweh the King of the universe, even when they know the truth to be true? Because they want to be their own God.
Often when I finally have a question such as this answered, I'm filled with peace. That's not how I feel about this. More like a big, echoey, "Oh."
Thank you, Yah, for the answer. May I struggle with it no more. Shalom.
warns us not to become unequally yoked.
At the time that I met Storm, I had decided to turn my back on men and specifically relationships with men. I don't blame the men so much. In all of my failed relationships in my life, I have no choice but to admit that I am the common denominator. That being the case, I had decided to remove myself from the equation.
Of course, that's when I met Storm. I'm certain I would've stayed far away from him if I hadn't thought I was immune to him. Silly me. I had made the decision to turn away from men in large part because of my own confusion about the Bible and the way men behave. Whatever I was looking for, I wasn't finding it in the men around me. Storm changed that. When I met him he was a theist of sorts but not a believer in the Bible. However, in him were the principles of Torah, and a love for me that filled in a lot of the rest.
There were many ways that he was already avoiding paganism and complying with Torah. He didn't keep most of the holy days, or holidays, that other people kept. Having discovered the hypocrisy in Christmas and Easter and all the rest he had decided to decline to participate. When I told him that the Biblical holy days were important to me and he saw the sincerity from which I approached them, he did his best to help me live them. By helping me live them he really had no choice but to obey them. He took to the Sabbath like a duck to water. Right away he appreciated the idea of resting for an entire day and spending that time with his wife.
There were ways he kept Torah instinctively. He never lied, he accepted responsibility for his own actions, and he understood that a man had to be the leader of the home. He loved me not as he loved himself but more than he loved himself. He treated me like a precious jewel, his love, his Rose. He gave to charity off the top of our crop each year, and he let the neighbors come in and pick to their hearts content when we were done with our harvest...well, usually WHILE we were harvesting. He was annoyingly generous, kind to widows and old people, and cared about what happened to the earth.
Honestly, it would take me too long to list all the ways he fit. In my heart I knew what a blessing it was that I had met a man who instinctively kept Torah and who was totally supportive in my keeping the holy feasts, eating kosher, and honoring my sabbaths.
I knew in my heart that he was going to come to believe. I prayed for it every day. I tried so hard to show him the fullness of the truth. Eventually, he came to believe. He confessed with his mouth that the Bible was true. He confessed with his mouth that he was meant to be a man of God. He confessed with his mouth that Yeshua lived, died, and was resurrected. He believed. Yet he rejected.
I've learned a lot about pain these past 14 months. One of the things I've learned about pain is that sometimes you wrestle with it. Or maybe, it's more like the things you wrestle with hurt? Either way, there's wrestling involved, and that's always exhausting.
One of the comforts that believers normally try to give to one another after a loss is to say, "you will see them in heaven someday." I don't have that comfort. Storm didn't want to go to heaven, even if it meant being with me for eternity. If ever I walk into the light and am surrounded by my family and friends, my husband will not be one of them.
That is what I wrestle with. That is one that I tossed and turned over, one that I cried out in my pain. Yeshua said, "whoever believes in me shall not perish." Yet, believing was not enough to set Storm free.
But why? HOW? How is it that the Word can be true and that someone who loves the truth can see that it is true, and still not want the promise and the blessing that is offered? I just can't understand it. I had been so convinced that if he could to see the truth of it, he would accept, and he would be free of his demons and his pain. He would drink the living water, and experience the blessings of the spirit.
I was wrong.
Yahweh may have finally shown me an answer to the why and the how. A very good friend mentioned how people want to be their own God. I have thought about that a lot. As I have thought about that, I have realized that is the why. There have been other occasions this week when the concept has come up, without my seeking it out. Why would someone reject God, reject Yahweh the King of the universe, even when they know the truth to be true? Because they want to be their own God.
Often when I finally have a question such as this answered, I'm filled with peace. That's not how I feel about this. More like a big, echoey, "Oh."
Thank you, Yah, for the answer. May I struggle with it no more. Shalom.
Saturday, March 12, 2016
Another day...
Going to group often gets me thinking about new things. One of the things that I began to think about this week was the gray. The gray of my life.
The ladies that run the suicide survivors group have seen me struggle through this from almost day one. The other night one of them mentioned how I've been through so many transitions and highs and lows, but as I look back at it, while I certainly see why they're saying it to me, it's all just gray; another day without him.
That's what most days are. I will say that not all days are like that. When my grandchildren were here, for instance, my memories are very colorful and exciting, though I admit not all of them are happy. The day we scattered Storm's ashes seems very blue in my memory, as the sky at the ocean was clear and bright.
I remember the struggles. I remember the raging anger. I remember the crying fits, and the frustration, and all of the uncertainty, and yet still, looking back at it now, it just seems gray. Another day without him. I remember the victories. I remember the day I bought my house, and the very first day I woke up here, and the day the paint went on. I remember my trip to Alaska, and that seems colorful, yet still they were all just days without him.
I don't understand people who can move on quickly after losing their spouse. The Bible says that a man and a woman cleave together and become one. Based on that principle, losing Storm meant losing half of myself. The hole that leaves behind is tremendous. It's a Storm-shaped hole, and any relationship I would try to get into at this time would be me just trying to shove someone else into that hole. It's not about moving on getting over it. It's about accepting the natural pain that Yahweh has given me in the wake of losing half of my life. He made us to cleave together, so he intended for it to hurt when the separation came. I accept that. I understand that he is refining me in the fire. I accept the pain he's given me, and I don't pretend that it doesn't hurt me. Nothing will ever fill this hole, but I have hope that Yahweh will one day see fit to heal it.
I think I will know that I've reached the point of healing when it doesn't hurt quite so much. I think I might know that I've reached a point of healing when I can look back and see more than just another day without him.
On another note, I think I've decided how to memorialize Storm. I thought about it carefully. I'm not a person to do things the way other people do them just because that's the way it's done. Storm would not have appreciated a traditional memorial, such as a headstone or park bench. I thought about getting a park bench that said, "In memory of Storm Treasure. He hated everyone." While the idea makes me laugh, it doesn't seem like the right thing to do.
Sometime probably next year I will need to start the process of putting my 23 rosebushes in the ground. One of those rosebushes is the clone of the rose that provided the inspiration for Storm beginning to call me Rose. I spread his ashes, but I saved a little back for myself. At the time, I couldn't actually tell you why I did that. Now, I know. When I plant that specific rose, I am going to dig a deep hole and I'm going to put his ashes in the bottom. Then I'm going to plant that particular rosebush over the top. I am literally going to let Storm Treasure be a part of his own legacy of love to me.
The ladies that run the suicide survivors group have seen me struggle through this from almost day one. The other night one of them mentioned how I've been through so many transitions and highs and lows, but as I look back at it, while I certainly see why they're saying it to me, it's all just gray; another day without him.
That's what most days are. I will say that not all days are like that. When my grandchildren were here, for instance, my memories are very colorful and exciting, though I admit not all of them are happy. The day we scattered Storm's ashes seems very blue in my memory, as the sky at the ocean was clear and bright.
I remember the struggles. I remember the raging anger. I remember the crying fits, and the frustration, and all of the uncertainty, and yet still, looking back at it now, it just seems gray. Another day without him. I remember the victories. I remember the day I bought my house, and the very first day I woke up here, and the day the paint went on. I remember my trip to Alaska, and that seems colorful, yet still they were all just days without him.
I don't understand people who can move on quickly after losing their spouse. The Bible says that a man and a woman cleave together and become one. Based on that principle, losing Storm meant losing half of myself. The hole that leaves behind is tremendous. It's a Storm-shaped hole, and any relationship I would try to get into at this time would be me just trying to shove someone else into that hole. It's not about moving on getting over it. It's about accepting the natural pain that Yahweh has given me in the wake of losing half of my life. He made us to cleave together, so he intended for it to hurt when the separation came. I accept that. I understand that he is refining me in the fire. I accept the pain he's given me, and I don't pretend that it doesn't hurt me. Nothing will ever fill this hole, but I have hope that Yahweh will one day see fit to heal it.
I think I will know that I've reached the point of healing when it doesn't hurt quite so much. I think I might know that I've reached a point of healing when I can look back and see more than just another day without him.
On another note, I think I've decided how to memorialize Storm. I thought about it carefully. I'm not a person to do things the way other people do them just because that's the way it's done. Storm would not have appreciated a traditional memorial, such as a headstone or park bench. I thought about getting a park bench that said, "In memory of Storm Treasure. He hated everyone." While the idea makes me laugh, it doesn't seem like the right thing to do.
Sometime probably next year I will need to start the process of putting my 23 rosebushes in the ground. One of those rosebushes is the clone of the rose that provided the inspiration for Storm beginning to call me Rose. I spread his ashes, but I saved a little back for myself. At the time, I couldn't actually tell you why I did that. Now, I know. When I plant that specific rose, I am going to dig a deep hole and I'm going to put his ashes in the bottom. Then I'm going to plant that particular rosebush over the top. I am literally going to let Storm Treasure be a part of his own legacy of love to me.
Friday, February 19, 2016
My Wagon
Ever since Storm died I haul this wagon behind me everywhere I go. No
one else can see it, but it's there. It is one of those large, garden
style wagons with removable sides and the large, inflatable wheels.
Inside of that wagon lives all kinds of heavy, painful things to pull
through this life.
Inside of that wagon is my guilt. My guilt is pretty big. My guilt is not irrational. I was there. I participated in Storms suicide. He did this to himself, so I will not carry that guilt, but I contributed. That's the heaviest thing in my wagon. That bogs me down.
There are balls of regrets rolling around in my wagon, all different sizes, making irritating sounds as I trundle along. I regret working extra hours when I should have stayed in bed with Storm. I regret every single argument. I regret every single harsh word. I regret every single second that I chose to do something that wasn't involving him. Regret upon regret upon regret, clanging together, setting my teeth on edge.
There's a big block of grief in there. Whenever it's not sitting on my chest making it hard for me to breathe it acts as the anchor weight in my wagon. It's very heavy. There are days it's so heavy I have a hard time getting out of bed. Sometimes I think it weighs a little less, but then I realize I was just going downhill for a minute, and then I feel the weight of it again as I start back uphill.
There are lots of little golden memories shifting around the bottom. Sometimes they are like bright little lights which jingle merrily, sometimes they are more like tarnished little bells, Still making pretty sounds but losing their luster. Sometimes they're just like old photographs, flat and interesting, but having no real weight. Some of them are ugly little stones that rattle about in an irritating way. They usually have the effect of making me smile, so I leave them there and pick out one of my favorites now and again when I need a little encouragement.
As I tug my little wagon through each day new pains and losses and heartbreaks and memories get piled on top. Sometimes things fall out, but I rarely feel the weight diminish. Most things eventually begin to shrink over time, becoming smaller and less weighty, shrinking to becoming only memories, tinkling around the bottom, bumping up against the more immediate matters.
I've become so accustomed to my little wagon that I sometimes forget it's back there. I get up and I go on with my day and my brain doesn't acknowledge the rattles and boinks and chimes and clangs. My legs don't feel quite so heavy, my burden doesn't feel quite so large. Then something will remind me. A word, a song, the smell of a grilled cheese sandwich, an empty beer can on the sidewalk. Then I will glance behind me and see it again, and I hear it's clamor, and I wonder how I forgot.
We all have baggage. Nobody gets through life without emotional bumps and bruises and scars, and we usually carry some of that with us. When I was very young, it felt like a small purse. I had emotional pains, but they had their place and were carefully organized. Before Storm's suicide it was a modest backpack. It was present, solid, and generally there, but often forgotten. Now it's my wagon rattling down the road, my ever present shadow to follow along with me in this life.
I walk on in the hope that the guilt and pains and sorrows of the past year will begin to shrink and diminish. I hope they will begin to lose weight, and to become memories, and be replaced by lighter, more joyful events like grandbabies milestones and the little victories of life.
One way or the other way will all make it to the end. I just hope I show up there with a backpack and not still dragging my wagon.
Shalom
Inside of that wagon is my guilt. My guilt is pretty big. My guilt is not irrational. I was there. I participated in Storms suicide. He did this to himself, so I will not carry that guilt, but I contributed. That's the heaviest thing in my wagon. That bogs me down.
There are balls of regrets rolling around in my wagon, all different sizes, making irritating sounds as I trundle along. I regret working extra hours when I should have stayed in bed with Storm. I regret every single argument. I regret every single harsh word. I regret every single second that I chose to do something that wasn't involving him. Regret upon regret upon regret, clanging together, setting my teeth on edge.
There's a big block of grief in there. Whenever it's not sitting on my chest making it hard for me to breathe it acts as the anchor weight in my wagon. It's very heavy. There are days it's so heavy I have a hard time getting out of bed. Sometimes I think it weighs a little less, but then I realize I was just going downhill for a minute, and then I feel the weight of it again as I start back uphill.
There are lots of little golden memories shifting around the bottom. Sometimes they are like bright little lights which jingle merrily, sometimes they are more like tarnished little bells, Still making pretty sounds but losing their luster. Sometimes they're just like old photographs, flat and interesting, but having no real weight. Some of them are ugly little stones that rattle about in an irritating way. They usually have the effect of making me smile, so I leave them there and pick out one of my favorites now and again when I need a little encouragement.
As I tug my little wagon through each day new pains and losses and heartbreaks and memories get piled on top. Sometimes things fall out, but I rarely feel the weight diminish. Most things eventually begin to shrink over time, becoming smaller and less weighty, shrinking to becoming only memories, tinkling around the bottom, bumping up against the more immediate matters.
I've become so accustomed to my little wagon that I sometimes forget it's back there. I get up and I go on with my day and my brain doesn't acknowledge the rattles and boinks and chimes and clangs. My legs don't feel quite so heavy, my burden doesn't feel quite so large. Then something will remind me. A word, a song, the smell of a grilled cheese sandwich, an empty beer can on the sidewalk. Then I will glance behind me and see it again, and I hear it's clamor, and I wonder how I forgot.
We all have baggage. Nobody gets through life without emotional bumps and bruises and scars, and we usually carry some of that with us. When I was very young, it felt like a small purse. I had emotional pains, but they had their place and were carefully organized. Before Storm's suicide it was a modest backpack. It was present, solid, and generally there, but often forgotten. Now it's my wagon rattling down the road, my ever present shadow to follow along with me in this life.
I walk on in the hope that the guilt and pains and sorrows of the past year will begin to shrink and diminish. I hope they will begin to lose weight, and to become memories, and be replaced by lighter, more joyful events like grandbabies milestones and the little victories of life.
One way or the other way will all make it to the end. I just hope I show up there with a backpack and not still dragging my wagon.
Shalom
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Year One
I have attempted to write this post several times. Somehow, when I read it back, it never seems to say what is in my heart. Isn't that the point of this after all?
Yesterday, February 13th, was the first anniversary of Storm's suicide. It wasn't a great day.
As I sit here, contemplating this past year, I keep comparing where I am with where I was, and I think I should rejoice; instead I want to cry.
Immediately after Storm's suicide, I had a hard time getting out of bed. It felt too hard. There wasn't any reason. Looking after my husband and working filled my entire world, and I had neither of those things. Yet, the Bible tells me to rejoice in my hardships, and I so badly want to obey The Word.
I began to get out of bed in the morning and stand in the kitchen window and pray, "This is the day that you have made, Yahweh, please help me to rejoice and be glad in it." Every day, I somehow managed to get out of bed and the Father in his glorious wisdom and grace has given me a reason to smile every single day.
Yesterday I cried. I cried for hours. I cried so much my throat hurts, and my head aches, and I'm completely exhausted. Eventually my children and grandchildren filled my world with laughter and sound until there wasn't any more room for tears. Praise Yahweh. The day improved. Once again, I could rejoice and be glad.
As I sit here this morning my body aches, and yet I am glad for the tears. I'm not sorry that I cried half the day, because my sore throat will heal, and my stuffy head will clear. I don't ever think my broken heart will be unbroken. I think I'm just going to have to learn to live in this brokenhearted state.
I take two things away.
Yahweh is using this horrible experience to mold me into a better person. Amy Grant has a song where she says, "all I ever have to be is what You made me." Whoever I was that fateful night, I am a different person now. I think I am smarter, more compassionate, and less judgey. I see the work the Father is doing and I realize how much it has changed me. I want to give myself over to it and to Him. I am content to be alone on this journey of life, as no other man could fill this Storm-shaped hole inside of me, so I won't even seek to do so. I am content in my solitude. I will be comfortable to be alone and let Yah do the work he sees fit in me.
The second thing has to do with Storm. A neighbor once told us that we spoke to one another as if we were in a movie. She said that because we were always saying good things about one another, and to one another. I would feel strange among my friends who complained about their husbands while I was saying how mine had done the dishes, washed the dogs, and we would be barbecuing that night. It seemed that whenever we spoke to one another, or about one another, all that came out was love and joy. Even after eight years we were so much in love that anyone who met us even when we were apart knew within ten minutes that we were married to one another because it was the first thing on one another's lips all the time.
This past year I've been very angry. Mostly, I try to keep that anger to myself. Sometimes, it has leaked out. Sometimes, it has gushed out. Yet as my heart gained distance from that painful event, and my understanding has grown about depression and suicide, I find that my anger has diminished, and my compassion has grown.
Whatever Storm's reasons for turning a fight into a funeral, the very reason I feel so bitterly betrayed is because we were so incredibly happy together. As my anger has twisted up inside of me I have found myself more commonly remembering the few unhappy times we had, and I have found myself once again feeling the bitterness and frustration I felt in those moments. I have caught myself speaking only those things that made me unhappy, and that is unfair, and wrong.
This year, I resolve to return to speaking of my husband in complementary ways. I resolve to do that not only in my outward speech but in my inward parts. I resolve to talk about all the ways that he was amazing, and all of the ways that he made my life better, and that he made me a better person. Most importantly, I intend to speak often of his love for me, because it was so big and because it is a huge part of who I am today.
Storm Treasure was the most unique and amazing human being I've ever known, and my world is diminished without him. I intend to start living my life so that it will reflect my Father's face and be a credit to Him and to the love he gave me in Storm.
Yesterday, February 13th, was the first anniversary of Storm's suicide. It wasn't a great day.
As I sit here, contemplating this past year, I keep comparing where I am with where I was, and I think I should rejoice; instead I want to cry.
Immediately after Storm's suicide, I had a hard time getting out of bed. It felt too hard. There wasn't any reason. Looking after my husband and working filled my entire world, and I had neither of those things. Yet, the Bible tells me to rejoice in my hardships, and I so badly want to obey The Word.
I began to get out of bed in the morning and stand in the kitchen window and pray, "This is the day that you have made, Yahweh, please help me to rejoice and be glad in it." Every day, I somehow managed to get out of bed and the Father in his glorious wisdom and grace has given me a reason to smile every single day.
Yesterday I cried. I cried for hours. I cried so much my throat hurts, and my head aches, and I'm completely exhausted. Eventually my children and grandchildren filled my world with laughter and sound until there wasn't any more room for tears. Praise Yahweh. The day improved. Once again, I could rejoice and be glad.
As I sit here this morning my body aches, and yet I am glad for the tears. I'm not sorry that I cried half the day, because my sore throat will heal, and my stuffy head will clear. I don't ever think my broken heart will be unbroken. I think I'm just going to have to learn to live in this brokenhearted state.
I take two things away.
Yahweh is using this horrible experience to mold me into a better person. Amy Grant has a song where she says, "all I ever have to be is what You made me." Whoever I was that fateful night, I am a different person now. I think I am smarter, more compassionate, and less judgey. I see the work the Father is doing and I realize how much it has changed me. I want to give myself over to it and to Him. I am content to be alone on this journey of life, as no other man could fill this Storm-shaped hole inside of me, so I won't even seek to do so. I am content in my solitude. I will be comfortable to be alone and let Yah do the work he sees fit in me.
The second thing has to do with Storm. A neighbor once told us that we spoke to one another as if we were in a movie. She said that because we were always saying good things about one another, and to one another. I would feel strange among my friends who complained about their husbands while I was saying how mine had done the dishes, washed the dogs, and we would be barbecuing that night. It seemed that whenever we spoke to one another, or about one another, all that came out was love and joy. Even after eight years we were so much in love that anyone who met us even when we were apart knew within ten minutes that we were married to one another because it was the first thing on one another's lips all the time.
This past year I've been very angry. Mostly, I try to keep that anger to myself. Sometimes, it has leaked out. Sometimes, it has gushed out. Yet as my heart gained distance from that painful event, and my understanding has grown about depression and suicide, I find that my anger has diminished, and my compassion has grown.
Whatever Storm's reasons for turning a fight into a funeral, the very reason I feel so bitterly betrayed is because we were so incredibly happy together. As my anger has twisted up inside of me I have found myself more commonly remembering the few unhappy times we had, and I have found myself once again feeling the bitterness and frustration I felt in those moments. I have caught myself speaking only those things that made me unhappy, and that is unfair, and wrong.
This year, I resolve to return to speaking of my husband in complementary ways. I resolve to do that not only in my outward speech but in my inward parts. I resolve to talk about all the ways that he was amazing, and all of the ways that he made my life better, and that he made me a better person. Most importantly, I intend to speak often of his love for me, because it was so big and because it is a huge part of who I am today.
Storm Treasure was the most unique and amazing human being I've ever known, and my world is diminished without him. I intend to start living my life so that it will reflect my Father's face and be a credit to Him and to the love he gave me in Storm.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Beach retreat
Tomorrow is Storm's birthday. He would have been 41. My seventh wedding anniversary was Thursday. I use to take time off every year from the 26th of December until the last possible day I could get off. Storm and I would spend that time together, renewing our relationship, playing and making love and wasting money and time. I called it my "Stormcation," and we both looked forward to it every year.
This week has been a challenge. I know that the Father has blessed me from the very first day that Storm made the choice to leave me alone. His blessings are so obvious and so strong, I walk around this world constantly waiting for the next minor miracle, and constantly looking for the next blessing that Yahweh is going to bring me. I know that my heart is healing, and that my grief is improving, and I see that through His love, Adonai is not only refining me in the fire, he is sending me comfort, healing, and wisdom to survive the effects of this experience.
Strangely enough, even Storm's lack of company at Christmas made me sad. I haven't celebrated Christmas in 15 years, and that's exactly why. Storm didn't celebrate it either, long before he ever met me. He didn't keep any of the pagan days, because of the hypocrisy they represented, and not so much anything to do with religion. We would hole up together, and ignore the entire world. We were like anti-Christmas refugees huddled together in our tinsel free home waiting for the carols to stop, please STOP. This was the first year in nine years that I sat at home alone. I suppose I'll get used to it again.
In a few hours, I'm going to get in my car and spend two days at a beach house with only some canine company. I don't know what this is going to accomplish, except to give me an opportunity to cry by myself and to get some fresh air and exercise for both me and Bear.
The mercy here for me is that all of our important days all pretty much happen in the same four-month span. Our real anniversary in November, our civil anniversary in December, his birthday in January, and his death date in February. That leaves two thirds of the year that I don't have to worry about. Not sure if my sarcasm is obvious enough, but I look forward to the day when I realize that I've gotten through to February and I don't feel like going back to bed that day.
I'm not sure there's a point to this particular blog post. I've had a hard time concentrating my thoughts this week, and have found myself coming under spiritual attack both physically and emotionally. The positive to this is that I have spent a great deal of time in prayer, and I have had no choice but to fall back on to Yahweh and let him do my thinking for me. The negative is that I'm not very successful at life, generally speaking. The added complication of the spiritual attack and the emotional exhaustion are insuring my failure at life.
On the subject of love: my good friend Jules said something about me finding another someday. Lately, several people have mentioned that. I'm not sure I'm ever going to be interested in a serious non-platonic relationship with any man, ever again. Paul tells us in Scripture that if one is not married, and can control themselves, then they should stay unmarried. I see the benefits of single life, though I often miss married life.
See, the thing is, I don't think I make a very good wife. Looking at the matter objectively, I was married and divorced twice before meeting Storm. I can't cook, I have virtually no domestic skills of any kind except baking. I tried to be the best possible wife that I could be for Storm. He asked me once to tell him how I viewed my ideal of the perfect wife. Together, we read Proverbs 31. When I was done reading, he looked at me in all seriousness and said, "My Rose, you are already all of these things." Apparently not because he's dead, and I helped him get there.
All that I ever wanted to be was an amazing wife for Storm. I wanted his life to be so good, and I wanted to give him everything. I failed.
On the subject of love, I think I'm just fine by myself, thanks. If my God decides to change that, I'll reevaluate.
I hope this fog of grief and pain lets up next week. I hate the way this feels. I want to recover from this, I want my heart to heal, I want to move forward into a new life instead of being weighted down by the old one. Yeshua said, "let the dead bury the dead." That's what I want to do.
I think what I would like to gain from this weekend is a little bit of closure, and a little more perspective. I want to be healing, and I want to say goodbye. I want to turn my back on this. I want to turn the page on this chapter in my book, and start on something new. I hope Yahweh does a great work in me. I would like to leave my anger and a huge portion of guilt and a whole lot of pain sitting there on that beach. I like to think about it getting washed out with the tide. Maybe I'll build a sandcastle, name it anger guilt pain and grief, and then stand there until the ocean drags it out. Probably, it's going to be entirely too cold for that. It is Oregon, after all. Most likely, I'm going to sit in the window and watch the waves while I drink tea. :-)
Thank you to anybody who actually reads these. May Yahweh bless you, and may we all find shalom.
This week has been a challenge. I know that the Father has blessed me from the very first day that Storm made the choice to leave me alone. His blessings are so obvious and so strong, I walk around this world constantly waiting for the next minor miracle, and constantly looking for the next blessing that Yahweh is going to bring me. I know that my heart is healing, and that my grief is improving, and I see that through His love, Adonai is not only refining me in the fire, he is sending me comfort, healing, and wisdom to survive the effects of this experience.
Strangely enough, even Storm's lack of company at Christmas made me sad. I haven't celebrated Christmas in 15 years, and that's exactly why. Storm didn't celebrate it either, long before he ever met me. He didn't keep any of the pagan days, because of the hypocrisy they represented, and not so much anything to do with religion. We would hole up together, and ignore the entire world. We were like anti-Christmas refugees huddled together in our tinsel free home waiting for the carols to stop, please STOP. This was the first year in nine years that I sat at home alone. I suppose I'll get used to it again.
In a few hours, I'm going to get in my car and spend two days at a beach house with only some canine company. I don't know what this is going to accomplish, except to give me an opportunity to cry by myself and to get some fresh air and exercise for both me and Bear.
The mercy here for me is that all of our important days all pretty much happen in the same four-month span. Our real anniversary in November, our civil anniversary in December, his birthday in January, and his death date in February. That leaves two thirds of the year that I don't have to worry about. Not sure if my sarcasm is obvious enough, but I look forward to the day when I realize that I've gotten through to February and I don't feel like going back to bed that day.
I'm not sure there's a point to this particular blog post. I've had a hard time concentrating my thoughts this week, and have found myself coming under spiritual attack both physically and emotionally. The positive to this is that I have spent a great deal of time in prayer, and I have had no choice but to fall back on to Yahweh and let him do my thinking for me. The negative is that I'm not very successful at life, generally speaking. The added complication of the spiritual attack and the emotional exhaustion are insuring my failure at life.
On the subject of love: my good friend Jules said something about me finding another someday. Lately, several people have mentioned that. I'm not sure I'm ever going to be interested in a serious non-platonic relationship with any man, ever again. Paul tells us in Scripture that if one is not married, and can control themselves, then they should stay unmarried. I see the benefits of single life, though I often miss married life.
See, the thing is, I don't think I make a very good wife. Looking at the matter objectively, I was married and divorced twice before meeting Storm. I can't cook, I have virtually no domestic skills of any kind except baking. I tried to be the best possible wife that I could be for Storm. He asked me once to tell him how I viewed my ideal of the perfect wife. Together, we read Proverbs 31. When I was done reading, he looked at me in all seriousness and said, "My Rose, you are already all of these things." Apparently not because he's dead, and I helped him get there.
All that I ever wanted to be was an amazing wife for Storm. I wanted his life to be so good, and I wanted to give him everything. I failed.
On the subject of love, I think I'm just fine by myself, thanks. If my God decides to change that, I'll reevaluate.
I hope this fog of grief and pain lets up next week. I hate the way this feels. I want to recover from this, I want my heart to heal, I want to move forward into a new life instead of being weighted down by the old one. Yeshua said, "let the dead bury the dead." That's what I want to do.
I think what I would like to gain from this weekend is a little bit of closure, and a little more perspective. I want to be healing, and I want to say goodbye. I want to turn my back on this. I want to turn the page on this chapter in my book, and start on something new. I hope Yahweh does a great work in me. I would like to leave my anger and a huge portion of guilt and a whole lot of pain sitting there on that beach. I like to think about it getting washed out with the tide. Maybe I'll build a sandcastle, name it anger guilt pain and grief, and then stand there until the ocean drags it out. Probably, it's going to be entirely too cold for that. It is Oregon, after all. Most likely, I'm going to sit in the window and watch the waves while I drink tea. :-)
Thank you to anybody who actually reads these. May Yahweh bless you, and may we all find shalom.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)