My house and my soul

The days after Storm's suicide are, in my mind, awash with anguish and a dream like sort of haziness.  It was also a time of great spiritual and mental awakening and growth for me, as in many ways, an old me had died, and a new me was born. 

My life was also plunged into a state of chaos and insanity that I could never have imagined.  I knew right away that I had to move out of the duplex we had rented for the past six years.  I had never liked the place, and had not wanted to move there.  This was one of the few sticking points that Storm and I never really navigated, though we mostly avoided arguing about it.  No sense fighting over spilled milk.

We had to move out of the house for three days to clean up after Storm, and my landlord, my slumlord, "moved" my things.  That is to say, he shoved them all into my daughters room and the kitchen, barely cleaned up the floor, then laid down the worst replacement floor I have ever seen in my life.  From the first night back, I was trying to gain control of the chaos and craziness that is my life, but it seemed like there was no end to it.  Sweeping up glass and finding broken items, missing items, and our short lifetime together piled up in boxes and shoved into chaotic craziness took days, then weeks.  

I immediately started packing to move.  I didn't have a place to go, but I knew I wasn't staying there, whatever the cost.  For months we lived in a semi-life state of half moved, half not moved, trying to find things on the go.  Boxes filled corners and spaces, and unwanted items slowly trickled out the door.  Yet, it seemed there was no end to the sorting, organizing, boxing, and packing.  It was a strange, moving-out sort of limbo.

Then I found my house.  She looked ugly on the outside...and kinda ugly on the inside.  However, she wasn't moldy, or rotted, or falling down.  The electric and water worked, and a number of updates had been made.  Most importantly, as soon as I closed the door to the outside world, the silence enveloped me and I felt at home.  I think in that moment, the healing began.

We have since moved in, and we now live in a semi-moved-in state of limbo.  It's very similar to the moving-out state of limbo from before, with a few exceptions.  Most of my things are in the garage or the storage room, and I am unable to move fully into my bedroom.  Paint supplies occupy the space under the living room table.  The walls are painted, mostly, and it's almost time to move back out (yes, BACK OUT) to refinish the floors.  Finally, I will then be able to move in.  My bed is still on a box spring on the floor, and my bathroom is still not remodeled.  I don't have baseboards, and there is STILL painting to be done.

I've come to see this little home, my tiny House of Treasure, as a metaphor for my life and what's happening inside of me.  Emotionally, I was completely broken at the beginning, barely able to feed myself and shop for groceries.  My heart, my brain and my spirit were broken.  The half moved-out, chaotic state of my old home reflected the state of my heart and mind, and this new, half-moved in home reflects the current state of my heart.  I don't have all my paint on, and my baseboards are missing, and the floors are a wreck inside of here.  I can't put anything away, because I have no place to put it, and I cannot put anything new in here, because it will just have to be rearranged to work on something else.

However, like my home, the foundation is strong.  I have great faith, and I have seen the hand of Yah open up for this new widow over and over again.  My body is strong and disease free, and I am surrounded by the people who want to help, and who try to give to me.  The same as my home is improving, I see improvements in myself.  I see myself standing up, saying no to what I don't want, content to be by myself.  I see myself choosing these colors, and styles, and furniture, and it's not so overwhelming anymore, and inside of me, I am choosing who I want to be, and what life I want to live.  I see the the vision of my home that is in my head coming to life in the reality around me, and I feel blessed that I am able to live in a space so uniquely mine.  I am beginning to love being in my home, and I am beginning to love the woman that is emerging from the cocoon of pain.

I am very forgiving of my poor little home, and it's half-finished state, and I have learned to be more forgiving of me, and my broken, angry spirit.  Today I will finish the last remaining interior paint projects on my initial list.  It took almost five months, but like my healing, my house doesn't always happen on my timeline.  We will box up the paint supplies and move them into storage, and I will smile and praise Yahweh that I am able to do so, for the first time since I've lived in my home. 

The final bit of painting - done!

I also realize how very far I still have to go.  The floors need refinishing, then the baseboards, then the electronics installed, and then finally some furniture, and etc, etc, etc.  In fact, the list is so long, I can barely wrap my brain around it.  The inside of me is the same.  I want to love and be loved again, but that feels like something distant and unreal.  I am happy loving me for a minute, and embracing the silence that I have craved in my head and in my life.  After last week, I have a spark of hope that I might be able to love again, but I leave it in Yah's hands if that spark of hope ever becomes a flame.  When I look at all of the healing that must be done, all of the brokenness that is still inside of me, it seems like a very long way to go before I am complete enough in my spirit to contribute anything worthwhile to anyone else.  I will leave that part to Yahweh, and trust him.  His faithfulness (truth) endures forever.

The difference in my home is noticeable.  The rooms, once empty and ugly, are bright and full of light and color.  It's almost time for pictures to be hung and for furniture to come in and for life to begin in my home.  My plants will love the front windows, and my heart will love having all of my plants greening up my house.  

The same is true inside of me.  One often hears the term "suicide survivor" to describe someone who lost someone they loved to suicide.  I think it's an apt term.  These past several months, surviving is really what I've been doing.  Getting up and moving, even when the moving hurts.  Eating because I have to, sleeping because I can't not.   This week, something changed.  This week I realized I am not just letting life happen to me.  This week I realize I am participating in my life.  I am actively engaged in what's happening, and I am actually excited to be a part of it.  It no longer feels like something I have to do, something that will never be complete, but something that I WANT to do, and something I WANT to see completed.

I find myself living again, instead of just surviving.  It's good to know that healing really is possible.  It's good that Yahweh sees me, hears my prayers, and helps me.  I see a light here at the end of the tunnel, and it looks like life and love.  

Shalom.

Dear Ring,

Dear Ring, 

I don't know why I am still wearing you.  I really don't.  I look down at you there on my finger, the finger where you've been for these past several years, and I think to myself that I should take you off.

You were only $15.  You're a miserable looking little thing.  White gold with a channel for tiny, almost microscopic, diamonds.  There's plenty of room around, under, and between the tiny chips of shiny substance to carry around plenty of life's dirt and junk.  When I slide you off, you scrape over my knuckle in a familiar sort of way, and I see the thin band of silvery filament that is bent and warped, too fragile for the clumsy likes of me.  

I only bought you because Storm and I could never decide on the ring we wanted, and we never had the money the few times we did. I wanted the world to know that I was Mrs. Rose Treasure, and I resolved to find SOMETHING.   Finally, I saw you on that discount site and figured, what the heck?  Storm made fun of me, and you, when you arrived, though he didn't realize he hurt my feelings.  I never really told him, but I think he figured it out.  He let it go, and I decided to do the same.  I didn't take you off, in spite of his ridicule.

The first time I put you on, you felt strangely comforting, though a little bit sharp.  You looked humble and strangely right, sitting there on that old familiar ring finger, and I quickly became accustomed to righting you back to diamonds up with my thumb, since you always seem so determined to be upside down.

I wasn't wearing you when Storm died.  We had finally bought other rings, and you had begun to cut into my finger in an uncomfortable way.  I wasn't wearing a ring at all.  The other rings disappeared, stolen, I'm sure, by dishonest people.  I thought you were gone, too, until I was ready to move.  I slid open a drawer, and there you were, crooked and tiny. 

So I put you back on.  I put you on and I was satisfied.  The groove you had created never really faded, anyway, so you settled right back where our two parts become one.  I didn't really consider at that moment how long I would wear you, I just knew that I wanted to, and that was enough. 

 A few months later, I still see you sitting there, glimmering dully up at me.  I pass each month anniversary, the flipping calendar going thunk-click like an old fashioned clock in my head on each "13th," and I think to myself, "How long will I wear it?"  I sometimes even take you off, and consider that strange looking, grooved and naked finger.  The answer is, "I don't know."  I slide you back on, satisfied as you bump over my knuckle.

It's not that I want people to think I'm married.  In fact, I don't care what they think.  I'm not wearing you because of anyone but me.  You're mine, somehow a part of me.  I've been married three times, but I never really understood wife-ing, or marriage, or deep, lasting love until I knew Storm.  He loved me in a committed, overwhelming, life-swallowing way, and being his wife was the most important thing I could do in my life.  I never really understood wearing a ring, a marker of someone's claim on my life, until him.  

My head doesn't understand it.  My head wants to find a quiet retreat, a solemn and natural place, and make a small ceremony of taking it off, as if that would make it better, faster.  My heart doesn't think that will work.  My heart still wants it there, with the diamonds pressing against the inside of my palm, where my thumb expertly seeks to spin it back round.

"When will I take it off?"  My head asks my heart.  My heart doesn't want to answer.  My heart often doesn't pay any attention to my head.  We're all ok with that.  My heart is broken.  My head will have it's turn again, soon enough.

I know that I will take you off.  I have to.  Someday.  My head knows this, and gently reminds my heart. It's fraudulent, in a way, since I am not really married now at all.  A lie, of sorts, which I hate.  My heart ignores.  I look down and see you there, think maybe I should clean you, but I don't, and I am satisfied.

My heart knows the answer.  It just doesn't want to answer, because it's no answer.  The answer is some distant someday.  Someday, I will not feel like the Mrs. is missing from my name every time I say it.  Someday, I expect I will look down and see you, little ring, and not feel so satisfied.  Maybe I will feel like you don't belong.  Maybe you will feel constrictive and unnecessary.  Someday I might wonder what I ever found so satisfying.

I will take you off, little silver band, when I no longer feel like his wife.  For now I see you there, and I am satisfied.  That will be enough. 

5 1/2 Months Unshaken

Shaken

My husband’s suicide shook my entire life.  It changed the way I view myself, other people, and the world around me.  It changed the color of the sky.  It launched my life into a sort of chaos and insanity that I never could have imagined enduring.  My home is in chaos, my career is in chaos, and my emotions are in chaos.  Everything in my life has been challenged.

There is one thing that has remained unshaken: my faith.  Understand that I do not boast of my own strength.   It is not because I am faithful that my faith was unshaken, it is because the Messiah is faithful to keep his word.  He said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”  He said everyone who hears his words and acts on them will be as if their house is built upon the rock.  Surely, he has kept that blessed promise.

In the very first moments after Storm’s suicide, I was praying.  I was crying out, and Yahweh was sending help, he was sending love, and he was sending hope.  That first weekend was filled with prayer and crying and so much pain, and yet I never felt like Yahweh had ever been closer to me.  He sent my daughter and her family to help us, and he sent those who love us with food and love.

It sounds insane, but I have never seen more blessings in my life than I have in the last five months.  Yahweh has opened his hand, and the blessings have poured into my life.  So many of the ones that come to mind, as always, are physical blessings, but the spiritual blessings have been tenfold, one hundred fold in my heart. I have found myself surrounded by people that not only care, but want to help.  I am enfolded into the arms of a good congregation, that will help me in all ways.

You see, I was thinking about loneliness.  The nice folks I sometimes have the privilege of sharing my pain with often speak of their crushing loneliness, and how isolated they feel.  I have tried imagining that.  One of my many, many blessings, I discover over and over again, is my family.  They have once again wrapped themselves around me, and they are protecting me.  I have only ever actually lived alone for a very short time in my life, so the concept of loneliness seems strange to me.  

The other night, I was imagining what if Elizabeth was not here.  What if I couldn’t just walk up the stairs, or send a text if I was lonely, and say, “How about a burger?”  How about if I didn’t have anyone to text?  My life would be greatly, greatly diminished, and my loneliness would be acute, I’m certain.  But I would know that, regardless, I would never be alone.  

I first prayed the sinner’s prayer when I was a very young girl.  Yahweh has ever been with me, and I am never truly alone.  That one fact has kept me strong in the face of all that I face.

Every time someone tells me that I am strong, they are saying that Yahweh is strong in me.  They are seeing him, and the blessings that he has opened into my life.

Someday, we will all face him.  I pray that he leads me down the path of the good and faithful servant, because I long to look into his face and kneel at his feet in gratitude and love.  

Psalm 31:3
Since you are my rock and my fortress, for the sake of your name lead and guide me.

Shalom.  

Four and a half months: The beginning of the end...I hope.

Saturday I added his ashes to the sea. Our grandchildren flew kites.  I set him on the beach in the white box, and his dog Cowboy laid down next to him, and watched him, and waited.  When I took him down to the sea, Cow followed, and sniffed the box as I opened it, and wagged his tail as if to tell me it was ok.  My big black dog Bear ran in with me, watching his momma, doing his job.  My father and brother and sister and children and family waited while I walked into the cold, cold ocean, and I opened up that bag, and I watched the ashes swirl and move and it was beautiful, somehow.  I felt like I had set him free. I watched a wave come and take it all, and then he was gone, and I turned back to the shore, back to life, back to my family.  I ran through the cold, my big black dog at my side, shivering, and they wrapped their arms around me, all of them, and I cried, and I was not cold anymore.  

Four months - six days: Missing my Husband

I always said I wouldn't be able to heal while living in the place where I watched Storm die.  That is very true for me. 

Now I am here, and I am in my own home, and I have some quiet, and some time to think, and some time to feel, and I realize how little grieving I have actually done for my husband.

Certainly, those first few days I grieved him.  I missed him in every moment, every time I looked at my phone and it wasn't him, every time I crawled into that big empty bed.  Every time I looked around my house, and in the fridge, and almost everywhere.

But somewhere along the line, I kicked into survival mode.  I took all of those feelings of missing him and thinking of him and wishing for him, and I shoved them into a closet in my soul, and I bricked that doorway up.

I can't grieve him like most other people grieve.  Every grief is unique, every griever is unique.  Suicide grief is unique.  Every time I miss him, I know he did it on purpose.  Every time I think of a good thought of him, I think of the pain of missing him, and the anger rushes in.  It rushes in and I am no longer missing him; I am too pissed to miss him.  This grief is filled with anger.

Why?  Because our lives were filled with so much good.  Storm saw himself as a loser because he didn't work for a number of years, for reasons of our own.  His friends saw him as the luckiest man alive.  He had a lovely wife, who never became angry with him because things didn't get done inside our outside, who never got angry with him for spending the whole day playing a game, or playing cribbage, or drinking, or sleeping, or whatever his pleasure was that day.  I just wanted him to be happy.  He had a wife who literally served him hand and foot.  I showered him, brushed his hair, brought him drinks, took care of his laundry and often his dishes, ran his errands, and gratefully enjoyed his sex while I gave him mine to enjoy.

I say this all the time, but there was no reason for him to do this.  There was no end of the rope.  There was no horrible earth shattering event.  Every area of our life was going remarkably well, and then Storm ended it all with the shrug of a shoulder.  That's how important our life was to him.  The shrug of a shoulder.

I wake up every day to the reality that I was a participant in the death of the most important person in my world, and Storm created that.  I live every day thinking of the last angry, crazy things we said to each other, and Storm created that.  Every single good he ever brought into my life is tinged with pain and regret, and Storm created that.  He said all the time that all that he wanted to do was make me smile.  Instead, he left me the worst pain and regret and emotional disability that I ever experienced, and Storm created that.  As a husband, it was his job to love me as he loved himself.  That's not what happened.  All of our life together, I thought that was true.  That he loved me as he loved himself.  Or maybe, he did, since he pretty much hated himself.  Either way, the result is the same.

But this week, something shifted.  I'm not sure what.  I can think of him and cry for what was without immediately being angry.  It was probably a combination of things, including getting enough sleep to feel rested.  It was also the moment of taking a shower, when I sensed I should take it without the distraction of my phone.  I stood there, in hot, hot water, and I cried for the first time for my husband without feeling angry and guilty and bitter.

I can think about the times he used to barbecue for me at 5 in the morning, in the freezing snow, in our garage in Illinois.  I remember how he freaked out when we were trapped in the back of the van.  I remember how determined he was to get me home to my family.  I can remember his sexy voice, and his distinctive whistle that made both the dogs and me pay attention.  I remember how hard it was for him to be nice at people's social events.  I remember how much he loved his grandbabies, and how he loved my daughters, even when he didn't want to. 

I'm glad to be in this place, even though it means more tears, more crying.  I do enough crying these days, that's for sure.  In fact, I sometimes don't make it out of bed before I'm crying.  Nevertheless, I'm grateful.  So grateful. 

I don't want to hate that I love this man.  I don't want to hate missing him.  I don't want to hate the thought of him, or the smell of him, or the foods he used to make. 

I believe the healing has begun.  I see it in the dog bite scar on my leg.  The deep wound has left a scar, a tube of scar tissue through my leg, but the tissue is healing...the two spots are fading, and I think my heart, maybe my soul, looks the same inside of me. 

I turn to Yahweh every day in prayer, and I have trusted from the beginning that he would help me become like refined gold through this trial of fire.  Though I am often alone, I am never really lonely.  Yahweh sustains me.  He makes me strong. He is my strong refuge, my rock.  Today, I turn to him in gratitude, and give thanks that he has allowed my heart to heal. 

Blackberries in the garden Storm grew me.

Four months and three days...Expressing the Anger

Anger.  The Bible talks about anger a lot.  Anger is usually bad in the Bible.  For instance, it was Moses's impatience and anger with his people that kept him out of the promised land.  Paul cautions to be angry and do not sin.  I could think of other examples, but this post isn't supposed to be a Bible lesson.  ;)

Elizabeth and I have been attending a few grief workshops and a once-a-month suicide survivors support group.  The survivors group has been particularly beneficial.  All grief is harsh and hurtful and valid.  Suicide grief is it's own special kind of pain.  It adds a layer of emotion that is indescribable and full of regrets and pain that never stops.  The facilitators at the group recommended I write about my experience with my anger.  I told them I would try.  I will try.

I've never really been an angry person.  I see it as a weakness, and I see it as detrimental to the process of getting through life.  I have a tendency toward big verbal explosions far apart from one another when provoked enough to get angry, but daily anger, carrying anger, well, it was always too heavy for me.

I was angry at Storm the night he died.  I was at the end of an emotional rope from a series of stressful events.  I needed him to support me.  I was the one going through the hard time, and goodness knows I had certainly supported him through some rough things.  I was literally broken and bleeding and unable to handle any more stress.  He failed.  He got drunk instead.  He became belligerent over something stupid, and I exploded.  I knew I was crazy, and I kept telling him that I knew I was acting crazy, but that I needed him to help me.  I NEEDED HIM TO HELP ME!!  He killed himself instead.  I have not stopped feeling angry since.

I don't know what to do with it, or how to express it constructively.  I attacks me.  It overwhelms me, and I give in to it. 

I am angry about so many things.  I am angry for so many reasons that it would take days to express them all.  My life was literally shattered and Storm took it from me.  There was no reason.  No reason at all for him to do this to us.

Storm and I met at work.  I was his brand new boss.  From the beginning, it was like we were communicating in our own space, like we created our own little world together.  We were obsessed with one another.  I wanted to be with him more than I wanted to breathe.  He wanted to be with me, and we were honest about our need for one another, and naked in truth before each other.  It was frightening.  Terrifying, and exhilarating.  It was us versus the world, and I knew he was the one single human being I could trust outside of my parents.   Our love was intense, and consuming, and it ruled my world.  I spent all of my days trying to make his life better, and I thought he felt the same about me.

No matter what we wanted to do, together, we could do it.  We escaped Illinois and moved to Oregon with everything we owned stuffed in our van.  We started over with almost nothing, and the two of us became successful together.  We learned to garden, brilliantly, together.  Everything that we put our hearts and hands to the Father blessed.  He blessed us so mightily. 

At the end of his life, there was no reason for Storm to be this way.  Our life was, as it always had been, wonderful and improving.  He was working, I was working, we were making good money and leading a very comfortable life.  Our family was growing, and our life was full of good things.  Every day I gave thanks for the love he gave me.   To describe my life I used words like idyllic, happy, fun, filled with love.

That is why I am so angry.  Because he took that from us both!  He took that from my daughters, whom he loved, and the grandbabies, whom he adored.  He took the sense of security and love that came with being near Storm.  He took our joy, our delight, and all of the beauty that he brought into my life.  He taught me how to love in this ridiculously huge way, he built this life for us to delight in one another and enjoyment of all that the world offers, and then ripped it away from me rudely, completely, and with a shrug of a shoulder.  At the end of the movie Jumanji, all of the things created by the boardgame are sucked back into the board in a great vortex like a great big bathtub drain.  That's exactly what happened to all of the good things he brought with him in that moment.

Because of him, I will never not know what this feels like.  I will never not see him die before my eyes.  I will never not see that insolent shrug.  I will never not remember it.  Because of him, I will never trust fully again.  Because of him, I will probably never have another relationship.  Because of him, I am broken and battered and bruised and overwhelmed every day.  Because of him, I am angry enough to cause injury to myself, and break the things in my home.  Because of him, my life has been in complete chaos for months and months, and I cannot overcome that.  I cannot get to a new normal, because normal died on my living room floor, in front of my eyes. I can only get up tomorrow and do what I can put my hands on.  Everything else is irrelevant to that.  Because of him I can only share memories of Grand-dude with the grandbabies...I cannot share grand-dude.  Because of him roses make me cry.  Because of him the sunshine doesn't feel as good.  Because of him I cry every day.  Because of him love doesn't live here anymore.

In the end, I will recover, because I choose to.  I will give the anger over to Yahweh, and hope that he will help me to overcome it, or at least, to use it constructively, if that is possible.  I will pray daily, and hope for recovery, and someday, I will realize that I am not angry anymore.  I want to heal.  I want to move on.  I want to be free of this pain and uncertainty and mostly, most of all, the anger.  I want to enjoy the wonderful things in my life without the "buts" on the end of them.  I want to love my life again. 

3 months 3 weeks...New Beginnings.

I started this blog as a means to express myself and to allow the mourning out.  In person, I tend to keep my emotions in check, preferring to cry when I am alone.  I have tried to pour out my pain here, and leave it behind, though I know that it will always be with me. For the most part, I've been successful through this blog. Certainly, I express myself through writing much better than I will ever do in person.   This post, I do not want to talk about me.  I want to talk about people who helped me.  People who deserve to be talked about. 

To start with, my daughter Elizabeth.  Of all of the people in my life, Elizabeth is the most companionable of companions.  She sets aside her needs to get up early, to ask if I need help, to listen to me say the same things over and over again, and to hear me make no more sense of them when I am done then when I started.  She comes with me to grief groups and shopping, appointments and dog walks, and watches me cry without commenting.  I think it must be awful to watch your mother cry the way I cry.  Her greatest strength is in just being a companion.  Just listening.  Even if she can't help, even if she can't do, she is always there, in it with me, trying even though new things scare her, staying to help even though there's not much she can do, and just being a presence so that I don't feel lonely.  Thank you, Elizabeth.  I am very proud of you.

My daughter +Rebecca DeJong  and her man, Tom, have also been extraordinarily helpful.  Becca and Tom have been here after work, helping me move heavy things, helping me pack, helping me survive.  They have often been the exact help that was needed that day, and they spent as much time as they could being so helpful and good.  They also listen, and they do something more.  They make an effort to make sure I have fun.  I am not a fun person. It's true. I'm also a little intense.  Some people have some gifts, other people have others.  Fun is not a gift of mine, so I have always had to turn to the fun people in my life for help.  Becca and Tom make sure I have that fun.  They take me to dinner, take me to events, and just generally come laugh and socialize with Elizabeth and I.  Some of the best times I have had have been with Tom and Becca.  Thank you both.  I am very proud of you, Rebecca. :)

I am extraordinarily grateful for one of my oldest and best friends, +Alix Necas.  Alix has a surprising amount of expertise in some very useful areas like plumbing and fence building.  He is, in fact, a very intelligent man.  I cannot estimate how much he has saved me in calling professionals, and how very impressed with him I always am, and I am always impressed with the quality of the work he does for me.  He has also been around to do some of the heavy lifting and hard pushing.  Today, he finished mowing my lawn, which sounds minor, but for someone who hates lawns with a purple passion, I am quite happy I didn't have to finish it.  I am grateful for all of those things, but what I am most grateful for are the smiles.  Hanging with Alix has shown me how very important laughter is to healing.  Whenever he is with me, he is making me laugh, and by making me laugh, I am healing.  I feel better just seeing his face. Some days, after he leaves, I am able to get up and do things, to keep moving, to feel like maybe I might actually  make it through this.  You help me push back the darkness.  I might actually survive with some small part of who I was in tact.  If I do, it's partly your fault.  ;)  Thank you. 

My brother, +damnoldguy.  I am positive my daughter and I would not have gotten moved without him.  He was there for us every day, consistent as rain in Oregon.  He's been here nearly every day.  When he and Alix visit, things get fixed, fences get built...grass gets mowed, and cats get petted.  He drove the massive truck that carried my plants and household here, and more than once, listened to me scream and cry.  He provided moral support, break reminders, and good old fashioned sweat and blood.  He was the first person here helping us pull up carpet, he's the first to help brainstorm a solution, and he asks for very, very little in return.  Whenever I need help and advice, he is there. You have always been one of my closest friends. I cannot tell you how important you have become to me and how much your help is making a difference in my world.  Thank you.

There are other people who deserve my gratitude.  My nephew Matthew, and his girlfriend, Becca came and helped Elizabeth and I put our shattered home back together after Storm's death, and helped us by helping to clean the garage and move many of the things that needed to be moved, including the heavy roses and trees.  Thank you.  +Jeffrey Shore has gone out of his way to share his friendship, and I am always grateful for our shared love of Storm.  My father and sister both helped us during those last days, lending a hand where ever possible, loading boxes and furniture on to the truck.  Jake, Tony, and Christy all helped us with the time that we had, and were the extra hands we needed.  My friend Amy provided most of the boxes we used in the move, and remembers to reach out and say hi regularly. :)  Of course, there are others who have helped, and I am certain I am forgetting you, but I am very grateful for you, I promise.  If I missed you, please speak up so that I have the opportunity to say thanks. 

These last four months have been so painful and difficult, and so much of the time what comes out of my mouth sounds ungrateful and angry and bitter and harsh, and I am so sorry for that.   I am so very grateful for every good moment, and for every laugh, and every smile, and every single person who reaches out in love and help. For the first time, I feel like I may be able to begin to heal.

Today I had the pleasure of sharing my space with some of these folks.  It was peaceful.  I am most humbly grateful for the opportunity to share with you all, and to share with you some of the peace of mind and peace of soul you have brought me by helping me with all of these things.  In fact, your actions have fully made me realize how very lovely my life is, in spite of all of these pains, and how very fortunate I am to be surrounded by people like you.

Storm used to tell me that I "drew" good people.  He told me that I attracted artistic, interesting, and funny people that do amazing things.  He was right about that.  I am blessed to often find myself surrounded by the very best kind of people.  I hope that I never make the mistake of taking a single one of you for granted.

My home, and my yard, and my shade, and my barbecue, and my hospitality are open to you all.  I have cold beer, fresh meat, and I want you to join me here to enjoy life in all of it's beauty.  I want to make a space where people can come and fellowship and share laughter and truth and joy and love.  I want you all to feel comfortable helping to make this an enjoyable place, and come join me for good times and barbecue. 

Above all, I thank my father in Heaven, Yaweh or Yahovah, or God, or whatever name you prefer. It is his strength that people see when they tell me how strong I am.  It is his courage that gets me out of bed, and his love that makes keeps my heart soft in the face of all of of this.   My prayers are answered daily, and I only humbly hope that I am able to serve in the way that I have been served by him.  Each day I see the small miracles he brings me in the hearts and hands and minds of the people he sends my way.  Messiah said in Matthew 25:

37“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

40“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Surely, all of you have done for this widow.  I pray in the name of Yeshua Messiah that he blesses all of you for the help you have provided, and for the way that you have opened your hands and your hearts with love.  I pray that you are blessed going in and coming out, and that he shines the light of truth upon your hearts. :)  Shalom and toda raba.  Peace and love and thank you very, very much.