One of the hardest things about life after loss is going to the store. That sounds ridiculous, but it’s so true. There are so many reasons.
First, there are all the people. Ugh. You just don’t know who you’ll run into or how they will act, what they will say. It’s emotionally exhausting.
And the people are harder because you don’t know how YOU will act. You don’t know when you’ll just break down in the chip aisle and cry for a good five minutes. That’s embarrassing. Nobody wants to be the crazy lady weeping in aisle seven.
Then, because ‘Merica, ya’ll, there are all the choices. When you’ve buried the love of your life, you’ve already made so many choices. Maybe you had to choose to stop doing CPR or to end life support. You had to choose who to call and what to say. You planned a memorial and chose songs and Bible verses and all kinds of other things for that. You chose what to wear and a casket and a cemetery plot. And all of those things have exhausted you. And so you go to the store and there is an entire row of body wash, just lined up on the shelves, waiting for you to choose one and you just can’t.
Then what happens when you don’t need that body wash anymore? When your dead husband was the only who used Old Spice? What do you do when you walk down that row and it smells like him? If you’re me, you buy a bottle and you smell it on the way home and you put in your shower and you smell it every time you’re in there, because it’s all you have that smells like him.
I keep thinking a day with no tears will surely come soon but nope, not yet anyway. Sometimes I get all the way to bedtime. Sometimes I barely get even awake before they come. But they are always there.
Today they came at the cemetery. No big shocker there. It’s kinda a place made for crying. So I stood there and talked to Vance and cried. I know he’s not there. His body is only a shell for the everlasting part of him; his soul. But for whatever reasons, having a physical place to go seems to help, so I keep going to the place we buried his body when I want to talk to him.
Most of what I said today was filled with regret. Ways I wished I had been a better wife. Things I wish I could have done differently, appreciated more. I told him I was sorry and I bawled like a baby.
I’m not sharing this so that you will tell me that I was a good wife or so that you will bring me comfort. I don’t need or want that from you but I did ask God to let Vance know for me.
I share it with you because I want you to be a better wife, a better husband. Take the days you have and cherish them. Yes, he should pick up his own smelly socks off the floor but those stinky socks aren’t what matters. Just pick them up and be glad he’s there to get them dirty. Yes, she should rinse out the sink after she brushes her teeth. But so what? Just rinse it for her. In the end, what will matter is that he was there and he was yours and you were his.
Today I went to Menard’s. I needed to pick up a few things for the house and a few things for Ezra’s next woodworking project. His mentor had given me a list of what was needed months ago and I just never got around to having Vance go get it with him. And then after Vance died, it just didn’t make the priority list.
But today I determined to make it happen.
So I picked out a ceiling fan alone and didn’t cry when I thought that I will need to have someone come install it for me, because my electrician husband isn’t here anymore. I picked out new shutters for the front of the house and then went to tackle Ezra’s materials. He’s a beginner, so the list wasn’t terribly long or terribly complicated but this is not my wheelhouse. All of the employees seemed to have something else to do because none of them where in the department I was. So I stood looking at the racks of poplar wood with no idea which one I needed. I was completely and utterly overwhelmed and on the verge of tears.
But then God sent me help. Not a Menard’s employee, but a friend, came around the corner. He smiled, asked how I was, and immediately hugged me when I replied, “Completely overwhelmed,” and started crying. Then he helped me pick out the wood I needed, got me a cart that was big enough for it and made sure I had what I needed when I left.
That might seem like a little thing, but I do not believe in coincidence. I believe in a God that knew I was going to need a friendly face and a person who would not only help me find what I needed but also make sure the boards I got were straight and knot free. Because God is good and he is gracious to me, even through the worst.
I never used to think that. I loved Sundays. I got to go to church where I was with some of my favorite people on the planet. After, I’d come home, take a nap, hang with the family, take the big kids to youth group, return home and hang with the fam some more.
Vance rarely worked a Sunday. We usually drove two cars to church because I often had to stick around and he liked to go straight home. Once there, I took attendance while he sat in the back. When I was done, I’d walk over and sit with him. We’d listen to the sermon together. We would almost always hold hands and sometimes I’d lean my head on his shoulder. Even on the worst weeks, when we’d been fighting, church was a place for us to reconnect; to forgive; to bond. After the service, we would run our separate ways but he’d always find me before he left and we would figure out how all the kids were getting home. He’d tell me, “I’ve got the bigs,” or “You’ve got the A’s, I’ve got the E’s.” Then an “I love you. See you at home.”
But the last several times I’ve gone to church I’ve avoided walking in the main doors to the sanctuary. Because right inside those doors was where you would find Vance on Sunday mornings. I just can’t. Every single time I’m in the sanctuary I find my eyes wandering to that spot, hoping to see him there. But, obviously, that’s not happening. He’s not there. He will never be there. And so I avoid walking past those chairs. I come a little late on purpose, enter through the back doors and sit on the opposite side.
During closing worship I find myself reaching for his hand. I grasp only air.
The tears always come. And then on days we sing “Another in the Fire” or “Raise a Hallelujah,” well, on those days, you can just plan on replacing all of the Kleenex in the entire church, because I’m going to be using them.
I took for granted that he was here on Sunday afternoons. That we could talk or watch movies or even just sit in the same room and stare at our phones. I miss watching him play catch in the yard or wrestling with the boys in the living room or teasing Abby about her French ballet terms. I miss laying in bed and sharing our days and talking about what was supposed to happen over the next week. I just miss Vance being here.
Last week when I came home from youth group with the kids, I had to stop and brace myself before walking in the door. I was coming home to an empty house and it wasn’t supposed to be that way. Vance and Asa were supposed to be at home, probably watching TV. But Asa was with me and Vance is with Jesus. The house was dark and empty and it took an extra minute to prepare myself to go in. A deep breath and a lot of resolve.
I told someone yesterday that I will never understand why God took Vance from this earth so early. Not when he had four kids who still need raising. Not when he had a wife that needs him. Not when he still had so much living to do.
I don’t believe the trite little things people say, like “God needed an angel,” or “God needed him in Heaven.” First of all, that’s not how angels or death work. You don’t become an angel when you die. Secondly, God doesn’t need anything. He’s God. It’s not like he needed his buddy to come over and help wire up the Pearly Gates or something. When people talk like that, I know they mean well, but I really want to slap them. Because in saying that, they are implying that this tragedy is somehow what God wanted. That he caused it. This is not God’s fault. Let me say that again, a different way. I do not blame God for this.
Do I question him? Yep.
Do I wish this horrible thing never happened? Oh, yes. So much so.
Have I yelled at God? More than once.
Am I angry with God? Yes. Less than I was but it’s still there.
But God can handle all of that and at the end of the day, he gently reminds me that he loves me.
Jesus, too, knew loss. His dear friend, Lazarus, died. The Bible tells us that when Jesus heard this he cried. He mourned the life of his friend. Jesus was God in flesh, so he knew that Lazarus would be raised from the dead four days later. And yet, he wept.
I find comfort in that. I know that Vance is with Jesus. I know that we will one day be reunited and that brings some peace to my otherwise turbulent soul. But even in that peace, I weep. Not for Vance, but for the hole he left behind. For all the things he won’t be here for. My our children. For his parents. For his sister. For myself. Because we miss him. Because we love him. And grieving is the final act of loving.
A few days ago I sat chatting with a friend about how strange grief is. She’d lost a child many years ago and we talked about how the hard days, the birthdays, the anniversaries, Christmas are hard but the hardest days are the ones that take you by surprise.
On the big days, you dread them coming up but you also kind of brace yourself for them. You mentally prepare. For me, I’ve already gone through my own birthday, one month after Vance’s death and our 20th anniversary (all within ten days, too). Each of those days sucked, but the worst was the days building up to them. I dreaded our anniversary for an entire month.
But I didn’t expect to break down in the chip aisle. I actually made it to the grocery a couple days ago. I went at 8:30 PM, when there aren’t a lot of people in our small town store. I put in my earbuds and didn’t even run into anyone I knew. I made to the very last aisle with no breakdowns then went back for a bag of chips. And right there between the Fritos and the Coke products, I lost my mind.
Before Vance died he had been getting healthier. (The irony, right?) He’d pretty much given up sugar and carbs. He lost about 60-70 pounds. He even gave up Coke, which was a huge deal considering the decades long two liter a day habit he’d had. My kryptonite has always been a bag of chips. I just love them and sadly, I can eat a whole bag in one sitting. A few months ago he’d encouraged me to give up the chips and start to get healthier myself. At the time I just rolled my eyes and ate more Doritos.
But there in the junk food aisle, I couldn’t pick out a bag of chips. Because he didn’t want me to. Because there were so many choices. Because … I don’t know. Because a song we sang at this funeral was running through my headphones. And I stood there, like a crazy person, with tears running down my cheeks and my head against the grocery cart and just wept. Because … chips.
As a teenager and young adult I thought of success as getting a good job, living in a big house and being someone important in my community. Basically, I thought I needed a lot of money and prestige to “make it.”
Then real life came along. Vance decided to go back to school shortly after we got married. He didn’t work a “real job” for several years while he got his degree and we lived on my starting teacher’s salary. Then he graduated and struggled to find work in his field. He tried his hand at having his own business but that didn’t work either. He just couldn’t bring himself to charge people what he was worth. By that time we had three kids and I started staying home full time. Then Vance’s jobs were in construction and often came with regular layoffs. He worked really hard but we never had much extra.
That was okay. We knew I was called to stay home with the kids. We knew that meant we lived on one income in a two income world. That meant staying in our “starter” house even with four kids and only three bedrooms. We never drove new-or even nice-vehicles. We never took a family vacation or bought new furniture. We rarely had extra but we always had enough. Jehovah Jirah truly showed himself faithful to provide our needs. And yes, mostly that was okay, but if I’m totally honest, sometimes, for me, the little bitty house and beat up old cars felt like failure. It wasn’t the life I’d thought I wanted.
But even in death, Vance continues to teach me. Specifically that a quiet, humble life lived serving Jesus and loving people is the truest measure of success. He was driving a 25 year old car the day he died. He never once cared what he was wearing or how long it had been between haircuts or that his shoes were (always) untied. He would rather spend his time coaching a team or talking with his family or helping little old ladies cross the street than to clean up the house or tackle my honey do list. I didn’t always love that. In fact, it often ticked me off a little.
But then he died. And in the wake of his death I have seen just how far reaching the influence of a simple servant can be. He impacted lives I had no idea about. Friends from almost 30 years ago flew in for his memorial services. I’ve heard stories of how his listening without judgement changed people’s lives. He encouraged people to follow their passions, to step up and lead. He forgave people, including me, who in no way deserved to be forgiven. He gave confidence to people others had given up on. He worked as if everything he did was for the Lord and as if every person he saw was a child of God.
Vance Crutchfield was far from a perfect man. Just like all of us, he was, after all, a human being. He would often be heard around the house letting out one of his Darth Vader sighs and saying, “God is good. I am not.” That might seem like a funny thing to say, but it was his way of reminding himself of his place. Of acknowledging that alone he was incapable of good but that any good seen in him was from Jesus Christ. (Romans 7:18)
He loved his God, his wife, his children, his family and his fellow man. He lived and loved simply. He gave more than he took and always waited to make sure everyone else had enough before serving himself. What greater measure of success is there?
Just to be clear, this life we built, I know it is good. It is what I wanted. I just didn’t always know that. Sometimes I forgot. But Vance never did. He always knew what he wanted: to be a good husband and father. To love and trust God in all things.
Just when I think I can’t… God reminds me that I don’t have to. He fights for me. So today I will raise a hallelujah. I will sing it at the top of my lungs.
I keep seeing that word and thinking, “This is who I am now. I am a widow.” But then I think, “No. No way. I am too young for this. This cannot be true. Vance cannot really be gone. ” But I am apparently just the right age and this somehow is my reality. I will never see him again. I am a widow.
I am a woman who has lost her lover, her confidant, her back up, her friend. I am a woman who longs for the strong arms of her husband to hold her while she cries, as I have cried for every one of the last 47 days. I am a widow.
I have lost my co-parent, my sounding board, my balancer. My life partner is gone. Forever. I am a widow.
People keep saying I am not alone. But in the middle of the night, in this king sized bed that we used to share, there is no one softly snoring beside me. I am a widow.
This is a label I do not want. I would much prefer to once again simply be his wife. But alas, I am a widow.
Over the last dozen or so years that I’ve had social media, I’ve used it differently at different times. I’ve been the oversharer, the political ranter, and the virtual garage saler. More recently I’ve moved to mostly using Facebook for school, church and community things and sharing less about my family and personal life. I feel strongly that there is a lot of our lives that doesn’t need to be shared with the world. Keep your private business and your drama to yourself and things get better faster than if they fly around the interwebs.
But right now, my business is kind of out there. The world knows that Vance died. That’s not private. The entire town knew within minutes and everyone else within days. Some of our friends were in the ER waiting room within five minutes of me getting there. The newspapers and Facebook and the funeral home all published his obituary for the world to see. This life shattering event is not a secret.
And so I have decided that for now anyway, I will not grieve in secret either. No, I’m not going to share everything with the world because some things are still just between Vance and God and me. But there are some things I do want to share with you.
People keep asking me how they can help, what they can do to make things better. I don’t know how to answer that. Because the truth is, this will never be better. Vance will always be dead. I won’t be able to hold his hand, to ask his opinion or pack leftovers into his lunchbox ever again. He won’t be there when the kids graduate from high school, get married or become parents. There will be no more family pictures with the six of us. No casserole or card or hug will change that. That doesn’t mean those things aren’t important or needed, it just means that they can never replace what has been lost. This side of Heaven, that will not change.
And that is what I am afraid that you will forget. That this will never be “easier” for us. We will never “get over it” or “move on.” This effects every single thing in our lives from July 3 on. Yes, it will get different. We will move forward. I am even told that there will come a day that I won’t cry or think of Vance every single minute I’m awake. But that day has not yet come. A week, a month, a year, a decade from now, we will still have a great big Vance sized hole in our lives and our hearts.
That is not to say that we will not be happy. Even in the tears we can laugh and find joy. It’s possible and it is necessary and it is good.
Here’s what I guess I wish you knew. Maybe take this as your answer to “How can I help?” First off, be patient with me. In these early days of mourning life is literally one breath at a time. Normally, I’ve been a planner and a get stuff done kind of gal. Right now, I can’t see past the next hour. I can’t decide what to cook or to eat or what kind of shoes to buy. I haven’t even looked at a headstone yet because my brain is done making choices. I am still in a place where I can only do the things that absolutely need done today. I honestly cannot think past that right now. If we make plans and I don’t show up, I am so sorry. I honestly cannot remember anything.
Some days I can get a lot of crap done. Others, I just stay in bed. The idea of going anywhere is so mentally exhausting that I just can’t. But there is still milk to buy, practice to take a kid to, and appointments that cannot be avoided. So if you see me out and I don’t talk to you, please don’t take it personally. Chances are, I love you very much but I just cannot break down at the bank one. more. time. If I’m inside and wearing my sunglasses, please just keep walking. Take that as my asking you for space that day. If there are no sunglasses, please interact with me as you always have. But pay attention to my body language and the words I use. I may still not be able to “talk about it.”
Your gifts, cards, texts, calls, invitations and messages have been such blessings. There have been so many of them over the last few weeks. I want you to know that I have personally read, heard and treasured every single one. The emotional and physical strength needed to reply to most of them is beyond me. But I do hope you keep sending them. Even and maybe especially when I don’t respond. Because that just might be when I need it the most.
And your prayers. Keep those coming. At times I believe the only thing keeping me breathing has been the prayers of the saints. God is still good. I know this. Don’t think that doesn’t mean he and I haven’t exchanged a few choice words lately. Trust me, I have let God know EXACTLY how I feel about all this. He can handle it. And he just keeps gently reminding me that I am not alone in any of this. That I am loved, both by my creator and by so many of those he created.
Thank you. Thank you for all of the love you have shown us. Thank you for your continued patience and understanding. For the hugs when we need them and the space when we need that. This tribe we have built; our families, our LWC and RLC faith families, our new and old friends, our students and athletes and neighbors and co-workers and even strangers; this tribe means the world to me. Your overwhelming support and determination to go ahead and “do the next right thing” encourages my weary soul. Thank you for loving us well. Together we are stronger. Not easily broken.
Grace in the Grief 