When we first got together he had so much dark hair. As we aged, that changed. He started to gray and then to have a little less on top. He hated the idea of going bald but didn’t so much mind the gray.
I love that we were together for the graying. The gray haired, bearded man in this picture is such a different one than the dark haired, baby faced one I married. He grew to love Jesus, me and our kids more every day. He became more patient with every gray hair.
I am angry that I will not see the rest of these hairs go gray. That the salt and pepper will be his last look. That seems terribly unfair to me. After all, this was supposed to be the middle of our story, not the end.
But still, I am happy to have been here for the graying. For the growing. For the beauty of growing older together, even if I am now left to grow old without him.
I’m so thankful for this man who made me a better woman in so many ways. We were far from perfect but we never gave up. We always made it work and we both knew we always would.
When I was loud, he was quiet. (Except maybe at sporting events. There he was LOUD!) When I cared what people thought he just cared about people. When I was quick to anger he was quick to forgive.
I will forever be grateful for the chance to be his bride.
It’s strange when you have to remind yourself to breathe.
I don’t know what to do with his stuff. How long is long enough? How long is too long? Can the shirt just hang in the bathroom forever? I don’t know what to do. I’m frozen.
Moving forward. Not moving on. I don’t even know how to do that.
My heart hurts. Like there’s a physical weight that is just hanging there. Will it ever leave? Do I carry this forever? I don’t think I can do that.
I’m angry. And I’m sad. So very sad. And tired. I’m trying to live normal but it’s just not. I can’t be normal without him.
People keep saying that I’m not alone and they’re here for me. That they’ll sit with me on the couch and cry. I know they mean it, but I don’t want that. I want Vance to lay beside me on our bed and hold me, stroke my hair, let me cry it out and remind me that God is in control. I don’t want anyone else to do that. It’s not the same. I want my husband back. I don’t want him to be dead. I wasn’t ready for this.
This was supposed to be the middle, not the end. Not the end.
Grief comes like waves in an unpredictable tide. It washes over me with all the rage and destruction of the vast ocean. I scream and cry and gasp for the air I know is right above the surface. I know it’s there but my despair is too heavy and anchors me to the bottom of the sea.
But then suddenly, with no warning, I’m breathing again. Sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours, and maybe even for those first few days while I was still in shock. I inhale huge gulps of air and somehow keep going. But then the waves hit again and I’m crashing back onto my knees, unable to even see the surface, much less reach it.
Fourteen days ago Vance called me as he was leaving work early. He hadn’t felt well all day and wanted me to stay on the phone with him while he drove home. Neither of us knew he was having an escalating heart attack and that it would be our final conversation. He died while we were on the phone. I didn’t even know. I thought he’d pulled over to be sick. I hung up. He never answered when I called back a few minutes later.
The next time I saw him he was in the ER, dying. There were tubes and machines and people doing their damndest to save him. His eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, were open, but he was gone.
At one point, I was told that I needed to make the decision to keep going or to stop CPR. I couldn’t do that alone asked that they bring in one of my parents. As soon as I was left alone, I turned around, collapsed to the floor and screamed like I never have before. It was more a wail than a scream. It sounds hyper-dramatic, but it really was like in the movies. I lost all strength to stand. My life was across the hall and it was ending. My kids were in the waiting room, not knowing if they would ever see their daddy alive again. They wouldn’t. Two hours after my phone rang, they pronounced him dead at the hospital.
When the doctor came in to tell us, I slid down the wall. For only the second time in my life but the second time in that hour, I was unable to stand under the weight of my grief. I couldn’t even hold my kids. I could only cry that ugly, teeth chattering, rocking back and forth cry that has become all too familiar over these last days.
Our family and our friends filled the hospital waiting room, mourning with us and lifting prayers on our behalf. I couldn’t pray for days. Honestly, I still can’t. I can only whisper the name of Jesus over and over. Rich Mullin’s “Hold Me Jesus” is on repeat. It’s all I have. All I can hold onto. It will be enough, I know that. But from the bottom of the ocean, it sure feels like drowning right now.
Asa picked this song to sing at the end of Vance’s memorial service. He said that he wanted to sing it because it reminds him that Jesus is still here with us.
And my friends, he is right.
No, I don’t understand any of this.
Yes, I am devastated. Utterly and completely. I didn’t even know I could hurt this much.
No, I am not strong. I am just barely strong enough to hold onto Jesus. In my weakness He is strong.
God is still good. My husband’s death does not change who God is. It changes just about everything else right now but not this. God is still who He says He is. He is loving and good.
And I know that Jesus himself has welcomed Vance with a “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”
In November of 1970, the world became a little brighter when in Russellville, Arkansas, Larry and Glenda (Daniel) Crutchfield welcomed their first born son, Vance Edward, into it. Shortly after, a sister, Karen, would complete their little family. Around eight years later the Crutchfields left Arkansas for Burlington, Kansas, where Vance ended up building his life.
After graduating from Burlington High School in 1989, Vance tried a semester at K-State. The timing wasn’t right, so he decided to join the Navy. He spent five years there, mostly as a submariner with the USS Cavalla, stationed at Pearl Harbor.
After his time in the Navy, he returned home to Burlington, where he noticed that Kelsy Saueressig had grown up while he was gone. He wooed her with his good looks and Arkansas charms and five years later, on August 6, 1999, they ran off to St Lucia and got married. Their almost 20 years together resulted in the pride of his life: his children, Eli Daniel, Abigail Grace (rightly named “Her Father’s Joy”), Ezra Lee and Asa James.
Second only to Jesus, Vance loved his family with unmatched fierceness and loyalty. Spend an hour with him and you would know their names and just how proud he was of each of them. He taught his kids this family motto; “Two are stronger than one and a three-fold cord cannot easily be broken.”
Vance spent over a dozen years as a member of Lamont Wesleyan Church, where he served in many ways. When LWC decided to plant a church in Coffey County, Vance was a big part of helping Radiant Life Church become a reality. But faith wasn’t something just for Sundays. Vance lived it out, each and every day, through his kindness, patience, hard work and the respect he showed for everyone he came into contact with. He was the guy who picked up hitchhikers and let them spend the night. He opened doors for old ladies and young ones and called everyone “Sir.” He was humble and hated being the center of attention. He was often heard saying to his children, “people over things.”
Over the past 25 or so years, Vance coached just about half the kids in Coffey County. Every sport, every age, boys and girls. He was passionate and dedicated and always, always, so very positive. Win or lose, he was proud and encouraging and taught kids to love the game and to have confidence in themselves. After a mistake, he would often tell them, “Do the next right thing.” That’s how he lived his life.
He did other stuff, like work as an electrician and get degrees from Allen County and Emporia State, but those didn’t really matter much compared to his faith, his family, and his love for people.
On July 3, 2019 the world became just a little less bright as Vance Crutchfield, only 48, was suddenly taken from it. There is no doubt that he will be missed. But God is still good. All the time, God is good.
“The Lord is good, a strong refuge when trouble comes. He is close to those who trust in him.” Nahum 1:7
This was the first thing I shared publicly after Vance’s death. I wasn’t ready for a large audience but I shared it on my Instagram and in a closed page for VBS directors on Facebook. I had over 200 comments and thousands of reactions. I got private messages from total strangers, many of whom are themselves widows. It was then that I realized that we don’t talk about tragedy nearly enough. I think we need to better understand grief because eventually it comes for all of us.
So here I am, starting a new blog. Documenting this unwanted title of widow. My prayer is that this helps you as you or someone you love grieves and that I honor my husband and his legacy through my writing.
Friday, July 5, 2019
For the last 15 years I have been passionate about leading VBS. Ours starts Sunday night.
We will bury my husband of 20 years on Monday morning. Wednesday he had a massive heart attack out of nowhere and he could not recover. God chose to take him home.
As I drove to the hospital and then watched them try to save him for two long hours I kept looking at my wrist and seeing this bracelet I’d bought for VBS. It says, “When life is unfair… God is good! Nahum 1:7”
Friends, it is so unfair that my four children will not have their father at their graduations, weddings or when they themselves become parents. It is unfair that I am now a widow at age 42. It is unfair that I will not be leading Sing and Play because I’ll be at the funeral home for the visitation. It’s unfair that I spent the day choosing a casket and a burial plot. It’s unfair that all I can pray is simply the name of Jesus because all other words fail me. It’s so unfair.
But my friends, God is still good. He is still who he says he is. He’s a good father. I know that Jesus himself has welcomed my husband into Heaven. God is still good.
If you can, pray for my kids. We will be finding a new normal and it’s going to take some time. Right now we are absolutely devastated. Pray for my amazing church, as they, with my absolute blessing and thanks, are stepping up to make this happen without me. And if I can be so bold as to ask, please pray for me. I didn’t know I could hurt this much. I need grace, mercy, and wisdom. So much to decide and I’m just barely able to even breathe right now.
It just so happens that Nahum 1:7 (which is on the side of the bracelet) was one of Vance’s favorite verses. God is good. All the time.
Less than a month from our twentieth wedding anniversary, my husband died completely unexpectedly. One minute we were on the phone and the next his heart stopped beating.
Words don’t really convey the amount of pain that I have been in since. It’s a gut wrenching, gnawing thing that hasn’t left me for a minute. I guess they call that thing grief. It’s also known as heartache, agony, and my personal pet name, “I hate this. Please don’t let it be real.”
When Vance died he was only 48. I was just shy of my 43rd birthday. Our oldest had turned 16 three weeks before. His sister was 14 and the little boys were 12 and 9. None of us were old enough for this to be happening. I was lost.
I’ve always expressed myself best through writing. And so when Vance died, I started to write. A lot. And as I wrote, I realized that I had things I needed to say. Things I think people needed to hear. And so I started sharing some of my writings. The more I shared, the more I wanted to keep sharing, to continue the conversation.
We don’t talk about grief in our culture nearly enough. If we did, it wouldn’t come as such a surprise when it hits us. My hope is that maybe by sharing this horrible journey through my own grief with you, you can better be prepared when it comes for you or someone you love. Not that my pain is the same as yours. It’s not. Each grief is as unique as the person carrying it. But there are similarities and there is a comfort in knowing that you are not alone.
The definition of grace is “the free and unmerited favor of God.” Being widowed at 42 sure doesn’t feel like being favored. But there is grace in the grief. Hopefully this blog will show that.
Grace in the Grief 