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.

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. 

20 years wasn’t nearly enough. 

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.

Day 17

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. 

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. 

But here it is. Day 17 without him. 

I just can’t do this.

It’s now Day 14 without him.

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. 

July 3, 2019. That’s the day everything changed.

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.