When your person dies you have to reevaluate a lot of things. You look back and think about what really mattered and what wasn’t worth it.

In my looking back, I realize that I wasted a lot of time being angry at Vance. Or the kids. Or the world. Or God. Or all of them.

I have been angry so much. I think it comes as a reaction to disappointment, fear and insecurity.

What a waste of time.

I could have done so much more loving, caring and enjoying Vance if I had better been able to let go of the anger while he was here.

Last Christmas, his very last one, I was so angry. He’d been working a lot and was really tired. So on Christmas Eve, he went to bed and to sleep before the kids. My kids are all old enough to know how the presents get there, but they also still enjoy the magic of waking up to find presents under the tree. And because Vance was asleep, I was left to do it all on my own. Man, was I angry. I even took a picture of him sleeping to send to my sister the next day. I wanted the world to know that while Dad slept, Mom was busy playing Santa.

Christmas morning I was still angry. I was still mad as we opened presents. I was mad that the man who normally got up at 4:00 am, a time I very rarely see, and if I do, it’s because I haven’t gone to bed yet, not because I’ve gotten up early, that he went to be before midnight.

I’m embarrassed to write that. To share it with you. It makes me feel very vulnerable, even more so than the “Fat” post I wrote a while ago.

Anger is a very real struggle for me. The biggest in my life for some time now. I want what I want and I want it when I want it, done my way, thank you very much. So often, Vance got the brunt of my rage. He just couldn’t meet every expectation, all the time, in all the ways I wanted. Good grief, who could? Even I can’t do that!

Those unrealistic expectations cost me a lot. Thankfully, they never cost me everything. Vance didn’t let it. He didn’t let me.

Later on that last Christmas Day, I put aside my anger and we took the kids to the park for an epic family Nerf battle. We ran and played and shot each other for a couple of hours. The kids and the adults laughed and laughed and realized just how out of shape we were. It’s a memory we all treasure.

It never would have happened if I’d stayed mad. I could have let my anger steal that time and that memory from our entire family. I’m so glad I didn’t.

There’s a whole list of reasons why I started writing here but there really are just a couple main ones.

Number one. I’ve always expressed myself best through writing. It’s my outlet. It lets me get my thoughts out, organized and remembered. Sometimes I look back and think, “That was stupid. How embarrassing.” Other times, I think, “Did I write that? It sounds so wise! Huh? Who knew?” Dumb or profound, the process of writing helps me personally to deal with the big feelings. Losing my husband has brought me a lot of big feelings.

My story, our story; it’s worth telling. It’s not one of perfection. It’s one about a couple of messed up people who found each other and the God who saved them from their sins and theirselves.

Number two. Sharing helps other people to not feel so alone. When you’re sitting in your own little pool of despair, it often feels like you are the only person in the entire history of the the world who has gone through hard. While no one else has gone through your exact hard, we’ve all had our own. If not yet, we will. That’s just how life works.

One hundred percent of us will die. One hundred percent of the people we love will die. Short of Jesus coming back in our lifetime, this is inevitable. So in this life, we will be mourners. We will lose the people we love. As true as this is, it’s still somewhat socially taboo to talk about it. People just don’t know what to do with grief, be it their own or someone else’s. Maybe, just maybe, by sharing my story, I can lessen someone else’s burden and make them feel just a little less alone.

Wanna know something else? I don’t write so you feel sorry for me. Not at all. Although I will sometimes unapologetically pull at your heartstrings, I promise I am not seeking your pity or sad emojis. My hope is that while my words might bring a few tears, they will also bring you hope.

Number three. God is still good. I know so often that can sound trite, fake, even cliche. But if I can sit here, deeply effected by my husband’s sudden death, and tell you that I still believe in a God who loves me, that I have seen his hand in the aftermath, maybe, just maybe, you will find it a little less unbelievable.

Maybe, just maybe, you will soften your heart and see the grace in your own grief. Because, dear one, I promise you, it is here. He is here. The same God who knit you together in your mother’s womb is watching you now, waiting for you to cry out to him so that he can wrap you in his arms and hold you while you sob. He’s never more than one word, one step, one breath, one desperate prayer away.

I’ve never really been a small person. At least not since puberty hit anyway.

I remember being embarrassed in high school because I was heavier than all the other girls. Or at least all the other girls who weren’t “fat.” At 5’10”, I weighed 162 pounds through high school and college. FYI, that’s not “fat.” I was pretty fit. I ran stairs for volleyball practice and swam laps and treaded water as a lifeguard. Add a little bronzing from all the hours at the pool and I actually looked pretty good in those days.

Then I quit being a part of organized sports teams and exercise wasn’t prioritized. I probably should have stopped eating like a teenager once I was well into my twenties, but I didn’t. The pounds started to pile on. Hormonal birth control didn’t help and I gained 50 pounds the year I got married. Then I had a baby. And another. And another. And a miscarriage. And a rainbow baby.

I went from tanned, toned and sexy to pasty, white, mom bod.

Please don’t try to tell me I’m not fat. Y’all, I have eyes and I have mirrors. It’s not a secret just because we don’t say it outloud. I’ve gained almost 90 pounds since graduating high school. I’ve struggled with it at times but mostly I’ve come to realize that although I do need to eat better and be healthier, my size doesn’t really matter. I will never wear single digit jean sizes and that’s okay.

I’ve said more than once over the years, “My husband doesn’t care. He loves my curves and this body that bore his children. That’s enough. Who else matters?”

But now that Vance is gone, I am struggling with body image again. I think that although I am nowhere near ready to look for a new relationship, I don’t really know that I want to be alone for the rest of my life. One day, maybe, I’ll be ready to find a someone else.

But who would want this me? This fat woman with stretch marks from bearing another man’s babies? This almost 250 pound, 43 year old, with graying hair, wrinkles, and lots of cellulite? Who loves the fat girl?

Hot, young, skinny widows with naturally blonde hair and thighs that don’t touch? Those girls get remarried. Their profiles get a swipe right. (Or is it left? I don’t really know. Like I said, I’m not actually there yet, so I’ve never even been on a dating site. Maybe you don’t swipe at all. I don’t really know.)

But my Creator knows me. He knew that I need to be reassured. He knew that I need to be reminded. He loves the fat girl. My roundness and my softness do not negate that I was made in the image of God. This week, he has reminded me. Through both an Instagram post from an old friend and a book I’m reading called The Dream of You by Jo Saxton. And then again, from a friend who straight up told me that listening to those negative voices was listening to Satan. That the enemy was out to get me and I was not to let him win!

Over and over, God has shown me that I’m so much more than the double digits on my jeans or the numbers on any scale.

I don’t yet know if I will ever find another earthly man who will look at my naked body and smile the way Vance did. (TMI? Probably. Sorry. Not sorry.) There may not be another man on this planet who can ever make me feel as wanted and loved as he did. But even if there is not and I remain single for the rest of my time here on earth, I still must be okay with who I am, how I am made, and whose I am.

I’m a princess, for goodness sake! A child of the King of Kings. And my daddy loves all his children.

Even the fat ones.

Sometimes I find myself waiting for Vance to come home.

It really doesn’t make any sense. I mean, I know he’s not coming home. I know he died. I was at the funeral. I have stood at his grave many, many times.

Yet, somehow, I can be thinking about him being gone and simultaneously find myself wondering how long it will be until he walks through the door. Change is hard, folks.

It’s a weird thing, this knowing but not knowing. This false hope that sometimes arises, unbidden. Unwanted. Because once the falseness of the hope is realized, it becomes an unfathomable weight. It drags me under and refuses to let me breathe. When the hope leaves, I am once again left gasping for air. That is not a feeling I treasure.

Thankfully, it is not the only hope that I have.

Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.

I Thessalonians 4:13-14

My real hope lies in Heaven. That as a believer in Christ, I am assured of eternity with not only Vance, but with the Creator himself. This is not a false hope. It is not one that binds me to the bottom of the sea. This hope bids me to stare the ocean in the face and know I will not be drowned by its enormity. That as big as the waves are, they are nothing compared to the one they obey when he whispers, “Be still.”

On Thanksgiving Day we went to the movies. We started going last year and it seemed like a nice tradition to keep up this year, as we once again found ourselves in Arkansas for the holiday.

Frozen II had come out the week before. I hadn’t really planned to see it. I mean, yes, I had seen the first one, but my kids are getting older and I could easily wait for it to come out on DVD or even Disney+. No hurry.

Until the day it opened, that is. Because on that day, it seemed like everyone I know went to see it. Then half of them messaged me to tell me I had to go see it.

Spoiler alert, if you’re like one of the twelve Americans who haven’t yet seen this movie.

So, 45 minutes or so into the movie one of the characters tells another to “Do the next right thing.” That seemed to really get everyone in the feels. Big time.

Half an hour later, when she is at her darkest moment, Anna sings this:

I’ve seen dark before
But not like this
This is cold
This is empty
This is numb
The life I knew is over
The lights are out
Hello, darkness
I’m ready to succumb

Do the Next Right Thing, Frozen II

Yeah, I know. It’s like it was written for us. But there’s more.

But you’ve gone to a place I cannot find

This grief has a gravity

It pulls me down

But a tiny voice whispers in my mind

“You are lost, hope is gone

But you must go on

And do the next right thing”

Seriously.

It was a good thing we’d been warned. I brought Kleenex for all of us.

So I’ll walk through this night

Stumbling blindly toward the light

And do the next right thing

And with the dawn, what comes then

When it’s clear that everything will never be the same again?

Then I’ll make the choice

To hear that voice

And do the next right thing

And that, my friends, is the song that has been running through my head for the past two weeks. The one that reminds me to keep getting up and taking the next step, even though I know nothing will ever be the same.

Yesterday I took off my wedding ring.

I wasn’t ready but I had a minor medical procedure done (all is well) and it needed to be removed. So off it went. Vance’s ring, too. (I’ve been wearing his on my right hand since my sister took it off his body in the ER and handed it to me. I’ve always had giant man hands, so it fits.)

Yesterday I felt naked.

Exposed.

Alone.

I know that there is no right time to stop wearing your wedding ring after your spouse dies. Days, weeks, months, years, never. All are legit options. But that hasn’t stopped me from wondering when the right time is. It hasn’t stopped me from asking at least two widowed friends when they stopped wearing theirs.

I guess for me, the answer is not yet. Yes, my vows were “until death do us part,” and I know that I’m no longer legally, or even scripturally, bound to Vance, but I still feel married. I can’t really explain that.

It’s likely that one day the rings will come off. Maybe they’ll go in a drawer. Maybe I’ll have them remade into a new piece of jewelry. Maybe one of my kids will want them just as they are. That remains to be seen.

But on that day something will have changed in me. I don’t yet know what that will feel like but I do know that it won’t mean that I will love Vance less. It will not negate the twenty plus years we spent loving each other. It will simply mean I am moving forward. One small step at a time.

Just not today.

Last night was the official start of Eli’s wrestling season. He did amazing. The team brought home second place and E made the all tournament team, picking up three pins to start the season.

As I sat at the top of the bleachers, filming each match, I had to fight back tears a few times. No, not because of the pain I was feeling for the poor boys Eli wrestled, as he placed their arms behind his head and slowly turned them to their backs, one painful second at a time. That was more me cringing than crying.

The tears came because in the dozen or so years that I’ve been a wrestling mom, Vance was also a wrestling dad. He didn’t miss many matches. Every once in a while, his work schedule just wouldn’t allow him to be there or we had to split duty between two or more kids, and he wouldn’t be there. On those rare occasions, we would constantly text each other updates and videos. More than once we FaceTimed live matches so he wouldn’t miss.

Tonight, as I recorded our son, it came to me that there was no one to send the videos to. No Vance to text.

It’s one of those little realities that just hasn’t gotten easier. It was hard during baseball. It was still hard during soccer. It sucked at cross country. Here we are at wrestling, and it’s still so stinking hard.

Sometimes I just text him anyway. I send him updates and scores and times.

Someday someone new will be assigned his number and it’ll be really weird for them to get random updates along with the occasional, “I just really miss you today.” Hopefully that will be a while, because for now, I just still need to send those texts.

When Moses’ arms grew tired, Aaron and Hur brought a stone for him to sit on, while they stood beside him and held up his arms, holding them steady until the sun went down. In this way, Joshua totally defeated the Amalekites.

Exodus 17:12-14

Last night I had the chance to go out with some girlfriends.

We laughed a lot. We talked a lot. We ate a lot. We worried a little and prayed a little, too. We worshiped together.

As we sat listening to a sweet, sweet song about Jesus being there through the hills, the valleys, the radiant days and the darkest nights, tears came unbidden to my eyes.

I didn’t mean to cry. I didn’t even want to. But I did because, well, I’m a crier.

Some of them were sad tears but mostly they were thankful ones. It’s hard to find the right words to explain it, but just sitting there, hearing that song, I was reminded of all the good God has brought me. How even walking through the valley of the shadow of literal death, I do not need to fear evil. I am held in his hands.

As I sat in that church, one arm raised in surrender and tears falling freely down my face, I felt a physical arm come around me. Without saying a word, my friend beside me had placed her arm around my shoulders. Gently, she let me know she was there. A bit later, as we prayed, my friend in the row behind me rested her hand on my shoulder as well. They didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to. They were just there, holding me up. Supporting me. Loving me.

This isn’t the first time and I have no doubt that it will not be the last. Over these last few months, I’ve had so many similar experiences. Times where I felt weak but was able to go on simply because in my weakness God is strong. His strength is often shown through the love and obedience of his people.

Like Moses, who when his arms got tired had Aaron and Hur standing beside him, in my moments of weakness, I continually have strong women and men beside me, holding up my arms when I am too weary to hold them up myself. This battle isn’t over. This war isn’t yet won, but I know that even though my arms are weary, I do not have to find the strength to lift them on my own. I have no doubt that I will continue to be upheld until the sun goes down and the enemy is defeated.

For this I am so thankful.

This may come as a shock to some of you. Others of you will just shake your heads and think, “I already knew this.” If you’re in the later group, it may be likely that we have lived together at some point.

Here I go. Confession time: I have a tendency to move ever so slightly off balance. Just a bit. You know, like that little bit of iceberg that the Titanic hit. Or that tiny bit of poop in the chocolate pie in The Help. Just slightly. No big deal.

Okay. Truth is, I tend to spin completely out of control. I get wound up and I just don’t know how to right myself. Sometimes I scream and say mean things. Other times I mumble under my breath and say mean things. It’s ugly. I can sometimes feel it coming but other times it completely takes me by surprise.

You know who gets the brunt of it? My kids. Because they are who I’m with most of the time.

Just writing that makes me feel embarrassed.

I mean, I love my kids. So much. I’d do just about anything for them but at the same time, they drive me crazy so much easier and faster than anyone else.

And so I spin out of control. It’s been worse lately. No emotional margin, I guess. My emotions are still so raw and so overwhelming. I just feel off-kilter.

Vance was always able to pull me back when I got too close to the edge. Sometimes with a gentle nudge and when necessary, with a hard push. He knew what to say to stop the spinning. To calm me down. To make me see what I was doing and to stop the destructive behavior.

Oh, how I miss that part of him fiercely. Right now I am constantly off balance. Precariously leaning one direction, then the next. I’m stumbling and spinning and I just can’t seem to right myself. The scales are tipping and without Vance here, I am struggling so hard to keep them balanced.

We were partners. When I was overwhelmed, he stepped in and took over. When he was speechless, I found words. When the kids needed a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold, it was usually mine. But he was in the yard playing catch or the garage teaching them to use tools. I don’t do those things like he did. I don’t understand wrestling or teenage boys or the appeal of a Clint Eastwood western like he did.

Truth is, there was a lot of this parenting stuff that I totally planned on him doing. Teaching the kids to drive. Talking birds and bees with the boys. Doling out the punishments. Playing the bad cop to my good cop and vice versa. Scarring for life Abby’s first prom date by being the over-protective dad. Walking her down the aisle.

But all of those things and more are still to be done. Preferably, without tears or yelling or spinning out of control. With balance I have yet to find.

I saw a post yesterday that said “Grief and gratitude can sit at the same table.” Wow. That’s probably exactly how I feel today.

I’m here with Vance’s family, my family.

And I’m so grateful. My in-laws helped make my husband into the person I fell in love with. They instilled values in him that he held until the day he died; loyalty, honesty, family, God.

My niece and nephew are some of the most loved people in our lives. Over the years, they’ve spent a lot of time with us, staying the night at random and always, always, together at all the holidays.

And so getting through this first of the major holidays since Vance died, I’m glad I’m here with these people. With his people. With our people.

At the same time, there is also so much to grieve.

Vance isn’t here to eat his mom’s dressing or ooey-gooey butter cake. He won’t throw a football or say a prayer or lay beside me tonight. He won’t make Whitters blush or Dev laugh. He won’t sit with his dad and chat or hug his momma good-bye when we leave. He won’t send the kids to bed or tell them to behave in the van. He didn’t get to see me sing karaoke for the first time in over 20 years. The reality of that brings me to tears.

The truth is, I just miss him. I miss his face. I miss his ridiculous laugh. His voice. But even more, I miss the way he balanced me. The way he encouraged me.

And for that I grieve, all the while grateful for the time we had and the family we have and the memories yet to be made. So, grief and gratitude sit here, side by side, this Thanksgiving, taking turns at the table. Bring both laughter and tears. Gratefulness and mourning. Together, like turkey and dressing.