One of my kids has migraines. About six months ago we went to see a neurologist to figure it out. He started on some meds and today we had a follow up appointment. The medicine is working and the appointment should have been pretty painless…but it wasn’t.

First off, I’ve had a rough couple of days. Nothing specific, just feeling overwhelmed by loss, single parenting and lack of sleep. So walking in, I had already been fighting tears since the night before and was on the brink.

Then the doctor started to ask my kid questions. Harmless, right?

“What grade are you in?” Easy enough.

“Where do you go to school?” Easy. “At home.”

“Oh? You’re homeschooled?” Uh-oh. He was one of those. One of the people who feel like they have the right to judge my school choice even though they just met me and have no idea whatsoever what my life, kids or school are like. Such people are exhausting.

So he started – completely inappropriately – grilling us in an exceptionally condescending tone. “So what do you do to get socialization? To make sure you’re able to interact with the world?” Sigh. How is this related to headaches other than it’s giving me one? Politely, I explained that the kids do sports, church and co-op.

What I wanted to say was, “That’s none of your freaking business! Do you ask public schooled kids that? Because I know a whole lot of public schooled kids who struggle to interact with the world a whole lot more than my kids do!” 

But I didn’t, because as inappropriate as his questions were, he held all the power. Kids have been removed from their homes because doctors have reported them to social services because they disagreed with them on a medical treatment. I didn’t want to give this man any reason to think I was an unfit parent, because he already thought that by not sending my kids to public school I was doing wrong by them. So I put on my fake smile and tried not to sound like I wanted to punch him in the face.

But he kept going. My child has a learning difference. We’ve had it diagnosed professionally and are using our resources to help him succeed. He’s learning well, adapting and learning to advocate for himself. Somehow, the doctor thought he needed to ask me how that was going. “Is he progressing? Are you getting him extra help for that?” Yes, he’s progressing. No, I’m not getting him outside help. He doesn’t need that right now. I’m his mom. Every single thing I have learned about dyslexia I have learned as a mom. Almost a decade teaching public school and I had exactly ZERO training on it. I told the doctor as much. His response? “Well, I disagree with that. I think that’s wrong.” In his whole ten minutes of conversation with me he had decided that he knew what was best for us. At that point, my smile was gone. I think I said something like, “Thank you for your opinion.”
Still, he wasn’t done. He started asking what curriculum I was using. Again, none of his freaking business! And even if I told him, I doubt he’s familiar with All About Spelling, Orton-Gilligham and the Barton Method. At that point, I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “You’re not going to like this but I don’t care. His dad died in July and right now, school isn’t our priority. Survival is. So we’re doing what we can.” And as I spoke, tears started to stream down my face and I could no longer keep the sobs from escaping. Because now I was sad and I was angry. Six months ago, when we had first met, I knew he wasn’t homeschool friendly but it didn’t bother me. I just played his game and it was no big deal. But today there was no margin and I just couldn’t play anymore. He passed me a box of Kleenex and gave his condolences.

The doctor was a little better after that but I couldn’t stop crying for several hours. We went to Kohl’s and while my kid was trying on clothes, I was texting my mom and weeping in the middle of the store. I quietly cried all the way home while my son took a nap. After picking up my other kids from my mom’s house I dropped them at home and headed to my Bible study. About half way there, truly alone for the first time all day, I lost it. Sobbing, I pulled into the church parking lot and just wept. I was a few minutes late, so everyone else was already in the building. I sat in my car and wailed. This was not quiet tears falling. This was heartache pouring from my body in loud, ugly, pitiful ways.

It felt like I was in the car forever. It was probably less than ten minutes. As I sat there weeping, the sprinkles that had been hitting the windshield became giant raindrops, falling hard and fast, just like my tears. The sky, like my world, shook when the thunder boomed.

As Thy Will by Hillary Scott, and You’re Gonna Be OK by Jenn Johnson streamed through my speakers, I tried to sing along and simultaneously blow my nose. I searched the cars in the parking lot to see which friends were inside. I knew that I could text any of them and thunderstorm or no, they would be out sitting with me in a heartbeat. I seriously considered just texting one and telling her I was sitting paralyzed in the parking lot. But after I Am Not Alone by Kari Jobe finished playing, I thought of the words a sweet friend texted me this morning: “You are not…alone. You are not failing. God has a plan…just let Him.”And I knew that in that moment, I needed to be rescued by God, not by my friends. Don’t get me wrong, my friends are amazing. They are fierce in their love and they are there for me. I love them dearly. But ultimately, I have to rely first on Christ. And so I took a deep breath and decided to try to “just let Him…let go. Let God.”

I opened the car door and stepped out into the downpour. I didn’t even try to run into the building or avoid the wet. I just let it wash over me, taking with it the tears and the hurts of the day. By the time I reached the doors I was drenched. No one could tell if my glasses were wet with rain or tears. And even though I couldn’t pray with words, I reached out to my creator with first my sobs and then my actions, choosing to literally walk in faith, knowing that even on the darkest, most infuriating days, I am not alone.

Every single thing is hard. 

I cried seven times at parent teacher conferences last night and my kids are good. They’re getting As and Bs and behaving well. I just had to make sure the teachers knew to watch for hard days and that they knew our plan for if the kids have one. I cried seven times. One teacher asked me why I was crying (in a gentle way) and all I could choke out was, “I’m not supposed to be here alone.” 

Right now I’m hiding in the bathroom at Cracker Barrell because even being in a restaurant is hard. Vance and I ate at a lot of these early on. He loved dumplings and biscuits and all things southern comfort food. It just feels wrong to be here without him. 

They have all these rocking chairs out front. We used to sit in them sometimes, just rocking and waiting. I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I always thought that we’d have a couple of those on our front porch when we were old. That we’d sit side-by-side, my hair gray and his hair gone, with our glasses and hearing aids and hold hands while we watched the birds and the squirrels and the grandkids run around the yard. Maybe even the great-grandkids if we were lucky. 

Rocking for two sounds lovely. Rocking for one just sounds lonely. 

I’ve slowly been taking things out of Vance’s side of the closet for a while.

His new work clothes were easy. I got rid of those right away. He’d gotten a clothing allowance from work that had kicked in just a few months before his heart attack. The clothes were all special fabric for electricians and very expensive. I didn’t want to just donate them and take the chance that someone would take them, not knowing what they were. So I gave the box to a friend who worked with Vance and asked him to give them to someone who didn’t get a clothing allowance but could use them. That was a no brainer for me.

But the rest of the closet….yeah, not so much. So it’s mostly just sat there. Day after day, night after night, collecting dust and holding memories. There were a few days when I’d throw out a really old shirt or a pair of socks with holes in the heels but there’s still so much to tackle.

Today was a good day and so I thought I would be able to take a few more things out and be okay. I don’t what made me think that. As soon as I reached out for the first pair of jeans, I went from good to a sobbing puddle of tears on the floor in front of the closet. Just like that. Boom. Uncontrollable sobbing.

Then a friend texted me, “How are you?” I told him what I was doing. I love that he didn’t try to make it okay. He just told me that it must be really hard.

A few minutes later another friend sent, “Been thinking about you a lot today, friend.” It blows my mind that God knew to put me on their hearts at that moment. Because even though two of my kids were in the house with me, at that moment I felt so alone. Then the phone buzzed and I wasn’t alone. I didn’t have to even make the first move and not one, but two, great friends were there for me. Praying for me. Lamenting with me.

It didn’t make me stop crying. In fact, I bawled for hours today. Hours.

Sometimes that’s just how grief works. You’re good…until you’re not. You think, “I’ve got this. I’ve finally got a grip on some of these emotions. Today just might be the day I don’t cry.” And then -BOOM! You’re frozen. Weeping while you stare at his work boots in the bottom of the closet, remembering how excited you both were when his job paid for that new pair and knowing there will never be another new pair of his boots in anyone’s closet, ever.

Today I threw out his underwear. I mean, you can’t really donate used underwear anywhere and it’s not exactly the item of clothing you want to hold and sniff while you’re crying. Even with that, it was still harder than you might expect. I mean, it took 80 days to throw them out.

I managed to throw out the swim trunks we’d bought for our honeymoon, 20 years ago. The jeans made it into a tote and I’ll deal with them later. The rest? Still there, waiting for another day. Another day when I’m strong enough to make it through. Another day that might come tomorrow, next week, next year, or the day my kids move me into the nursing home. Who knows?

My life is now divided. There is “before” and there is “after.” Vance’s death is the dividing line. The Kelsy who lived “before” is, in a lot of ways, gone. This one now living in the “after,” she is different. In some ways that’s sad and there are a lot of things about the “before” that I will miss until my last breath escapes my lips. But in other ways, “after” me is going to be better than “before” me. I cannot unlearn what this has taught me. I cannot unsee what I have been shown. I am not not the same me I was “before.”

“Before” when someone died I really didn’t get it. I said ALL the dumb things. I avoided. I was awkward and I probably hurt a lot of people in doing that. I’m thankful for grace to cover that.

But now – “after” –  I see people differently. I see them and I immediately see their loss as well. 
The very first non-family member at Vance’s visitation was a lady I worked with in my first real job after college. Years before that she, too, had been a young widow. By the time I knew her she was remarried. So while I knew, I hadn’t really thought of her as having lost someone. After all, it had been years, decades even. But the minute she walked through the door of the funeral home our eyes met and there was a bond I’d never felt before. We were suddenly sisters, part of the club no one wants to join. As she hugged me there in front of Vance’s casket, I suddenly saw her for the first time.
After her, there were many more people who came through the line to hug me and pay their respects. And as each one approached, my eyes saw them anew. I knew every woman who had lost her husband. I felt a different compassion for parents who’d buried their children. In a brand new way, I saw the hurt in the eyes of those who had grieved brothers and sisters and parents and best friends.

I saw them and I saw their hurt. I think it was then that I understood that grief doesn’t go away. That it’s something you carry with you always. 
Now I always see the hurt but in some of them, I also see the hope. I see that moving forward is possible and it can be done well. That honoring and remembering Vance will always be a priority for us but it will not always be all consuming. 
In my grief, I am honored that God is opening my eyes to see, really see, the pain others are feeling. That I can now offer sincere words that may bring just a tiny bit of comfort to a broken heart. That maybe I can give the hug or the smile or say the prayer that gets someone through a rough day. That through my own tears I can finally see others the way God wants me to see them.

There are benefits to grieving aloud. That sounds funny but it’s true.

I’ve been very public with my struggles and that’s actually been one of the most helpful things for me in this process. It’s not for everyone but for me it’s been a major part of the healing.

By putting myself out there I’ve had so many people reach out and bless us in so many unique ways. My local tribe has stepped up big. They’ve brought food, given money, paid bills, checked in and so much more. They have held my hand and sat beside me and cried with me and listened and taken my kids to fun places. I am hesitant sometimes to even mention the ways we have been loved on because I know how very blessed we are to have such amazing support. I am painfully aware that not everyone does and the last thing I would ever want to do would be to make it into some kind of sick competition about who got the most when their loved one died. That’s not not my point. My point is that by putting myself out there and letting people know what we need, many people have stepped in and taken such good care of us.

Again, I know this is not for everyone. Some desperately need to grieve in private. They should be allowed to do so and their privacy needs to be respected. This is not a one size fits all thing we’re talking about here. I can only speak for myself and my journey here. For me, being raw and real and pushing the “publish” button is helping.

Through my VBS Facebook group, I’ve connected with people from around the world. Strangers from Colorado, Ohio, Florida and Pennsylvania sent gifts through my church. Literally thousands of believers have prayed for our family. The picture below is the contents of a blessing box I received from a fellow young widow who ministers to others by sending out the boxes. I also received other books and a prayer blanket along with scripture cards and very encouraging, hand written notes. All from strangers.

It is so encouraging because THIS is the church. THIS is the body of Christ coming together and holding each other up in the hardest of times. Not because we know each other but because we know our Creator. In a world where Christians are so often known for what they are against, I’m living proof that we should also be known for what we are for. We are for love. We are for each other. We are for petitioning the God of Heaven’s Armies to fight for our brothers and sisters when they can’t fight for themselves.

These beautiful people who have said my name before the Lord of the Universe, they are warriors and they are fighting for us.  I am fully convinced that the prayers of the saints are all that has held me up on many a hard day. In their churches, in their cars, in the middle of the night, my friends and even strangers, continue to lift our family to God and their words do not fall on deaf ears.

Thank you, my mighty warrior friends. Thank you for your kindness, your love, and your prayers. Every one is a weapon against despair, hopelessness and fear. Together we stand stronger against the enemy.  As Vance’s family motto reminds us, “Two are stronger than one and a three fold cord cannot easily be broken.” Keep praying for us. And when you need others to fight for you, don’t be afraid to ask. These warriors will have your back, just like they’ve got mine.

Vance was the best coach I ever saw.

I know that when people die sometimes we embellish a little (or a lot) and make them out to be more than they were. This is not one of those times.

Vance really was an amazing coach.

Over the years he must have coached more than 30 teams and hundreds of kids. He led baseball, softball, basketball, wrestling, flag football and soccer teams. He taught kids to kick, throw, catch, shoot, pass and take down.

But he did so much more than that. He taught kids to love the game. To be teammates. That they were worth so much more than their athletic ability. He taught kids confidence and empowered them to grow and to be better, not just at sports, but in life. When a kid messed up, some coaches would roll their eyes or even curse. Not Vance. No matter how bad the fumble, he’d clap his ridiculously loud clap and cheer them on. He’d tell them to let it go and to just do the next right thing.

The other day I was a told a story of a mom who’s kid played on a different team, one that played against Vance. At the end of the game Vance patted her son on the back and told him something she couldn’t hear. When she asked him what he said, her son replied, “He told me to keep my head up and to do the next right thing.” That was Vance. He didn’t care if a kid was on “his team” or another. He cared about kids and helping them be the best they could. He made an impression and a difference to kids who weren’t even on his teams.

It wasn’t just the kids he taught either. He showed a lot of parents, including me, how to be better. He was always positive. In over 25 years of coaching, I never once saw him tear a kid down. He never acted like a Little League loss was the end of the world but he made every kid feel like he mattered. Abby said the other day that she was pretty sure no one was ever disappointed to get him for a coach. His teams didn’t always end up with more points than the other team, although a lot of times they did, but they rarely lost.

After he died, a friend shared a video taken a few years ago when Vance had coached one of her boys. They’d just lost the championship game and he was giving out the second place medals. His words to the boys were, “I’m not sad. I’m not mad. I’M STOKED! You played baseball tonight!” And he meant it. And you know what, every one of those boys walked away with their heads held high knowing their coach was proud of them.

Every kid should have the chance to be coached like that.

People react to the grieving in weird ways.

Some are smothering, not knowing when to just back off. They usually have good intentions and I honestly haven’t encountered very many of them. I did get cornered the other day at one of the kids’ events and was stuck for what seemed to be forever hearing an acquaintance tell me how hard it must be for my husband to be dead. Believe it or not, lady, I actually already knew that. I. know. exactly. how. much. this. sucks.

Others just avoid the grieving. They turn the other way when they see us coming. I get it. I do. It’s so hard. I’ve had more than one person tell me, “I’m just not good with this stuff, so I haven’t said anything.” I’ve pretty much just gotten to where I tell them that none of us are GOOD with this stuff. We ALL think it’s awkward and hard to know what to do/say. I’ve said it before, there are ZERO words that will make this better. NOTHING you say to me will take away the hurt. I try to say it gently and with grace, not being mean or accusing.

That said, sometimes saying nothing makes the hurt worse. We don’t have to have a 30 minute conversation about it but not acknowledging my loss can really suck, especially if it’s the first time I’ve seen you since he died. I’d rather you just say something like, “I’m really sorry about Vance. That must be really hard,” than to pretend like he didn’t die. After that, let me take the lead. Sometimes I’ll want to talk about him, others, not so much. Just read the cues. If I act like I don’t want to keep that conversation going, just let it go. If I want to talk, listen. Don’t make it about you. Just listen. I’ll do my best to read your cues, too, and not make you totally regret speaking to me.

Other people are just awesome. I have a few very close friends who check in with me via text or messaging every couple days. They don’t push if I don’t respond but they let me know they’re there when I need them. They listen more than they speak and they have been my lifelines. On the hardest days, I just ask them to pray for us. I don’t have to explain a lot or go into details if I don’t want to, but I get to be a little less alone. There are many days when that has made all the difference.

Others reach out less often but as I come to their hearts and minds, they send me love in many ways. There is nothing quite as encouraging to me right now as a random text from a friend telling me I am thought of, loved and prayed for. It does my heart good. So much good.

So if I can encourage you, I’d say this. No one knows what to say, so don’t say much. Just acknowledge that’s it’s hard, sad, messy, or whatever. Don’t say that you understand, because you probably don’t, but just say that you know it’s not easy. Let your person know that you’re there for whatever and then do at least one tangible thing that shows them you mean it. It can be as simple as a text or a card checking in, bringing by ice cream for the kids, or picking up an extra gallon of milk. It can be as involved as working all day putting in new flowerbeds or hanging shutters or ceiling fans. It can be a lunch date or a morning coffee. It doesn’t really matter what it is. It just matters that you do it.

Trying hard to focus on the good we had, not all that he will miss. Vance was the best dad. He worked hard so I could stay home with the kids. I got so much more time with them because of that. And when he could, he joined us. He was a dad that was there. He showed up for fishing derbies, baseball games, dance recitals and church every Sunday. He was there and that mattered.

I thought that I could wear mascara yesterday.

Yesterday was the home opener for our high school football team. My nephew plays and I wanted to go support him. So all day I planned and prepared myself to be  around that many people. I figured I could do it. After all I have lots of friends there and my sister-in-law would be there too. So the kids and I got ready to go and decided to stop at Subway to grab sandwiches on the way there.

Everything was going well. The kids ordered  their sandwiches and I got mine. We were just waiting for the sandwich artist to finish them up when an old classmate of Vance’s walked  through the door. At first he just said hi and ordered a sandwich. But as we both stood there waiting, he leaned over and softly asked, “How are you doing?”

Immediately my eyes filled with tears. I gave my standard answer, “About as good as you could expect I guess.”

“I miss him, too. Especially this time of year. He was my center.” It took me about half a second to realize what he was saying. In high school they had played  football together. And all these 30 something years later he still remembered.

He then apologized for making me cry. I told him it was okay. That I was actually really glad because I got to hear that someone else misses Vance. That someone else remembers the good things about him. That he impacted someone’s life.  I told him that tears were okay because grief is the final act of loving someone.

I was glad I had run into one of Vance’s old friends but I did regret wearing the mascara that was suddenly running down my face.

For what it’s worth, I did make it tonight the game. I took a half a Xanax on the way in, but I did it. One of my aunts was just inside the gate and was the perfect person for me to first see. She let me talk and even cry a little and recover before heading all the way in.

I’d texted my sister-in-law from the parking lot, telling her I wasn’t sure I could make it in right away and asking her to keep an eye out for the kids. She met me before I got to the stands and saved me a seat. I made it through the rest of the game with no more tears.

I’m glad I went. I’m glad I’ve got friends and family who support me. Who understand that nine weeks in, it’s still rough. That I still cry. That I still miss Vance every single day. That I’m getting out and going forward but I’m never moving on. Friends who don’t care that I can’t wear mascara.