Trauma Ink

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My fascination with tattoos began with my dad. He had just one, which if you have tattoos, you know is rare. It was on his upper arm, and it was my mom’s name, with a flower at the end. He got it for her, but she hates tattoos so it was his last, and instead of fresh ink, he would bring home flowers instead.

I would stare at it when I was little and wonder if it hurt when he got it. Was it a pain he could remember? Did seeing it make him think of my mom, the place he got it done, the people he was with? What would my first tattoo be, and would the pain make me cry?

I was admiring my most recent tattoo yesterday. Curved lines that loop into the names of both my girls and attach to flowers (literally just connecting the dots now of how similar that is to what my dad had). Every time I look at it I think of Grace and Evelyn. How blessed I am to have had the privilege to raise Grace for 17 years and to continue to pour into Evelyn’s life with as much love and encouragement as I possibly can.

But it made me think about how much trauma is like a tattoo.

Trauma tattoos your soul. Marking you up with unwanted designs and uneven lines, against your will.

I wish I could say that trauma and I didn’t know each other so well, but it has been etching pictures on my soul since our first intro when I was young. Crooked lines that include a doctor taking advantage of a trusting child, holding my dad’s hand as he struggled through his last shallow breaths and hearing Jim’s voice on the phone telling me my baby was gone. I can instantly recall the smells, the sounds and the faces that were around me in every one of these scenarios and unfortunately, a few others.

And it hurts. When trauma marks you, it hurts and it lasts, forever.

I started to think though, maybe that’s why I like tattoos as much as I do. I get to decide what pictures I want to see. I get to make the choice to look at something beautiful. Something that reminds me of life, redemption, healing, and endurance. A choice I was never given when my soul received its tattoos.

I know there are still lots of you that don’t like tattoos and have all sorts of reasons why a person shouldn’t get them. Believe me, I have heard them all, but when I pick out something that I want permanently on my body, it is partly because I want to know that the trauma ink on my life isn’t what defines me. I don’t have to be subject to the frustration that comes with unwanted scars.

I can choose to look at my first tattoo, the infinity sign with It Is Well woven in, the one that reminds me of Grace’s big, never-ending love and Evelyn’s ability to see beyond the pain to the fact that God is still good.

I can choose to look at the cross on my ankle that I got with my niece Emma. The first tattoo that Grace was planning on getting when she graduated. The sunshine that reminds me of warmth and best friends, the strawberries that remind me of my sweet Oma, the verse John 16:33, that reminds me that Jesus has overcome all this craziness already, so I can live without fear, and my latest one, that I look at all the time, with the beautiful names of my girls. It reminds me just how blessed I am to have my sweet daughters.

Those are some of the marks I choose to have.

Don’t let the trauma tattoos keep you from living. Let the pain subside and choose to do something today that reminds you of beauty.

(Disclaimer…don’t get a tattoo if you aren’t 18, I don’t want to be blamed for anything)!

Trauma Ink

Chapters

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I love to read. I enjoy informational books, biographies, fiction, non-fiction and classics.. At home we have multiple book shelves filled with some of my favorites and on the top shelf are the special ones. The books that I have received from important people in my life, with handwritten words in them. Old books passed down from generation to generation and newer ones with special notes in them.

I love words. I love what deep meaning they can carry. I love that they can be vessels to heal the aching heart or hurting mind.

Words put together create chapters. That is what I’m thinking about today.

Chapters.

When we were young, my mom could often be heard telling us, “life is like a series of chapters. Sometimes a chapter ends, just like a relationship. It’s not always easy, but it’s the way life works.”

I was thinking about chapters ending because I am leaving the job I have had for 14 years. I will leave behind tremendous people to whom I love, but I know it is time to end this chapter.

I wasn’t ready to end the chapter titled “Grace.”

I can already hear some of you saying that her chapter wasn’t ended just because her life was taken, but as much as I understand the heart behind a statement like that, it was an end to that chapter. Her name appears and will continue to appear in every chapter of my life until the story of my life on earth is over, but she will never have her own chapter again. It is a part of accepting my current circumstances, even if I don’t like them.

A couple weeks from now will mark the seven year anniversary of this abrupt ending and it got me thinking about the words I am now extremely familiar with. I thought I would share them and give you my own definitions.

Grief – A force that exists outside of words and is as unique to a person as a fingerprint. A time in a person’s life when emotions can tell them the truth as well as lie, simultaneously. A force that will overtake the daily normalcies and make them seem unattainable. A feeling that things will never be the same and the faster that is accepted, the less motion sick you will be on the train…of grief…that you will never get off of. And a scar, worn by so many, that will never disappear, but will certainly hurt less, over time.

Thrive – The willingness to accept what your life is, and then a determination to grow and blossom in the midst of it. To push through the murkiness, and then live, jump, run, laugh and even flourish.

Faith – Knowing someplace deep, even beyond thoughts and feelings, that you are loved and created for a purpose, by God. That Jesus is the best friend a person could ever ask for and that the Holy Spirit is closer than a deep sigh.

Family – The ones who share your DNA and the ones that don’t. The people whose names are woven into your fabric because God has generously allowed you to be stitched together, to make you strong.

Grace – To the believer: unmerited favor. To me: the undeserving gift of a first-born little girl who changed my life and countless others. Who left a tremendous stamp of beautiful life on everyone she came into contact with. The precious young woman who is sitting (or more accurately, skipping around) with the King of kings, waiting to give her mama some snuggles one day.

Each of these words have their own chapter in my life, actually some of them are more like volumes. However, I have learned to close chapters and start new ones without fear.

The Author of my life has never failed me, and He won’t start now.

Chapters

Entries

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A couple months ago, I was approached and offered a great deal of help getting these blog posts put into a book. My aunt said she was willing to take on the task of getting the right people involved to copyright, organize, edit and print these past 55 entries and make them into a book that perhaps can help someone else. The helping someone else is the part that keeps this idea alive in my mind, it’s the part that makes me feel less awful about the possibility of somehow profiting off of so much pain.

Months before the accident, Grace had started writing a book. She had chapters upon chapters typed up on her laptop. (Of course, those of you that knew her well, would not be surprised to know that it was to be an epic romance. She loved the idea of the perfect “Happily Ever After,” believing beyond belief, that one day, her perfect soul mate would arrive and sweep her off her feet). I’m not entirely sure what happened, and in the chaos that followed in the days and months after the accident, it wasn’t even dealt with, but when we finally went to log into her laptop, we realized that something happened and everything had been erased. We brought it to some of the best computer people we knew, hoping to retrieve what she had written, but it was gone.

She was gone. Her writings were gone. Another chapter, another entry, in the precious book of her life, gone.

Whenever I have been told that I should put these writings into a book, there’s been a part of me that figures if she couldn’t than I shouldn’t. I can’t really tell if that’s selfish or protective, but it’s how I often feel.

All leading up to the meeting with my aunt, I had a sick stomach. I asked a few people what they thought, and no one seemed to yell in my face and say that I was being ridiculous for risking this all being put into a book, so I met with her and agreed to move forward. I don’t know when or how or what it will all look like, but you all will be the first to know when it happens 🙂

Grace will be celebrating her 24th birthday this Sunday, and I can’t even imagine what celebrations look like in Heaven! I am sure she is experiencing a different, but much more perfect version of the “Happily Ever After” that she always dreamed of. We won’t be celebrating. We will probably carry on with our normal Sunday routine, trying to ignore the fact that we don’t get to celebrate with her, yet again, this year.

But if she can see me, and theology here gets a little dicey so don’t debate your views with me, I hope she would tell me to go ahead with the book. I hope she would tell me to be strong and move forward and help people, even if it has hurt more than anything could ever hurt a mother’s heart.

And because I can’t give her a birthday present here, and her romance will never be published, I will continue to write, with her as my lead character, and one day a book will be in print that she will have inspired.

Entries

Seeds

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I planted my seeds this weekend. An exorbitant amount of tomatoes. I can recall at least 6 different types. Rows and rows of tiny seeds, planted in 1 inch holes, in tiny pockets of soil. I will water them (although not as much as I should, because I tend to forget) and I will give them sunshine (although not as much as they need, because we live in Michigan) and I will talk to them (yes, I am that person) and I will wait. Buried under the care of soil, water, sunshine and encouragement, the seed will grow or it won’t.

The first sign of green that pushes its way through the soil will give me great joy! And I will actually be sad about the many that stay buried, not able to receive the nourishment I give them. I have dug up the soil at times, just to see if I can figure out what went wrong. After all, they each get the same treatment…but some just never push through the dark challenge of growth. They die under the weight of progress.

Do you see the lessons of grief in there? I do. I know, I see the lessons of grief in so many things, but that’s not bad. Grief is the great teacher that none of us want, but when we learn to appreciate its lessons, it teaches us more than almost anything else could.

Grief was initially planted when I was just little, and that first layer of soil covered me. However, I didn’t know any better than to push through, growth was still a strong desire, but then another couple hardships later, and a few more layers of soil added, and I became more hesitant of growth. After all, there is safety in the dark.

And then my dad…and then Grace…

The layers piled on so heavy, there were days I didn’t even want to grow. And to be honest, I didn’t, I haven’t, in some areas. I have stayed in the dark, in the safety of the grief surrounding me. I can look at pictures of Grace and talk about her and hear her name, with very little issue. I can’t watch a video though. I can’t hear her voice. The way she moved and the way she squealed at everything, I can’t do that. I need to keep that seed of grief buried for longer, I guess. In other areas though, I have pushed through the process of growth. I have been fed the water of wisdom by those who have gone through this all before. I have felt the heat of the sun on my face, reminding me that I am alive and can live a full life still.

This is my reminder, to all those grieving, be kind to yourself. The seeds of grief have been scattered over you. You will emerge victorious (albeit completely exhausted) in some areas, and then in others, you might need to stay hidden for a while longer. The goal is to push for growth, though, somewhere, somehow. Believe me, once the sun shines on your face, you will be glad you struggled through.

Seeds

All It Takes Is a Small Crack

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This past year, 2021, it came a little later. Later than in 2020, and I suspect it will happen even later this year, but don’t hold me to that. 

We took a winter walk one year. The four of us, down our hill, stomping around on what we thought was thick, solid ice. It had been so cold for so long, it had to be frozen solid. Even though the sun was coming back out more and the bitterness of the cold air was subsiding, surely the ice was still solid. And yet, there I was, watching as Grace’s leg broke through the ice and she started to sink. Just a small sliver in the ice, that’s all it took. It’s impossible to see what’s just below the surface, isn’t it?

My foundation seems much more solid these days. I don’t wake up every morning in tears. I don’t wish that I didn’t wake up. I don’t have nightmares that mask themselves as beautiful dreams of her lovely face, but as I reach to hold her, I awaken to my dark room, my dark reality. I don’t fear that my grief will be more than I can handle. I don’t force empty smiles.

I am ok. I am surviving. And dare I say it, I am thriving. But even in the midst of that, small slivers creep in, just under the surface, making my foundation less than solid and unbeknownst to me, it gives way. Like I said though, this year was at the end of November, just before Thanksgiving, later than the beginning of November. Improvement.

It’s not like I ever forget. I know my life. I know my thoughts. I know who I am. A mother of three beautiful children…one that still lives, the other two who have sat with Jesus and looked upon His face. I know that I live with trauma that springs to the surface at various times, in various ways. I know that trauma can make a person say and react to things differently than everyone else. It’s who I am and I am prepared to be that person for the rest of my life.

When it gives way though and I find myself sinking into the cold, frigid waters of grief, I have learned to lean into it. I know that it will usually last (at least the winter fall outs) into February sometime, and as quickly as the snow melts on a sunny day, life will emerge. What does it mean to lean in? I don’t fight back my tears. I listen to songs that minister to my hurt. I pray even more for those around me that are suffering. I seek to help someone who is struggling.

One week from now, we will be moving into yet another year living without our Gracie girl. I’m sitting here trying to count the days, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? The numbers don’t matter anymore, the grief is here and it won’t leave, it will forever be with us. However, her smile, her love and her joy is here too, forever with us.  

All It Takes Is a Small Crack

Skinned Knees

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Hydrogen Peroxide. That brown bottle that emerged from under the sink every single time my knees were bleeding. Every time I stepped on a nail or fell from a tree. Every time I was running through the forest at full speed, only to run into a thorn bush and the many times I waded through the creek barefoot, only to see a trail of blood behind me, matching my footsteps. I would run home quick, sit on the bathroom floor and wait for my mom to fix it so I could head back outside and finish whatever game or contest was going on.

Do you all remember what would happen when the Hydrogen Peroxide was poured over the open wound? The bubbles. Didn’t it somehow make it better? I didn’t need a band-aid (although I usually got one anyway), all I needed to see was the bubbles and hear my mom say “the bubbles are there cause they are getting rid of the germs.”

Evelyn was just cleaning a cut on her boyfriend’s arm the other day and I could hear her say those very same words from the other room. I walked in to see the Hydrogen Peroxide on the table and the bubbles doing their job. It was at that moment that I felt I needed to tell her that although I was taught that and I taught her that same thing, I wasn’t entirely sure about the science behind it. We googled it, and just so you all know, there is actually science behind the bubbles and the germs. And now you know!

August 7th will be Grace’s 22nd birthday, her 5th celebration with Jesus and our 5th year trying to go about our day, as normal as possible.

Life without Grace has been hard. It has been sad and unbearable at times. We live with a steady sense of loss and sadness that lurks just under the surface, but on days like her birthday, it’s more evident, like skinned knees or torn elbows. Those are the days when peroxide is needed and the healing bubbles pour over in stories I hear about her that I didn’t know or a picture someone posts that I hadn’t seen. When I hear about the impact that she had on someone’s life and how she will never be forgotten. Or when I remember how blessed I am. With a husband that loves me and a daughter that I consider one of my very best friends.

And how blessed I am to have Grace. She doesn’t snuggle up with me anymore or hold my hand when we walk. She doesn’t stand nose to nose with me to tell me funny stories or roll her eyes when I say something that she finds ridiculous, but she reminds me to love with everything I have, every day. She also reminds me that life is short and nothing should be taken for granted.

We live just one life here, and whether I spend the next 40 years with my feet on this soil or I only have a little time left, I will make sure that my time here honors God and shows the people around me what love looks like.

Skinned knees and peroxide bubbles, not my favorite way to celebrate this coming birthday, but they remind me of the healing that has taken place these past 5 years and the eternal healing that will eventually be mine. What a day that will be…when my Jesus and my Gracie…I will see.

Skinned Knees

Sleep

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I can’t actually remember a time when sleep was easy for me. I’ve always been envious of the people that can lay their heads down, and then just fall asleep. Sleepovers were always an epic fail. I would get there, have lots of fun, and then when it was time to go to sleep, I just couldn’t. Anxiety would churn, like the thoughts that raced in my mind, and then my stomach would start to hurt, and probably 8 times out of 10, I would end up riding my bike back home (sometimes super late, but considering the only sleepovers I ever had were at my best friend’s house who lived 2 blocks over, it didn’t really matter).

Easily falling asleep, it’s one of those everyday superpowers that I envy. Everyday superpowers…you know what I mean, right? The superpower of being able to cook just about anything and making it taste good. Waking up super early to read your devotionals and get a grasp on the day, and not hating everyone the rest of the day because of it. Or growing indoor plants (I throw that in because it is indeed, a superpower. Mine all die, like immediately, it’s like they know they are living in my house, so they just bail quick to avoid a slow death).

All that being said, sleep has been my one great escape. When things are extremely stressful and tense, sleep offers me the chance to just forget. But I can gauge how stressed I am by one thing. When I wake in the middle of the night (because yeah, not only can I not fall asleep, I rarely stay asleep all night), my level of stress can be marked by how quickly it takes my sleepy mind to remember what I have subconsciously stressed about all day long.

Here’s the thing, and why I say subconsciously, because I don’t believe myself to be a huge worrier. I worry, for sure, like everyone else, right? But I am not biting my fingernails all day long, thinking about the worst possible scenario. During the day, I have an extreme ability to control (psychologists would possibly use the word suppress) my runaway thoughts and emotions. And then it’s time to go to bed, and what I was avoiding all day, comes flooding in.

When I was early in grief, either time really, after my dad and after Grace, I would fall asleep and wake up shaking uncontrollably. Not from a bad dream, but I think now, it was from the sheer volume of physical strength it took me to get through the days.

The other day, I woke up, as I usually do, somewhere around 2AM and it took me nearly a few minutes to remember quarantine, Covid and the lack of physical closeness that I thrive on, with my mom, sisters, nieces, nephew and friends. I realized that I was turning a corner. I was getting a little better at handing my fears and anxieties over to the Lord.

I write to you because it has taken me almost 5 weeks to be able to say that I’m doing better at laying down my burdens.

If you are still a ball of stress, unsure of where the germs are hiding, in the stores, outside, in your house, on your groceries, don’t beat yourself up. If you can’t seem to see beyond the numbers, the news and the never-ending negativity, remind yourself that you are normal.

There is a widely accepted idea that the Bible talks about fear 365 times, once for each day of the year, but as nice as that sounds, it’s not accurate. The Bible does talk about fear often, but depending on the version, it can be as little as 100 times or as much as 400, but the numbers don’t matter, what the Word of God has said to us does. Remember even if Jesus said it once, it’s still just as important as if He says it 400 times. “Fear not, you are more important than the sparrows,” (Matt 10:31), “cast all your cares on Him, because He cares for you,” (1 Peter 5:7), and my personal favorite, “in this world you will have trouble, but take heart, I have overcome the world,” (John 16:33).

If sleep is far from you, if fear and anxiety are laying down with you at night, sometimes the best advice is that you are not alone. There are many of us, believers that love and trust our Savior, that struggle with the same issues. Keep casting your cares, whether it’s when the sun is up or the moon is shining, and God will be faithful, and before you know it, it will get better. My dad used to always say to us, this too shall pass, and it will.

Praying for you friends, please let me know if you need to talk about anything, and just know, I will check my phone sometime around 2AM, almost every night 🙂

Sleep

Stay Strong

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Tell me what’s coming next, and I can prepare myself.

Once, about 12 years ago, Jim decided to surprise me for my birthday. He had taken the day off and had planned a few fun things for us to do. The problem was, I had already made plans with my mom and sister, and I wasn’t prepared for his impromptu celebration. Maybe that would’ve delighted some of you, but me, I hate being surprised.

A couple years ago, he tried again. He planned a surprise party for my 40th birthday, and I had no idea it was coming. As I began to realize that my best friend was leading me into a trap, I turned around, and headed back down the hall to leave. Of course I turned back around, and I was totally blessed by all the amazing friends and family that came out to celebrate me, but my initial reaction was to hide.

Is anyone else out there confused? Surprised by the world we are currently living in?

If someone had told me in January to start setting aside some extra supplies, because starting March 16, schools would be closed, restaurants would soon follow, and the supermarkets shelves would be bare, I could’ve been more prepared. This one caught me by surprise. I’m not living in fear over here, just a little frustrated and confused. It does make me want to hide a little.

Does anyone remember the story of Elijah? Most of his story is in the Old Testament book of I Kings chapters 17-19. If you haven’t read it, please do, if you haven’t read it in a long time, brush up on it (we all have lots more time to read ;)!

Elijah was a prophet and during his time here, God performed many miracles through him, but what I’ve always related to Elijah on is his raw emotion. He had just come off of calling fire from heaven in front of the ones who dared mock God and within a short period of time, his life was being threatened by an evil woman named Jezebel. What did Elijah, the mighty prophet of God do? He ran. First, he sat under a tree and begged God to take his life and then when God provided him food out of literally nowhere, he ate it, and took off for a cave to hide in. It’s really amazing how God gets his attention, finally. It’s not in the mighty wind that passes by or the earthquake that shakes the ground. God speaks to Elijah in a whisper.

What I understand and appreciate about Elijah, though, is how sometimes when we are faced with difficulty or uncertainty, our initial reaction, even as believers, is to freak out! We want to hide or run and we often allow fear to creep in. God understands that it’s human for that to be our initial reaction…but what follows should be our eternal reaction.

I stopped reading any reports on anything virus related last week, and severely limited my social media time, simply because I couldn’t handle all the confusion. That’s not to say I am not aware of what is going on, having a husband in health care and many close family and friends working the front lines, it is impossible to not be, but I know that God isn’t speaking to me in the chaos or confusion, He speaks to me in a whisper. A whisper of praise and worship music. A whisper of His Word that can bring peace and comfort. A whisper of His voice, reminding me that He goes before me, He knows what is happening and what will happen. He is never surprised.

So in this time of change and uncertainty, I would encourage you, my dear friends, to press in and press on. God met with Elijah while he was hiding in a cave, He will meet with us while we are quarantined in our houses. Remember God is not the author of confusion, but He can make crooked paths straight.

Also, if you need someone to pray for you or talk with you, I am here. I can offer you what I have, and that is hope in Jesus. He has been my Light in countless dark caves, and I am always ready to carry His light to anyone else that needs it.

Stay Strong

Scars and the Stories They Tell

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Grace loved to look at my scars and hear the stories of how I got them. “Tell me about this scar,” she would say as she traced her fingers over the two tiny circular indents on my forehead, wanting to hear about the epic case of chickenpox that left those battle wounds. “How about this one,” as she pressed on the hollowed out spot on my leg left from the basement game of hide and seek that ended me up in the ER. But generally, and arguably the most odd, was the amount of times she would say “and these,” as she traced the marks left behind after she caused her mama’s stomach to stretch so big, the skin just couldn’t hold up.

The most bizarre part of her fascination was how similar it was to my own. I would snuggle up next to my dad and run my fingers over the hand that was getting more and more disfigured due to a strange disease that caused his tendons to shrink. Every time he would walk around the house with no shirt on, I would look for the spot on his back where there was a scar left behind from a high school fight and I would listen to the story of how he was stabbed. And if you knew my dad for long enough, he would tell you the story of the playground incident that left the back of his head dented by the little girl who threw a brick at the German little boy who was teased for not speaking any English.

I remember loving to hear the stories, the stories that told about the scars.

The scars we hide tell stories too, don’t they? I have often wondered…what if our flesh showed emotional scars as a visible reminder of our pain and anguish, depression and fears, would we be more prone to tell their story, instead of hiding it? 

I know that scar stories, about loss and pain, or joy and peace, are worth talking about. It brings to light feelings and thoughts that allow other people to not feel so alone.

Shared scar stories can help me look into the eyes of a grieving mother and tell her that it is absolutely normal to wish that the pain would just end. To go to sleep, praying that somehow in the middle of the night, God would take you home. It will give me the strength to stand next to a recently widowed women, being forced to embrace a future that looks nothing like what was planned, and gently tell her that she is not wrong to feel sadness mixed somehow with relief. Or to sit quietly with a friend, who finds herself marked with the scar of divorce or infidelity, leaving behind questions, doubts and lies from the enemy, who seeks to destroy any chance of recovery she might have.

Scars tell us what it looks like to be hurt, but they also tell us what it looks like to survive.

In the Bible, there is a man by the name of Thomas, and I’m sure some of you are already saying his nickname in your head, but imagine you were there, and you saw Jesus die, you knew He was buried and you were grieving His death, wouldn’t you ask the same question? I won’t believe it until I see the scars. It was beyond comprehension that Jesus would be alive, and if He was alive, I would want to see the proof that He died; I would want to see the scars and hear the story.

This Saturday will mark four years since the accident that left us without our firstborn, Grace. I’ve often said, it’s not an anniversary, because anniversary’s should be celebrated. It’s just a day. On the calendar it could be marked “scar day” because it would leave behind the largest one to date. It doesn’t remind me of what happened, because if you carry around a scar, one too deep to ever cover up, you know that it takes nothing to remind you, not a day, or a smell or a word. It’s always there. You can feel it, see it and trace your fingers over it, every minute of every day. It becomes a part of you.

Sunday, January 26th will be my dad’s birthday. I remember sitting in the waiting room at the hospital on January 25th 2016, looking around the room at the faces that I loved, all overcome with disbelief and suffering, and a lucid thought made its way through my emotional wreckage. “Dad, what a birthday gift you’ve gotten this year, your precious baby Grace is home with you.”

But I can almost picture the moment she saw him and what she said…“Papa, lead me to the man with the scars on His hands, I want to hear His story.”

 

Scars and the Stories They Tell

Stuck

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Climbing trees was proof you weren’t scared of anything, at least that’s what the neighborhood boys used to say. And the higher you climbed, the less scared you were. So, of course, needing to prove to myself that I was unafraid, I climbed higher.

Our neighborhood was busy with kids. My sister Amy is six years older than I am and Lisa is five years older, so I would often play the games they played, with the older kids they played with. One of those games was hide and seek, and to make it more interesting, we played it in the trees. The designated “seeker” would stay on the ground and count, while the “hiders” would climb up as high as they could go and try to disappear behind limbs or leaves.

I’m not much for competition, unless it’s with myself. I have never felt a need to beat or prove anything to anyone. If you asked my immediate family, the first words that I most likely strung together in a sentence were “I don’t give a care.” And I never really have. It never worked for me when a teacher would say “don’t you want to do as well as your sister Amy did in school?” Nope, don’t care. Or “don’t you want to be as kind and loving as Lisa is?” Nope, not really. Comparison doesn’t motivate me, but working to be a better me, push my limits and prove to myself that I can do anything, that I will compete with.

As soon as I heard “on your mark, get set, go” I ran to the skinny trees at the edge of our yard and started to climb. I never remember looking around to see where everyone else was at, I just knew I had to climb until the final number was heard. The “seeker” shouted “50” and I managed to quickly hide myself in the Y of the tree, where one branch shoots off and starts in a different direction. He searched for us and I hid well. When the game was over, I felt so proud, they never saw me. I could head down, knowing that I had no fear. I went to pull away from my secret spot only to find that my knee, so well positioned, was now securely and firmly stuck. I wiggled and I pulled and I tried to breathe deeply to keep myself calm, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t get loose. I became frantic. I started to yell for help. I was stuck.

Stuck – to be fixed in a particular position or unable to move or be moved.

Have you ever felt that way? Like you just can’t move from where you are?

Grief will stick you stuck like nothing else will.

You can’t see your life without the person you have lost. You can’t imagine what waking up tomorrow will be like. What next month’s holiday will bring. How you can ever be happy again. You can’t give away their clothes or throw away the old papers. You don’t know what joy feels like because it’s been so long since you have felt it. Memories of the phone call, conversation or hospital visit replay over and over in your head and it takes work, actual hard work, to push through those thoughts to move towards something better, because hope tells you there has to be something better.

Philippians 3:14 says “I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.” If you back up a couple scriptures you will read that Paul says he strives to forget what is behind him, but I don’t think his forget is what our forget is. Paul knew who he was, he mentions that he thought he was the worst of sinners. He knew what was in his past. The difference between his forget and our forget is the intent. We think forgetting means not remembering the person anymore, the memories, the details of who they were and how much they made us who we are, but that isn’t what Paul meant by forgetting. He knew that in order to move ahead, he couldn’t dwell on what was, he needed to strive for what could be, he had to get unstuck. 

It was my dad, he rescued me. He heard my screams for help from his shop and came to my rescue. He climbed all the way up there (which now looking back was probably not nearly as high as I thought it was), talked me down from my anxious state, and worked my knee out of its stuckness. I climbed back down, with him right behind me, keeping me safe until we reached the ground.

Sometimes you will receive that same sort of rescue. Someone will come along and help you get through your inability to move forward. Sometimes it will be your heavenly Father, coming to your rescue, talking you down from your emotional tree climb, and working you out of your stuck spot, but to be honest, more often than that, it will be you. You will have to muster up the courage to just forge ahead. There is so much waiting for you, be brave and press on, the prize of the future is much more rewarding then the memories of the past.

Stuck