friends, you are so loved

I love words. But today they've been failing me. I feel like I have so much to say about what happened in Orlando, but I can't organize my thoughts.

But saying nothing says a lot, I think. So I can't say nothing.

To my friends in the LGBTQ+ community, you are so loved. I grieve with you. This is hate, and this is wrong. I'm so sorry you are feeling fear today. You are not alone. You are dear and precious and so very loved.

To my friends in the Muslim community, you are so loved. I know that one murderer claiming your faith doesn't represent your entire religion. As a Christian, I don't stand accused when someone of my faith commits a heinous crime, and I'm sorry you aren't treated with that same dignity.

To fellow Christians, you are so loved. Please join me in condemning this. We can't be moved to speak against hate only when it happens in a church in Charleston or a school in Newtown but stay silent when it's a gay nightclub in Orlando. If we say that Jesus loves everyone and so do we, then let's show it by not being selective with that love.

To all of us, hatred doesn't get the last say. I believe love can win. As we engage with the litany of hard topics this mass killing brings with it, let's do so with kindness. Even when we disagree, we can do so without being disagreeable. Politics matter but not more than people. When our passions run high, let's make sure our compassion for others is present too.

Lord, be near to the brokenhearted today.

fighting to see the good in Good Friday

I wrote this post a year ago, but I couldn't bring myself to publish it then. Through my warped lens of grief, I felt like blogging about the death of my dear friend would make it more real. Maybe, I hoped, if I just didn't share these words, she wouldn't be gone... 

But she still was. She still is. One year ago today, she took her life.

So today, after a hard and good conversation with her husband this morning, I'm sharing these words - just as I wrote them last year with all the raw emotion intact - because I don't think grief is meant to be silent. We exalt comfort and pretend it's right and good and even godly. But? God's word is full of lament and pain and even doubt, so I think I'm in good company to say this life hurts without sugar-coating or silver-lining my words. God is glorified in the pain and not just the platitudes.

So here goes, my post written on Good Friday 2015...

I grew up Lutheran. The rhythms of liturgical seasons still flow through me, but I haven't felt that same somber feeling at Good Friday most years since joining a Baptist church.

Until today.

In my youth, the notes of Ash Wednesday, Lent, and purple vestments joined with the singing of "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" to elicit a mix of grief, reverence, and expectation. Today the memorial service of one of my dearest friends is doing the same. 

Oh, how I miss her. 

Since her death almost a week and a half ago, I've found pockets of joy here and there but most have been bittersweet. Despite them all, Melinda is gone from this earth. I believe God's words are true in Revelation 21:4 when they promise of heaven where "He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain any more, for the former things have passed away." I believe my friend is there, eternally divorced from this life's torments and brokenness. While I am glad she is fully free, I feel bound by my grief.

Today I am better able to imagine the depths of agony that day long ago held. While I know Sunday is coming, I woke fighting to see any good in Good Friday. While I know I'll see Melinda on the other side of eternity, the day seems too far away and today feels too dim without her.

So I scanned Facebook, busying my mind with anything other than my friend's memorial service later today. And I found words from my friend Hugh that resonated deep in me, and maybe they will in you too:

“I know it breaks me with orthodoxy (surprise!) but I have always seen Good Friday as a victory for Jesus.

The most powerful Empire the world had ever known sets out to kill you in the most violent, most painful, most humiliating means it has at its disposal. It humiliates you, beats you, mocks you, spits on you, hangs you on a pole to watch you die in the afternoon sun in front of your mother.

They do all of that.

If after all of that, your last words are your forgiving them for what they have done? Then they didn’t win. You did. Or more accurately, Love did. (See what I did there?)

Empire has lots of tools at its disposal to strip you of your humanity, of your dignity, of your ability to love. But if you can love anyway in spite of their best efforts to break you, they don’t win. And they don’t know what to do about that.

‪#‎FightTheEmpire‬”

— Hugh Hollowell

I know the darkness doesn't win in the end. And I don't want the darkness to win in my heart, not even today, a day on which I'm tempted to let it overshadow all that is good and light and cheer. I know Melinda wouldn't want that for me or anyone else she loved either.

As I searched through old pictures for our oldest child's school project this past week, my breath stopped for a moment with one in particular. At my daughter's baptism, my friend sits just behind - feet in the water, sunglasses on, smile radiating - cheering with me in my girl's step of faith:

It seems fitting to share, as baptism represents dying in the water and being raised to new life again. Because we can hope in the latter, we deem the former to be worth it. Today I celebrate my friend and I grieve her absence here, in a fickle dance of pain and joy, grief and hope, loss and love.

________________________

Depression is a heinous illness, and sometimes - as was the case with my friend - it can become terminal.

As much as I want to say "what if..." the reality is that she was doing all the right things with medical care and support and vulnerability, but it wasn't enough. I wish an extra measure of friendship from me or love from anyone else could have changed the story, but we're not the authors of this. We did all we could, and so did she. Please don't talk in hushed tones about the choice she made. Please. In her darkness, she couldn't see choices anymore; if she had seen another way, I know my friend well enough to know she would have chosen it. Just as someone can succumb to breast cancer despite all the best treatments and deepest will to survive, my friend succumbed to another terrible disease, one called depression. 

If you are struggling, tell someone. Seek help. Find a therapist. Talk to a doctor about whether or not medication might be a good option for you. Risk trusting friends to be faithful to you, even when smiles are hard and burdens heavy. 

I've done all of those things in the past year - for myself and my family, but also in honor of Melinda - and I'm better for it. If you need encouragement in taking the next step toward healing, let me know. I'm here for you. 

(If you are in a similar place as my friend was and don't know what to do, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is one good option. You can also reach the Crisis Text Line by texting "START" to 741-741. You are precious, and your life is worth fighting for.)

what my youngest daughter taught me about grief

I opened the email and might have uttered a cuss word under my breath. It had already been quite a week. The news that our daughter's hippotherapy pony had unexpectedly passed away?

Not what I wanted in my inbox.

I seriously considered not telling her. I just didn't want to deal with that.

At least, not this week.

But honesty is one of my core values, so I couldn't stomach telling a lie when we arrived at her session that day and she asked where her favorite equine friend was.

An hour before therapy, I sat down next to her chair. I asked her to turn off her tablet. I looked into her deep brown eyes through her petite pink frames, and I took a deep breath.

"Today, you're riding, but you won't be riding Rambler."

She looked away and started to pout.

"I'm sorry, Zozo. Rambler is dead. You won't get to ride him anymore."

She grabbed her tablet and threw it at me. Then she grabbed the lone goldfish cracker left on her tray and flung it too. I tried to make eye contact again, and she grunted "NO!"

I told her she'd probably get to ride Peanut, the pony she rode the first time.

She said, "No," still not looking at me.

"No ride. No Rambler. No ride."

Then her lower lip pooched out, and the sobs began.

I held her. We cried together. Eventually, she calmed down.

We went out to the barn, not sure how she would handle it.

I second guessed my decision to tell her, wondering if a lie would have been so bad after all.

We got there. She saw Peanut. She told her therapist, "I ride Peanut. No ride Rambler. Rambler dead."

I might have cried a little. But that wasn't the moment that will be forever embedded in my soul.

After her session, I said, "See Zoe. It's sad that Rambler is dead, but it's okay because you got to ride Peanut. That was fun, right?"

As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I hate when people try to wrap hard things in pretty packages instead of being willing to dwell in the discomfort, but that's exactly what I was trying to do. I winced at my own hypocrisy.

"No," Zoe said again. "No. It sad Rambler dead. I like Peanut. But it not okay Rambler dead. It sad Rambler dead. Rambler my friend. Peanut my friend but Rambler my friend. And Rambler dead."

"I like Peanut. But I sad Rambler."

Not either/or. Both/and.

Amen, sweet girl.

RIP, Rambler.

#LoveforEli, forever

I was planning to write a post today about our friend Eli. I was going to ask you to pray for him. I was going to tell you all of his bone marrow transplant on April 17, of the rare immune condition that required it, and of the complications with his kidneys and lungs since then. I was going to tell you he turned four around the same time our Patu did.

In my planned post, I wasn't going to be telling you that he won't be turning 5 next year along with her.

In my planned post, I wasn't going to be telling you our prayers for healing weren't answered with a yes on earth but rather a yes in heaven.

In my planned post, I wasn't going to be sharing that Eli's fight and pain and complications ended shortly before midnight last night.

As we've grieved the loss of our referral of Zoe's brother and rejoiced for the sweet couple who will be bringing him home, I've coped by praying for others. That's how I process my own struggles, by asking God to help others in theirs. I'm not sure why, but it works for me. I think it's something about getting my mind off myself, focusing back on God, and loving others through prayer. That combination soothes my heart.

In the past week, I've mostly prayed for Eli and his parents and his big brother.

Eli's mom Lisa and I have met up for dinner and coffee a couple times in the past week or so, as she's been up here from Florida with Eli hospitalized at Duke. We met in our teens, and we've been friends for longer than I've known Lee. I believe she was the one who coined the nickname Shannon Anna Dingle Heimer Schmidt when I started dating the guy I told her might be "the one." (He was, of course.) We've kept up our friendship via email and then social media and even occasional visits. During one of Eli's first visits to Duke, he and Lisa and Lisa's mom joined our family for pizza and soda and chaos... you know, typical Friday night fare around here.

I was dreaming and hoping and longing for the day when his transplanted immune system was strong enough for him to sit with us at our table once again. But that pizza dinner isn't going to happen, not this side of heaven.

My heart aches for them. For us. For a world that isn't going to know the amazing 5 year old and 6 year old and 13 year old and 21 year old and 90 year old that Eli would have been if he had lived past 4.

Please pray for everyone who loved Eli, especially his dad, mom, and brother. They'll be heading back to Florida soon, without their fighter boy. I texted Lisa this C.S. Lewis quote earlier because it seemed fitting: "The death of a beloved is an amputation." Pray for them, for the loss and absence that will never go away, even as they give thanks that Eli is wholly healed and that they'll join him in heaven one day.

I usually end posts with some conclusion or hope or challenge. But today, I have nothing but eyes that are cried out and a heart that hurts from all the hurting... so I'll leave you with Lisa's words, sharing the news of Eli's passing. Let this be the challenge I offer and accept today:

“Eli finished his battle just before midnight last night. He went peacefully and felt no pain. We are relieved for him that he doesn’t have to be tortured anymore. We are so glad to know he’s whole again in heaven, doing all of the things that have always made his soul happy. We are absolutely broken that we don’t get to experience him healed here.

Thank you for praying and bELIving. One of Eli’s great gifts was that he pulled back the corners of people’s hearts to the possibility of Love. If Eli swept out any cobwebs or cracked open a part of you that you had shut a long time ago, please leave it open. For Eli.

‪#‎LoveforEli‬”

— Eli's Journey FB page