The Leaf

Autumn leaves have come to have a lot more meaning to me than they used to.

Three years ago today, it was a normal morning.  There was nothing peculiar or different about it.  I wish I could remember what you wore that day, or what I wore.  I wish I could remember what we ate for supper that night.  I had no clue it would be the last meal that we shared.

It amazes me that three years have passed.  Sometimes it feels like three minutes, especially when a trigger hits out of nowhere and sucker-punches my heart.  Each morning after that night, I remember waking up thinking I just had a nightmare.  That’s when the sick feeling quickly turned to numbness.  For months I just did what I knew I was supposed to do.  When I look back now, I was like a zombie or a robot – I was very ‘mechanical’.  The night of your death shook my world apart.  My tree of life started losing its leaves…

The Britannica Encyclopedia says, “autumn leaves are not simply blown off trees but are separated in a highly controlled process. The vessels that carry water to the leaf and sugars to the rest of the plant are closed off, and a layer of cells starts to grow between the leaf stalk and the twig holding it. These cells serve to slowly cut the leaf from the plant without leaving an open wound. As the leaves fall, the plant enters dormancy, saving its energy for the great bud burst of spring.”

I entered a period of dormancy.

Scripture says, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die…” 

Three years later, I find myself as Executive Director of The Caring Place, and on this particular day, something is being born.  It has been the dream of one of the counsellor’s to start a support group for domestic violence/sexual assault.  As I write this, women are opening their hearts that have been dormant…  I know I would not be here if you were still alive. We would be happily spending time together in retirement.  God knew that.  Autumn leaves are not simply blown off trees but are separated in a highly controlled process.  Does it hurt any less?  When I close my eyes, I can see your face, I can feel your body against mine…  Yes, it still hurts.  But knowing that you were not just some leaf randomly blown off the tree brings me great comfort.  There is a plan.  My numbness is leaving and I am being reawakened. 

I love you Lawrence Materi.  That will never change.  I wouldn’t be who I am without you.  I wouldn’t be where I’m at without you.  I’ve been told that you’re up there clapping your hands and urging me on.  Joy and pain collide… Spring is coming.

Come on baby, light my fire

I just finished moving through a major wave of grief.

After returning from Africa, it felt as though someone had ripped off the bandage I had tried to wrap around my heart, exposing a very real, very raw gaping wound.  It felt as though I had been having a bad dream, only to wake up to a nightmare…  I realize that I was probably still in a state of shock the first few months and that I had somewhat numbed myself. 

It makes sense to me that this pain is like none other.  God says that when we marry, we become one.  Therefore, half of me is now missing. 

A depression set in.  A depression like I’ve never experienced before.  A depression that was so bad that one day while getting in my car to drive to work, a thought came to mind.  I could easily just close the door on the garage and get back in my car…  It was a fleeting thought, but I have to admit that it was there.  No more pain.  My faith was smaller than a mustard seed.  I couldn't see it.  I couldn't feel it.  Was it even there?

It’s easy to say that you have faith in God when life is going well.  The lyrics to a particular song say, “You don’t really know what you need till you’ve got nothing, You don’t really know what you believe till you’ve been broken.  You don’t really know what you treasure now, till it all comes crashing down…”

God has healed many of my life’s heart wounds.  Do I believe He will be with me through this one? 

I talked about it with a friend.  She reminded me of something I had said to her six years ago when her daughter died in a car accident.  “I told you that I felt as though I was in this river of grief and I was desperately trying to get out, but it kept pulling me back in,” she said.  “You told me that you envisioned a cross floating on the water and to stop trying to get out of the river.  You told me to climb onto the cross and float….”  Little did I know the words would return.  They did not return void.

I have another friend who is a doula.  (Don’t worry; I had no idea what it was either.)  A doula is someone who coaches a woman giving birth.  She said something to me once that struck a truth chord within me.  She tells clients to not fight the contraction, but to breathe through it.  I have used it as an analogy ever since when working with people who have emotional pain – stop fighting it – breathe and move through it; otherwise it will hurt even more. 

She messaged me the other day, knowing that I was moving through a major “contraction” in grief.  I shared with her that this particular wave of grief was a heavy one, but I withstood it.  I don’t know when the next one is coming.  It might only be long enough for me to catch my breath, but God will use the strength gained from this one to prepare me for the next one.  She replied with another truth chord.  “Does this ever feel familiar.  Not only do I tell my clients to stop fighting the pain and to breathe through it, but also to just take one contraction at a time and not to worry about how strong or when the next one will come.”

I recently disclosed all of this with a woman who is working through emotional pain who seldom feels any hope.  Then I revealed something that happened the previous morning.  I had built a fire in the fireplace but did not plan to light it until that afternoon.  Within a few minutes, I walked back into the room.  The fire had ignited.  There were embers hiding under the ashes from the night before that I hadn’t seen.    I couldn’t see the embers.  I couldn’t feel any heat from them.  But they were there.  Oh, did God ever speak to my heart wound…wanting to give me hope that I can never get from this world.  Even if my faith feels smaller than a mustard seed, I have to lay the wood so that the Holy Spirit can ignite the fire…  And one day, it will burn even brighter than it did before.

Other lyrics from that song say, “If I’ve got nothing but You, I still have everything I need, You’re the one thing I can’t lose, When I’ve run to the end of me, Everything I thought I lost, I found it all in You my God, You’re the one thing, one thing, One thing I need…

Seven Mountain Lessons

My husband passed away just over six weeks ago.  The pain is there, an unwelcome, constant, quiet companion that I’m getting used to; a mountain that needs to be climbed.

A few years ago, I was in a Bible study with some other women.  I had to stop attending when I became too busy.   The opportunity has presented itself once again and I’m grateful to take part.  I clearly need to be immersed in Him.

Last week, we were studying Psalm 89, part of which says:  The north and the south, you have created them; Tabor and Hermon joyously praise your name.  These are two famous mountains in Israel.  The facilitator of the study shared that Tabor is 1,886 feet high, while Hermon is 9,232 feet.  My mind immediately recalled the memory of a “Tabor” that I had climbed.

My husband and I once stayed in a cabin beside a mountain.  I decided to climb it.  It was challenging me.  I had no idea the things that God would reveal . . .

The owner of the cabin said he was busy at the moment, but would give me directions on how to reach the top.  I didn’t wait.  I could clearly see the path that should be taken just by looking at it from a distance.  Away I went, eager to reach the summit.  My husband decided to go golfing at the course beside the mountain.  I told him I would call him on my cell phone whenever I stopped to take a break.

It seemed easy at first.  It wasn’t that steep as I easily progressed up its side.  But it started to change.  The mountain began to have its way with me, taunting me as I walked.  It was as though it was watching me.  The owner had warned me about bears.  I didn’t have any bells, so I began singing.  Loudly.

The gentle slopes started to become not so gentle, but I was up for the challenge.  I noticed a path off in the distance.  Aha! I thought to myself.  Lots of people have been up here before!  But the path would abruptly stop in places and I was forced to climb vertical slopes.  I quickly learned not to hang onto any dead branches, but to hang onto the green vegetation growing out of the rock.

I called my husband when I reached the first mount.  I could see him clearly on the golf course.  “Can you see me?” I asked as I waved my arms.  He could not.  I told him I could see the summit and I was going to try to make it.  He was worried but he knew better than to tell me to stop.

A few hours later, with a few dents and scratches, I was standing on the summit.  The view was breathtaking to say the least.  It was a moment I would never forget.  But a storm loomed in the distance.  And it was coming my way . . .

About two-thirds of the way down, it started to pour.  By the time I reached the cabin and walked in the door, I was thoroughly drenched and chilled to the bone, but my husband and I were never so happy to see each other!   I promised I would never do anything like that again.

That night, as I warmed myself by the fire, the owner came to see us.  I told him all about the adventure and about finding the path that others had so clearly used to climb the mountain.  My eyes widened when he responded.  “That is not a path that people have used, it’s a path that the animals have made!”

What did I learn from the experience?

·         We may think we know the way and that the path is clear, but it’s best to check with someone who has been there before.  Proverbs 16:9:  The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.

·         There will always be challenges in life.  Seek the One who made the mountain.  He will keep you safe.

·         Sometimes when you are right in the middle of something challenging, you can’t see the forest for the trees.

·         The evil one will give you things to hang onto, but they will only cause you to fall.  Hang onto things that are “green” and will help you.

·         Sometimes you can see clearly what others are doing and sometimes they can’t see you.

·         You cannot stay at the top of the mountain.  Another storm will come to take you back to the valley, but God will help you with the next climb.

·         Things are not always as they appear.  A path may look well used, but it doesn’t mean you should be on it.

A wise pastor once told one of my daughters after her husband passed away that Psalm 23 makes reference to walking through the valley of the shadow of death . . . that she should not stay there.  Yes, I too am now walking that same path.  Even though I am in the valley right now, I will continue to climb this mountain.  It looks very high; much higher than the other mountains of pain I have climbed in my life.  It is my Mount Hermon.  But I will continually ask God to direct my path.  He is with me in this valley.  He will be with me when I reach the top.