• 

I’ve avoided even thinking about writing this post. Keeping it at a safe distance has selfishly been comfortable for me. But I need to write this post.

On February first we lost our pug, Walter. Sixteen and a half years of love, companionship, and loyalty of the highest caliber. Erica and I literally had him our entire married life. We had only been married fifty-five days when we got him. He ran straight to Erica as soon as we walked in and she’s never put him down. November 8^th, 2004 was his gotcha day. And man did he get us. His high energy and spunk kept us busy and entertained in his early years. He was the center of our world. After having kids, he remained the most playful and patient playmate. From being the main focus of family photos or showing up in the background of them, he was just always there.

His absence is palpable and intense. Emotionally trying and heavy.

For the past couple years, he started to slow down. Sleeping more, graying in that sweet wrinkled face, and moving slower. I can absolutely speak for Erica when I say, these were the best years. Hands down. He slowed his pace… So we slowed ours… We all sat with him more, loved on him more, even got him the best of the best dog foods, more. We soaked him in. Immersed ourselves into enjoying the loyalty and companionship he so selflessly gave. Within the last 6 months Walter began to physically need more help. With eating, walking, and sleeping. Erica slept in the living room with him because he was more comfortable on the couch. She hand fed him for months. She cleaned him daily and held him while he slept. He’d needed her for quite some time.

• 

Like any good love story, this one will die with Erica and Walter. As it should. Every beautiful chapter of it.

He was Momma’s boy. From day one, to day 5,929. She was the axis around which he spun. As he was to her.

Erica loves on a different level than most people. It’s deeper. More concentrated. More determined… To be on the receiving end of her love is something I can’t type, interpret, or explain. Unworthy is what I am. And her level of love for Walter was no different. All of mine and the kids love for Walter doesn’t even exist in the same universe as hers does for him. Period.

A meteor of grief has hit her heart and has left its ruin. The aftermath of the impact has been catastrophic. Yet still, every day, I see her get up and continue to load the clothes and the words our family needs to start our day. All while trying not to trip over the broken pieces of her heart.

• 

I know it’s not until after we all leave, and the house gets quiet that she surveys the damage of the hole in her heart. Walking around the splintered edges of it for hours. This was their time. Quite days of her working and Walter sleeping next to her. His snoring and dreaming. Her loving him and talking to him. He was the balm that soothed her, and the best couch companion. His golden years were her.

She loved Walter unconditionally and unapologetically. He did the same, too.

She held him when he drifted into her world, and she held him when he drifted out.

• 

Rest easy, sweet boy.

August 31, 2004 – February 1st, 2021

• 

It’s been 3,288 days.

Feels like 3,288 years and also like a quick 3,288 seconds.

On June 17th this year, you sweet lady, were in my dream. I’ve had four with you in them during these past nine years. Your entrance is usually quick and distanced and I can never seem to get near you in them, as if I were watching a memory of you.

But this one was substantially different. Normally you find your way to me, but in this one I was desperately searching for you.

This one was tangible, audible, and real.

I found myself, Erica, Anna Lynn, and one of our best friends Phil, at a super busy intersection. Instead of cars in the road, there were people, tons of people. As if cars didn’t exist. Just people. Every single person was in panic mode. Like an eagerly excited and desperate panic mode. Within each person’s hands was a piece of paper. I had no idea what the papers read until I noticed I had one of my own.

657. This was the number in my hands.

Having no clue what this number meant we all started following the signs for how to get to it, like room numbers in a hotel hallway or searching for mailboxes.

Everyone’s outside. It’s chilly. We can see our breath.

We see my Aunt Tammy at one of the intersections and she tells us she’s so happy were here, and that we’ll love it. We still don’t know what “it” is.

The more we run… and search… and try to understand what’s going on, the more your presence becomes unnervingly overwhelming to me.

It’s in that moment… I know this search is for you.

We continue the search. There’s lots of pine straw. My emotions start getting the best of me and I’m short of breath. Tons of laughter dances in the air and I become jealous of not having my own. I’m almost angry.

I’m terrified I won’t find you.

We walk what seems like miles of sidewalk and eventually get to a sign with numbers in the 600 family.

We finally find room 657.

The beating of my heart is audible and I feel the heat of my skin dampen the sheets I’m dreaming in.

There’s a little sidewalk that leads up to the door. I know without a shadow of a doubt, you’re in there. The whole room is windows draped by long blinds that are closed.

I open the door and Erica and I walk in. It’s dark. Anna Lynn and Phil wait outside. The hesitation I have to turn the light on is indescribable. I guess the fear of what would be on the other side of the light, maybe.

I know you’re in this room.

I flip the switch… and there you are… your hair is freshly cut and bright.

There’s two open Sprite cans on your nightstand, and your room has green tones.

You’re in your bed… and immediately jump up and scream and cry with elation shouting “my baby”.

You run towards me with a heavenly vigor and throw your arms around my neck. I scream into your neck and fall to my knees. I can smell you. I can hear your voice and feel your breath. You show us around your room.

We all collapse onto the bed and you say “So… tell me all about it”

That’s it.

I wake up in an ocean of sweat and palpitations. I slide out of bed and rest my head on soaked sheets thanking God for another encounter with you. You were really there… It was a Hail Mary.

Momma… your memory is inertia.

Never changing. Never moving. Just constant. Resting in room 657.

I guess that’s why this time, I found you.

Thank you God. You, and you alone have blessed me with yet another year on this earth.

Another year of trying to get it right, feeling like I’m mostly getting it wrong.

This past year I thank you a million times over for your grace. For your life vest of mercy and unwavering favor that covers the heart of this undeserving sinner you still call yours. Every day. Every time.

I am flawed beyond comprehension yet you still want me. You still seek me out, and call me by name.

I thank you for my family. I thank you for your daily reminders that time is moving at gale force speed with it’s sails wide open. Thank you for God moments you provide for me and my children. Thank you for guidance in rearing  an almost teenage daughter in what we pray is the right direction, and patience during Chutes and Ladders with a six year old.

Thank you for my wife. Oh sweet Lord thank you for her. This keyboard doesn’t hold the adequate strokes to display what she means to me. She holds the key to me. She knows the combination. Signed and sealed.

Thank you for my Momma and Daddy. The two precious people I share this day with. Thank you for their love and steady sacrifice. May they always know how much I appreciate them. They’re the sweetest of souls who can never be thanked enough. Their attention and devotion to mine and my brother’s spirit can never be repaid or matched. Ever.

Thank you for wrinkles and stress and hairlines that simply don’t exist anymore.

Thank you for giving us more than we can handle so we can give it back to you… where it should have always been.

Lord thank you for the lessons learned, the grief, the pain, the sun, and the rain. Thank you for the unbearable days when we wear the weight of this world like scuba gear breathing only through a tank. Lord thank you for the ashes we settle in at the end of every day and your grace that cools our burns. These are the times that try these tired souls and pull us back to you like hurricane tides.

Thank you for the hard seasons we endured barely holding on to the foot of the cross reaching for your Son’s feet.

There. Right there at the bottom of this ocean of undeserving grace and mercy and hope and love… we always find you. It’s devastatingly breathtaking.

Thank you for shifting sands.

Thank you for peace at the river where you so beautifully wait for us.

Thank you for your Son and the water he walked on.

Thank you for the life you give and thank you for not being done with me.

In Jesus name.

 

Middle of the week. No one has time, patience, or the want to. Church on Wednesdays is something we did as kids, right?

I’ll be the first one in line to confess it’s just too much work…  I’m tired.  What are we going to eat for supper? We can’t afford to pick up food afterwards. I need to shower first. The kids will fuss. I don’t feel like putting on makeup. We’d have to stop and get gas first.

For some reason, the middle of the week has this ridiculous power to suck the life out of the prayers we expedite to Jesus on Sunday mornings. I am guilty in the first degree…

I leave church on Sundays with Jesus literally bubbling through the pores of my heart, like a dry sponge submerged in a bowl of water… Only to make it to those tough mid-week mornings and wonder what I’m doing with my life. I’ve messed up so bad. I can’t believe I said that. Am I good enough? What will they think when they find out? Will this pain ever relent? Am I really enough?

I get it. Been there. Done that. Got a whole box of t-shirts to prove it, and none of them fit.

We’re all a mess. We don’t have the time, the money, the tears, nor the will to fight it during the mid-week problems that life catapults to our front door mats. We shake our fists and kitchen spatulas at the God who says.. be still, my child. Wait.

Waiting is hard.

It’s Draining. Uncomfortable. Pressing. All consuming.

My family and I have called Church of the Highlands home for the past year and a half. Yes, it’s a huge place with lots of people, lots of music, and name tags. As the greeters opened the doors for us on our first visit, the love that rolled out of those doors was tangible and I literally watched it cover my feet, filling my soul with a richness I could almost taste. A richness only Jesus himself would have waiting for me.

First Wednesday services are just what they sound like. The First Wednesday of every month. It’s a service like no other in my honest opinion. Don’t get me wrong… Sunday’s are sensational and much needed for the soul. But there’s something about gathering at God’s house in the middle of the week. It’s like swinging by a best friend’s house last minute, and their house and hugs just feel different. A good different. The conversation is better on visits like these, the emotions are real, and the coffee tastes better. That’s what First Wednesday’s at Highlands are like for me.

There’s nothing I love more than walking in with people, who like myself, have probably had a bad day. A day of bad news, bad decisions, and flat tires. Walking shoulder to shoulder with these warriors of the cross as we all find our seats and sanity, is nothing short of Jesus work. As we worship to the music nectar of Church of the Highlands, I look around and see such sweet surrender. The faces of God’s people are real. The day has happened and we’ve landed here… wading in a pool of mercy and an ocean of undeserving grace.

I see beautiful shaking hands held high, and fingers pointed towards heaven. I see makeup running down the faces of moms who may have just lost a child, just signed divorce papers, or just let Jesus in. I see grown men wiping tears filled with regret, burden, or joy. I see Highlands ushers make a seat, a way, and a place for every single weary soul that walks through those doors.

After a soul-shaking worship, a sensational message is always delivered. A message filled with stunning conviction and the constant reminders that we are His and He loves us more than anything… despite everything… No matter what. End of story. Period.

Church of the Highlands is more than a church. You’ll notice this the minute you walk in, or tune in. This place is the heartbeat of Christ. Pumping through the walls, halls, streets, buildings, cities, and precious faces you see.

This life is so ridiculously hard. So trying. So pushy backy.

So today, whether your season is striving or thriving. God sees you. He gets it. He can handle it. The big is always directly related to the small. Hills make the valleys, and shadows bring the sunshine.

Hang in there my brothers and sisters. God will do it. God will deliver it. God will diagnose it. God will make it. God will provide it.

You know why? Because He sees it.

And I hope I see you at First Wednesday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With Mother’s Day coming up, this entire post goes out to all of you Momma’s out there hustling and getting things done. All of the things.

To the future mom struggling with infertility, invasive tests and low sperm counts. I know you’re out there… looking at all the other mom’s with fresh babies, tired eyes, and stained shirts. So envious. You go to the store for milk and toothpaste, but always end up in the baby section crying at the smell of baby powder and polka dot pacifiers. Please know you are enough. Know that he is God. Be still. The time will come, and you will be great.

To the mom-to- be who just found out, and the mom who can’t see her feet. You’re filled with excitement, anxiety, and stretch marks. Enjoy your husband in these last few months. Enjoy each other. Eat. Sleep. Sleep and sleep. If you get tired of sleeping you can always try sleeping. The beautiful days that lie ahead are pure bliss. Joy in the rawest form. Keep it quiet and lay low in these last days. Rub your belly and talk to the miracle underneath those stretch marks. Sing to them , tell them about loved one’s lost, and what color you painted their room. Just feel.

To the mom who is still wearing the 8 ½ X 11 maxi pads the hospital sent home with you two days ago. As you notice by now, time is non-existent, and conversations between you and your husband consist of poop, vomit, and whose turn it is. Relish these moments. Breathe in the long nights and dirty diapers. Your eyes will be red, you’ll bathe twice a week tops, and you’ll look like hell. But remember new mommy… you carried a human. You delivered a human from your body. Your body can make milk for Pete’s sake. You’re my hero. Don’t worry about the house, the dishes, the laundry, or the baby weight. Let people do things for you. If someone offers to come and clean your toilets, let them. Let them cook, let them clean, and let them let you sleep.

To the mom in car pool, hauling kids to Pri- Med and girl scout meetings. You somehow manage to keep ice cream frozen for hours in a hot SUV and always have band aids. To the queen of juggling time and mega phone car magnets… you amaze me. You know where everything is at all times. You’ve surpassed the diapers and sippy cup phase only to host sleep overs for 6 eight year olds, and drive three of them home at 2am because they’re homesick. Drive on, you warriors of the minivans.

To the mom waiting for your child to come back from their driving test. As you stand there overflowing with pride and thankfulness, your momma bear worries, and fears of the unspeakable take over. Right now your wading through messy rooms, tampons, sinks full of hair, and sex talks. Boyfriends, girlfriends, broken hearts, and prom dresses. You are a shelter from the storm. Their refuge from the bad days, bad grades, and uneven bangs. This is your time. Be there. Be great.

To the mom who’s watching her baby girl try on wedding dresses today, and the mom whose baby boy found the perfect ring. This is it. The moment you’ve raised them for is here. Wedding plans, flowers, and music will consume your weekends until they walk down the aisle to their new life. You’ll cry, eat cake, dance to sad songs, and watch them drive away. Bitter sweetness.

And to the Mom who’s got her bag packed, waiting for the 1am call from her baby saying “it’s time”. You’ll rush to the hospital, probably park on the curb, and wait for what seems like an eternity to count the ten toes and fingers of your first grand baby. And through tear soaked eyes you’ll look down at the human you created, looking at the human they created. Heart is full, soul is bursting, and your circle is complete.

You rulers of the uterus surprise me every day. Every sacrifice, every meal, and every single piece of clean, folded, put away laundry. Nothing you do goes unnoticed.

Master of all. Jack of none.

I honestly don’t know where to start on this one.

Usually I have some sort of idea of where I want one of these blogs to land, but today I’m just sitting here, reeling…

Last Sunday, while listening to the divine, throat-lumping music that Church of the Highlands injects into my veins each week… I couldn’t decide whether to bow my head and let the tears hit my shoes, or throw it back and let them run into my ears.

This has been a difficult year.

Regrets, Grief, Disappointments, Almosts, Not Quites, and Soul Searches.

This year has brought some of the highest highs for me, and some of the absolute lowest of lows.

In February I accepted a new job that took me across the country helping people make their everyday jobs easier. Hustling through airports, making flight connections, and Face-timing with my family every night thousands of miles away.

In March I woke up to an early morning text from my best friend telling me his brother died in his sleep. A soul-shaking time that tried the souls of the precious people I call mine. I held him and his mother in my arms, cried with them, and remembered a brother and a son, with them. I watched a family receive a line with hundreds of people into their arms. Arms that had no life, no energy, no want to, nor will to. A family that means the world to me lost a piece of their jenga tower. Everything’s leaning to the side that’s caving… the side that’s visibly broken… the side that hurts. When I’m with them I don’t know what to say, what to do, or when to leave. Honestly… I’ve found myself just watching them breathe, or at least try to. It’s as if they’ve lost a lung, or valve in their heart. It’s labored and uncomfortable. I hope they know how much I love them.

This summer brought new friendships that I hold near and dear. There’s nothing better than a neighbor that calls on a Tuesday night and says “come on over, we made extra.” From Saturday yard work and college football, to Sunday mimosas… I love these people. They’re the ones that make the week days worth weekdaying. You guys know who you are.

The last leg of this year so far has delivered shocks, blessings in beautiful disguise, awareness, and a breathtaking perspective.

I know now.

I know that our souls are manned with the armor of Jesus himself. The armor that takes the brunt of all things hard, and what we call un-endurable. That Jesus armor that lets the shrapnel hit our legs and brings us to our knees, is the same armor that throws in a set of knee pads and a life vest when the waters are just too deep.

The very armor we cursed and damned to hell this year is the very armor that made us scream out to Him for mercy… The God that gave and has now taken away… is still there. Right there.

Please know… that tower you built… doesn’t have to cave, it doesn’t have to break, and it doesn’t have to hurt… forever.

But if it does, and that life vest can’t hold the weight… remember those knee pads… He WILL meet you at the bottom.

Thirty Three… Let’s do this.

I went for a run this morning. My good Lord above it was hot. Sweat rolling down my face and and heart pounding. The sun was shining directly into my face and then it hit me like tidal wave. It was seven years ago today that we buried Momma. It’s usually June 30th that consumes me and takes my breath away since that was the day she left us… But today I couldn’t help but remember the three days that followed. The three days that tried my soul, sanity, and faith. So without even fighting it, I slowed my pace to a walk and let it all in…

I often refer to those days as limbo. The span of time that feels like an eternity, but also too damn soon to have to say goodbye. Those few days where we eat our feelings and go through old photos. We take long showers giving our swollen eyes a break from tissues and visitors. We scream out and demand answers from the God that gave… and has now taken away…

We drive to funeral homes to pick out caskets and urns. We fake smiles and drink the ice water they bring you. We fill out paperwork, sign release forms, and collect a bag that contains the last clothes they would ever wear. We leave, we go home, and collapse in their favorite chair, or run to the dryer hoping to find their favorite shirt. Anything that still looks like them or smells like them will suffice at this point. Anything… An ashtray, a blanket, or even a mop bucket that still smells like bleach.

We wash dishes left in the sink, sweep the floors, and relish in their scent when we crawl into their bed. We sit in their cars, hit steering wheels, and listen to their favorite music.

We show up. We hug, we cry, and wail when that one person comes through the receiving line who just gets it… gets you…

We gather with close family and kiss them and touch them as they close the lid on the precious face we’ll never see again on this earth.

We walk into standing rooms and take our seats while they say the usual. The things we already know. They play their favorite songs and you squeeze the hands of loved ones next to you as the tears literally burn your cheeks.

We ride in long lines to their final resting place. We sit under green tents and watch as they place them in front of us. We get weak in the knees and grip the sides of a cold gray box that holds everything we want back.

We go back to work, lay our head on our desk, and withdraw. We go through the rinse and repeat motions of daily life without them and question our faith.

We honestly refuse to believe it. We go numb and push our anger back to God. A God who understands what this hell is like. A God who went though it for us.

We adjust. We become stronger and grow in empathy. We become the people that people call when it happens to them. We’re the first ones who show up to embrace the screams of “why”, while holding a rotisserie chicken and a box of thank you cards.

Limbo is hell. It’s the not knowing, and knowing everything all at once. It’s knowing what has to be done when you have no strength or want to do it.

We landed here for a reason.

Time doesn’t heal… Jesus does.

 

 

 

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve written a blog post, and this weekend reminds me of a great man I’ve never written about. Sure, I’ve mentioned him in several of my posts and posted several pics with, and of him… but I’ve never written one just for him… One dedicated to just my Daddy. I am truly ashamed.

As most of you guys know, I started typing out the emotions of my heart after my mom died. I’ve typed and typed a million tear drenched words about the woman who carried me, the woman who shaped me, and the woman who left me too soon…

Well, for forty years, there was a man behind that woman who deserves a few strokes of my keyboard devoted just to him.

My Dad is a real man. Like a man’s man. He’s been a welder for 35 years, has calloused hands, has a rod in his middle finger, and wears a blue collar to work everyday with a patch that holds his name over that huge heart he has. He works overtime, drives across state lines to fix equipment, helps family on the weekends, yet he’s always so positive… and so willing. He’s sensational.

My Dad disciplined me, remedied me, and led me. Correcting my manners, reminding me to hold open doors for my Momma, and also whipped my ass. He taught my brother and I to protect each other, and to always defend what was right… To defend what was hard…but what was always honest.

My Dad was always there. I mean always… School sports, showing up in his work uniform at 6pm… I knew he was exhausted, and would probably rather be enjoying a cold beer.. But he was there. Leaning over that fence cheering me on, telling me to run faster, hit harder, and to suck it up. He hugged me after every practice, giving me advice and coaching my spirit on the ride home. He’s built my character one lesson at a time. Everyday without fail, he shows up.

My Dad is real. Oh so real. He’s made mistakes, messes, and late payments. He’s lost his temper and tobacco.

My Dad fathers. He’s always there when I need advice, tools, or just saying “its gonna be okay, buddy”. He understands that parenting is hard and potty training will end… one day. He totally gets that chaos is normal and houses and floors are supposed to be messy while little ones are running around. He calms my mind and makes me want to be a better Dad. A better man. A better husband.

My Dad loves fiercely behind those blue eyes. He wears his heart on his sleeves. He’s been to hell and back and yet his heart still overflows with thankfulness and grace to a God that gives and takes away. He never questions His will or unanswered prayers. He trusts and lets Him lead the way. Always.

My Dad is all I have left. He’s my guy. He’s the one I call, now. The one I text. The one I look to for instructions on how to build things, or how to change the oil in my car. He provides guidance and explanation. He justifies logic and common sense. He reminds me of trying times, and how to endure push back from a world losing grip on faith and humanity.

My Dad is my hero. He is goodness incarnate. Faith and Father earth in one. He is as constant as time and taxes. Kindness and generosity seep through his pores. He means the world to me.

I’m so glad I’m part of him.

He’s my Daddy.

 

 

Year Six…. And still I find myself in front of the same keyboard trying to string together the emotions my heart just can’t contain. Everyone was right… some things are getting easier, and some things remain the same. The hole in our hearts is still there, but it’s healing… slowly filling back up with the good stuff that once filled it to the brim.

I can remember my best days with you now and not instantly swell up with buckets of tears sitting on go at the edge of these brown eyes you gave me. I can finally breathe in summer and lay under the sun now without remembering all the horrific fragments of this day six years ago… instead I’ll choose to remember things like our phone conversation that morning. We made plans for the 4^th, talked about babies due, and how great the weather was. It was the last seventeen minutes and seventeen seconds I had with you. Your voice. Your laugh. All mine.

I can say little things you used to say and not get choked up, but instead smile that you came to mind.

I can look in the mirror and catch uncanny glimpses of you when I smile with your smile.

I still see you in every child God gave me.

I still remember you every day. Every time.

Today, I’ll still be thankful.

I’ll be ready to remember… ready to just try …ready to inhale every single ounce of happiness you brought into our lives.

You were loaned to us for fifty one years. Twenty five of them were mine….

I can do things now, Momma.

I’m proud of me.

I think you would be too.