Lately my leisure wear of choice is what I would refer to as “Widow Snark.” Wearing it feels like a kind of shield, offering an excuse to the world of why I am so often only barely holding it together. A pass of sorts, a defense mechanism. OK, and I also just think it’s funny. (Although for some reason, most people don’t think my shirt that says, “Be Nice, My Husband is Dead” is as amusing as I do – I’m careful where and when I wear that one.) It’s been a way of embracing this new and unwelcome reality that has been thrust upon me. I mean, after seeing what my Halloween costume was this year, surely the fact that I have a streak of dark humor in me doesn’t come as a complete shock.
Sometimes I almost forget how many people are still reading and following these Meal Train posts, or I will discover someone who has done so from the beginning that I wasn’t even aware of (or maybe don’t even know personally). These entries are obviously a form of journaling for me, and I recognize that I have been almost embarrassingly open at times about how hard these past eight months have been, in admitting the personal ways that I have struggled.
I know that my journey is my own, that my walk through grief and dealing with PTSD and handling new crises thrown my way will not look the same as someone else’s. But I also know how much I have been strengthened by reading about others who have traveled further down their own paths of grief, and come through stronger, more compassionate, changed in ways that couldn’t have come about without their suffering. I’ve also seen people who have been broken, and become bitter, from experiencing such a great loss. I’ve now crossed paths with so many people whom I would never have known if I hadn’t lost Kendall.
Perhaps to some this will sound naive (or premature?), but I have not for one second doubted that I WILL come through this OK. I know the Lord is aware of me and will continue to give me the help I need (although not always the help I want). Yes, I can feel that I am being changed. And also yes, I have never before experienced this kind of pain. I am immensely grateful for my faith that ultimately grounds and sustains me, for the eternal perspective it provides me, but that doesn’t make the burden feel lighter in those moments that can be so dark, the pain so sharp it literally takes my breath away, robs me of sleep, sends me to my knees. I think that part of the story is also important to tell. The Savior had his own dark, difficult moments in Gethsemane, even though he knew that the glory of the resurrection and eternal life was coming. Gethsemane was a vital part of his story, too.
It has felt important to be honest in how I tell this story, the one I am still living, the one that I know will eventually have a happy ending. Even with my faith, and friends, and family, and eternal perspective, this part of the story is so so hard. But don’t you doubt that I’m going to make it through. I don’t. Really.
Brene Brown said, “One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through and it will be someone else’s survival guide.” Surely to be effective a survival guide has to acknowledge the things that are, well, difficult to survive. I am humbled that already I have received some feedback from different people of how reading about our family’s journey through this past year and a half has helped them in their own difficult circumstances. Even though I’m still right in the middle of the hard, not yet at that happy ending. So perhaps I am more open and honest than many would feel comfortable being, and that’s OK. But thank you for taking this journey with me.