what "when" looks like

I'm completely scatter-brained these days.  Bear with me...









My dad lost his battle with cancer on January 1st, 2015 at 5:25 pm.

BUT

We're doing alright.


As I have attempted to process through the vast array of emotions that comes with losing a family member as close as a father, I have learned something:

Things work out the way they are supposed to

For the majority of my life, I never had a close relationship with my father.  We were both so similar that we got on each others nerves frequently and at a significant magnitude.  A few months prior to his diagnosis of cancer, I started to feel this longing to have a good relationship with him.  It got me talking with people close to me.

After a vocal rehearsal one night, I walked out to the parking lot with a friend of mine.  I expressed my dilemma and asked what I should do.  "I lost my dad when I was 18.  Don't wait to work on that relationship.  You never know when everything will change."  That inspired me to start working on it.  Go out to lunch.  Go to a concert together.  Try to chat about more than just music or church.  That was in February.  Dad was diagnosed in May.  I look back now on that conversation and realize the timing was perfect.  I had the opportunity to fix something before I knew I would run out of time, and I took it.  Part of me wishes I had taken the initiative earlier.  But I'm grateful for the opportunity I had to work on it.


Things progressed with Dad's illness much more quickly than we expected.  We thought we had a few more months.  It came down to a matter of days.  We called in hospice on a Monday.  Moved him to a hospice house very early Wednesday morning.  Less than 48 hours later, he was gone.  But it was merciful.  Part of me felt like I was robbed of time I should have had.  The other part of me knows that it was a mercy that he was taken when he was.

As I held his hand in the hours before he passed, I wrestled with what I should say to him.   What I wanted him to know.  At this point, he was not responsive anymore.  Eyes were closed.  Couldn't speak.  The only question he could answer was "are you in any pain?" His response was always a simple, whispered "no".  Everyone cleared the room and it was just he and I alone.  I could say whatever I wanted.  I told him what was on my heart.  In that moment, I knew just what to say.  I told him I loved him and that it was okay for him to go, that we would all be okay.

I have no regret.  Nothing I wished I had said, but didn't.

That is the beauty in knowing that you are going to lose someone.  You have an opportunity to minimize regret.  When someone is taken abruptly, people always look back and wish they had said something or wished they had done this or that.  With cancer and other related illnesses, you start the grieving process early.  My grieving did not start the day he died.  It started 8 months ago on the day he was diagnosed.  Yes, his passing tore my heart into pieces, but it was already perforated waiting for that ripping.  I said what I needed to say.  Did what I needed to do.  No regrets.

So yes, I am hurting beyond belief with this new season in my life.  But I have been so encouraged and felt so loved by the people around us pouring out their time, resources, and words.

One dear, new friend came and sat with me twice a day when we were with dad at the hospice house.  She brought me and my family anything that we needed, and was there for moral support as well.  Tears were shed.  There was uncontrollable laughter (mainly caused by my gaseous, comical little brother).  Encouraging words.  My mother had a friend who drove all the way from Raleigh to spend the night away from her husband and children to be with us.  Countless meals.  Countless cards in the mail from people expressing their love for us.  People venturing into the treacherous depths of our home to clean what should have a bulldozer and a flame thrower taken to it.  People are incredible. What a blessing to have wonderful people in life!  We have never once felt truly alone in all of this.  And as our hearts are burdened, we know we have people to come alongside us and help to relieve just a little bit of that, even for a moment.

So when the "if" became a "when", and the "when" happened, I discovered that the people who said "the waiting for the inevitable is the hardest part", were 100% right.  The anxiety and the anticipation of what you know is going to come keeps you on edge and constantly stressed, just waiting for it to happen.  You can't heal at that point.  You know you will become more hurt and broken before you get better.  But when it's all over and done, that's when healing begins.  It hurts.  But nothing about transition ever feels good.  Things have to hurt before they heal, and that's encouraging to me.  The fact that I am hurting helps me know that I will feel healed eventually.

To sum it all up, this sucks.  A lot.  But people are amazing.  People are praying for peace and a smooth transition into this next stage of life.  And I know their prayers are being heard and answered.  That peace that passes all understanding is manifesting itself in our lives again, and for that, I am forever grateful.

I'm grateful that my dad is no longer in pain in this world.  It makes it just a little bit easier to know he is now at peace and is with his Savior in a place where disease and sorrow do not exist.  He really did fight the good fight, finish the race, and kept the faith.  I love you, Dad.

grief and community

Recently, I've been reading Small Victories by Anne Lamott.  I absolutely adore Anne's writing style. Real, raw, honest, irreverent, hilarious.  The second chapter of her book, entitled "Ladders", makes some excellent points about the process of grief.  She had recently lost her best friend to a battle with breast cancer, and was describing her time of grief:

"All those years I fell for the great palace lie that grief should be gotten over as quickly and as privately as possible.  But what I've discovered since is that the lifelong fear of grief keeps us in a barren, isolated place and that only grieving can heal grief....I'm pretty sure that only by experiencing that ocean of sadness in a naked and immediate way do we come to be healed -- which is to say, we come to experience life with a real sense of presence and spaciousness and peace."

We shut ourselves up into the privacy of our homes and lock our hearts to the people around us because we feel like that is what will heal us again.  We fear letting people in and them seeing that we're hurting.  We feel isolation is what we need.

That is a LIE.

We need community.  Those people we can fully share our hearts with.  Let the grieving happen when it comes, wherever you are.  Do the ugly cry if you have to.  If they're real friends, they will still (hopefully) talk to you after they've seen the terrifying, elusive ugly cry.  Allow the people around you to be a balm for your weary, torn up soul.  We were not created to do things alone, but to walk alongside each other and say, "I'm with you".

I have one sweet friend right now who always will say something to the extent of, "This sucks.  I am with you".  There's never pressure to talk about it.  Never any sort of expectation.  That's freedom in friendship; to simply be with each other.

"Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ." - Galatians 6:2

There's something about the knowledge that you are not alone that allows some of the weight of burden to fall off.

Grief is heavy.  It is hard.  It hits us in the most inconvenient and unexpected moments.  But community is required to get through.  Never do it alone.  Don't shut people out.  Let the walls fall down, bear your soul to those who care for you.

I'm also in the process of re-reading the Chronicles of Narnia.  Near the end of The Magicians Nephew, Aslan has just created Narnia and has tasked Digory with bringing him a fruit to protect the land.  Digory is dealing with the near loss of his ill mother and requests some sort of healing from Aslan.

"'But please, please - won't you - can't you give me something that will cure Mother?'...Great shining tears stood in the Lion's eyes...'My son, my son,' said Aslan.  'I know.  Grief is great.  Only you and I in this land know that yet.  Let us be good to one another'."

It reminds me that God recognizes our pain and our grief.  He recognizes that we are hurting so deeply.  He sees it with tears in his eyes, and says "my son.  my son.  i know".  We must remind ourselves that though everything that happens is a part of God's plan, it doesn't mean He is happy when we hurt.  His heart breaks along with ours.  We are his dear children that He loves so much, and to see us in pain hurts Him.  But just as in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader when Eustace has turned into a dragon, we cannot remove our own scales.  He must remove them for us.  And the purification of our lives stings.  But we come out on the other side with a new mindset, new strength, and new faith.

I'm not one of those people that can say "thank you" to the hard things that God allows us to go through.  The things themselves hurt immensely.  BUT.  I can say thank you to what the other side will look like.  The purification, sanctification, strengthening.  There is nothing wrong with a prayer that goes like, "God, this absolutely sucks.  And I don't understand what you are doing and why you are doing it.  But I trust that you have a plan."

As Christians, we get caught up in cliches.  The worst being, "God will never give you more than you can handle".

FALSE.  FALSE.  FALSE.

I would like to know who the heck said that first.  It is an untruth that we have allowed ourselves to believe for far too long.

If that were true, life would be easy.  There would be no pain.  But there would also be no cleansing of ourselves and our souls.  The truth in that statement lies in two extra words.  "God will never give you more than you can handle WITHOUT HIM."  Even so, it is no guarantee that anything will be easy.  It merely means that we can survive it.

So we have seasons.  Some joyful, some painful.  But through the seasons we learn and are transformed into the people we were meant to be.  So for that, I can say "thank you".





Don't do it alone.

when "if" becomes "when"

Yesterday brought a turn of events.  A quite unwelcome one, I might add.  After going to the ER for what we thought was sciatica nerve pain from dad lying down for the past few months, they instead found something else.  A mass on his spine.  His cancer had spread to that area (well... shit.).  Doctors said they could shoot for some clinical trials, and radiation to his spine to try to reduce his pain, but what it comes down to is managing pain and slowing the spread to give us more time.  We knew what that meant.  

It totally sucks.  Completely.  

Mom and I went for a midnight drive to pick up some prescriptions and get gas in the car.  We were sitting at the gas pump talking, and she said something about "when dad dies".  Right then is when it all hit.  I honestly have no idea what she said after that.  Formerly, it was always "if dad dies".  One word can change the meaning of a statement so much.  It becomes real.  It stops being the "what if" game and turns into the "when" game.  It catches you off-guard and throws you into a state of disbelief that you feel you should have recognized sooner.  

These next few months (hey maybe years) will be the hardest ones of our lives, BUT they are shaping up to be some of the most beautiful.  We are being intentional about the time we spend together.  Instead of just watching TV or a movie together, we're actually getting out to see things and experience things.  Almost like a bucket list.  Have the hard conversations.  Go do the things we've always wanted to do together and have said we will. We have to make the most of the time that we have left, because, as dad likes to say, he could have six months, six years, or could get hit by a bus tomorrow.  We have to utilize every single second for what it is worth and make new memories and make this time beautiful.  We will grow closer.  There will be so much love in this house.  There is beauty in suffering.  

Though our family is filled with such deep sadness and fear, there is ironically peace.  Truly a peace that passes all understanding.  You can feel it in the house.  The dense and heavy atmosphere has been replaced with serenity, acceptance, and love.  It makes no sense.  It shouldn't be there, but it is.  

So don't pity us.  PRAY for us.  For strength, guidance, peace, and understanding.  

And when all of the "if"s turn into "when"s, don't be afraid, because they were always "when"s, even though we humans didn't know it.  There is always evidence of God's hand in everything.  Sometimes it's blatant and in your face, but most of the time, you have to search for it a bit.  It's frustrating, because you feel like there is an absence of God, but He is never absent.  

I get the privilege of leading "He Is Faithful" by Bryan and Katie Torwalt this Sunday at Advance.  What perfect timing.  A set that I planned over a month ago would line up so perfectly with the truth that I needed to be forced to be reminded of in a moment.  He IS faithful through our pain, and He will always be present.  

He is faithful 

He is glorious

And He is Jesus

And all my hope is in Him

He is freedom

He is healing right now

He is hope and joy

Love and peace and life

time and exhaustion

I live for the nights when I come home absolutely exhausted.  It means I've had a full day.  The Crucible at Northwest School of the Arts with my sweet friend Posey as one of the leads.  A trip to Amelie's immediately afterward, and tons of French pastries shared between old and new friends.  An impromptu decision to go to a concert with my incredible friend, Allie, and some of her friends, and getting the very last tickets.  Meeting some very cool (and very cute) boys waiting in the line to get into the Evening Muse.  Staying at the Muse until 1:15.  Going to Amelie's for a second time.  

By the time I walked in the door this morning at 2:36, I was worn out, my feet hurt, I had a headache, and my eyes were so heavy.  But it was a great feeling.  My heart was overflowing with joy.  I knew that I was so tired because I spent so much time with people, constantly expending energy, but that's the kind of tired I love so much.  I love to feel exhausted from being with the people I love and care about so much.  

I consider myself an introvert.  I love people, and I love being around people, but I need alone time every single day to stay sane.  I get worn out from being around people for long periods of time, but I know that with every second, I'm making a memory that may be so dear to me in the future.  My dad's fight with cancer has made me realize that your life could be cut short at any moment.  Your friends' lives could be cut short at any moment.  Make the most of the time you have.  Laugh together.  Watch movies together.  Talk about the hard things and answer the difficult questions of life.  Go on random adventures.  Give/get tight hugs.  Snuggle.  Tell people how much you love them.  Cherish the short amount of time that we have on this earth, and squeeze every opportunity out of it.  So be exhausted.  Be worn out, if it means that you get to make the most of the little time you have.  

friends

I have some really great friends.  Through this journey, they have shown themselves to be unfailingly loyal and dependable.  There are a few of them that have been such an incredible blessing to me and I want to brag on them all the time.  

Hannah

This girl has been so good to me.  Always an encouraging word.  Always realistic.  Never tries to tell me what she thinks I want to hear, but tells me the truth.  I appreciate it so much and I love that she and I get to be friends.  She's that person you can always talk to no matter what the circumstances are; whether what you are going to say is embarrassing or weird, or if it's just plain hard to talk about, it's easy because there is zero judgment there.  

Abby

Wow.  Countless evenings drinking tea and chatting.  We go to each other's houses randomly and all the time.  She has such a kind spirit and is always trying to point people toward Christ.  She loves God and loves people so well.  And talk about an amazing voice.  This girl can do some serious singing.  She and I are both learning how to walk the road of becoming worship leaders.  It's not an easy calling, and I'm so proud of her for listening to God and His plan for her.  

Anna

She's been one of my closest friend since 8th grade.  She can immediately tell that something is wrong when she sees me and finds ways to reassure me that everything will be okay.  She is quick to forgive and quick to listen.  I love that, and I love her.  Never ceases to make me laugh.

Allie

We've been friends for less than a year, and in that time, we have gotten to know each other so well.  She loves the Lord, music (especially Hayley Williams/Paramore), and really tight hugs.  We always have honest, heartfelt, sometimes just plain hard conversation.  Now that she's away at college, it's so much more difficult to communicate and have conversation, but she's one of those people I know will always be there and we can pick up right where we left off.  

Kaitlyn

I've known her since 6th grade.  Though we don't get to hang out much, we do talk all the time.  We've called each other in the middle of the night before.  Neither person gets angry that they were awakened.  Everybody needs that friend that you know will answer if you need them in the middle of the night.  She is that for me, but she is also so much more.  I know I can always depend on her to give it to me straight.  We joke that we're "soulmates".  In reference to Grey's Anatomy, I would consider her "my person".  She means more to me than I could ever put into words.  

At Advance this Sunday, we talked about "Me-Friends" and "We-Friends".  "Me-Friends" always focus on themselves; "We-Friends" find ways to place the focus off of themselves.  Those "We-Friends" are some of the most valuable people anyone can have in their lives.  They are those people like Hannah, Abby, Anna, Allie, and Kaitlyn.  I don't get drained talking to them, they lift me up.  

Friends are the people motivating me to keep going through this journey.  They are incredible, and most of them don't even know it.  They lift my spirits and they are so quick to give up time and energy to help push me (sometimes drag me) to where I'm going.  I'm grateful for all of them.  I would not be able to go through any of this without them, and I love them all.  I just pray that one day I can be a rock for them the way they have been one for me.  

fasten your seat belts, because we're on an emotional roller coaster

The past 48 hours have held the widest range of emotions.  Wednesday, dad had a scan and got the results that same day.  The radiologist that was on-call at the time interpreted the scan as the chemo not working to shrink his tumors.  We were discouraged and disappointed.  That meant that the months of feeling awful and having no energy felt like they were in vain.  It also meant that surgery was off the table, which then in turn meant that we would be seeking out clinical trials to hope that some experimental drug or procedure would cure him.  Nothing proven to work.  Running out of options.  Terrifying.  Dad and I had quite an emotional conversation about what the future held and things he wanted me to be taking care of if, in fact, he was going to die soon.  There were tears and a deep sadness.  We started the process of preparing ourselves for what was most likely to come: death.  and soon.  It was scary.  I sent out texts to my circle of people that I keep updated on the journey.  Lots of encouraging words and prayer sent by my sweet friends.  The next day, I felt heavy and had to figure out a way to pull myself through school and through work that evening.  People asked if I was okay.  I said I was fine, but I just didn't want to have to explain what was going on until I had enough time to process.  

I get home that evening.  Going through the motions.  Put my guitar down after work.  Sit down at the table to eat dinner.  Look through Twitter on my phone.  Dad called mom upstairs.  I thought nothing of it, until mom came back downstairs.  The short of it is, dad's doctor had looked at the scans with higher resolution and gotten another radiologist and the liver surgeon to look at the scans, and they came to a conclusion that his tumors were still there, but showed DEAD SPOTS.  His tumors are dead.  Which meant that chemo was effective.  Which meant that surgery was back on the table.  And that meant we had options.  We had a chance.  And we had HOPE.  I immediately began weeping.  Tears of joy streamed down my face.  I wanted to go and dance and scream and praise God at the top of my lungs, not caring what anyone thought of me.  I sent out another text to that group of people.  This time, with GOOD news.  I got to share such an incredible, joyous, encouraging moment with so many people.  Praise was given to God.  Tears of joy were cried.  Songs of hope were sung.  I came to school today with a smile on my face and wanting to tell anyone I came in contact with about how great our God is.  Because He is good ALL the time.  

So in the past 48 hours, I have felt the lowest of the lows, and the highest of the highs.  I praise God for what He is doing.  For the beautiful story that He is writing.  Beauty rises from ashes.  From what seems like destruction and heartbreak.  It is those moments that He chooses to use for His glory.  We only have to trust that He knows what He is doing, and that it will all work together for our good.  And that is not an easy thing to do.  We say those words all the time, but fail to realize the intensity that trust Him takes.  To push our doubts out of our mind.  To hold our heads up and say there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  To still say that God is good, even through the heartache.  It is so incredibly hard, but the moment that we realize everything in life has purpose, it makes it just a little bit easier to believe.  So thank you everyone who has been praying fervently for him.  For interceding on our behalf.  God is still in the miracle business, people.

a night of freedom

Tonight, I had the privilege of seeing David Crowder's Neon Steeple tour.  Originally, I didn't want to go because I thought the $30 ticket was way too much.  So dad said "I really think you should go" and handed me the money to buy my ticket.  I rushed toward FHC immediately after work, fearing there would be traffic and I wouldn't end up getting a ticket.  But as I was driving on I-485 toward Johnston Road, there was not one single moment when I saw brake lights ahead of me.  ZERO traffic in a usually jammed stretch of unfinished highway.  I arrived at church around 6:30 and was able to purchase a ticket at the tent outside.  I was expecting to either get caught in traffic and not be able to get a ticket, or was worried that tickets would be sold out when I got there.  

So I started thinking, "wow.  God must really want me here tonight".  I saw my dear, dear friend Abby when I walked in and she asked me to sit with her, her boyfriend, and a few other people.  I, of course, go to sit with them (who better to hang out with than church friends?).  All of us sitting in that row are either worship leaders or have such a strong passion for worship.  We stood in the front while All Sons and Daughters was leading us in worship and closed our eyes, lifted our hands, cried if we needed to, and sang at the top of our lungs.  I felt free.  Free to cry.  Free to raise my hands.  Free to be silent.  Free to sing as loudly as I could.  

I started realizing that worship is not something that has to be done in one specific way.  You don't have to sing perfectly in tune or raise your hands at the right time.  You can kneel, sit, stand, lay face down on the floor.  You can be silent, sing louder than anyone else, or sing only when you feel led to.  Worship is so much more than singing along to songs and going through the motions.  It comes from the heart.  An outpouring of the love we have for the Father.  

Every time I have opened my mouth to sing lately, I make sure that I'm only singing something that I truly believe.  If I'm singing "Great are you, Lord" I want to know that I believe it.  And you know what?  I do.  Tonight helped me to realize that even when we are aching, exhausted, devastated, heartbroken, God is still great and He still loves us.  So it's okay to be singing "great are you, Lord" with tears streaming down your face because you are saying that He is great even through the circumstances of life that are wearing you down.  

Crowder was PHENOMENAL.  I was not expecting it to be so much fun.  From electronic music to an acoustic, front-porch style singing of some old songs, to a straight up hoedown, I worshiped, danced around, looked like a fool, and had no shame about doing so.  Being David Crowder, we ended the night with "How He Loves".  It started out with the standard recording of it, with full band, and slowly, band members left the stage until it was just David and his acoustic guitar.  He led us in the chorus over and over.  "He loves us.  Oh how He loves us".  I kept singing.  Kept repeating from my heart to my voice.  I eventually opened my eyes and realized that David had left the stage and the congregation was still singing that beautiful chorus.  I had gotten lost in worship and in the beauty of the Father.  My heart forgot the pain of what is happening around me.  It released all of those fears, anxieties, and burdens for a time long enough to unashamedly and completely worship Him.  

Thank You, God, for working everything out for me to go tonight.  For giving me time to worship you and not have any hindrances around me.  Thank you for the freedom that You give to us.