gone home

Last Sunday, July 13th, I said goodbye to my beloved husband for the final time. He was surrounded by me and three of our sons as we prayed over him, kissed his cheeks and held his hands, cried, told him that we loved him and spoke of the ways he’d blessed us and brought us joy; said that it was alright for him to go home – we knew he was tired. We had worship music quietly playing in the room and the Revelation Song ushered him into the throne room of heaven as he took his last breath here and his next in the presence of Jesus. It was both heartbreaking and precious all at once.

When I left the hospital a few hours later, I expected the skies to be dark and heavy with clouds; wind whipping at my hair and clothes, and also wrapping my head around the surreal fact that I was born in the same hospital that my husband had just died in.  Instead, I was covered by a cloudless, bright blue canopy with the sun full on my face and, even when it seems like grief should stop the earth from spinning, life still moves on; babies arrive, couples say, “I do!”, homes are rebuilt, pieces are picked up.

As I’ve moved through this past week without Michael, I’ve felt the heaviness of the empty spaces he once used to occupy; namely, the rooms of our home and the space next to me in our bed. It’s like moving through water in a swimming pool – you know which way you want or need to go, but it pushes against you, adding time to the process, letting you know that the weight of it is greater than your ability to make it to the safety of the side.  I continuously lose track of the days and time. I’m fielding phone calls, responding to text messages, declining well-intentioned meal trains (it’s just me and Daniel at home and, thankfully, our larder is full).  I wasn’t at all prepared for how quickly everything went and, as a result, I’ve had to make fast decisions:  find a mortuary (thank you, sissy Flora), make arrangements for the memorial service, go through pictures, select music, keep my sanity. I haven’t even thought about food or flowers. In the midst of all this, I was doing laundry a few days ago and folding Michael’s clothes – there wasn’t much of it as he’d been in the hospital for two weeks – and it hit me that that was the last time I’d ever wash his clothes; fold his shirts just so, pair up his socks. This small, mundane task that most of us barely give a thought to instantly became everything and the ache in my heart from that realization hit so hard that I had to stop for a moment and catch my breath.

This.  This is the heaviness I carry right now; the burdensome reality not just of the huge loss of my husband, but also of the little losses that come along with it.  I love that Jesus totally understands this and invites us to find rest in Him. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take My yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy, and My burden is light.” ~ Matthew 11:28-30

I’ve been so blessed this week by friends and family who’ve continuously checked on me and my boys, who haven’t stopped praying for us, and who offer to help in any way they can, with each offer its own kind of rest for our weary souls.  I’m still gutted and most days feel like one of the walking wounded, especially when I try to contemplate my life without Michael…my Adam, mi tigre, my BHE (Best Husband Ever), my Mr. Darcy. If not for the Lord, I wouldn’t be able to put one foot in front of the other right now and I’m continuously overwhelmed by His love for me. I know – that I know, that I know – that Michael is rejoicing in His presence and, for now (at least for tonight), that is enough.

“When life had begun, I was woven and spun. You let the angels dance around the throne. And who can say when, but they’ll dance again when I am free and finally headed home. I will be weak, unable to speak, still I will call You by name. Creator, Maker, Life Sustainer. Comforter, Healer, My Redeemer. Lord and King, Beginning and The End. I am, I am.” ~ Nichole Nordeman