encouragement

Week 5

One sentence has flurried in my mind since I read it Wednesday:

Perhaps I did not deserve their deaths, but I did not deserve their presence in my life either.

Jerry Sittser, A Grace Disguised.

It stings. I don’t like it. But, but, but. But perhaps it’s true.

From my point of view — a 27 year old woman, a sister and a daughter survivor of suicide who has always love my family deeply — it’s incredibly tempting to submit to cynicism. Thoughts like Nothing I did mattered flutter through my brain. It didn’t matter if I was the best daughter or the best sister in the work, they still left. The sad part about that thought is that it’s entirely true.

I’m sure many are thinking similar thoughts… if I’d only… if I was a better _______ … I wish I would have… the list goes on.

Suicide tends to reverberate guilt throughout its affected community. The truth is, you could be the best mother/father, husband/wife, brother/sister, son/daughter, or the best friend and this nightmare could be your reality, too. Chances are, if you’re reading this, you are and you were — you were a good _____. In fact, you were probably great. Odds are, you loved my Mom well and you laughed together often. And yet…

The thought Did any of it matter? haunts me once more.

I loved my Mom… did that matter? I was a good daughter… did that matter? We loved my mom. My entire family loved my Mom deeply. Her community locally and globally loved her deeply.

Oh, this shattering outcome makes it too easy to believe that none of it mattered.

“Why don’t I get to have a Mom? I loved my Momma,” I sob endlessly to Scott (thanks, honey).

Then I despair that it feels like none of it mattered. That’s an incredibly easy lie to believe until someone knocks on my door to bring us dinner. Until we check the mail and have letters and packages from friends we haven’t connected with in years. Until we read the text messages. Until we feel the warmth from your embrace. Until we hear the care in your voices.

It did matter. It does matter. All of it mattered. Your kindness matters, your help matters, your love matters. It’s easy for me to believe that nothing I do matters, until I receive boundless kindness from those around me and I experience comfort and healing from each little act of kindness and care. That matters to me, and it reminds me that what I do does matter, and that what you do matters, too.

Day 30

The sorrow that I dreaded has made its home in my heart, where it will forever languish.

I am so sad, forever.

Perplexing thoughts cross my mind and the minds as many as people try to make sense of this situation, but it is truly senseless. My mom’s death highlights mental illness — mentally sound people do not and cannot end their own lives. There is no reason, there is no “why,” there is nothing to blame or to conclude about this situation other than the advancement of mental illness. My mother hid it extremely well. She knew well what mental illness is, and perhaps she did not realize the depth of her own struggles until her mind was too impaired.

She didn’t do this to us, she didn’t do this at us, she didn’t do this in spite of us.

There is much we don’t know and won’t understand and to a point, it doesn’t really matter: nothing will bring her back.

My Mom’s death doesn’t forfeit her love, it doesn’t forfeit what she believed, and it doesn’t forfeit all she strived to do and who she wanted to be.

In her right mind and in her fullest, she loved life. Her laughter filled the room and bellowed from every conversation. Her smile beamed brightest around her family and with her friends. She loved getting to discover the depth of others by asking provocative questions and teasing the answers out of one another. She loved Jesus and she wanted to experience the fullness of life that God promises here on earth (John 10:10). She was passionate about mental health and desperately wanted to see others healed on this side of eternity, and I think she believed that wholly for herself, too.

Mom fought a horrific battle that she could not share with us, and while that hurts us more than anything, these facts detail a torment she kept in the shadows. If only, if only she applied her studies and reached out in the way she encouraged others to do. Maybe she spent so much time encouraging others in the hopes that she, too, would find the courage to reach out.

She wanted to make a difference, she wanted to heal. She wanted so much from this life that gave her so much. Her life was beautiful and full of laughter and love, and, in her best moments, she felt that wholly.

My mom did not die because of any one thing: she died fighting an unspeakable battle, one we’ll never know how long she fought. This painful reality scorches my heart and sometimes it feels impossible to believe that my life is good and beautiful and kind, when all feels so dark and cruel.

But I know — I know, somehow, there is grace in this. My family and I have so much life left to live, and our lives will be filled with laughter and love and goodness and opportunity that we cannot begin to imagine right now. We are blessed. We are blessed with each other, we are blessed with our outstanding community who supports and mourns with us, and we were blessed with my Mom.

My Mom was a light and a gift that I will never have again, and her absence brings tumultuous tears to my eyes each day. While this is so dark, my Mom was not all of the light in the world.

I will carry this grief with me forever, but this sadness and this grief does not dismiss the many years of joy and abundance still to come.

Grief gifts us with a new understanding of God and life and the universe. It strips us bare of any preconceived ideas rooted in anything but truth, and the fire of affliction will bring about unimaginable glory.

Right now, it’s physically impossible for us to imagine or even desire a good life when my Mom was what made our old lives so good, but we will experience blessing and healing and a new good life.

Day 19

Today was hard.

I’m not really sure what to type today, but I set out to write and publish 30 days of thoughts to give people a glimpse into the world of a survivor.

“Suicide,” “murder,” “survivor” — these are all words I never thought would be so incredibly personal and defining in my life. I remember the first time I really learned in-depth about suicide the was in an eighth or ninth grade English class, studying Thirteen Reasons Why. I didn’t care much for the book then… I detest it even more now. I had no idea, back then, that suicide would claim as least a third of my family.

It’s so dark, so horrific. I observe that most shy away from the topic. Families have been shamed, judgement often cast at survivors. Survivors — what a heavy title. Institutions often choose not to address it corporately. I assume so few understand the depth of the concept, and people often flounder when they are unfamiliar with something so dark, so scary, and so sensitive.

The band Twenty One Pilots engages in the conversation. Their song “Neon Gravestones,” discusses how culture has glorified suicide, stating it’s “further engraving an earlier grave is an optional way.” Contrasting the idealized perspective, the band ends the song with the following lyrics:

Find your grandparents or someone of age
Pay some respects for the path that they paved
To life they were dedicated
Now, that should be celebrated!

The beginning of the song highlights a dangerous mindset:

“Keep your wits about you while you got ’em
‘Cause your wits are first to go while you’re problem-solving”

This is a dark post, but I do want to bring awareness to this epidemic.

For those who are struggling, ending your life does not solve the problem. Your pain and your hurt are real. It may feel absolutely impossible, but you can heal. Your life can be redeemed. This pain, it will be redeemed.

This is not the end of our story.

Day 18

One day, I will run out of pictures of me and Mom. That thought haunts me every time I write one of these posts.

I feel bad for the kids who will grow up with ChatGBT, for they may never know the therapeutic art of writing.


“From the fruit of a person’s mouth his stomach is satisfied; he is filled with the product of his lips.  Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruit. ”‭‭

Proverbs‬ ‭18‬:‭20‬-‭21‬, CSB

I’ve thought a lot about words recently: which words lead to life and which lead to death. Words are incredibly powerful. With a mere sentence, one can build up and encourage or one can destroy hope.

One of the first few phrases I uttered after I found out about my Mom’s death was “I can’t do this. I can’t lose my Mom. Scott, I can’t lose my Mom. I can’t lose my Momma. Not my Momma,” I voiced in horror as the concept became a reality.

I’ve thought about that a lot: “I can’t do this,” but the truth is, I can. I don’t want to and I wish more than anything in the world that it wasn’t true, but I can do it. Then, I thought about how the phrases “I can’t do this” and “I can’t handle this,” are statements that lead to death. They’re dangerous – voicing and thinking them concedes defeat before endurance begins.

Thus, I am working to eliminate them from my vocabulary. I can handle this, I can do this, and you can, too.

Life and death are in the tongue, but the tongue only voices what the mind first conceptualized. We must retrain our minds to prepare for the trials we endure.

You and I — we can do this. We are going to make it. We can do this together, we must do this together. Isolation, avoidance, and silence destroy us. Together, we can share our burdens, we can support one another, and we can learn to love and to grow amidst what feels like a nightmare.

I wish my Momma would have chosen together. I wish she would have shared. If she were in her right mind, I believe she would have. We honor her when we share our burdens — it’s what she wanted for and from all of us.

She didn’t want this, not really. She spent the last few years of her life dedicated to preventing this type of reality. That was real. Her passion was real. Her detest for this type of pain was real, but, on that abhorrent day, she believed she couldn’t handle it, and she made that decision alone.

You can handle it. I can handle it. We can handle it together 💙. In her right mind, that is what she would have wanted.

Day 16

Silence. Quiet. Peaceful, terrible.

Tomorrow will be the first day without any guests. All have gone home, and my father, my brother, and I will experience our first bouts of alone time. It’s necessary, it’s healing, and it will likely be painful.

Torrents of grief, sacred and terrible, assuage we mourners. I’ve loved and appreciated the depth and beauty of sadness, but I still hate enduring it at this level of intensity. Sorrow opens one’s eyes to a new world and demands a new perspective from the sufferer. This new perspective can make one bitter or it can make him or her more compassionate, but it either way the perspective shift prompts a response.

Grief is traumatic. It assaults the mind and the nervous system. It manifests itself in sadness and anxiety. It steals sleep from some and it keeps others in bed for days. It produces shaky hands and sore eyes. It creates fear and mistrust. It eliminates filters and threatens boundaries that otherwise would protect its victims.

We aren’t strong, we mourners, we are incredibly weak. We are at our most vulnerable and most sensitive. We are raw. We hurt, often more than we ever deemed imaginable or bearable. Yet, we bear it.

Some watch mourners with awe and amazement — unsure how we could function. Some are offended if a mourner is snappy or not as “bubbly” as normal. Some prefer to look away, noting how painful it is to even think about what a mourner endures.

Grief manifests differently in every individual because of the uniqueness of every single relationship; while that makes each person’s experience vastly personal, a wondrous communal aspect exists when we mourn the same individual.

It’s private, and it’s not. It’s personal, and it’s shared.

Mourning callously brings out both the best and the worst in people, because we join together in our grief but can quickly isolate from offenses and hurts. We are vulnerable, we are tired, and we are boundlessly sad.

When we love each other and show up for one another and extend continuous grace — that is when we mourn well.

We mourn because we lost someone so incredibly precious, and we cannot stop loving them. Love transcends time, space, and even death. Love well.

Above all, love each other deeply for love covers a multitude of sins

I Peter 4:8

Day 8

Funeral preparations cease but a few friends and family members from out of town remain close. Reality slowly creeps in as the whispers of finding a “new normal” lingers just around the corner. In a matter of days, most of the world will return to work while we begin to reorganize our lives.

My Daddy, of course, will have the most significant adjustment for his day-to-day life. Already, he sleeps without my Mom, but he has not had to experience a “typical” day without her. They were partners, they were friends, and they were lovers. I always thought they really would be that couple from The Notebook: I never thought this could happen.

Their relationship was an anchor in my life. They endured and overcame agonizing trauma together again and again and again, and they were the best of friends. Growing up, I always wanted a marriage like theirs. Since getting married, I still wanted a relationship like theirs! My marvelous husband and I watched their love for one another with reverence and admiration. They were such an amazing team. They loved being together and they loved each other well. It’s difficult not to be really angry with my mom when I think of their truly inspirational marriage… and then it’s really, really, really sad.

As my brother Luke reminded, my siblings and I had never known a world without Mom until eight days ago.

Rehabilitation — that’s the word that keeps bustling through my mind. Learning to live without Mom feels like rehabilitating back into normal society: walking, driving, talking, biking, writing, smiling, and so much more, feels so foreign and unnatural. I feel as though I can barely hold a thought or concept in my mind.

Denial persists more than anything right now, a dull ache thumps within me at all times, but most of the time I can’t believe my Mom’s gone and I can’t believe my mom left me feels like a distant thought and not an annihilating reality. My Momma, I still mumble in shock. Moments of mayhem pierce me to the core, preparing me for when the shock wears off and when I’ll have to truly face this menacing reality.

My Mom grounded and anchored my life, creating stability and safety. What now?

Daily Tip for Communicating with Someone in Mourning

I have provided many things not to say — all of which from comments multiple people have made, not just one-off comments as to not single anyone out — but there are so many good things people say as well.

“I’m sorry” feels like such a weak thing to say, but it encompasses a tremendous amount of emotion and care. The short phrase empathizes with the mourners and often creates an understanding between two hurting people.

Future Ways to Help

Small tasks are incredibly helpful — doing a load of laundry, wiping down a counter, calling to set up a dental appointment. Sometimes it’s hard for me to even remember to put a pair of shoes on – it’s invaluable to notice those little things that may be neglected and to help one another out.

We’re a grieving community, and we’ve got this 💙

I Write to the Griever; I Write to the Friend

Shame cloaks one in fear.  Fear keeps one in isolation.  Isolation repeats the cycle. 

It’s the tragic irony that prohibits us from knowing how to reach out to others when we need them most, and it’s often that same irony that keeps others from reaching out to us. 

The concealment of shame safely shields one from oneself and from others – at times I have been afraid to voice my concerns and share my story simply because the story itself frightened me.  Sharing makes life’s nightmares more real.  Other times, the fear of another’s someone misunderstanding has kept my fingers from typing and my mouth from speaking. 

But where does one turn when he or she internalizes those matters that are too dangerous to share with others?

I look to words – to books and to music, to poems and to plays – but what happens when there are no words?

The prevalence of centuries of literature whispers God’s mercy: one looks to the Psalms for comfort and contrition, the Old Testament stories and New Testament parables for history and application, and the prophecy books for detailed truth of who God has always been.  These precious words preserve timeless truth. It is God who bestows light and life into man, and man who reflects the image of God (Genesis 1, John 1). 

Mankind mirrors fractures of God’s mercy, not because God’s mercy is broken, but because we are broken and fallen creatures.  Mercy cracks through the brokenness of man, reflecting the glory of God, through the gift of man’s words. 

Words meant to heal, words crafted to explain, words written to comfort.  Words to bring the shamed out of isolation and into compassion: words powerful enough to help the confused and broken feel understood and validated.  

I didn’t get those words.  I couldn’t find them. 

When my world fell apart, I fell with it, and there were so few resources to explain.  No one writes about the loss of a sibling, though most of the deceased are survived by siblings.  It’s rare for young people to experience and detail loss. 

And grieving a “complicated death” (ie: suicide, murder)?  Some psychologists write to attempt to explain, but few first-hand accounts exist.  These deaths are shrouded in the shame of the survived, leaving the survived isolated, tabooed, and unreached.

I intend to share the depths of a griever’s experience as a sibling, as a friend, as a woman, as a youth, and as a survivor.  In weeks to come, I will share excerpts from my journals to convey the intensities of loss and the miracles of mercy. Some excerpts may be incredibly intense and seem hopeless, but these are the details of redemption and lament.

In the end, we’re each the griever and the friend.

So, let’s break the cycle.  Truth is not powerless. Isolation, shame, and fear are powerless.  

Behind the Canvas

Behind the canvased sky,

I see a river flowing free.

The rugged tapestry once concealed all that’s real,

But Time tore the Romantic landscape

And began to reveal the mysteries hidden behind.

Through holes, I glimpse the world that inspired its painter.

— — —

A few months ago, I scoffed as I read “I was twenty-seven when I learned that my days were numbered… I had been given the opportunity not many twenty-seven-year-olds could claim: the opportunity to count each of my days as precious.”  Anger and jealousy panged my heart: anger, because  I never wanted this “opportunity”, and  jealousy because I was younger when I was granted this “opportunity.”  I’m incredibly stubborn sometimes, and, in that moment, I did not want to think about the loss of my brother as an “opportunity.”  In that moment, I just wanted my brother back.  Jen Wilkin, author of None Like Him, continues, writing: “Any illusions I might have had that this life would last forever were effectively removed.  I learned a perspective that many don’t grasp until the aging process begins its faithful instruction in universal human frailty.” [1]

I mulled over those statements for weeks before I could finally adopt the author’s same sense of calm appreciation for having to face harsh realities at a young age.  Reflecting on the new perspective growing within me, I described it to a dear friend who lost his brother years before I lost mine:

Growing up, it’s like you’ve been painting a picture for your entire life.  Each joy or heartache you experience as a child adds light and darkness to your canvas, and, through the canvas, you see the world.  It’s beautiful but imperfect—it is not without its own sadness and glory.  The painting’s our framework—we create it and we focus so intensely that we forget it’s a mere painting.  Then, one day, Death happens, and he severs our paintings.  Our canvases cracks, our mind quivers and retreats in confusion.  It’s torn us, and it’s painful to be torn.  When we get past the hurt we feel at the breaking, we finally see it—there appears to be a light from behind the gashes.  Peaking in, there it is—the real world.  Our minds only painted them with what we thought we knew, but now, after the tear, we see it.  It’s beautiful and it’s sunny.  Of course, there are dark shadows and tumultuous areas, just like the ones in our paintings, but there exists a clarity and a depth that our paintings could never capture.  We finally see what’s real, and our pieces seem suddenly insignificant; our painting cannot be mended—the damage cannot be undone—but we see the Truth beyond our created canvases.  

My friend listened and calmly smiled at me, “It’s not just death, but I think that’s just a part of growing up,” reminding me of the universality of the human condition.

He’s right—we all have moments where everything that made our frameworks shatters and we’re left feeling vulnerable and shattered.  At first, it’s hard to see anything, but, in time, we begin to realize how our perspectives have altered.  We learn truths about God, about the world, and about ourselves that we never would have known.

Like Wilkin, I have been blessed to learn life’s brevity before my parents even appear old and frail.  Sometimes I envy those who get to enjoy their twenties free of the intense emotional toll that bereavement promises, but God is faithful to give me reminders that he’s redeeming the times.  He’s gently taking me by the hand and walking me down a path He knows I didn’t want to be on—a path He didn’t want me and my family to have to walk;  “The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promises as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance” II Peter 3:9.  Christ did not wish Patrick’s death upon us.  Knowing that doesn’t make this any less painful, but it does remind me that God is trustworthy even in the darkest circumstances. 

— — —

So, I press on—uncovering more mysteries beyond the canvas I created.  Pursuing God as he bestows me with “a crown of beauty instead of ashes” (Isaiah 61:3). 

For now, life is calm.  It’s been a much-needed respite.  I continue to wrestle spiritually and emotionally with Patrick’s death.  Psalm 126:5 sings, “Those who sow in tears shall weep with shouts of joy.” I’m still very much in the first stage of that verse, but I am able to experience joy as well.  I’m not quite shouting about it, but there’s a calm gratefulness and happiness that permeates everything these days. 

I realized about two-weeks ago that life had calmed.  The storms have ceased for a time.  Now I’m living in the recovery—still afraid of aftershocks, still hesitant and cautious, still mourning deep losses—now, God helps me pick up my broken pieces and carries me beyond the waves into still waters (Isaiah 43, Psalm 23).  He’s my refuge and my hiding place when I’m too afraid of the world around me (Psalm 119:114).  He renews my strength.  In Him I trust, and I will not be shaken (Psalm 62:6). 

[1] Wilkin, None Like Him, p. 78

The Reset

And it was the end of an era I was not ready to let go of…

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Two-Thousand and Eighteen: a year that completed four years of alteration. 

– 2014 –

We moved to Virginia days after I graduated high school.  I was sixteen, driving from Arkansas to Virginia with Shadow as my copilot, and leaving everything familiar behind except my family.  We knew nothing of Virginia nor the East Coast, but I was supremely excited for the anticipated adventure.  Though I had many dear friends there, I was ready to leave Arkansas.  June 4, 2018, we arrived at our new home and a series of changes rapidly ensued.

[Journal Entry, dated July 25, 2015, italicized]

Sometimes I stop myself and take a breath and let it sink in; this is what I wanted, and this is how I imagined it.  I have lots of friends who love me…we stay out late and stay up even later.  We laugh and cry together, and I’m independent.  This is what I always dreamed of. Yes, it’s horrifying, but if I’m really being honest, I’m in love with the constant chaos of everything around me. 

Somehow, it’s terrifyingly beautiful.

I love my life, and I’m so thankful for where God has placed me.  This past year has been a year of healing that I never could have dreamed of, and of rejuvenating that I didn’t know I needed.

I was exhausted when I left Arkansas.  Now, being here has helped me so much.  I love it, and I’m not ready to leave.  But God is preparing my heart, and He will be with me.  I love him, and I love my life.  I am mortified of what will become of me, but I’m not afraid of who I will become.  If I keep Him centered, what is to fear?

12465568_10154294980021729_1345779115_oI wrote that a month before I left for Liberty University in a leather-bound journal that Laura Denson gave me.  Thanks to the community God provided me with, Hampton was everything that I prayed for when I left Arkansas.  I thought that going to LU would terminate many of the friendships I had made over the past year.  While some naturally faded, others wonderfully strengthened. 

[Journal Entry, dated December 11, 2017, italicized]

By the end of 2017, few people remained in Hampton whom I had met in 2014.  Much of what I had grown accustomed to slowly faded away, and I no longer spent ample time with a majority of the people in these photos due to peoples’ moves, church changes, and/or other miscellaneous life transitions. 

I was growing restless. 22549927_1433640100022655_4125797685064880172_n

This season pains existence.  Questions never cease, and answers never come.  The twenties are so much harder than everyone tells you… Unpredictability characterizes this stage.  My heart rips between here [Lynchburg] and Hampton… I’m exhausted from being alive.  I need something new.  I’m not even sure how I’ll make it next semester.  I am so burnt out.

And thus, I drove home for Christmas break, and my friends and family reminded me why I held Hampton so dear.

– 2018 –

[Journal Entry, dated January 1, 2018, itlalicized]

I began the year by running away to Europe—I specialize in running when I’ fear reality—and came back with a refreshed perspective. 

The Lord reveals things, not in our timing, but in His; yet He laces hints in unlikely moments.  My stubbornness falters me, yet He gives perfect grace to woo me to Him.  He called me out from the wilderness of my own mind and brought me back softly to His presence.  He’s reminded me of His sovereignty and His plan.  That’s right, God has a plan for me.  It’s a truth I’ve treated as a lie for quite some time due to my sin of disbelief.  

– – –

Walter was with me during my first year in Hampton, and he was the last person from that stage of my life that remained close.  When Walter died, so left the last consistent reminder of 2014.  IMG_5941.jpg

Thus, it was reset.

[Journal Entry, dated January 1, 2018, continued]

I allowed my ignorance and frustration to warp my mind; so I looked to my known God—a good God, a creator, an assigner of work, a loving Father, a sovereign king—and ascribed to Him all of my anxieties…I embraced negativity and ran from my Savior because of the pain in my heart.  I hurt, deeply, and I blamed God for it. 

Yet, all the while, it was He who spoke kindly to me.  It was He who whispered truth, even when I barely listened.  All the while, He was stirring up my affections, burdening me with trivial matters, exposing my heart slowly… Slowly, softly, gently, because He knew I could not take it all at once.

I lost Walter, my mini-cooper, the familiarity of Lynchburg and college life within two weeks.  My family moved the day I graduated, I quit a job I enjoyed a month later, and Shadow passed away shortly after that.  

I’m ready for 2019.  I’m excited to see what God will do.  He’s growing me and He’s healing me.  2018 made me realize the depths of my weakness, but I am relearning to abide in God’s strength.  I feel stronger and braver than I have felt in quite some time. BDBED1A4-9156-48D4-AED9-F87B59F016B5.jpeg

It’s like one of those movies that ends where it began—when I returned to Hampton in May, everything I became familiarized with in 2014 was gone. 

2018 was terrifyingly beautiful.

I moved to Hampton days after I graduated college.  I was twenty, driving from Lynchburg to Hampton with Spotify as my copilot, and leaving everything familiar behind except my friends.  I grew to love Virginia and embraced the East Coast, but I somberly and optimistically anticipate the next adventure. 

“Cling to What Is Good”

November 22, 2018

“Here, Hopey, it’s your turn.”  My Aunt Beth smiles as she hands me our family’s Thanksgiving notebook—the ledger that preserves memoirs from the past three years of each of our lives.  I release an oppressed sigh as my fingers trace the globe on the book’s cover and my mind drifts to a conversation I had with a dear friend the week prior.

– – –

“Hope, how are you doing?”  My eyes involuntarily fell into my coffee cup before I mustered the courage to respond.

“Honestly?”  I paused as I decided between duplicity and vulnerability: “I feel physically beat up.  I feel like I got knocked down this year and have been kicked over and over and over again.  I am physically and mentally exhausted.”

– – –

Beholding the journal, I apprehensively open the cover.  What on earth am I supposed to write this year?  Thanksgiving looked different than what I had anticipated weeks before, and I dreaded receiving this notebook; however, recalling that memory, sitting in my brother’s house, and being surrounded by family, somberness softly melted into gratefulness.  Thus, I began with three simple words: “2018 was a year.”

* * *

I pondered the past eleven months of one surreal year.  I spent New Year’s 30,000 feet in the air headed for London—I felt independent and free and unstoppable.  I was twenty years old and flying to Europe for a five-country tour with some of my best friends, and then returning to my final semester of college.  I had no idea what my life would look like after graduation and studied for half our trip, but I was reminded to enjoy the moment.  God would provide in such miraculous ways in the months to come.

26730908_1520870774632920_5734749559510876688_n.jpgLife was a blur between January and May—sooo many late nights spent with Isabella, Emily, and Judd.  Book club continued with Candace as we finished Priscilla Schrier’s Resolutions for Women and began Amanda Bible-Wilson and Raechel Myer’s She Reads Truth.  We celebrated Ben and Lauren’s engagement and we cheered as Judd open for John Mark McMillan.  School was crazy, but that’s consistent, so what’s new there?  It was a perfect semester, culminated with enough stress and excitement to fill one’s life with awe and thankfulness.  I spent more weekends than I had preferred in Hampton, but, in the end, I will forever thank God for how He arranged those trips back and forth.

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Then we come to my favorite memory: at the end of April, Walter, Tyler, and Josh visited me in Lynchburg for a Hillsong concert. I remember sitting at dinner with Walt and Ty and thinking that it felt like old times—these had been my dear friends since I was 16. We all headed back to Hampton for Matt and Kayla’s beautiful wedding and continued to make the greatest memories.  Walter convinced me to stay in Hampton after graduation and my sweet friend, Rachel, made that possible.   I remember calling my mom that Monday and telling her how sweet that weekend had been—Ty and Walt visited me every year I was at Liberty and I didn’t think that would have been possible for them to come this year.  That was the last time that I saw Walter.  God was so kind to allow that trip.31430356_1616995038353826_3057660479495575863_n.jpg

After that weekend, everything seemed to fall apart.  There were nine weeks of affliction—nine weeks where God revealed that nothing is constant, and nothing is permanent apart from Him.

Weary and discouraged, I boarded a plane to Portland, Oregon for a trip my grandparents had planned months before.  I spent 18 days surrounded by family in a place far from the troubles of home.  I learned how to breathe again and how to rest in the Lord’s presence.  I realized the amount of pressure I bombard myself with when I attempt to rely on my own strength.  I am so, so weak.  I learned to lean on the strength of my Savior.

37927544_1727112754008720_5934112775352614912_n.jpgWhen I returned, my external circumstances remained uncertain, but my internal conflict ceased.  I was ready to leave Virginia and would have given up had it not been for the encouragement of Nelly, Derek, and my grandparents.  August 8th, five days after I got back, I accepted a job in Virginia and chose to persist; the shadows of the uncertain slowly began to fade away.

– – –

I dreaded receiving that notebook, for I had no idea what I would write.  What do you write for a year you wish did not exist?  It’s been a year.  Many things about this year feel fake–like they didn’t or shouldn’t have happened.

Yet God reminded me of His faithfulness.  I remembered all the little moments that God used to prepare me for greater trials.  I remembered Becca and Brittany and Lauren and Ben and Candace and Daniel and Maddie and Katie and Jocelyn and Jenny and Judd and Isabella and Emily—29102040_1573573962695934_132536839882033839_n.jpgI remembered all of the friends who made college so wonderful and who helped me finish.  I remembered how God allowed Candace and I to read a book about how He is permanent in a world that is passing away before and after Walter met Him.  I finished college feebly, returning to school for final exams and papers the week after Walter passed away.  I remember how Sandy and I clung to one another that first week back.  I remembered how kind, supportive, and understanding all of my professors were.  I remember how God allowed me to graduate despite the hardships—I would not have finished that final semester apart from God’s grace.32982080_1638167396236590_9186676991623954432_n.jpg

33027682_1638178599568803_2408179426903719936_n.jpgI remembered spending almost every Friday night with Morgan, Gabi, Laura Kate, and Lauren watching It Takes a Church and laughing together.  37121019_1708897055830290_1329648512505217024_n.jpgI remembered the summer that my Church became my family in the purest way.  I remembered visiting my parents in their new home and getting to spend a week of sweet vacation with them.  I remembered going to Colorado to visit Tyler with Lauren, Mike, and Scott, and enjoying ourselves though everything that could have gone wrong went wrong.  I remembered running to the beach with several friends to get away when things got too rough at home.

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I remembered worshipping with those closest to me—in tears, in song, in celebration, and in laughter.

* * *

I received that notebook and I relentlessly wept as I mourned the past year.  My family saw me and they held me as I clung to them.  Nothing needed to be said, we all knew.

Thankfulness overcame me as I thought about the family that surrounds me.  I held my niece each morning as she ate breakfast, and I played with my nephew’s hair until he fell asleep.IMG_0030.jpeg  I enjoyed early mornings with my parents and Luke and Karley and Aunt Beth and Uncle Terry and spent the afternoon the whole family.  Each day was so sweet and so special.  It’s been wonderful to have Luke and Karley live near–they have blessed me so much.  Each of my siblings and their families have surpassed my expectations this year–I wondered what our relationships would look like once Mom and Dad moved away–I have grown closer to all of them this year.

It’s been a year–more painful than words express.  I did not want to be grateful this year.  I did not want to acknowledge all that God has blessed me within 2018–I wanted to focus on all that God has allowed to be taken from me.  But He has blessed me, and He has been with me and before me through it all.

Let love be without hypocrisy.  Abhor what is evil, cling to what is good.

Romans 12:9

I am so weak.  I need God’s strength and I need that reminder to “cling to what is good.”  He is good, even when life aches.

When my strength fails, He is strong.  When circumstances change, He is constant. When people disappoint me, He is faithful.  When I make mistakes, He is forgiving.  When everything collapses, He is a firm foundation.

2018 was a year.  Yes, I do feel beaten down, but “we are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair,” II Corinthians 4:8.  Therefore, I will hope in the God that provides everything I need yesterday, today, and forever, and my hope will not be put to shame.

For Further Reading:

Hebrews 10:39

II Corinthians 4:16-18

Job 1:21

Psalm 136

Hosea 2

I John 2:17

Deuteronomy 31:6

II Corinthians 4