life

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 14

Two weeks.

There’s a weight so heavy on my chest I feel like I can barely breathe. It feels like I am operating at 50% of my normal capacity, if that. It feels so heavy. What does that even mean? Why does it legitimately feel like there is a weight pressed against my lungs, collapsing them? How does that work? How does the body do that?

I thought we had something special, me and my mom. I thought we had a great relationship. Now I feel like I didn’t even know her. Who was this woman I spent so much time with? I thought she liked being with me, I thought she wanted to be in my life, I thought she wanted to be here. But in the end, she wanted to leave me. It wasn’t worth it for her to stay in my life. She didn’t want to see me grow up anymore. I thought we were going to be two old ladies together. I thought she wanted me. I thought she wanted me. Did she think I did not love her? Why weren’t we enough?

I hate my name. I’ve hated it for a long time. My mom gave me this name because she hoped so badly for me… what good did that do for her? It’s so cruel to be named Hope when it feels like so many people in my world are hopeless.

“Hopey, you’re my Hope. You make me believe that everything’s going to be okay and that we’re really going to make it.” That’s what my brother Patrick told me two days before he ended his life. Once he died, I really started to hate my name.

Before that, I was always a pessimist. It felt so ironic to be called “hope” when I so seldom experienced hope myself.

Now this? I hate my name. It feels so cruel tonight.

Why did I start writing these? I keep asking myself that. More precisely, why did I start publishing these? I’ve loved writing for my entire life. I used to write fantastical stories, dreaming worlds late into the night when I was just a young girl. Then in puberty I started writing to cope with my ever-changing world. Now, I almost exclusively write when my emotions cloud my head, spill out of my eyes, and pours from an ink pen onto a blank page.

So, why did I start publishing these?

After Patrick died, I seriously isolated myself. I did not answer my phone for over a month and I had no desire to make contact with the outside world.

In our American culture, grief is so private. Suicide is beyond taboo, and people in mourning may be given three days of bereavement leave. Three days… how pathetic. Our culture almost treats grief like something to be ashamed of or to be quickly gotten over. Because of this, death and grief are seldom discussed and very few — especially at my ripe old age of 27 — people have much of a framework/understanding of mourning and grief.

Grief shouldn’t isolate. It should be something that pulls us all together, something that makes us stop and hold one another closer, something that prompts us to change our lives for the better.

As my friend Olivia Chancellor always says “Alone is a lie.” Maybe if I share my thoughts, others will have the courage to share theirs too. Thoughts can be scary and painful and feel so isolating, but alone is a lie. “Everything that is exposed by the light becomes visible–and everything that is illuminated becomes light,” Ephesians 5:13. It’s only when we share our darkest thoughts that we are truly able to heal from them.

I want to live. I want to have a life full of beauty and joy and pain and wonder. I want to experience it all. I want to be fully present. I want to experience life to the full in every possible way, no matter how it hurts.

I don’t want to move on from this. I will be carrying this for the rest of my life, and I want to grow and learn to carry this with grace and love and even hope. I want to live, and I want to live well.

Day 9

Our second church service since Mom left us filled me with encouragement once more. A healthy amount of tears dripped from my sore eyes onto my pallid cheeks as we sang of God’s good plans, his faithfulness, and his constance. All of which I believe, and I mean really believe.

However, I mentioned the dissonance between faith and desperate circumstances during Mom’s Celebration of Life, and I want to share more of what exactly that looks like. Suffering forces people to confront their inmost beliefs, and that is completely healthy and can become beautiful. My Mom loved Jesus with her entire being: the cacophony of confusion left in her wake prompts intense introspection and deconstruction.

Our Father in heaven,

your name be honored as holy.

Your kingdom come,

Your will be done

on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our debts,

as we also have forgiven our debtors.

And do not bring us into temptation,

but deliver us from the evil one.

Matthew 6:9-13, CSB

Now, please understand, I’m not looking for answers and I do not plan to provide any at this time, but I do want to share the questions clamoring in my mind. Thoughts that, perhaps, cloud your mind as well. Maybe sharing my thoughts will help those echoing the same to feel less alone and less afraid, because two thoughts can be true at the same time: one can trust God and be utterly confused and skeptical at the same time. Thus, my questions:

• Good fathers are supposed to protect their family. Why don’t you [God] protect mine?

• If Jesus is the abundant life, how could my mom die? She loved him.

• If he [God] knew what Mom needed, why weren’t her needs met?

I’ve said this so many times — I believe that God can do all things, but I fear what he will allow to happen. This is precisely why: I have not experienced twice how despair and hopelessness kill those whom I love, and those who legitimately love Jesus.

Today, I was incredibly overwhelmed by the generosity and the care from mine and Scott’s small group. They ensured our current needs were met and provided provisions for our future needs. My family has experienced such incredible and support from people being the hands and feet of Jesus, and, because of them, right now my faith remains strong. I wrestle through these complex questions, but it is abundantly clear that we have our daily bread, that God is providing and caring for us, and that we will get through this. I cannot thank our community enough for all they have done. You have eclipsed this horribly dark and tragic time with light and love and I am amazed and humbled at all of this. Thank you.

Tips for Communicating with Someone in Mourning

Acknowledging the situation is better than avoiding the topic altogether. It may be awkward to speak up, but a simple “I see you,” goes a long way 💙

Redemption is Coming

Now without faith it is impossible to please God, since the one who draws near to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him.

Hebrews 11:6, CSB

I lost faith when I went through a few years of loss and turmoil. My mind and thoughts were tormented by the harsh reality that my friend was gone, and my brother Patrick gave up his life to shame and depression. Unable to make sense of life anymore, my faith faltered. I was broken and in a state that felt impossible to recover from. My reality was horror. How can one have faith when his or her circumstances seem to contradict that which one believes?

We each respond differently to grief and suffering; while I struggled to believe, my mother remained steadfast. Her trust in God did not waiver despite the reality that her baby was gone, and I could not understand it. Thus, with water-brimmed eyes in 2019, I asked her how she could remain confident, and she provided aged wisdom:

“You are so young. I cannot imagine having to face the things that you have had to your whole life. I have faith because I have seen the faithfulness of God over the years. You spent the past 15 years watching destruction without redemption. You have been so strong.”

Her words made sense – It’s challenging to maintain faith when one’s life has been painted with suffering since its beginning. My life has been beautiful and even amidst intense suffering has been filled with mercy and blessing, but, like many, I began viewing life through lenses of sorrow as a young girl.

We are so very attached to outcomes. We have faith that God is good, that He is the God that delivers redemption and provides healing. Broken endings aren’t good, and they don’t look like redemption.

It’s been four years since my brother took his life from me and I assure you, death is not good. Mourning never ceases. My faith was unfathomably wounded back then. My heart turned to dust, my mind to ashes, but dust is what God used to breathe life into man.

We died that day, each of us who loved Patrick. Our hopes for earthly restoration disintegrated with his demise. We were broken beyond repair, we needed entirely new perspectives and new hopes. We had to relearn how to think, how to communicate, how to be still.

In the years following his death, I began to seek and experience the redemption my mom told me I had not yet experienced. I felt restoration in my own life and in my own mind. It has been beautiful because it feels like entering Spring after a harsh Winter. It was warm and safe and filled with healing and new life.

I have the faith I lacked those four years ago, and now I know that I can be the one to encourage fellow sufferers to hold on: you may not have had the chance to experience redemption and restoration, but you will. You will.

God is with us. He is our reward. He is our comfort, our strength, and our healing. Even when our faith falters, He brings life from loss and healing from grief.

God is good, even when life is not, and He is good when our nightmares become reality.

Have faith, my friends. Your story is not over, and your life does not have to be without redemption. Your heart can be healed. You can have abundant life after tragedy. Hold on, have faith, redemption is coming.

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.

A Solemn Prologue

In the busyness of life, I nearly forgot my own. I nearly forgot my past – who I was, where I was, what life was like while I was there.

I nearly forgot the tears, the heartache, and the traumas. I nearly forgot that I was such a young girl dealing with such developed problems. I was such a child, scared, and hiding, yet mandated to make mature decisions.

I was 14 the first time I witnessed someone lose his mind to the brink of insanity.

What a child.

I was so young, enduring too much beyond my own comprehension.

Even now, colleagues marvel at what I went through, and yet I expect myself to be normal – to act like a person unacquainted with loss and torment.

Torment. Absolute torment. It was hell and I didn’t even know it, because hell had become normal.

Normal was hiding, wrapping clothes around me as a shelter to cry in peace. So much hiding. So much crying.

And I never could have imagined how much worse it could get. Oh, so much worse.

I can’t believe that was my normal. I can’t believe how much I hid from the world. Hide and hide and hide.

No wonder I have such difficulty grasping out of hiding.

I lived in Sheol. Abaddon was my home. I can’t believe I lived through it.

In some ways, I think I always knew someone would die. Maybe I knew, somehow, that something else would destroy me. Maybe. Maybe I knew that I needed to be destroyed. Maybe it was always there in the back of my mind, hiding safely behind the clothes of denial.

I loved. That is the crime that caused me so much pain. That’s the face I saw in the grave. A man so wounded, he forced gravity to take the life out of him. I was 21 years old when my brother stole his life from my arms, and I’m still trying to come to terms with that reality.

Death & Escape are Not Freedom

I now empathize with the notorious Edna Pontelier when she filled her pockets with rocks, walked into the sea, and submitted her life to its waves: experiencing my best friend’s death, losing my great-grandmother, reminiscing of past losses, and struggling each day to know whether or not my brother has made it through the night. The past 365 days have taught me that the waves flow calmer than they appear, that life berates me more than it seems, and that escapism plagues a nation of plummeting addicts.

The waves tranquilize when you’re beneath them; they rage when you’re surfacing and tumbling through them, but they gently rock you when you dive below them. It’s a gentle sway, almost like a cradle. Perhaps that’s why we enjoy the water. Its beats return us to the calming rhythms of childhood: before the loss, before the heartache, before the destitution.

In literature, the ocean symbolizes innocence, danger, sexuality, and complexity—numerous in its expressive nature. Innocence in that its tranquility brings peace. Dangerous in that its murky waves captivate. Sexually in a matter of mystery and addiction: complexity in its many forms.

We see it in our own lives—the ocean that took my beloved friend’s breath away is the same ocean that I cling to when my own thoughts become tumultuous. It surmises me. How can I look upon the waves that robbed me with such joy and solitude? How can I trust them not to carry me down as well?

It’s the resiliency of the human spirit, gifted through God’s mercy. He allows us to endure and strengthens us to persist despite the weight of the world looming at our shoulders and under our feet.

I’m so weary, I’d love to submit to the waves. To give up the fight is to be truly free, isn’t it? That’s the lie Edna Pontelier, a pioneering feminist icon, perpetuates in her iconic death.

But death and escape aren’t freedom. Death finitely robs us of all possibility of freedom, and escape imprisons us from experiencing freedom; attractive as their appeals appear, its their lies that rush us to ultimate despair. Once we begin listening to the lie that to die is to escape and to be free, we begin to give up on the hope that things can change.

Things do change, everyday, and that is why we must remember it is truth that sets us free, not death. Christ said, “and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free,” to Jewish believers in John 8:35.

That is exactly why I started my blog—to share with others with little truths that God revealed to me. I began my blog based on Ephesians 5:13-14: “But when anything is exposed to the light, it becomes visible, for anything that becomes visible is light. Therefore it says, ‘Awake, O sleeper, / and arise from the dead, / and Christ will shine on you.’”

Death and escape are not freedom. Truth is freedom. “Who the Son sets free is free indeed,” John 8:36. This life is horrifically hard, but that was promised: “I have said these things to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation,” John 16:33a. Christ does not conclude on a sorrowful word; instead, He adds, “But take heart, because I have overcome the world,” reminding us of the steadfastness of truth and of God’s faithfulness.

In Loving Memory

Life is too precious.

My Grossi met Jesus March 11, 2019. She listened to Him release the words, “Well done, Thy good and faithful servant.” I wonder if He had tears in His eyes as He said it. God watched Mary Ellen endure her deepest joys and most anguished sorrows. She made it—she fought the good fight, and she finished the race with joy. I wonder if it brought tears to His eyes.

He had comforted her when she mourned, as He comforts we who mourn.

I think that the hardest part about grief is knowing that you will never be able to make memories with that person again. Death prompts you to remember all the little things that you didn’t realize you would miss.

Her smile, her laughter, her lipstick, her spunk. Her resolution. She was stubborn, as many of you know, and she was strong. I admired her tenacity.

It’s in those little moments that you grow to love someone—it’s the collection of those small moments that builds our trust and our admiration. Those small, insignificant moments.

And it’s often not until death that we realize the magnificence of all those moments.

Mary Ellen Schraner built her life from a collection of moments that highlighted the importance of faith, family, and friends. This church and these people made those moments. You, here today, were everything to her. She found her foundation in Christ and her blessings and joys in you.

Nine years ago, my mother gave her a notebook entitled Grandmother, Tell Me Your Story. Within it poses the question, “What are some of the things you hope your children and grandchildren have learned from you?”

Her answer: “Faith—the belief in God, Cooking—Hospitality,” which I know many of you inherited, and “peace in the family.” Mary Ellen taught me those three things, and she taught me to have fun and to celebrate when life calls for celebration. She prayed for her family more than anyone I know, she welcomed me to her home many times, and she filled my heart with joy and abundance.

It’s strange that she’s not here with us. It doesn’t resonate well. My mother once said, “We are eternal beings. We were never meant to say goodbye.” I suppose that is why it is so devastatingly painful to miss someone who deposited memories into our own life that made us have a life worth living.

So, as we hold our breath, and as we will the world to stop spinning, let’s take the quietness of grief and utilize it as a reminder to cling to the mundane moments. Let’s hold one another a little closer, for a little longer. Life is far too precious and far too short to cling to anything but those who love us.

I John 2:17 reads, “And the world is passing away along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God abides forever.” This became one of my favorite verses the first time I endured grief from a separation that feels so very permanent, but the reality is that permanence fades when you recall Christ’s three words: “It is finished.”

Mary Ellen was ready to meet the Savior of the world, the God that held her tears in a leger. The God that gave her breath, and the God that took her breath away. The God who allowed tragedy, the God who prepared and encouraged her through devastation. The God who blessed her with so many people and things. The God who allowed her to live a full life—she was not afraid to meet the God she knew so well and loved so dear.

I wonder if she brought tears to her Savior’s eyes—happy tears. Christ knew that He brought her home. The heartache and the pain of this world has left her, and she has been made alive in the fullness of Christ.

While we cry because we miss her, I think that Christ may shed a tear in welcoming her home.

Light-Hearted

Fact: I am insecure about my writing when it’s not demanded from an overflow of desolate emotion[s].

Maybe that’s why pain beguiles me. I don’t like pain, but, somehow, it seems to be the only thing that provides me with enough bravery to inscribe my thoughts. Sorrow composes beauty—I’ve witnessed it create masterpieces in the lives around me, but perhaps I need to gain a similar perspective on lighter emotions.

Today, I do not write from emotions drenched in disappointment, but, rather, from an abundance of joy.

The joy of the LORD is your strength.

God carved this verse in my mind at the beginning of 2017: page after page in various notebooks were etched with the simple eight words. I often scribbled the verse at some of my happiest moments, and thus it seemed peculiar when God reminded me of this verse. It came in moments when I didn’t feel like I needed strength–moments when I was strong. I was so happy, so why would God remind me of a verse that seemed more appropriate for perilous days?

I was such a fool to think I didn’t need those words because I didn’t understand the weight of them at that time.

God allowed those joyous moments, each one meriting my trust and my strength in Him, and He reminded me at those specific times so that I would know exactly where strength proliferates when those perilous days would finally come.

Truthfully, I couldn’t remember where those words came from… Thus, I googled the verse a couple weeks ago, and that’s when I gained a new understanding.

Then he [Nehemiah] said to them, “Go, eat of the fat, drink of the sweet, and send portions to him who has nothing prepared; for this day is holy to our Lord. Do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.

Nehemiah 8:10

I was unaware of the beginning of the verse’s final sentence each time I journaled it.

Do not be grieved,

for the joy of the Lord is your strength.

My eyes opened. Inhale, exhale.

God engraved that verse in my mind when I was strengthened in Him to show me that He was the same God when I was crushed in spirit; He gave me that verse amidst joyous occasions so that I would know where to acquire strength when I felt despairingly weak. He was there with me in those joyous moments, showing me His loving kindness in ways I would not comprehend until nothing else made sense.

The timing that confused me was the exact time that God was pre-preparing to strengthen me again. He knew how events would unfold in my life, and He knew I would need to remember His kindness when I felt that I could no longer bear my circumstances. It’s one of the greatest paradoxes that beautifully played out in my own life: “Therefore I am well content with weakness, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ’s sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong,” II Corinthians 12:10 (emphasis added).

In joy I write, remembering the sovereignty of a God who continued to remind me of His goodness when life was “good” simply to re-remind me of His goodness when life didn’t feel good.

God reveals His strength gloriously through the depths of my humility. I despaired, but He did not allow me to linger in anguish. He reminds me that He is good, that yesterday and today are temporary, and that I can trust Him with tomorrow.

I received this notebook for Christmas from Victoria Romano, with the verse displayed on its back cover. Tori didn’t know what this verse had meant to me, she was just a dear friend giving a sweet gift. Behind the scenes, Christ was strengthening me through my weakness in the remembrance of this verse and those moments. I felt unbearably weak for so long, but He renews me each day: I feel strong again because that verse permeates my every breath.

Thank you, Lord, for doing in me what I wished would not be done, and for reviving the life I had not known was dead.

The Reset

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

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?

I 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.

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.

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– 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.

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.

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.

Exposed