Grief is tricky.

When you least expect it, no matter how many days, months, or years has passed, it can break your heart again.

Over my lifetime I’ve struggled with grief on varying levels – losing innocence, losing trust, death of pets, death of grandparents, divorce, losing friends, workplace issues, death of a beloved husband … each event birthed a part of me, a coping mechanism, in hopes of dulling the pain.

I’ve made my rounds with therapists, went to church, prayed, prayed, prayed some more, took medication, exercised… all with the goal of finding freedom from depression, fear of failure, lack of control, and pain. I numbed with working more, achieving more, and constructed internal fortresses to protect my most vulnerable parts while rerouting emotional pathways where I rarely cried, even when it was appropriate.

The fact we don’t treat mental health with the same care and funding we give physical disease in this country is reflective of how the United States operates much like I did - “I’ll focus on what I can control that doesn’t fall into this subjective - if I pray hard enough category - until the pain just goes away.” I don’t have time to go down that rabbit hole, for now, but wish to share a snippet from my own mental health journey.

My world imploded with Mike’s death almost eight years ago. My best coping skills couldn’t cope. I don’t know how to describe the feeling other than being in a continuous state of your heart feeling like it’s in your throat and you could ugly cry.

All. The. Time.

Not being in control of my emotions was excruciating. Especially for a professional woman living in a world that already dismisses us as emotional, aggressive, and “bitchy” if we push too hard or cry. I said I didn’t want to burden anyone, but really, I thought I was weak.

But in a few months, the world went on and “the world” was ready for me to move on too. I tried. I tried to pretend I was able to focus and perform like I did pre-cancer, pre-widowhood. I fell in love, I remarried, I blended a family, and I built businesses… but the emotional weight I carried continued to get heavier.

I ran into a friend, a woman, who I’d been thinking of because she was recently missing from social media, and I hadn’t seen her in a long time. I was so happy and told her I missed her! Without hesitation she told me she had a breakdown and withdrew to start taking care of herself. I was in awe that she shared so willingly with me. It was brave. I asked for the name of her therapist.
It took me almost three years to call.

My therapist uses a blend of enneagram, EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing), and Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapies. The combination of these therapies, along with an immense amount of compassion in our sessions, created the most meaningful environment to begin to heal.

When I would say, “a part of me feels like _____, but a part of me wants to _____” that was real. And there were parts of me I protected, parts of me who protected me, and parts I loved. There were other parts of me I wished to be rid of, especially the depressed, sad ones. Or, the angry ones, fighting the social injustice pervasive in our world. Through this therapy, I’ve learned more about myself and daily continue to work on being compassionate with myself and with others.
I’ve been in regular therapy for three years now.

I recently signed up for an intensive weekend retreat my therapist was co-leading to take a deeper dive into understanding our parts and IFS in more than just a weekly session.

At the end, we all selected a random quote to take with us. Mine was poignant. I wanted to share while sharing my mental health journey, so the next time you think about a part of you, or a part of someone else that’s creating a disturbance in your heart:

It’s easy to love the nice things
About ourselves,
But true self-love is
Embracing the difficult parts that
Live inside all of us.
-Rupi Kaur

There are times of the year, whispers on a breeze, a song, a smell that can fill me with feelings of love, deep sadness, hope, excitement, and sometimes, even paralyzing fear.

There is a version of myself I still grieve, at times, prior to Sept. 2013. A version full of confidence, energy, vision, passion, and plans. I felt almost invincible, and naively so.

It’s easy to visualize that fateful day, “there isn’t a cure,” to June 2015. In my writings, I describe it: “A runaway train is headed our way and there is no way to exit the tracks, only the option to cover my kids and pray we survive.”

I’m so thankful for all of those who surrounded us with love, and especially my parents - the outcome could’ve been extremely different without their continued presence and care even in the midst of their own grief. But, people do go back to their lives, their jobs, their families, their vacations, their plans, their futures… while my kids and I sat in the smoldering ashes of all that was our life and plans that had died.

Grace was 16. Sam turned nine. I had no answer to, “why didn’t God heal Dad.” I had no answer for myself as to how a Heavenly Father we worshipped did not grant the most pure, innocent request of a child who fell on his face crying, wailing, to God to, “Save my Daddy, PLEASE!”

Complete ashes.

But you have to go on.

This life is precious and it’s a legacy to the one you lose to find the first step, then the second until you start creating a new path. Smiles, honesty, tears, laughs, love, milestones, while always bittersweet now, I believe are felt more deeply because those moments aren’t just lived here, but in another’s deeply loved and missed soul over the shore.

Everything is felt a little deeper than before and that’s heavy and exquisite all at the same time.
These photos perfectly capture a moment of my life this past fall, when I clearly see the beauty that has emerged from those ashes.

… A woman, my baby girl, who is full of love and confidently starting her life, her career, her branch of the tree.

… A young man whose soul is older and wiser than his years, but contains a youthful curiosity and playfulness that makes him a joy to be around.

… A gray-haired girl who is no longer fearful of what others think, expect, say, or believe but is fully at home in knowing she can be weak, strong, passive, fierce, exhausted, energetic, quiet, passionate, and full of plans, all at the same time.

… A blended family not related by blood, but by life, relationships, grief, time, and hope.

What a legacy love can build if we only allow all our parts, pieces, and experiences to come to the table. Because hard times will come, and have. But I can attest it’s true we become more resilient at the broken places if we take the time to allow them to heal and let others in along the way.

To everything there is a time.

Selah.

Dear Michael,

It’s your earthly birthday. I’m so thankful we purposely celebrated to distinguish from Christmas gifts and parties.

There was the simple homemade meal because money was tight as we started our lives completely over.  It was the surprise of finding out your youngest son would be born your 50th year. It was the surprise trips, twice, to NYC - once with just us, and the last, sharing the magic with Grace and Sam. There was also the philharmonic and the ballet. And a few, simply reading while a fire burned with instrumental holiday music in the background.

The last two were bittersweet and painful. The final radiation and chemotherapy day, ending with a trip to Tulsa in an ice storm and dinner with our dearest friend Mark (who you welcomed his wife Nadine to your Heavenly home recently). The last, our last “date,” riding a wave of the joy of a clear scan, only to crash four days later with the tragic, painful loss of hopes and dreams.

You’re remembered every day. I always heard people say, “time heals all wounds.” There are a lot of happy days and God has been good, giving and gracious to us in so many ways. I’m not ungrateful for all He has done to bring beauty from the ashes.

But this year has been the hardest, most painful one yet since you flew to Heaven. I never thought a year could outdo the year you died. This one has compounded so many feelings of loss, of questioning God, of broken spirits, of helplessness, and of uncertainty.

I’ve wished so many times there was a line to Heaven, if for no other reason than for Sam or Grace to call you. I have a reoccurring dream that I’m desperately trying to find the slip of paper with your number I’ve misplaced. I awoke early this morning from one as I write this letter. I feel like I’ve failed. I just don’t have the words or the heart sometimes. Even with all the love that surrounds us, sometimes, especially for a now 14-year-old boy who worshipped the ground you walked on, I wish he could hear his dad tell him, “I’m so proud of you. Everything will be ok.”

You’re a tough one not to immortalize with each passing year. I realized this summer what a calming, encouraging, and safe harbor you naturally were as I’ve sought that refuge that once was now more than ever. I thought I was strong. The grief and pain of this year has forced me to learn to be quiet, to take deep breaths, to be compassionate with myself, and to be patient with others. It’s a work in progress, especially that, “compassionate with myself,” part.

So many people have died. So many people are sick and isolated. So many people are fighting, ending friendships, and just a general sadness and anger prevails. I’ve recalled the memory at MD Anderson the morning after your surgery to remove the first brain tumor, of the Nigerian nurse, Barikwa (meaning “right hand of God”), gently opening the door to your room singing her version of Psalms 30:5: “Sing oh Saints, weeping may fill our night, but joy, oh precious joy, comes in the morning.” I’m ready for the sunrise and the joy.

Since I can’t find your “number,” I just do what sometimes I need to do... I write you a letter.

Although it’s filled with more sadness than gifts this time, at some point today, we’ll pause and watch your memorial video and remember the years you were here and the gift of your love.
I’m also reminded of the words of song we listened to those last few, precious days as your reply back to us that I’ll capture as your reply here today.

Lori

NEVER ALONE
May the angels protect you, trouble neglect you
And heaven accept you when it's time to go home
May you always have plenty, the glass never empty
And know in your belly, you're never alone
May your tears come from laughing, you find friends worth having
As every year passes, they mean more than gold
May you win and stay humble, smile more than grumble
And know when you stumble, you're never alone
Never alone, never alone
I'll be in every beat of your heart when you face the unknown
Wherever you fly this isn't goodbye
My love will follow you, stay with you, baby, you're never alone
Well, I have to be honest as much as I wanted
I'm not gonna promise that cold winds won't blow
So when hard times have found you and your fears surround you
Wrap my love around you, you're never alone
Never alone, never alone
I'll be in every beat of your heart when you face the unknown
Wherever you fly this isn't goodbye
My love will follow you, stay with you, baby, you're never alone

Sam turned 16 in July, but the hunt for a truck started a year ago. This market made it impossible to find one in the right shape, right miles, and right price range.

A couple weeks ago, a private seller ad popped up on Auto Trader. It already had more than 100 views which signaled to me it was probably sold. But I had to try. A 2006 Ford F-150xl 4X4 with only 85,000 miles was a needle in a haystack. You could tell the owner was a hunter and had cared for this truck.

It appeared perfect.

And then the story gets bittersweet.

The owner called me to tell me the truck was still available. She gave me as much of the technical details and answered questions I asked. I mentioned it was for my son, for his first truck, who loved to hunt.

The phone was quiet. She said, “My son bought it from the original owner in 2010 and it was his pride and joy. He died in 2013 and we’ve kept it close as a connection to him ever since.”

I didn’t know what to say other than I couldn’t imagine the pain she had went through and I was so sorry.

We met the couple to see the truck and test drive. It was perfect. When we came back and visited, I shared the loss we experienced with Sam’s dad and how bittersweet these rights of passage are without him.

Then, they mentioned their son’s name… Michael.

There were tears.

It’s been a while since we’ve had one of those moments that felt like a divine connection. Although they shared it was time to let the truck go, it was obvious the joy it gave them to hand the keys to a young man who is planning his future hunting trips and must be as proud to call it his own as their son did.

When we made the sale and picked it up Friday night, Ruchella had so thoughtfully placed the keys on a keychain that said, “Don’t drive faster than your guardian Angel can fly,” with a small wing attached. Then, they told us about their Mikey Moments when he leaves pennies for them to find.
They’d cleaned the truck out to show us the first time. I specifically looked in the center console when inspecting and it was empty. I had pushed it up so three of us could go on the test drive. When she pulled the console down to bring it to us, something made a noise … there was a single penny. Wow, again. Sam plans to keep it in the truck along with the keychain.

I’m just so thankful of being assured in so many ways this was the truck that was meant to be. The bonus is we have some dear new friends that share our journey of grief as well as the resilience to continue to live well and carry those dear souls we love in our hearts.

Thank you SO much Tim and Ruchella for sharing your hearts and your son. I think our Michaels made this one happen.

A baby boy was born addicted to meth with fetal alcohol syndrome to addicted parents who mercifully gave him up for adoption. I will call him Matthew.

Matthew was fostered, then adopted by a loving family with other biological children. In many ways they did the best they could as he grew up with learning disabilities and mental health struggles.

He was held back and often suspended because of the lingering effects of his prenatal life. To make it worse, Matthew was shunned by classmates because he was “different,” going through his early years in Edmond schools with no connections other than his family and kids like him.
Matthew’s eventual diagnosis was bi-polar. He was put on medication, and he desperately wanted to live a “normal life” with his family.

I met Matthew on a bitterly cold morning in Nov. 2019. He was frantic and needed to use the phone. After purchasing Evoke in Sept. 2019, I quickly became aware of the homeless population in Downtown Edmond because our restrooms (and closest to the CityLink bus main drop off location) are used quite often.

Matthew scared me initially. He was needing to call his dad because he’d missed the bus and had to get to Oklahoma City for a court date. We used my cell phone and as a result I had his dad’s phone number.

Matthew was 22. He’d been off and on the streets since 18 when he no longer qualified for services as he was now considered an adult, leaving his parents few options to get him help. And you could tell, he wanted to be a regular kid.

I only saw him around the downtown area here and there until March 2020 when the pandemic shuttered all the businesses and support services. Matthew made his home with a sleeping bag in the back doorway of Evoke.

I left him care packages, but eventually called his dad who told me Matthew’s story. Matthew has a psychologist and nurse in his family, his parents work hard, and have built a livable shed in their backyard so he has a place to retreat. They leave him clothes, food, and it’s environmentally controlled. But, with them he can get angry. And with the pandemic, they were afraid.

As the world started opening, we offered Matthew a free meal every day, kept him in water, and he would try and give us any amount of change he had found or always volunteered to work. I would find odd jobs for him so he could feel at least the dignity of “earning” what we gave him.
For a time, he got better. He got a job at a fast-food restaurant, moved home with his parents, and would come by looking like the “normal kid” making his way, so proud to buy lunch and visit.
Then, Matthew disappeared.

After six months, I texted his dad afraid of the worst. Matthew did good for a while, “then turned his heart from God.” They hadn’t seen or heard from him in several weeks.

Ironically, I saw Matthew the day before the Supreme Court’s decision on Roe vs Wade. He was rolled up in the outdoor rug sleeping on Evoke’s back patio early that morning. He was the worst I’ve ever seen him. His hair and beard are grown out and extremely matted. He is in near skeletal condition. I could smell him before I got to the patio.

I gently woke Matthew up.

I told him I’d been so worried and was glad to see him.

Matthew assured me everything was fine but wouldn’t bring himself to look at me.

And all I can think as “life” is the focus of a court ruling, political statements, and posts arguing the disgust of “murderers,” when I look at Matthew, is “hypocrites.”

I had been one too for 30 years until life challenged my uneducated, inexperienced, largely sheltered life.

I wonder, what is Matthew’s life worth now to the people celebrating the Supreme Court decision?

His mother had him.
He was adopted.
And he’s still alive.
But what does “valuing life” really mean?

What value do we place as a society, as a country, and a state on Matthew’s life?

Sure, everything I could say about a woman’s choice/rights over her own body is still “debatable” in this highly patriarchal world, but at the core of the discussion is “valuing life.” Matthew is the walking, breathing, living testimony, that the United States of America does NOT value life.

We value a birth. That’s it.

I’ve heard the Matthews of the world discussed in planning meetings, church fellowships, on the floor and in the offices of our State Capitol… “it’s the parents’ fault,” “we don’t want those people around here,” “I raised my kid, they’re not my responsibility,” and fill in the blank with your own experiences.

Matthew is largely seen as a nuisance.

So, now what?

What are we going to do now to help those parents who don’t have the resources, who are struggling with mental health or even homelessness themselves, children who are pregnant as the result of abuse, whose learning disabilities keep them from having necessary skills for a life sustaining job, families living in poverty, families caring for sick parents and still are in their childbearing years, a woman addicted to meth living on the streets who becomes pregnant - to give them hope they have a chance with life?

What about the hundreds of thousands of children lost in foster care systems who a portion will soon be headed to the streets, to crime, to the prison? What is the plan to reverse those trends and value their lives?

As a country, surely, we realize the “responsibility” the courts and politicians force more women to take by having a choice removed from them doesn’t absolve this country from the future that child now faces.

Are we ready to raise taxes to increase funding not just for public education, but wrap around mental health and social services to help at-risk children and families?

Are we going to provide free childcare, diapers, formula, and paid leave from work to care for sick children?

Are we going to make it more difficult for mentally ill men to get their hands on guns capable of killing children and adults in a mass casualty setting?

Are we going to pass laws that immediately begin to force men to pay child support?

Are we ready to sign up to volunteer in droves to fund/build more shelters, serve more meals, provide easier access to healthcare, reimburse people pursuing degrees in education/mental health/social work/healthcare to create a stronger infrastructure for these basic life valuing systems?

The list of what to do next to create a society that truly values a life is endless.

And what is the next step to make sure Matthew, and lives just like his, don’t die alone somewhere like a discarded piece of trash?

Don’t get me wrong, Michael loved Jesus. He could have the most theological discussions with doctorates in the field, quote more scriptures than most from the King James, play hymns on the piano, and teach Sunday School like a pastor. He was a believer.

But, he lived every minute of everyday. When I saw this Jack Kerouac quote yesterday, it summed up Mike. You couldn’t find a more dedicated, hard-working, attention-to-detail, intelligent, and articulate person in his field of accounting and investments. And loyal, bar none. However, he was always planning our next adventure that often included climbing mountains and climbing out of the Grand Canyon, to name only a few.

While I only had him in my life for 14 years, it felt like a lifetime of adventures … and I never said, “no” to his plans (but, I did cuss him a few times). These photos are just a snippet of the memories that play like home movies in my heart sometimes.

One of the last things Mike clearly said, before soon losing his ability to speak, when telling family on Christmas Eve he had reached the limit of what science could do to manage the glioblastoma multiforme (brain cancer) that returned with a vengeance: “I’m saved, I know I’m saved, I know I’m going to Heaven … now Lori, she’s upset.”

And in all seriousness, that’s the part that broke his heart was, in his words; “I have the easy part. You have to find a way to go on living and raise Sam and Grace without me.”
Today was strange.

There are days his last moments feel like a lifetime ago, and other times, it’s like yesterday. I thought of the Kerouac quote often today while eating at his favorite restaurant and taking flowers to his grave with the kids this evening … “You won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing the yard. Climb that g*ddamn mountain!”

Mike lived that. And that is just what we’ll keep doing.

If an unfortunate dog or cat was so fortunate to be “dumped” in the vicinity of Cedar Lane and 60th Avenue, they found themselves close to a heaven on earth.

Many of the beloved pets I recall came to my family’s care that way. There was the fluffy feline brothers, Milo and Gizmo; German shepherd mix Molly, the yellow dog Leroy; Staunton and Virginia (named after my favorite country group, The Statler Brothers, hometown); Spook, a gray cat with a mustache and a broken leg; and RD, short for Red Dog who arrived in our front yard covered in mange we still believe was part coyote, so ill the wind blew her over.

These “strays” lovingly mixed with other rescued or purchased on the cheap pups that hold extremely special places in my family’s hearts today: my first best friend Bingo, Mindy the Mean Dog, Jake and Max (boxer father/son), Newt Dobbs (my first child), George Bailey (given to Mom one Christmas), Mollie (our jack russell terrier that trenched to cable lines in our backyard regularly “cutting the cable” to our neighbors so she went to live at Nana and Papa’s), BC (short for Black Cat, but one of the sweetest of them all), Little Orphan Annie, and three generations of bird dogs named Sam, to name only a few.

Nine years ago this month, my parents woke up to the most unusual “dump.” A lively, but timid rat terrier had been deposited into their fenced backyard. They spent the first couple weeks trying to find her a new home, but the pup and Molly (our re-homed jack russell) fell instantly into sisterly love and my parents, my dad especially, were close behind.

Mia was home.

Known simply as, “The Girls,” Molly and Mia were tolerated by the old man Bailey. They were hell on anything not of a domestic nature that came into “their” backyard, slept in my parent’s bed, had a plethora of toys, enjoyed licking bowls of ice cream clean, donned cute dresses every so often, and traveled quite often. Our dog, (Little Orphan) Annie, was always excited when they came to visit too.

Unfortunately, our lives took a dramatic shift with my husband’s brain cancer diagnosis a few months after Mia came into our lives. The “terminal” nature of glioblastoma accelerated my parents plans to move to Edmond to be closer to my family, subsequently, closer to David’s family in Stillwater. They bought a home they didn’t move into for more than a year because by Christmas 2014, the decision was made for mom to live with us to help with round-the-clock care, while dad drove back and forth from the house in Norman caring for my dear Memaw who was starting to suffer from dementia.

The details of those days are a blur. Bailey was old and struggling with a painful skin condition. My parents made the gut-wrenching decision to let him go. Molly experienced liver failure and died within a few days.

Mia become my dad’s constant companion.

After we lost Mike, my parents hastened their move from the home that had been the center of our world for 40 years to Edmond. To say it was an adjustment, is an understatement. Mia instinctively new how to help them adjust and make friends. She required a lot of walking now that the fenced yard was gone. Her easy-going personality ingratiated she and Dad into the neighborhood dog walkers, and thus, neighbors.

Robert brought four of his own rescues into our lives, as his late-wife Jami was an animal lover as well, and Mia took the post of teaching them the rules of living in her world. She bonded immediately with Robert’s favorite, a papillon named Diamon Marie. There were “sleepovers” and a lot of snuggling as both girls became the apple of his eye too.

Mia went everywhere with Dad and wrapped him right around her tiny little paws. Honestly, she wrapped us all up. I joked on many occasions that she unseated me from favorite (only) daughter status. Mom would say, “I think he loves Mia more than he loves me.” But Mom loved Mia just as fierce.

As you notice in a recent family photo, Mia being held like a baby in the center. That has been her place.

Although we often joked about Mia’s status in his life, she was as beloved by us all for the way she loved dad, the comfort and laughter she brought us all through some terrible days, and the tenacity in which she lived her life.

I recently watched a movie called, “A Dog’s Journey.” The notion that the soul of a dog doesn’t “cross the rainbow bridge,” until its’ owner does, but instead keeps coming back to us in different forms over the years, loyal to us, protecting our kids, loving us… well, it just changes my perspective.

If you know my dad, you know he loves deeply and will be the last to let go of hope. Yesterday morning, Mom and Dad made the excruciating and loving decision to give Mia peace. Her enlarged heart had grown to put too much pressure on her trachea to be comfortable.

While my kids and I sat with my parents yesterday afternoon as they grieved, we talked about all the dogs and cats that have been an important part of our lives over the years. Talking about them brought smiles and some laughter.

I believe Mia’s journey continues, even as we will miss her in the coming days and weeks. And I can’t wait to see the form Mia’s soul bounds into to come back and continue her journey with us.

In progress … my mental health, my art, my endless thoughts, my love, my grief, my hope, my fears, my wins, and my losses.  

Days spent painting help wash away the heavier feelings for a time. I can leave my heart open and energy fills my soul.

This portrait of Southern Cheyenne Chief Wolf Robe is in progress too.

Sky. Her first day at Evoke was the same day we took over ownership/operations. She had been slinging coffee since she was 16. Full of energy, wisdom, and maturity beyond her years, she took flight from Evoke a month ago, but I think of her as one of my own and a friend.

I’ve never been able to follow the advice that you can’t be friends with who you supervise. Life is too short and our time spent working is too long not to invest in and love people.

If you’d have asked me 20 years ago what I would be doing at 50, never in a million years would I have told you it is what I’m doing now. And as I spent the morning hanging out with Sky in the shadows of the city I used to moved around in heels and power suits trying to save the world and build a name for myself … it was not lost on me that I was most happy wearing flip flops, comfy clothes while talking philosophy, faith, adventure, coffee, art, and healing our souls.

And Sky also gave me a belated birthday gift - her time, penned words, and a vintage Polaroid she picked up for me from a thrift shop in Oregon.

Namaste.

I didn’t take photos this weekend. But I’m reflecting this evening the gifts of my mom, my mother-in-laws, sister-in-laws, my grandmothers, aunts, and women who poured into me over the years … and then I thought about being a mom.

This photo was 10 years ago this month and one of my favorite memories and pictures. We spent the evening on Coronado Beach eating s’mores.

Life can change a lot in ten years. My hair is a natural gray and I definitely feel older in a lot of ways. Grace is 22 and has been living on her own for a few years (but is spending the night tonight). Sam is over six feet and turns 15 this summer. I’m so proud of them.

Today, they, along with my sweet “bonus son” Jude worked alongside me taking care of other moms. My beautiful “bonus daughter” came by to see me. Each of the kids got me super sweet cards with personal messages. Sometimes when you think you’re messing it all up, you’re just all getting it right together.

I remember thinking how crazy it was when my grandparents said they were in bed by eight and up by five. Now, I’m most likely the age they were then and carrying on their legacy as I struggle to stay awake until nine and usually wake between four and five (although owning a coffee shop/cafe helps reset your inner time clock).

It just seems to be the purest time of day. This morning is a gift with snow on the ground, a warm fire, and the slightest hint of daybreak through the windows ... and I quietly reflect ...

I wish this world peace. I wish hearts would soften and empty of hate, paranoia, anger, sadness, and contempt, to name a few. I wish politics and policies took a backseat to humanity. I pray the better angels in us appear and meet anger with kindness, fear with love, and sadness with a smile. And I pray I focus on loving well the ones in front of me when they cross my path. I pray daily I succeed to “beat my sword into a plowshare” and create “ground” that is ready for seeds and growth. I pray my words do not shame, but lift up, do not harm, but heal.

Amen.

BETTER ANGELS
48 x 48, acrylic/ink on canvas

I purchased the canvas two years ago and immediately did a painting that left me uninspired (you can see the evolution in my story). I put it up.

A couple weeks ago, I decided to tackle it again, by painting over with colors, textures, marks, words, and imagery I was reading, hearing, and feeling.

I was listening to The Soul of America by John Meacham as I worked on half of it, and a variety of musical genres the rest of the time. The words of MLK, Abraham Lincoln, Anne Lamott, and the news of the day moved me. Reflections of the innocence and freedom of swings has been a strong imagery for me. There was a lot to unpack. And, today, I knew the moment I was finished. It’s the biggest canvas I’ve painted.

I’ll be hanging it at Evoke within the week, so come by and check out the details up close. A photo just can’t capture it all.

Five years ago, I said I was going to get a personal tattoo when the time was right. I wanted to sit with the idea for a while, the words, and the motivation behind why. I knew there’d be a day when it would be a gift to myself.

The grief I’ve felt in 2020 has been similar to Decembers past with feelings of uncertainty, loss, isolation, and sadness at the forefront. Over the years the lyrics of two hymns - It Is Well and Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing - have brought comfort to me during difficult times. A line from one is on Michael’s headstone: “It Is Well With My Soul.”

So, this week I decided to take the words and “write it on my heart” (or the inside of my left forearm) as a remembrance of where I’ve come from and as a testimony to the promise of what I hold on to today... It is well.

Not lost on me was the personal tragedies suffered by the lyricist Horatio Spafford. He lost a young son to scarlet fever, followed by the loss his business to the Great Chicago Fire. In 1873, his four remaining children (ages 2-11) perished, and his wife was badly injured when their ship sunk while traveling overseas. He penned the words while on the ship traveling to be with his wife, through the same waters, after their unthinkable loss.

IT IS WELL (WITH MY SOUL)
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
It is well with my soul,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
My sin—oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!
And Lord, haste the day when the faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

Sunday morning. It feels like 10 years have been packed into 10 months... I have so much to write and process, but the words are always stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat. Grief, hope, trauma, longings, loss, creativity, sadness, joy all become knotted up. It’s always felt selfish to focus on what I need. But, in doing so, I’ve been changing and rearranging. I’m working through layers of defenders, wounds, and unrelenting and irrational expectations I’ve placed on myself. And then there’s the shame I’ve allowed to permeate my heart. Regular work with a therapist to unpack and sort through the years is meaningful to me in these times. Mental health, or the lack thereof, is real. The words of Alexandra Elle spoke to my soul this morning in regard to my current journey.

"Hard Truth: There will be people who don't get or like that you're changing. It's not your job to unpack that. Stay present and focused on your growth."

Robert and I knew Jason and Jenni Duncan well before we knew each other. Jason consulted on coffee for Robert when he was with A Good Egg Dining Group opening Kitchen 324. Robert has long admired their pioneering, entrepreneurial spirit for doing coffee in the Plaza District before the Plaza District was cool, running sought after coffee catering services, and visited Cafe Evoke in downtown Edmond many times. If anyone asks Robert about coffee, he always says, “Call Jason Duncan.”

I moved to Edmond in 2012 almost simultaneously to the Duncans opening the doors of the now iconic space for Cafe Evoke in the historic downtown area. It was a regular Saturday stop for me for coffee and waffles before perusing through the farmers market or just needing to transport myself from life for a while. When I accepted the position as executive director of the Edmond Public Schools Foundation, I got to know Jason first doing coffee bars as a perk in the schools. Our shared passion for community instantly made me want to have him on the EPSF board of directors. Jason and Jenni have been friends ever since.

After the loss of our spouses, the unexpected blessing of God connecting Robert and I as well as our kids, taking a big chance of reformulating our career path by striking out on our own full time   with Spring Board... we staked our collective roots in downtown Edmond by opening an office a year ago.

The energy in Edmond is amazing! Robert and I love downtown as it’s reminiscent of being from our small hometowns of Shattuck and Noble, Okla. It’s hands down the best small town feel in a city I’ve known.

And as a result of being downtown, fans of Evoke and friends of the Duncans, we spent a lot of time with them last spring engaged in strategic planning for the coffee shop.

It’s important to know 90 percent of restaurants, coffee shops included, fail in their first year of business. Evoke is seven years old with a loyal customer following. That’s an impressive feat in and of itself. But it’s that statistic that is often quoted by my hospitality industry-veteran husband when saying, “I will never own a restaurant,” if I would throw around the romantic notion of doing so.

So, imagine my surprise, when Robert asks me in May: “What do you think about buying Cafe Evoke?”

Fast forward through hours of conversations with Jason, Jenni and each other over the summer.... and that’s just what we did the end of September.

We created a new company ownership structure that includes the Duncans as a partner focused on coffee and Chef Chris McCabe working with Robert on food. We are the majority owners and managing partners. We also have a couple of enthusiastic investors. We’re so grateful to Jason and Jenni for dreaming and creating this amazing space and to have the opportunity to take the reins of Evoke’s future.

The goal is to elevate the food being served to match the reputation of one of the best coffee programs in Oklahoma. The hope is to keep Evoke in the forefront as a place to go for fantastic coffee, engaging conversation, and thoughtful cafe food. We want Evoke to continue to be a leader in supporting Edmond’s focus on revitalizing downtown, creating community spaces and culture.

Are we nervous? Of course. Are we tired? Exhausted probably best describes our current state. But we are certain with time this will be one of the best moves we’ve made for our family and our community.

Forgive me as I type this on my phone - it’s a flow of consciousness...

This morning, I didn’t realize I needed the imagery of a blank canvas to soothe my hurting heart.
I read everything I could get my hands on about grief in 2015, to suppress the feeling of abandonment, hopelessness, and loneliness. I tried to answer the questions for my son, “Why would God think it better for me to grow up without a father? If He answers prayers, why didn’t He answer mine?” There are times, even in the appearance of the strongest of minds and hearts, death seems to be the only respite from the pain.

A simple Amazon search recommended one of the most impactful books I’ve ever read - A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis. I consumed it in a day. It was comforting reading the words of a man who seemed to have a direct line to God had felt as angry, lonely, confused and filled with pain as I was. He asked questions of God that I hadn’t even thought of yet!

I’ve viewed Lewis as our modern-day Apostle Paul. But other than a superficial knowledge of the writer of The Chronicles of Narnia and a few other Christian stalwart books in theologian libraries, I knew very little about the man.

Lewis left his childhood faith as the result of the death of his mother when he was 10 to become a “determined atheist” as an adult. He was an introverted scholar at Oxford and a simple search will give you plenty on his life, writings, and eventual journey to Christianity. He married a divorced American named Joy Davidman in his 40s and likened her to a soulmate. She died three years after they were married of cancer. A Grief Observed is his journals as he wrestled with similar feelings that had caused him to turn from God years earlier.

The recent struggle my family has been enduring, post-traumatic stress feelings that awaken in my soul this time of the year with the approach/passing of death dates, the shocking news of celebrities taking their lives, personal news of everyday people taking their lives, friends struggling with illness... I’m reminded of a description Lewis used to illustrate these traumatic moments in life.

He described the death of a loved one as an amputation. For people around us, that amputation could be death, divorce, addiction, mental health struggles, illness, broken relationships, etc. As a society, we’re wired to adhere to antiquated prescriptions of proper days of mourning... essentially how many days until we, “Get over it.”

Lewis writes: “Getting over it so soon? But the words are ambiguous. To say the patient is getting over it after an operation for appendicitis is one thing; after he’s had his leg off is quite another. After that operation either the wounded stump heals, or the man dies. If it heals, the fierce, continuous pain will stop. Presently he’ll get back his strength and be able to stump about on his wooden leg. He has ‘got over it.’ But he will probably have recurrent pains in the stump all his life, and perhaps bad ones; and he will always be a one-legged man. There will be hardly any moment when he forgets it. Bathing, dressing, sitting down and getting up again, even lying in bed, will all be different. His whole way of life will be changed. All sorts of pleasures and activities that he once took for granted will have to be simply written off. Duties too. At present I am learning to get about on crutches. Perhaps I shall presently be given a wooden leg. But I shall never be a biped again.”

Why does recent events and a blank canvas make me think of C.S. Lewis?

As I look at the canvas before I began to sketch the outlines of a symbolic olive branch, I’m reminded of the joy each day can bring, as well as the struggles. This painting might progress the way I’ve pictured it in my mind, or I could get my colors wrong, need to scrape off paint that is too thick to work with, wait for paint to dry to paint over mistakes, I judge it harshly as fear creeps in to show it anyone because it’s personal and I don’t want to be judged, decide I will never paint again, or ... I might just need to start with a new blank canvas.

It’s my therapy. Therapy for the days that “getting through” is at the top of my to do list because I will never “get over it.” As a result, I feel things so much deeper than I ever did, and that’s a struggle too.

My friend, if you’ve suffered the kind of amputation described above, think of a blank canvas when you awake each morning and give yourself grace for that day. Have someone you know you can call, or just call anyone and say, “Help!” if it’s too much. You are loved by so many more than you know. And that stump is going to hurt some days more than others but embrace the days it doesn’t and figuratively paint something colorful you can hang on your heart’s wall to patch up the scars.

If you haven’t experienced an amputation, please, give grace to those around you. Consider your words, your tone, your actions.

Do good.
Be kind.
Love.

"Love is not an affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person's ultimate good as far as it can be obtained." - C.S. Lewis

My heart is so full following graduation/Mother’s Day weekend. Milestones like this are always a mixed bag of emotions ... happiness abounds, and grief walks alongside you. We celebrate and reflect.

One of the songs from that summer of 2015 is by singer/songwriter Kasey Musgraves. It’s called Silver Lining. It has been on a loop in my mind over the weekend. When you’re in pain and you hurt, you want to recoil. I did. But what all I would be missing if we hadn’t given our hearts a chance to “stand in the rain?”

Raising children is not for the faint of heart. Blended families come with its share of land mines. Grief is an unpredictable, ingrained emotion. But, oh the sweet joy when the silver lining bursts forth and you see your children’s smiles, hear their laughter, and witness their friendship with each other.

Looking at these photos this morning as we go back to our routines makes me realize God doesn’t waste our pain, our disappointments, and he can make such beautiful artifacts out of shattered pieces of our lives if we just let Him.

...Cause if you're ever gonna find a four leaf clover
You gotta get a little dirt on your hands
You gotta get a little dirt on your hands
If you wanna find a head to fit your shoulder
You're gonna have to go to the dance
Gonna have to go to the dance
If you wanna find the honey,
You can't be scared of bees
And if you wanna see the forest,
You're gonna have to look past the trees
If you're ever gonna find a silver lining
It's gotta be a cloudy day,
It's gotta be a cloudy day
And if you wanna fill your bottle up with lightning,
You're gonna have to stand in the rain,
Gonna have to stand in the rain.

HEAVEN?
"When I cease to live on this earth, please do not say I 'lost the battle' to cancer. That could not be further from the truth. No, when that time comes, when I make the transition, it will be a point in time when I have never been more alive." - Greg Murtha

I was introduced to Greg by our mutual friend, John Waldo when cancer entered our lives. Greg was there from the beginning with prayers and words of encouragement.

All our communication was via email/online. I never met him personally, yet I feel like he was in every part of my journey - from diagnosis, through treatments, loss, grief and then living again. And during that time Greg has been waging his own battle with stage IV colon cancer. I cherish the back-and-forth communications we’ve had over the last four years. His view was from the patient. Mine, the caregiver. He talked about his love for Tracey, his wife, his concerns for hers and his son Jackson’s futures. I shared my grief, emptiness and then, hope for the future.

This past year when Robert and I got engaged he rejoiced and sent me the most encouraging message about what he considered were courageous next steps to continue to live well. He’s encouraged my writing and told me multiple times I need to start the formal process of authoring a book as he became laser focused on writing his – “Out of the Blue” – that he just completed and will be coming out in a couple months. It's so easy for me to foolishly think, "I have plenty of time."
But today, as I reflect on the communication we shared and the post he penned, our friendship was one of the many blessings that cancer could not take.

Greg wrote to me in May 2015, when we started hospice: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks, be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. The Apostle Paul - I Corinthians 15. When I cease to live on this earth, please do not say I “lost the battle” to cancer. That could not be further from the truth. No, when that time comes, when I make the transition, it will be a point in time when I have never been more alive.

And as he grieved with my family and I, he wrote on June 16, 2015, about Michael’s passing and wondered what it would be like to “step across the line from this world into the next.”
Today, he knows. Greg now has the answers to all of life's questions.

There are numerous videos on Greg’s Facebook page of him continuing to share the gospel and be a comforter to those around him while on full oxygen. His writings over the past several years have been honest, direct and thought-provoking. I’m moved to be the testimony to all God has done, is doing, and will do in my life through trials and blessings as Greg has been in his.

While I could write more today… I feel led to share an excerpt Greg sent me from the Chronicles of Narnia the day of Michael’s funeral and the public post Greg penned on Facebook. While I can’t imagine the pure joy Greg feels now, I know the waves of emotions the days, weeks and months hold for his wife, son and family even when they're assured, he is with God. Please hold them in your prayers.

Tracey - in Greg’s own words to me, I believe I can say the same back you – You loved and served Greg well. You are a living-breathing example of how to love, respect and honor your husband and you did so to the end. God bless you and Jackson.

HEAVEN?
-Greg Murtha, June 16, 2015

I wonder what it will be like when we step across the line from this world into the next.
Yesterday a fellow cancer patient, a friend from a far, made the step. Michael Dickinson is no longer living in his cancer-ridden body. He is now in the presence of Jesus. Praise God!
His wife Lori loved and served him well. She is a living-breathing example of how to love, respect and honor your husband and she did so to the end. Relatively, it will be a short time before Lori sees Michael again in eternity.

As I have mentioned before, James mentions the brevity of life in chapter 4, “Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.”

Interesting, not only did Michael enter eternity yesterday but so did Elisabeth Elliot, the wife of missionary and martyr Jim Elliot.

I wonder how that went down.

Jesus greets Michael with a hug and a well done good and faithful servant; then Michael looks over his shoulder and sees Elisabeth. See Elisabeth was a missionary in Ecuador and Michael a banker in Oklahoma. What did they have in common…faith in Jesus…and where did they both end up yesterday? Heaven.

Real faith in Jesus extends life dramatically. Real faith in Jesus is what it is all about anyway.
Will you join me, Michael and Elisabeth in placing your faith in the one who can heal, walk on water, turn water into wine, defeat death and provide a bridge to eternity?

It will be the best decision you ever made.

Amen.

FROM THE LAST SECTION OF THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA, C.S. LEWIS
“There was a real railway accident,” said Aslan softly. “Your father and mother and all of you are, as you used to call it in the Shadowlands, dead. The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended. This is the morning.”

And as He spoke, He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and title page. Now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read; which goes on forever; in which every chapter is better than the one before.

Mutual friends posted an obituary on Facebook. A wife, a mother, a daughter, and friend who loved animals, lip smackers, beach vacations and caring for the homeless had died. Prayer was requested for Robert Black, a respected chef and restauranteur, daughter Hanna and son Jude.

My heart broke for them. As I sat with Mike our last days together, the beautifully written tribute prompted me to do what I had delayed… plan a funeral, write an obituary and produce a memorial video.

Following Mike’s funeral, people naturally went back to their lives. I put on a face. I counted the minutes between tears, then hours. I just wanted to sleep. I answered, “How are you?” with, “I’m fine.” Sitting in the ashes of what had been my dreams… I needed a lifeline. I wondered if I could breathe in two weeks, much less two years.

That’s when I uncharacteristically sent a message to Robert, whom I’d never met, but shared a few mutual friends and the grief of losing a spouse… “Does it get better?” I asked. I was so desperate for a glimpse of relief. I wanted to recall the message as soon as I hit send.

A few days passed when a reply came: “I wasn't sure how to answer. First, thanks for reaching out to me. Just knowing there are others who have to work through something like this makes me not feel so alone. I'm very sorry to hear about your husband. I'm also very sorry to know you and your kids are working through this. It's been a month to the day for me. I can tell you while my days have gotten easier, evenings have not. I struggle the most when I'm alone with my thoughts. I don't know if you're up for it, but I would be happy to meet you for coffee or just some conversation. Like you, I have plenty of support from family and close friends, but none that know what it's like. Many blessings, Robert.”

We met on a Sunday afternoon in July. To talk to someone without the worry of hurting them was a respite from being “strong.” Robert and I shared about our kids, the trauma of death sharply etched in our memory, the guilt of thinking we could’ve done more, and the dark chasm of loneliness.

We shared and cried for two hours in an empty restaurant. Thankful for the impromptu “support group,” we made plans to try and visit every couple of weeks.

There was safety in spending time with someone who had the same plans for the rest of his life as I did – never fall in love, never marry. As far as I was concerned, that part of my life was over. We both still faithfully wore our wedding rings.

But over the course of the fall – casual dinners and a chance meeting at an event – we discovered while our hearts were severely wounded, they were open to healing. As a result of the great loss we’d experienced and out of concern for our children, we were blatantly honest about what we liked, disliked, as well as compromises we wouldn’t make when considering the possibility, we were becoming more than friends.

We shared the same values, with honesty and being a good person at the top. Over dinners, we also discovered so many similarities in our stories: Jami, his late wife, and I both had daughters when we married; our wedding anniversaries were separated by only one day – Oct. 27 and Oct. 28; we had sons born three years apart who loved Minecraft and Doctor Who; and we shared an immense love for family. He grew up without a dad and intimately understood how that feels for Sam.

LifeChurch’s Pastor Craig Groeschel shared a message that resonated deeply with me: “When God is going to do something wonderful, He always starts with a hardship; but when God is going to do something amazing, He starts with an impossibility.”

A year ago, every sunrise burned. I couldn’t escape the pain and the helpless, hopeless feelings that continually flooded my heart. The thought of being social, much less dating again, was impossible. Finding joy, friendship, adoration, trust and comfort with how broken hearted, exhausted and frightened I felt – well, it was incomprehensible.

Robert and I concluded, given enough time, we could've finished the fortresses we were building around our hearts and been fully capable of living the rest of our lives alone. So, in God’s divine wisdom we met early while emotions were raw, strength was limited, and filters were gone. We cut through formalities. And as a result of our friendship and growing relationship, over many months we worked through complex feelings that accompany the loss of a spouse that might’ve just stayed locked away.

I know there are those that think this is too soon. There were times during my life I made the same judgement of people without having walked in their shoes. But what we’ve discovered is our story and love doesn’t diminish the love or the memory of those we’ve lost… Our love for Mike and Jami are forever woven into the fabric of our hearts, our lives and the lives of our children. We kept our vows. They will never be forgotten and it’s special that we’re both able to openly share memories of our late spouses with our children.

We see the concept of time much differently too. You always think you have enough time to plan that trip, take that walk, write that letter, make that call… The 16 years Robert spent with Jami and the 14 years I spent with Mike seem like a vapor. We thought we had the rest of our lives. So, we’ve learned to make the time now for what matters most and to choose the important over the urgent when schedules are busy. We don’t need more time to be more sure we were meant to be together.

Robert took me to dinner at Signature Grill (Edmond, OK)  in August. The only other time we had dined there we were just friends. I wanted to be upfront the first time we met there as to why I was uncomfortable – I still felt married and it felt wrong to be one-on-one with another man. Robert assuaged my fears by ensuring me the thought of dating or being in a relationship was only possible in “an alternate universe.”

Yet, here we are, in that impossibility of an alternate universe… where at the end of an amazing meal, Robert gave me a handwritten written card, shared moving words from his heart, then pulled a ring from his pocket as he dropped to one knee. I said, “Yes!” over and over.

We are the sum parts of our life experiences and the people who have played a role. This was not the story Robert and I started out writing for ours or our children’s lives. We are not in each other’s lives because someone died. We are here because of a God that is so big we can’t begin to comprehend His plans. It is a beautiful gift to love someone so deeply again.

I’ve learned the human soul is capable of immense love. The writings of a woman in her 30s whose husband died in a plane crash and found herself falling in love and remarrying said it best:  “Love is not mutually exclusive and human beings are not replaceable. I’m not moving on – I’m moving forward. I’m writing beautiful new chapters with a man who has the emotional capacity and understanding to be the man that came after… And there’s no place I’d rather be.”

Robert understands. He says I’m complex, not complicated and allows me to feel the myriad of emotions that still happen at times. He has the comfort to do the same. I could’ve never imagined the blessing of a second chapter with a man as good, thoughtful, kind and loving as him. 

And I can’t wait to spend what I hope is the rest of my life with the man who came after... Robert Black.

When I started writing this post, it was about death.

Last spring, I was standing on metaphorical train tracks as a runaway locomotive bared down on my family. The light was blinding and the horn was deafening. Impact was inevitable. The painful aftermath was sharp, deep and left permanent scars.

As this monumental day – June 15 – approached, I swear I could hear the train again. I realized I needed to be raw and release painful memories from the recesses of my healing heart. 

The mental images of the last month, the last week, the last day of Michael’s life, might be more vivid now because shock and exhaustion kept me in a haze a year ago. I couldn’t process it at the time. Instead, I focused on attending to him and memorizing all that I could. I wanted to hold on to all “the lasts” tightly. I tried to slow time, stay awake, be present.

I remember the last time I took Michael outside to watch Sam jump in the pool, to see the flowers. The last time I fed him breakfast, shaved his face, saw his smile, heard him laugh. The last time I saw his eyes, held his hand, and heard his heart beat. All were bittersweet.

I remember the helplessness as I dutifully selected a cemetery plot, a coffin, a church and planned a funeral all while he slept at home.

I can still hear his last breath. I remember how peaceful he looked when his fight was won. 

I remember the last time Michael left the house. It was 9:17 a.m. His body was wheeled out the front door, past the larkspur and pink roses, down the sidewalk and into the van. I sat on the porch long after he left. I felt vacant as the rest of the world kept spinning while mine stopped.

I remember sleeping for hours and wishing I could comfort my kids. I was unable to answer Sam’s constant question, “why did dad have to die?” I couldn’t soothe their shattered hearts. I could only hold them.

I remember standing in the closet looking at all of Michael’s clothes, shoes, ties, belts, pocket change, lapel pin, business cards, wallet and collections of memories feeling empty, lost. I remember the painful task of picking out the one suit, the one tie, the one shirt and the pair of shoes to dress him in one last time.

I remember friends and family, the music, the cards, the flowers, the hugs, the calls, the food. I smiled at the sliver of a moon and the presence of Jupiter in the west at twilight as I walked out of the funeral home following visitation. 

And I remember standing at his grave that warm summer day, watching his earthly home lowered into the ground, tossing dirt and one rose with the casket, bewildered by the finality of never seeing him again. I remember monster waves of sadness rolling through my heart over and over with every sun rise for weeks on end.

That’s what June 15, 2015, has reminded me of… pain, sadness and death. 

The toughest part of the first year and passing the day of death, I’m finding, is it’s hard to celebrate the life of the one you love. Some people like to call it a, “Heavenly Birthday.” Maybe so. I haven’t felt that way. And I’ve struggled with how to honor this day for the first time for my kids and I without making it about how Michael Dickinson died, but how he lived.

I’ve only dreamed about him twice. Both times he was still sick and it left me feeling sad. I did feel God’s comfort through the presence of a scissortail in the days and weeks following his death. 

God has been so merciful by opening my heart to love again, blessing our lives with friends and new relationships, and wiping our tears with smiles and laughter. I’m excited about planning a future and what life still holds for my family and I. It doesn’t mean, however, that Michael isn’t loved and missed. We openly talk about special memories, fun times and even our sadness. 

However, I’ve had to rely completely on my faith in, “that which is unseen,” to believe his soul is alive and in the presence of God and not in the cemetery where I buried him a year ago. It’s hard not feel like I’ve betrayed him, at times, by living.

Until yesterday morning… When an unexplainable moment in my car warmed my heart and confirmed he is very alive and very well.

For those who didn’t personally know Michael… He wore a suit and tie every day, shined his shoes every morning, was the epitome of professionalism, articulate, cultured and polished. But he was every bit a Healdton, Okla. boy when it came to Willie Nelson. He didn’t listen to country music past circa 1970s, but Willie was king. There are friends who say, when they hear Willie, they talk about Michael, or, when they talk about Michael they listen to Willie. 

As far as I go… I love music. I communicate through music. It is definitely my love language. I love all kinds of genres and have meticulously created playlists I listen to in my car, at home, and in the office almost continually. I love Willie, but he hasn’t been in my current lineup for reasons explained above. 

Yesterday I reflected as I woke that June 14, 2015, was Michael’s last full day on earth. We celebrated Sam’s birthday early (his isn’t until July 25th) as well as Father’s Day. There were a few friends over and we had cake and ice cream while opening gifts. By nightfall, we realized he was dying. As the sun rose June 15, 2015, he was gone. 

When I turned my car on yesterday, for no explainable reason, the song that came on was Willie Nelson singing Amazing Grace from an album I’ve never heard of called, The Troublemaker. It only took a few measures for me to realize it was all Michael. As I listened more intently to the words than I ever have before, an incredibly warm feeling came over me. There was no more poignant way to tell me he was very much alive and very much with God. I swear I heard his laugh when it hit me.

So, today isn’t about death for me anymore. It’s about life. 

It’s about grace and the precious gift we’re given to make the most of each day. Michael was a warrior up until God called his soul home. He was passionate about life. He was a dedicated father, loving husband, adoring grandfather, loyal friend and the utmost professional. Life wasn’t always perfect and neither was he. In fact, the meaningful part about the song is not just Willie singing, but Michael’s favorite saying when he shared his faith or taught Sunday School was, “I’m the wretch the song talks about.” 

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind, but now I see."

As we have witnessed on the news recently and experienced in our own lives… death doesn’t discriminate. It takes babies, mamas, daddies, old, beautiful, righteous, addicted, wealthy, homeless, successful and everything in between. 

There aren’t too many gifts cancer or death leaves in its wake, but it does put an entirely new value on time and how you choose to spend it. Too much about life can keep us looking back or planning ahead. Life is where you are, friend. It is a dear and precious gift. 

Our days are too precious to hold grudges, to live in regret, to pass judgements, to not forgive, or to isolate yourself. I don’t honor Michael’s life by stopping mine at the point his heart stopped. I’ve come to realize having loved and lost can enable you to be open to loving even more than you ever thought possible.

And possibly most importantly, we should be as passionate about and committed to building bank accounts of memories, love, forgiveness, hope and happiness as we are businesses, money and material possessions. 

So, today, June 15, 2016, I celebrate not only Michael lives and was a powerful part of mine and Grace’s life for 13 years as well as gave us the sweet gift of Samuel Hatfield Dickinson. But, that God has used the imperfections, the pain and the joy in our life over the past few years to bring us to the place we are today. 

I have hope.
I choose life.
I feel love.
I am blessed.

"Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come.
‘Tis grace that brought me safe this far
and grace will lead me home.
The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures."

As redbuds bloom and tulips turn their heads toward the sun, it’s bittersweet to think of the difference a year makes. It’s spring – literally and figuratively. After months of being quiet and reflecting, I feel a deep burden to write more honestly about my journey with God, grief and guilt.

Last year, fear was my constant companion. I saw spring as an ending. It was the end of a life I cherished with a man and family I dearly loved. There was no joy for us as the world bloomed because Michael was quickly fading.

Despite everything I said I believed at that time, I doubted God. I was mad. I was devastated. I made futile attempts to cut deals with Him, such as, “God, if you will just heal him, I will…” But mostly, I just felt abandoned. 

Everything seemed like such a waste. A waste of a man with so much to give to the world – now unable to talk, to see, confused by simple instructions and confined to a chair. A waste of all the time investing in a marriage, a life, future plans that were not to be, all of which was compounded by the helplessness of watching my children lose their innocence without the ability to intercede. In March 2015, I wrote: “It’s as if we are standing on railroad tracks with a locomotive barreling toward us. I can't stop it or move, so I'm constantly bracing for impact.”

It’s difficult to think anything good could come out having your heart being blown through your chest when you hold the lifeless body of the one you vowed to love and cherish the rest of your life. The primal cry from the depths of my heart when death came is something I will never forget.  

In the ensuing days following the funeral I watched sunsets daily from Michael’s grave, sat in the darkness at night staring at his photo, read and re-read letters he wrote to me, smelled his clothes in the closet, and even at times, prayed the world would end. I was never alone, yet, I never felt more alone. Did I really believe there was a God and a Heaven? And if there was, where was He?

I began two “offline” journals. One, written directly to Michael. The first entry was the day he died. 

June 15, 2015

You went to Heaven this morning.
I’m broken, lost, empty, alone.
I kissed you over and over.
I miss you.
For the first time since we met, you’re unreachable.
Our son is devastated. Grace is crushed.
I look toward where you’ve always been and the chair is empty.
I’m living my worst nightmare – I’m in a world you’re not in.

A little more than a week later I began a faith journal of sorts. It was a desperate attempt to work out whether God abandoned me or if I was the one who abandoned Him. I wrote to God…

June 26, 2015

When will you comfort me?
I am profoundly sad.
The truth is what I need most.
Give me understanding.
Strengthen me.
Be gracious to me.
Direct me.
Turn my heart.
Turn my eyes.

On June 30, 2015, I wrote and prayed this Psalms (31:10, 14-15):

I am dying from grief; my years are shortened by sadness. Misery has drained my strength; I am wasting from within. But I am trusting you, O Lord, saying You are my God! My future is in your hands!

I wanted to wholeheartedly believe. I just couldn’t.

Contrast that with my entry to Michael on the same date…

June is gone and so are you… I think I smiled more than I cried today when I talked about you. 
I count the hours throughout the day – they go so slow. I like the days best where I sleep. I’m seeking God’s will. It’s my only hope for peace in all this. I wish I could be with you.

One day at a time sounds trite, but it’s true. God began opening doors before I even knew they were there. Through the journaling, sleepless nights, questions and tears – He slowly softened my heart. So many years I “served” God out of fear, obligation and pride. But, I didn’t truly know Him, love him, believe Him like I thought I did. It’s not always a priority to build a relationship with God when the world seems right. Now, I was desperate. And as a parent holds a heartbroken child – I started to feel God everywhere.  

As I read my posts and journal entries I can see the progression I couldn't see in the midst of the storm. I wrote only the following words on Sept. 1, 2015, from 19th century pastor Charles Spurgeon in my faith journal that resonates today…

"Don’t you know day dawns after night, showers displace drought and spring and summer follow winter? Then, have HOPE! Hope forever, for God will not fail you."

God did not fail me, despite my disbelief.

He comforted me through Bible readings, books, church, people and prayer. He still does. He changed my heart and my priorities. I no longer view the world or problems the way I did before. A friend shared God was working faster in some areas in my life than others to make himself so obviously known I couldn’t deny Him. Maybe my heart was truly closed off that much.

In November, I wrote for the last time in Michael’s journal. The words captured what I’ve wrestled with and still do – the guilt associated with my disbelief, grief and survivor’s guilt:

Nov. 10, 2015

Passed our anniversary and approaching five months and the holidays. I don’t feel you around much anymore, but I’m hopeful you’re well. 

I feel guilty for living and being able to love again. It doesn’t replace you, but I’m happy. That is a miracle… I’ve cleaned out the closet and I’m getting ready to remodel. I need the house to be different, the space to be new. I’m still sad when I think of you being so sick and the way you died. But, you have taught me how gracefully it can be done. 

When I read back I remember all the feelings and emotions, but I also see how far I’ve come. While I may not feel you near, I do know God is, and my life is not finished. 

I will never forget you. Your work here was finished, your legacy is big, and your memory will always live on in our lives through the love we now carry forward. 

Goodnight Michael. 

My pastor asked the question from a series titled, “When God Doesn’t Make Sense:" What if the scene of our greatest disappointment was the setting for our greatest moment? He used the illustration of Lazarus’s story – how with God, a waiting season is never a wasted season and God’s delays are not necessarily God’s denials.

Waiting is never wasted... It’s a paradigm shift for me. Waiting began on Sept. 27, 2013: Waiting on test results, waiting on radiation, waiting on chemotherapy, waiting on doctor appointments, waiting on planes, waiting on MRIs, and then, waiting on death. The time that passes after a terminal diagnosis is at a much different pace. Time passes quickly up to the point of death, then, it crawls – a day is a week, a week is a month and a month is a year. 

However, waiting is not wasted when spring comes forth from winter. The trees roots are a little deeper and the world comes alive anew and refreshed. 

It is difficult to bless and release the guilt of disbelief I carried in my heart for God through much of Michael’s illness; the guilt of being happy more than sad, seeing another spring… And yes, a measure of guilt for being in love with someone who knows my pain and walks the same path I do. That, in and of itself, could only be a gift from God.

But even as I wrestle with guilt and grief, I feel hope in the depths of my heart and soul. 

Hope that God truly answered my prayer of healing for Michael in his perfect way and will. 

Hope, that despite my actions, He didn’t or will never abandoned me.

And in surviving an experience I’d pictured to be unsurvivable – Hope that He isn’t finished with me yet.

Happy 60th Birthday in Heaven Michael... You are always with us and loved. We're not moving on, but moving forward. I'm filled with joy and sadness as I reflect that you are experiencing what Christmas is all about this milestone birthday - a baby boy who was born, lived and then died on a cross that we might have the gift of salvation and an eternity with God...

"...Celebrating a birthday reminds us of the goodness of life, and in this spirit we really need to celebrate people's birthdays every day by showing gratitude, kindness, forgiveness, gentleness and affection." -Henri Nouwen

PUBLISHED JUNE 17, 2015
Michael Wayne Dickinson, of Edmond, Okla., defeated brain cancer while being held by his loving wife when he was welcomed into the arms of his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ on Monday, June 15, after a courageous and well-fought battle. 

He was born Dec. 20, 1955, to Harrell and Pearl Dickinson in Ardmore, Okla. and grew up in Healdton. Michael was always proud of his Southern Oklahoma roots and graduated with honors from Healdton High School in 1974. He received his bachelor’s and master’s degrees in accounting from Oklahoma State University and began his career with Peat Marwick (KPMG) in the Oklahoma City office upon graduation as well as received his license as a Certified Public Accountant.  

In 1984, he moved his family to Ardmore, Okla. where he was the president of Michael W. Dickinson, CPA, Inc. for more than 15 years before joining The Samuel Roberts Noble Foundation in 2000 as Vice President, Chief Financial Officer and Treasurer. Michael served as the president of the Ardmore Chamber of Commerce, president of the Ardmore Rotary Club, served on the board of directors of the Mercy Memorial Hospital of Southern Oklahoma, and as president of the Board of Education for Plainview Public Schools. His greatest joy in Ardmore was raising three sons and volunteering for many church and community activities.

In 2002, life took Michael back to Oklahoma City where he returned to public accounting. On Oct. 28, 2003, he married Lori Hatfield. He often told the story to friends that in meeting Lori his world emerged “in Technicolor.” Michael was invited to join the BancFirst family in January 2006 as senior vice president and trust officer in the Oklahoma City corporate offices. Michael and Lori became actively involved in the civic and arts community while raising Lori’s daughter Grace and welcoming a son, Samuel Hatfield Dickinson. 

Michael was a proud member of Class II of Leadership Oklahoma and the OKC Downtown Rotary Club 29. He served on the board of directors or executive committees of the Oklahoma City Philharmonic, Oklahoma City Allied Arts, Hewitt Mineral Corporation, OSU Foundation Board of Governors, OSU Alumni Association, OCU’s Meinders School of Business, Oklahoma Lawyers for Children, Leadership Oklahoma and Oklahoma Fellowship of Christian Athletes. He was Governor Frank Keating’s appointee to the Oklahoma DHS Commission and was the first president of the Oklahoma State Board of Juvenile Affairs. 

Michael’s passion was experiencing life to the fullest and never letting a moment pass to tell people he loved and appreciated them. Together Michael and Lori backpacked 200 miles of the Appalachian Trail through Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee, New Hampshire and Maine; hiked from the north to south rim of the Grand Canyon twice (a feat he completed six times); climbed Mount Katahdin in Maine; and hiked across the White Mountains and Mount Washington in New Hampshire, to name a few. Michael also enjoyed hiking with friends the last 50 miles of Maine’s 100-mile wilderness and with his older sons on other sections of the AT and in El Paso. Michael and Lori loved to travel to Coronado Island, Taos/Santa Fe, New York City, and thought of Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, as a second home and consider friends there their extended family. He was a voracious reader who had an insatiable desire to learn and loved the arts and all things Oklahoma State. 

Michael will be forever missed by his loving wife Lori, his son Samuel and daughter Grace, of the home; son John and daughter-in-law Miranda of Stillwater, Okla.; son Joseph and daughter-in-law Tisha of El Paso, Texas; and son Michael and daughter-in-law Terra, of Tunkhannock, Penn. He was the loving “Papa” of Natalie, Reagan, David and Macy Dickinson of El Paso, Texas, and Michael, Benaiah, Joyous and Elisabeth of Tunkhannock, Penn. He is survived by his father-in-law and mother-in-law Dan and Yvonne Hatfield of Norman, Okla., who provided extensive support with his care; brother-in-law and sister-in-law David and Lori Beth Hatfield and nephew Clay and niece Sarah of Stillwater, Okla.; his Aunt Sue and Uncle Duke Burnett of Wills Point, Texas; sister Sherri Johnson; numerous cousins across Oklahoma, Texas and California; and countless friends across the United States and Canada. His parents, Harrel and Pearl Dickinson, his grandparents, and several aunts and uncles preceded Michael in death. 

The family wishes to thank Dr. Brian Geister and numerous staff at the INTEGRIS Cancer Center of Oklahoma, Dr. Mark Gilbert with MD Anderson/National Institutes of Health Cancer Center, McCourtney Family Hospice, and the Rainbolt and BancFirst families for the care and compassion showed to Michael and the family during a difficult time.

I think a lot about living and not just existing. I'm embracing love and hope. I'm taking chances without all the answers. I'm happy more than I'm sad. And I'm certain each day is gift even after the most difficult of months and the culmination of two years... I'm reading and thinking a lot lately before I write again - but something in Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies spoke to me last night... "We all wanted this because let's face it, it's so inspiring and such a relief when people find a way to bear the unbearable, when you can organize things in such a way that a tiny miracle appears to have taken place and that love has once again turn out to be bigger than fear and death and blindness.”

Michael and I married 12 years ago today in the primitive Cades Cove, Tennessee Missionary Baptist Church surrounded by the majestic Smoky Mountains in their full fall brilliance. He was the love of my life and the day could not have been more beautiful. 

He opened the world up to me through travel, books and adventure. Michael loved Grace as his own and Samuel completed our sweet family.

When we received the devastating news last December, I could only focus on the great loss that was coming with his decline then death. Everything I believed and every dream I had was dying too. More than holidays and other firsts, I feared today would be the most difficult because it was, "Our Day."

Instead, I will smile and choose to remember the life we shared and all the wonderful memories that will forever be in our hearts. God is good and his mercies and grace do not fail. I picture Michael surrounded today by more natural beauty than he could imagine, climbing every mountain he wishes without tiring, and engaged in endless conversation with his historical and biblical heroes, family and friends.

Michael, you are missed and you are loved. Happy Anniversary.

Today is Thanksgiving in Canada. Last year I was seated at this joyful table, in a beautiful house, overlooking a magnificent landscape, breaking bread and enjoying wine with old and new friends I consider family. The memory will always be fresh in my mind. I knew in my heart it was a special moment to not let sadness creep in, but fully embrace it as a celebration of the end of a year lived with purpose and thankfulness. 

So, if I can celebrate Thanksgiving early this year with my Canadian friends, this is just a few of the things I'm thankful for:

The grace of my salvation and a God I see as a good and loving father.

To have gained a deep heart knowledge now of what it means to believe in God and live by faith - not just a head knowledge. 

To have learned to have grace with myself on tough days.

To be alive, have my health and feel hope again for the future. 

Two beautiful, healthy children who have walked through hell with me and still laugh, hug and love. 

Discovering I can smile with my eyes.

Learning I'm capable of not just surviving, but thriving when I don't place my confidence in my own abilities, but in God. 

For parents, a brother, sister-in-law, nephew and niece who were here from the beginning, to the very end and loved us back to center. 

Friends who I have chosen and have chosen us to be "family" - the kind who can sit with you, say nothing at all, yet they've said everything. 

Work I'm passionate about while surrounded by people and professionals I respect immensely. 

For someone who will show up on a summer Saturday morning to help plant grass on a fresh grave while encouraging me from their own difficult experiences to trust God and that life will go on. 

A comforting home and a haven of a backyard. 

Sunrises and sunsets. 

Silver linings on a cloudy day. 

Music.