The Sweet Miracle of Trust

One of my many "coping" strategies since losing our daughter has been to look for any blessing or miracle of the day. It didn't matter what it was, it could be as simple as listening to the birds on a spring morning because I never really had the opportunity to just sit and BE one with them, always too busy with the hustle and bustle of life...it could be the sound of children laughing in the back yard....in the early days and months, it was the blessing of tending to Barkley, her dog, and in his own final stages of life, it was that "privilege" Joe and I smiled about, privileged to be home and provide tender loving care to our aging guy....it could be those times Jennifer was able to come over and bring Starbucks and chit chat...it could be when I was finally able to answer phone calls and a friend would call and just listen or just say that she loved me...it could be ANYTHING, just about anything. It was my way of getting through those early stages, look for the blessing, find the sweet miracle, and it was all simple enough.

It is still my way, I MUST keep looking. Some days it feels like I am grasping at straws...I ask myself, "where is it", "where is the blessing in THIS"???? I talk to God, I ask Him to show me, and better yet, I began to trust HIM. Our relationship, His and mine, developed over time, not easily, not without a fight, not without buckets of tears. I read His word, I cling to scriptures, I pray when I don't know how, I beg for answers, I seek out His help, I do not know this path. I write in my journals, fast and furiously, because when the words can pour from my heart, I have a moment of peace. Until it starts again, and again, and again!

But the trust built and I began to see and feel and know that there is something good to cling to...I could list all the blessings in my journal, I could name the sweet miracle of the day. Again, nothing profound, nothing deep, God above knew that some days, most days, the sweetest miracle was that I got up. I willed my left foot to the floor, and the first step became the last step. Even when the steps in between were beyond devastating, I was up, and I was working on this thing called grief.

I have come to know that my sweetest miracle is the trust I speak of, the trust that something is going to come from all this that I least imagined, the trust that God will help me every step of the way, the trust that when I come to know Him better, and accept His son's sacrifice for my sins, I am promised that place in His heavenly Kingdom, reunited with those I loved on this earth. Trust is beautiful, and it is the sweetest miracle of all.

Trust helps me to know God is going to provide. I never know what it is He plans to provide, but it is always there. Not in my timing, though, in His. Trust tells me that no matter how my child died (yes, I said it, died) she is with Him. Trust tells me that my wildest dreams, or nightmares, could not come true without Him. Trust tells me that He will bring a brighter tomorrow, once the dark and devastation clears, even if that is only for a minute. Trust tells me that our timeframes really mean nothing, that there is no such thing as time in His home, only freedom, beauty, love and light. Trust tells me that if He took me there, I would not want to come back. Trust tells me that I am going to be alright, pained, yes, beyond heartbroken, lonely, and grieved, but alright, yes. Trust tells me that there is a world to see, and He wants me to see it. He sends His message through the sweet spirit of my child, who I am beginning to see as she was, before...before the pain of cancer, the loss of her own bodily functions, and the devastation she felt upon leaving us.

God is providing. Sometimes I don't see it. I don't understand it. I question. I scream. I cry. I want her back. I ask Him why she had to go, and then there is an answer. Not one to my satisfaction, nevertheless, it is an answer. I can see clearly sometimes, and sometimes I cannot see at all. But I trust. And that is my sweetest miracle of all.

She Changed The World

Today, as I write and reflect and pray, I dedicate my thoughts to ALL who have changed the world, not just my Allison, but today, and the last week, my heart has travelled with the family of Tanner, the Lowrance's and the Wallace's and the Sheridan's, and others whose names I may not know...may the family, someday, find reasons to celebrate the difference he made, and the ways in which he, too, changed the world.

This week, a site I visit often, The Compassionate Friends network, (thank you, Joe S.), the question was asked...How did your child, sibling, grandchild change the world? I don't know if I ever thought of such a question, let alone, an answer. But I have thought about how both my children have changed MY world. And to wonder how my deceased child has changed the world, well, that is a very profound question.

We, the mothers or fathers who have lost our children, the sisters or brothers, or the aunts and uncles, the grandparents, might like to think that our baby, our child, our daughter, our son, no matter the age when they left, no matter the circumstance, may have left a mark on the world. We may like to believe that someone's life has changed, even if it's just one, for the better, because ours lived, and then didn't. And sometimes, we take on the responsibility to keep that memory alive, because it is the only way that we feel we are alive, too. It helps us know that inside, when we feel we are dying, actually, we are living. It is the only purpose to our being, maybe for awhile, maybe forever, maybe for a day, maybe for an hour when we get the opportunity to talk about that beloved.

So, I contemplate...and in my dark hours when I feel completely alone and lost in my grief, I know, I know Allison changed the world. She changed the world in ways I may never know. But bit by bit, I am blessed to know, sometimes, how her life has changed others, and ultimately those around them, and the circle widens. When I do have those courageous souls who will actually share with me that her constant smile in this life helps them smile through bad times, I am blessed. When the bold ones tell me that they have never taken a day for granted since her passing, because if Allison Haake could die from lung cancer, well....what does that say for the rest of us, I smile to know that someone has actually gained something from our tragedy. When I am given each new day to see her sister blossom and grow into an amazing young woman in her own right, I know it is Allison who gives her strength, and when I see her turn to God, I am thankful, for without God, we are nothing, dust to dust, ash to ash. When I am told that libraries hold books in her memory, how joyful I feel, the sadness dissipates for a moment, for there was nothing Allison loved more than being read to, or reading those non-fiction books of truth and life, and yes, even pain and struggles and death. When I am told by a colleague of mine that when middle school girls come into her office, and they have the brightest, piercing eyes, she thinks of Allison, and she is calmed in her interactions, I whisper a thanks to Allison. And when the circle keeps widening and tightening with love, when her own family now trusts that a plan is in place, that yes, we have to do our part, work hard, love unconditionally, savor the moment, make new memories, hold each other's hands, never judge, just BE where God needs us to be, well, then, I know all is right with the world and she is changing ours, bit by bit, day by day, now year by year.

I suppose one big fear when we lose our loved one is that no one will remember. Other mothers have shared that with me. Mothers of newborns who live a day, three days, a month, mothers of children of all ages who have been taken from us by cancer, and mothers whose children took their own lives, for reasons never to be revealled in this lifetime, yet reasons that maybe someday will bring a peace that passes all understanding. We do fear that others won't remember. That fear sets in for all those who have lost a loved one. We want that loved one remembered, even though, in initial stages, and maybe during trying milestones, we can barely speak of them, we secretly hope someone else will...someone else will tell the story, relive the memory, remember the life as they lived, not as they died, and help us to know how that our cherished soul made a difference. It helps in grief to know that our loved one served a purpose. No matter the stage of grief, the years that pass, the beginning days, grief is a complexity that we so often dance around. We know not what to do. We know not what to say. It's when we follow our heart, and do or say what feels right, that we cannot go wrong. Maybe today we can tell someone who lost their child, or their spouse, or their sister or brother, or mother or father, or aunt or uncle, or niece or nephew, or friend, or their grandparent, just how that person changed your world. And if not today, maybe tomorrow, or the next day...for everyone under heaven has their purpose, and whether we know it or not, or are ever told or not, we each change the world, and hopefully, always for the better.

Allison, you changed my world. You give me strength, you give me hope, and you give me faith. You led your uncle into his purpose under heaven, only to be welcomed by our Lord and Savior, you are there with open arms when it is time for others to join you, and this life shows us that it won't be long. We know not who, or when, or why, or how, but we know that to understand life is to understand death, death from this world, but life for eternity. None of us would be where we are, what we are, who we are, if not for you and the life you left us, and that alone, has changed my world.

Two Sisters

As I am packing, and embarking, on yet another visit to my sister, I am thankful...thankful to God for the time, the resources, the ability, the strength, and yes, the courage, to even leave home, and go. Why courage? Why strength? Why? Because nothing comes easily anymore. Not one trip, and there have been many, has been "easy", yet, here I go again, under the premise that I may be of some help to her. There are many things for her to do, now, and decide, and plan, and talk through, and I want to be there for her. Sure, she has many wonderful friends, sister-like friends, who she can talk with, and does...as do, I. And we are blessed, and thankful for those sister-friends. There is nothing like a girl friend to live with you through life's joys and challenges. But there is nothing like that sister, who knows you, loves you unconditionally, learns to never judge, who walks with you, breathes with you, feels what you feel, knows what you know, who grew up with the memories to be shared, who makes new memories, and in our case, at least for right now, grieves with you.

This trip is a little different. It's my first one where Michael will not be at the boat. It is the reminder of the one, one year ago this very week, when he stood at the dock, waiting, and looking at me in wonderment. He got it! He understood! He knew something in his soul, I sensed it then, and I know it, now. We didn't speak of dying, except in his joking way, we didn't speak of anything but life. He told me things that I do not need to look back on a journal to remember. Whatever he had to face, he could do it, because of his niece, our daughter, sister, girl. He was not afraid. He seized the day and filled the house with people, for an impromptu party, where laughter rang true, and again, memories were made. Photographs were taken, and life was lived. Special people gathered. And it was the last time. He did it for me, for Karen, for himself, for them, and for her, his compass, his guide, his angel.

So, two sisters will gather, again. The house will be different for me. Michael is gone. I keep telling myself that. The flight will be different. Everything is different. It's not that I didn't already know that. Different is my way, the new normal, ever since my life changed and the world shifted. But the larger than life presence will be absent, at least physically. It will all be so different. Yet, I know it is time to go. Maybe I fool myself into believing I can actually be of some help, maybe it is I who needs the help the most, and I rush to the haven where I can grieve, find a little more of myself, live, love, and just BE by the SEA.

Winter, summer, fall, or spring, Hull is where the heart is...yes, Allison taught me that, my upbringing is there, but most of all, my sister is there. We will laugh, we will cry, we will pray, we will be silent, we will be respectful of where the other one is, emotionally and spiritually, we will tell stories, we will remember. But most of all, we will be together. And that is nothing but ALL GOOD.

Dying in Winter

This week, on this "anniversary" of four years, I found myself asking God why she had to die in winter...why does this week have so many parallels to that week in 2007 when weather changed drastically and we went from a sunburst of color, to gray skies, to sleet, to ice, to snow, to frozen temperatures. Our city was at a standstill at times, and so many without power. We, of course, were one of the fortunate ones. We kept our power throughout the whole week, when literally thousands had to endure the cold and ice with little relief, no heat, no lights, no power. I hadn't thought of this much, because, at the time, I wasn't too impacted. I didn't know just how blessed we were that we were one of few houses in our own subdivision, let alone the entire metropolitan area. I was preparing for a funeral, a burial of my child, a tribute, a celebration. It was up to her family to set the tone for what was to be, we had no plan, blueprint, idea how to go about this. One day she was here, one day we realized she may not be, and in what seemed an instant, she was gone, and we were left, to move and live and breathe, orchestrate and organize the most important day of Allison's life. We did our best with what we knew to do. And now, the memory of that day, this day, similar in many ways, brings a smile to my heart, yet a stabbing, piercing reality that I lost my child. She died in winter.

It seemed appropriate, and still does, in a way. Only, this week, as I have endured the emotions that surge, the pain of the reality of it all, the thought of my child being ushered to her resting place, through the snow, the ice, the freezing temperatures by the boys, well, men, really, who loved her most...well, the images, the flashbacks are difficult. Yet, they do make me smile at times. After all, there were balloons, and pictures, and a video, and love, and laughter, and stories and memories. But then the reality of it all takes that place in my soul, and in the depths of pain and grief and sadness and loss, and in days when it is most difficult to get out and about, in snow and slick roads, in sub zero temperatures, I ask, God, why did she die in winter?!! Why not spring, when I could get to her grave, why not summer, which was such a favorite season, why not autumn, when the trees are beautiful and I can sit and look up, in the beauty of your creations? Why not when it was warmer, milder, calmer? And it is then that I feel Him smiling, almost laughing at me...as if I could question at all what happens in HIS timing!!! The nerve, I almost hear Him say back, sending me the message of spirit. The audacity, He almost chides, that I would even wonder or question! But, He is not angered or mad, or frustrated, or combative...He gently reminds me of His own timing, through His word, His love, His plan, His timing. Of course, she died in winter. Of course, the service was celebrated and even mentioned about the picture perfect New England day, the type of day she has become known for, the kind of day that reminds everyone of her life on this earth. The type of day that would have brought her so much comfort, where she would have stayed on that couch, and we would have baked chocolate chip cookies, and lounged around, or played outside. The kind of day that brings memory to her sister and her friends. The kind of day EVERY kid loves! The kind of day, made just for her, a winter day, the "dead of winter" as goes the phrase, yet, the LIFE of winter, when I think of her.

God has His ways. She lived for only eleven weeks. She could have left us in a day, a week, a month, or two. But, she didn't. God waited until the perfect time, the perfect place, the perfect day, the right plan, all for her. She died in winter, so that all the other seasons she would live. I am grateful for the reasoning and the reminders of His great love and mercy and grace. I am grateful that winter will cease, in time, and then will come spring, summer and that beautiful fall. I am grateful for the sweet remembrance of a celebration of life, something we all needed, right smack in the "dead of winter". Four years ago today. I cling to the words of the pastors, the love of those who could be with us, the connection of family, and the celebration of a life that continues to give, guide, love, and share. Allison, I will keep looking at winter as YOUR time, not the time you died, but the time you lived. You are my heart, my soul, my being, my breath. You are the ice, the snow, the cold, and every season in between. You rest, now, from the pain, but soar and stay with me. I need you now and forever, until we meet again.

Who Would I Be?!!???

I often wonder, who would I be, what would I be doing, WHERE would I be if not for her passing, her diagnosis, her legacy, the spiritual awakening, the revelations, the pain, the incomprehensible grief...who would I be, if she had lived? I try not to GO THERE, because I know this is part of God's plan, yet...I still wonder. At times. I try not to spend too much time contemplating a concrete answer for there will be none. I am where I am, and I face grief like a part of my day that has become part of a routine, just as getting up, brushing my teeth, cleaning house, preparing meals, all accomplished now, with the cloak, the aura, the shadow of grief surrounding me. I am learning how to go through all the motions of life, with a new zest for the day, with new meaning to words like hope, love, faith, and a favorite, cherish. I cherish so much more since she is gone. I suppose if I realistically could, I would travel the world, and back, just to see what she now sees from a different perspective. Just to see what she didn't, in the physical sense, knowing all the while that it is God using her to guide me, assist me, restore me, push me, nudge me, and love me, until I love myself enough jut to BE.

I do know that nothing bothers me, nor will it ever again, and rarely am I irritated. I do know that simple pleasures have become greater gifts than anything money can buy. I do know that there are no worries in this lifetime, for I have climbed the mountain, to the top, and back down again, and know, now, that every problem has a solution. I do know that who I AM is not who I would have been, if not for her passage. I do know that it also takes work, this life, this living without her, suppressing the flashbacks, the memories that cancer brought on, and to try to regain those of a happier time, more carefree, days gone by that thankfully serve as the picture window of my mind. The camera is always going. The playbacks are always winding, and I try to capture those, instead of others.

Sometimes I don't know who I am, even four years later. I stopped working right after she passed away, and I am thankful. I know that as much as I miss that part of my life, that was a gift from God, delivered by Allison. As each day unfolds, I know the reasons I am not adding THAT type of stress to my life. I am thankful. I have seen the reasons that I was able to travel back and forth to visit my sister and brother in law, in his final years, months, weeks, days....to be there with the family as we said good-bye, again, to a beloved. I have seen the reasons that I am home to make a comfortable setting for a husband who grieves in a very quiet, secluded way, who works to this day to remain strong and true to his love for a deceased daughter, and one filled with life. I find myself discovering new things and new ways, and opportunities, each and every day, yet there are those moments when I wonder, who would I be? Where would I be? WHAT would I be?

Really, there is no reason to wonder. God took care of that. The path is laid out, and it is mine to follow. Absolutely no one gets me up in the morning, something that is still rather difficult, even on this fourth anniversary week. No one spurs me on and takes me by the hand and leads me through this journey. But I am not remarkable or even inspirational, as some would say. What they don't know, is that this is not me. It is divine intervention at its best, it is a will to live, and live strong for those I love, which includes my immediate family, my siblings, their children, and a whole host of friends and others. It is the power of God's grace that I ask for each and every day, even now. Nothing about this is simple, easy. Nothing about seeing how Allie's friends are growing up, finding out who they are, perhaps marrying, having babies, settling into careers, nothing is easy at all. It takes perseverance and patience and prayer and fortitude to stay a part of their lives, but it is also important to do so. We have one thing in common, none of us are who we would have been, had she not left us when she did.

Who would I be? I'll never know. Does it even matter? I am what I am, who I am, where I am, for reasons that will become clearer and clearer with the passage of time. I am defined now, by many things, her life, her death, her sister and family living out a legacy. We are not what we once were, we are learning lessons others won't know until it is their own time. For now, it is ours, and in dying, Allison left us to capture, seize, and savor the times that are ours.

We celebrated her life four years ago tonight and tomorrow. And we have not stopped. I don't know who I am supposed to be, but I will keep learning, trying, and honoring. It's a gift to have this day.

My New Year

My new year seems to begin today, or has, since that year and day in 2007. That day, that moment, that second, where my heart beat with hers, until it didn't. That new year when the first nine days were spent in a hospital room, celebrating, enduring, crying, laughing, living, dying. That new year when I don't recall any celebrations or pleasantries shared, no "happy new year" wishes, because, after all, we weren't happy. The definition of "happy" was changed as we knew it, as was "merry" and "great" and "wonderful" and "joyful"...our baby girl, yes, 21 year old that she was, was dying. And nothing about the new year rang true.

Now, in this fourth year since her passing, I have come to realize that my new year begins today. It began at 7:00 a.m. this morning. I don't know what I did on year one, year two, year three, since she has been gone, and I don't know what I will do in the future. I probably won't know what I did today. It doesn't matter, anyway. It is what it is, and the spirit guides us through what is a day that no parent, no sibling, no family, should know. But we do, don't we? Loved ones leave us every day, every minute, every year, and yet, we are stunned when it happens again and again. We don't know how to plan for a day such as this. How do you honor this life? How do you seize this day? What do you DO to help it pass, or go away, or celebrate it? If only someone could tell me. But they cannot. So, we take our individual preferences or desires, blend them with the ones who are here, and honor the spirit that soars. And we find what gives us meaning. Today will be like any other day. Only it really isn't. It is the day our Allison was set free and pain and worries and complexities of THIS life became but a memory. She set foot in the heaven, at the foot of the throne of grace and mercy, never to return in physical form again.

The physical form is what we miss the most. When I can stay focused on where she is, what has happened, how the skies opened up in an array of color blossoms on a cold, winter day, and how the world seemed to stop and pause for a second, I can find my peace. When I recall the answer to prayers that were cried out in the final days, I can know my God. And when I know that in order to fulfill a plan that is beyond my own comprehension, she had to go, I can understand...if only for a moment. I can understand what seizing the day means and find new relevance in a new year. It has nothing to do with the calendar turning, and everything to do with where God wants us to be. I can breathe and say to myself, my new year begins right now, I am nine days behind everyone else, but it does not matter. It's only time. And where Allison is, there is no time, there is no confinement, there are no deadlines, and appropriate time frames, there's only freedom, bliss, wonder, hope, love and longevity in the hereafter.

My new year begins today...while a very bittersweet day, this is not a day for death. That was last week. That was last month. As God's word affirms, there is that time for dying, and for living. She was set free to live. She did not die. Her love is even stronger than if she were in this room right now. She was set free so that others may live. Or die. She was chosen from a host of holy warriors. And she answered the call. And until we meet again, and while I am "forced" to follow a calendar, today, January 9th, 7:00 a.m. will always begin my new year.

Happy new year to my sweet Allie, my compass, my guide. Happy new year to my child, who reminds me that we are ALL children in the eyes of God. One day we will be with her, and Him, and all those we love, and our age won't matter, the calender won't matter, nothing will matter. Worries will be gone, extinguished. We will be set free.

Happy new year, to the child I rocked in my arms, four years ago last night, who I was blessed to give birth to, and who I was blessed to know, for 21 years, and into eternity. Happy new year to the one who whispers her love and gratitude to me in ways I could have never imagined possible. Happy new year to my beloved, Allison Marie Haake, who rests in eternal peace.

Facing Death

I don't want to think about it, what this day, the past few days, really, and the next few, to come, represent. But my mind goes there, in spite of the multitude of prayers and near begging antics I lay at the foot of God's throne. Trusting Him as I do, I know I must be in this place, in the here and now, and live out each day as a grieving mother for a reason. I know He has many reasons and a bigger plan, but oh, how I wish I could turn off the last days, the last hours of Allison's life. They serve no purpose to a saddened soul. Yet, by remembering I draw strength.

I cannot be in the first week of January without remembering how she faced death. It was really the first we had spoken of it, because in her 21 year old mind, and in ours, we prayed God's miracle would be a cure. We stuck to His medicine all the way, through the scriptures that carried her through treatments, to prayer time, to laying in bed and just giving thanks for so much. One day we watched Oprah and there was a young man who had eye cancer that caused both eyes to be removed, spreading to his tongue, and then causing him to be fed by a tube. Allison was so moved, as she always was by anyone's plight, and we actually stopped and prayed on the couch at that very moment. Not for her. But for him. She KNEW she would be fine, she planned to outlive this cancer.

In retrospect, I know more than I thought I would about facing death. I sat by my mother's side, my father's side, my daughter and a friend's sister, and Michael's side. While each circumstance was different, it was this world they didn't want to leave, for reasons known only to them, or shared if they chose to do so. We mortals believe we are needed here, and we are. No one wants to go on without the ones we love most in this world. I couldn't comprehend a life without my mother, my father, my daughter, I couldn't comprehend Chrissy's children living on without a much needed, and loved, mother, and I couldn't imagine this family without Michael. Now, all this is but a mere remembrance, because for some reason, some way, we are living without them.

Allison faced death in her own way. When she asked me if she would die, and I was honest in my answer, I will never forget her eyes. She already knew my answer. I didn't say yes, today, tomorrow, or the next day. I just told her that yes, we are all going to die, that is God's purpose for our life. There were a few times she cursed cancer, but mostly, she embraced it and fought and learned. She spoke of a time when she may change career paths and work with cancer patients in some capacity. She mapped out her life. She knew things no 21 year old should ever know. And she faced death with the love of Jesus in her heart. I know that makes it "easier" for me, her sister, her father, and her family. I know she is an instrument of His peace, to help guide, and who better to guide than her own uncle, who lived with his own diagnosis, right on the heels of hers. She gave him endless strength, courage, and love. Everywhere he went, he saw her. And as he faced his own death, there she was, arms outstretched, waiting, and he spoke of seeing her.

All of this brings me comfort, but all of this causes me grief. I am saddened at what the first week of January will always represent. I miss my child more than I can even articulate. I don't know how to go on, at times. But, then I remember the promise, my promise made to her, as she faced death. Yes, Allison, I will be okay, and I will live strong, and when I falter, I will look up. God will carry me, and you will guide me. When that promise was made, I could not imagine just how difficult it would be to live it out in my new reality. I didn't know just how gut wrenching every single day would be. I didn't know there was such a process, that grief isn't just in losing her, that it is also in letting her go, accepting, and moving. I didn't know so much. I didn't know that as she faced death, a part of me died, too.

She faced death with all the gusto a person could, wise beyond her years, connected to a loving God. But she didn't go easily. She fought and thrashed and yelled and begged. Those moments serve me no purpose to remember, but as the calendar days turn, they come rushing into my subconscious and rip apart a heart that is already crying. Please God let me remember where she is, that her work was done here, and that she rests safely and beautifully in your hands, being reunited with those who have faced their own death, in order to live.

Continue The Climb

Today, I pledge to continue the climb. Climbing to where or what, I do not know, but climbing is what it feels like. Climbing the mountain of grief. Climbing out of bed. Climbing past myself and my emotions. Climbing out from underneath the reminders, the memories, the remembrances, the flashbacks. Simply, climbing.

With the holidays all but a memory now, I continue to praise God for that "last" Christmas, when Allison could have been gone, but was not. I thank Him for the blessing of knowing her for 21 years. I thank Him for taking her quickly, eleven weeks, and for keeping her suffering to somewhat of a minimum. I ask Him for daily help and assistance to live on, live strong, and live honorably, without her. I thank Him for the gift of family over this Christmas, for sustaining us with love, knowing that is all we need. For the resources, for the ability to live another day, for carrying me through the day to day life since she left. And for giving me the ability to continue the climb.

I needed such strength today, just to climb out of bed. Fatigue and exhaustion have taken over, and not just from weeks of preparations and holiday cooking. It's called grief. And it's knowing in my soul what this day represents...her last week, the words, "no cure", "no treatment", "no options". My dear God, how does one endure? But she did, we did, and we do. We continue the climb.

I hold on to the image of where Allie is now, in a place that knows no new year, no January 2nd, and no January 9th. A heaven and a God that holds no timeframe at all. So why should I, why should we? Our hearts and souls tell a story that is physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual, and mental. And it takes work to continue the climb. I don't want to forget, yet, I do. I don't want to GO THERE! There is no need. So, instead, I work like I have never worked at anything, work to continue, move, savor, be in the moment, not the ones four years ago today and this week. But right now. When I falter, and I do, I look up and I ask for God's good grace and tender kindness. I cannot change the fact that she is gone. I can only respond and change how I cope.

Still, the climb is breathtaking and painstaking and monumental. Grief barely settles in from the holidays, and then it is her last days, week, breath. She climbed the biggest hurdles and left me to continue the climb...I will, I do, I must.

I look at four years and wonder many things...how did I get here? How will I go on like this? When is it easier? When do I FEEL something different? And I realize that to my multitude of questions, there are no easy answers. Climb I must, and climb, I will.

A quote this week on The Compassionate Friends facebook page really hit home..."The passage of time does not cause our grief to end, but it's softening touch helps us to survive"...by Wayne Loder.

Grief has not ended, but perhaps its softening touch, and God's gentle hand, has helped me to survive. Only time will tell how long I have to live in this world, but I do know, each day I spend, I will take my cues from both daughters and a family who loves me, and I will continue the climb.