Keep Putting My Feet on the Floor

The best advice I have received so far for what lies in my future is to remember to keep putting my feet on the floor.  I’ve been told this will be the hardest.  To wake up each morning with the fresh realization that half of my heart is missing and still CHOOSE to place my feet on the ground.

Without that choice, I will wallow in my sorrow all day long, just lying in my bed missing him.  And that simply won’t do.  We have children that need to be tended to.  We have chores that must be done.  I have a paycheck to earn so I can put food on the table and clothes on our backs.  I think I will prepare myself a list.  Like the list that used to hang on our young children’s closet doors.  A list of things to do each morning; like brush my teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, make my bed, spend time with Jesus.  They say that staying busy and keeping moving will help the pain to not be so overwhelming.  The preoccupation of my mind with menial tasks is supposed to stop the constant grieving.  I doubt that is true.  I can’t imagine the constant grieving ever coming to an end.  But others who have walked this path before me say it will lessen.  The stifling, suffocating, strangling of it all will somehow slowly dissipate.  I hope they are right. 

My goodness, I am not even on the other side of this life shattering situation and I already often feel like I have to remind my brain to tell my lungs to suck in sweet, crisp air.  And it hurts.  Breathing hurts.  It expands my ribcage and I feel physical pain in my chest; as though my heart already knows half of itself is about to rip away.  My lungs sting with the entry of air.  My head throbs with each blink of the eyelid.  When the grief hits (as at this point it comes in waves, unexpected and harsh) I find myself choking back sobs, and staring numbly into space.  How much worse will it be when his death occurs?  If it hurts to breathe now, how much harder will it be to then?  I cannot imagine.  Don’t want to really.  I am not interested in wrapping my brain around the horrible loneliness that will be. 

Oh, I “know” in my head that eventually I will smile again and laugh again.  My Tim would want that for me (and for our kids).  He would want it sooner than I will probably imagine feeling it.  I think laughter will be healing to us, since it is such an enormous part of who we are as a family.  Maybe I’ll add “smile” to my list of morning tasks.  Even if it begins as a fake smile to my own reflection in the mirror, eventually that smile will reach into my eyes again and one day a giggle will escape my lungs and travel through my lips.  This transformation will be a gift; a special gift to me from my Tim. 
 

The Day We Shaved His Head Because of Chemo

 

A gift from me back to him, also; as I know he wants the kids and me to carry on in this life the best we can and in as close to the same way we would if he were still here with us.  I do not want to disappoint him.  I want to honor his life and his memory.  I long to raise our children in the same manner we have dreamed of together.  This won’t be possible without putting my feet on the ground each morning.  It will be the most difficult of choices.  It would be the choice Tim would want me to make.  It is the example he has displayed for us during this twenty month battle for his life.  He has said repeatedly, “We just keep putting one foot in front of the other” and “It is what it is.”  We will honor his courageous battle by continuing to do the next right thing.

It will take unimaginable bravery.  Strength we cannot fathom.  Deeply-seeded heart discipline.  I am so thankful to have the Holy Spirit dwelling inside of me and the lives of our children.  His bravery, His strength, His discipline is what will carry us through.  One step at a time….but first, we have to be willing to place our feet on the ground.  Thankfully, God’s mercies are promised to be new every morning.  We will cling to His mercy.  It will steady us as we prepare to have those feet we have planted on the ground begin to absorb our weight as we shuffle through those first tiny steps. 

Whether you turn to the right or to the left,
your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying,
"This is the way; walk in it."
Isaiah 30:21