Holly's Heart

Endings...

2011-09-14T07:48:00.000-07:00

I am not good with accepting change. Especially when it is the result of a relationship ending. Whether I've lost someone because of moving or we grew apart or there was a death, I have learned that I don't deal with the loss very well. I don't suppose anyone does.

Over the past few days I have had two important friendships end. It has been a wave of emotion as I sift through the conversations, the laughter, the sadness, the closeness and try to understand why they needed to end. I noticed, as I was sending a final message to one friend, that in the email I stated that in my mind we would always be friends. And I ended the sentence with a series of periods......which usually means more to come (at least that's what I mean). Then I went back and erased those dots and replaced them with a single period. Signifying the end.

I know relationships end. I've gone through enough endings where that point is firmly planted in my mind. It doesn't mean I like it, but it means I have to accept it. My dad died, my husband died, my close friend walked away. Endings are rarely easy. Goodbyes are so much harder than the first "nice to meet you". Closure is a word that makes no sense to me. I have never been able to close the door on anyone. Especially someone with whom I share a story. No matter where they've chosen to go or how they've chosen to leave, in my mind and in my heart we remain friends.....

One Day at a Time....

2011-09-13T11:15:00.000-07:00

I used to hate the term "One Day at a Time." To me it represented the inability to be excited about a future. Why focus on the present day, when the whole exciting world was at your feet just waiting to be explored!

I get it now--I get what it means to live "One day at a time..." It is truly all we have. Ain't nothin' I can do about all the grief of the past and ain't nothin' I can do to make sure tomorrow, or next week or next year goes according to a specific plan. But, boy do I get that in this moment I can choose to either get beat up by life or embrace it as a challenge and prepare myself to move forward. Who knows...maybe tomorrow will be just as rotten as today--I really don't think so, but who knows? Maybe tomorrow will be THE day that so many prayers are obviously and gloriously answered with a choir of angels to go with it! I really don't think so--but who knows? Today I am here. Today I am with my kids. Today I can be grateful and today I can take another step towards healing. Today I can say "no more" to people who want to make me see things their way. Today I can say "no more" to sadness about things said or done in the past. Today I can say "no more" to being a victim of sadness. I am not a victim. I am not anything but God's splendid child who is perfect, upright, whole and free.

I started a fire in the firepit today--it's 98 degrees outside. I'm burning parts of my past. Perhaps it's a kind of cleansing...maybe I'm just too cheap to buy a good shredder. The point is I'm here in "Today". The past is gone, like fire to paper--it is gone with the blaze of heat and flame. I am choosing today to face forward and move into the grace and goodness that is my children, my peaceful home, my daily gratitude for the good in my life. One day at a time...sometimes just one minute at a time.

In Honor of My Dad, Jim E. Frank Memorial Scholarship

2011-05-15T10:53:00.000-07:00

My Dad, Jim Frank, was born into a very humble home in Yamhill, Oregon, on the cusp of the great depression. The home had more children and more love than they ever had money, or even shoes for that matter.

His parents were not able to afford a formal education for any of their nine children, but Dad always valued education and longed to go to college. He had a work ethic that was unparalleled and a heart that was big enough to care genuinely for every person that came into his life. He taught his children that we could do anything we put our minds to, and he set that example for us, by working hard and loving us and our mother even harder.

My Dad was our biggest cheerleader and along with my mother, encouraged his children to complete their college education, because he knew the struggles ahead for us, without that degree. We used to tell him, “Dad—you go back to college and get your degree too!” But he was always too busy taking care of his family and earning a living that gave us many comforts we probably took fore granted.

My Dad passed away suddenly, in August of 1990. He never knew that his words and wishes that I complete my college education we so strongly imbedded in my life, that at the age of 30, I enrolled at MSU and obtained my degree in finance in 1998. The pride I felt when I was handed that diploma has only been matched by the love and pride I have watching my own children as they work to accomplish their dreams. When I earned that degree I walked a little taller and felt like I had been given the key to open any door I wanted.

I established this scholarship to honor my father, Jim E. Frank. He would be the first one to stand here and tell all of you how proud he is that you took the right path, worked hard and came out the other side better and stronger and with a future that you control because you did the work and now you have the power!

Thank you so much for helping my family and me honor my father.

Healing

2011-01-10T07:49:00.000-08:00

"Grief" was the topic for the sermon in church this past Sunday. The idea was to stop talking about grief and instead allow yourself to feel it--the deep gut wrenching, can't breathe feeling of being pushed down under water kind of grief. The grief one feels from a loss--divorce, death, relocation of loved ones. I have felt this kind of weight many times from the loss of my dad and my husband, and from moving away from homes where I had felt safe and loved.

Sunday, the word "grief" held a different meaning for me and what it means in my life now--at this moment. I'm holding tight to this feeling because, as I have learned time and time again, you never know what tomorrow or the next hour or the next minute holds. I don't mean to sound pessimistic either. Rather I suppose I want to convey to people--especially those grieving a loss--that it does get better and it does get a bit easier and it does get happy again. These are concepts I desperately hoped for when I was feeling loss the hardest.

I think when we are hurting so deeply, there are times we rush to get through the pain. We try so hard to "get over it". In the end we find ourselves in situations where we haven't fully recovered and we haven't fully learned what our loss is meant to teach us. We read or reject self-help books from well-meaning friends and family. We shut out God in some instances--in my case I told my pastor that there was no God, and that the Bible was just a really nice story that someone wrote. Pain and grief turn us in many directions. For me, I see now how God never left me for an instant. I left him, but He was there every step of the way--never failing me. Sometimes we even find ourselves turning to the wrong people--thinking that this person is the one to fill the void--for whatever reason.

A counselor once told me to be careful of distractions during the grief period, because they keep you from working through the loss. I had so many distractions after my husband died--some I had to deal with, like resolving and closing our business; as it turns out another type of loss and another form of grief. A lot of the distractions I brought on myself, like allowing people into my life that were hurtful to me and my children. We feel this need to be whole again and that is just something that is going to take time.

In August of this past year, I took my daughters to the beach. A place I had gone before to heal and a place I turned to again for peace. Standing there listening to the waves and hearing their healing rhythms and feeling the strength of one of God's most powerful creations, I felt whole again. I knew I had healed. I knew that my children would always love their father, but that they were healed. I felt God's embrace in the same way I would have felt my Dad hold onto me and tell me it would all be okay.

In church Sunday, as I listened to the sermon on "grief", I looked around and noticed another young family who had lost their husband and father a couple of years before we lost my husband. The young mother sat with her two young children, but next to them was the man who came into their lives to make the healing complete. They had come full circle in their grief. I also looked down the row at my family--my two daughters. Three years ago we sat in church enveloped in our grief as my late husband battled cancer. I never expected to be sitting there three years later feeling that we were healed--feeling God's complete love for us. I am so grateful

Peace Signs

2011-01-06T12:17:00.001-08:00

So, I have this obsession with Peace Signs. Pajama's, jewelry, home decorations, dishes, door mats, t-shirts....my friends think I'm a little over the top. but here's the thing, the Peace Signs make me feel happy. Like flowers or rainbows or a great sale. Especially if the sale item has a peace sign on it.

My life is good and I'm grateful for every bit of it. My kids, my family, my friends, my home and everything in between. But for as long as I can remember I've had a hole in my heart. I have this deep emptiness sometimes that has been so hard to fill.

When my children were born, a big part of the hole was filled. I knew when I had my first child, almost with absolute certainty, why God had put me on earth--and it was to be a mom to my kids. If I could tattoo Peace Signs on them I would achieve Nirvana....okay, that might be pushing it a bit.

This emptiness continues, however. I sometimes attribute it to losing some very important people in my life--not all of them to death, but to absence, distance.

I miss the feeling I had as a little girl when all my family had gathered at my Grandparent's house in Michigan. I only experienced this a few times, as my Grandparents died before I was seven years old. After their deaths, my family broke apart. Some left to go to college, some left to get married, some were no longer allowed in our lives because of family disputes. I was seven years old and the youngest of four. All of my siblings were much older and were ready to lead adult lives. My parents were ready too, to have some of the freedoms afforded to those who have raised their children and want to relax a bit.

The safety and security I felt for the first six years of my life just kind of dissipated over the next few years. By the time I was eleven there was a palpable loneliness in my life and the hole was well on its way to securing its place in my heart.

But, as you all know, you can't carry that kind of heaviness forever. The sadness it brings will take over your lives. So you move forward, breathe deep, find the things that fill you with good and you invite them into your life--sandy beaches, the sound of waves, cicadas on a warm summer night, the smell of the woods in summer, the feel of your children's arms around you...peace signs. Take the good in and hold it tight and let it fill you. Holes have a way of getting filled--it may not be with what was originally there. Sometimes what fills the hole is even better.

2010-12-27T08:33:00.000-08:00

I will never forget the day I found out I was going to become a mother. My feelings were a mixture of joy, elation and shock mixed with a little bit of apprehension. Knowing I wanted this baby more than anything in my life, but worried that somehow I would lack the parenting skills I needed to raise a child and not turn them into a raving, paranoid lunatic. I also knew I had a partner in crime--my husband. It took two to get us here, and I knew he would love this baby just as much as I did and try just as hard as I would to raise a happy, healthy, intelligent child, without imposing too many of our own shortcomings as this child grew.

Lauren was born and fulfilled all of our dreams of what having a baby would be like. She was this perfect, pink, bald-headed bundle of sweetness. She made it so easy that Jeff and I thought we must amazing parents and could not understand all these parents who complained about the difficulties of parenthood. Here was our first mistake--first, we only had one child, and second Lauren was an easy baby. No colic, slept through the night at six weeks, napped, cooed, ate well, no serious illnesses...we were blessed.

Ashtyn was born 2 years and 11 months after Lauren. Ashtyn was definitely a different baby. She was due the second week of August, she finally arrived by C-section on September 5, when I was into my 43rd week and I finally gave up the idea of natural childbirth. She had this amazing shock of jet black hair and when the doctor brought her out the doctor and the ER staff was giggling. I had given birth to a toddler--10 pounds, 2 ounces, 23 and 1/2 inches long--with her hair, she looked like a mini punk rocker screaming her lungs out. I remember my obstetrician saying, "Girl, you would not have wanted to birth that child naturally..." I remember looking around and in my spinal block induced haze, asking if there was another woman giving birth in the operating room, because that baby didn't look anything like me! Ashtyn did of course, look like her Daddy, with her thick black hair. So that made it ok.

Ash was different in so many ways from Lauren, as a baby. Poor sleeper, veracious appetite, never napped, cried if anyone but mommy held her--which all lasted until she was well over a year. By then I was fast approaching a level of insanity reserved only for those who have second baby syndrome. Second baby syndrome is what occurs when you're lulled into a false sense of being a good parent because the first baby is easy. The second baby comes along and you quickly realize that if this had been the first child, there would never have been a second child. Of course this is a self-diagnosed syndrome, but I'm pretty sure there is psychological term for it somewhere.

We took it one day at a time. With Ashtyn, Jeff was unable to help as much. The new business we'd opened up took a great deal of his attention and I was focused on trying to keep my sanity and possibly get a shower once a day, while I raised our two small daughters. I adored my family. Even through the sleeplessness and the feelings of inadequacy, I adored them all.

Over the next four years Jeff and I plowed through our days. Some good, some bad. Some really good and some really bad. By the time we moved our little family into a new four bedroom house in a subdivision with a pool, we were feeling mostly positive about our future.

Mostly positive...

We had some really tough times after we moved. I think a part of it was the added pressure Jeff felt to meet a higher mortgage payment, and I experienced severe isolation, after leaving behind friends and neighbors who had become like family. I felt truly alone.

One morning, while trying to get Lauren to kindergarten on time, I found the car battery to be dead. I panicked--normally I'd have gone across the street and asked Larry, our grandfatherly neighbor, for help. Well, Larry didn't live across the street anymore. All that was there now was an empty lot. I felt like we'd moved to a new planet instead of 8 miles down the road.

It was a long climb back from the darkness of this period. I remember crying in the closet so that no one would see how devastated I felt. I remember feeling so alone that I wasn't sure how I'd get through the days and nights. We were in the throes of a true marital crisis, and all my husband had to offer were platitudes.

Eventually, with much counseling, the light appeared at the end of the tunnel. It felt like we'd come through the perfect storm, capsized, then righted our vessel and were sailing for clear skies and a mostly sunny shore.

Then Jeff found a lump under his arm. He had been fatigued all summer, but we had also landscaped our yard and painted the interior of the house. Two big home improvement projects, two little kids, one crazy business...it all added up to feeling tired. But his "tired" worsened. So, he went to the doctor.

I will never forget that day. I was teaching at the preschool and it was our fall festival. I was manning the bounce house and expected a call from Jeff to tell me all was ok, just an infection and some anti-biotics would do the trick. My gut told me something else, but I pushed it deep down inside--like I did every time my gut tried to tell me to get ready for a roller coaster.

My friend Julie, was helping at the bounce house too. The call came and I had to go inside the building to hear. Julie said she had the bounce house and to go on ahead. So, I went inside to hear Jeff better. What I heard changed our lives--all our lives--Jeff's, mine, our children's, our friends, our families lives forever.

"The doctor feels there is a primary cancer somewhere, but he doesn't know where. I have to have a biopsy and then they'll know. I need to come see you."

We sat in the preschool parking lot in his Jeep staring at the notes he'd taken about what needed to be done. MRI's, CT Scans, biopsy...terms that have floated around our lives, but had never touched them. "A primary cancer somewhere..." lingered in our heads. We tried to figure out how the doctor could be wrong.

The biopsy was scheduled for October 31, Halloween. I could not have imagined a more appropriate day for the start of a horror story.

November 7, finally the doctors had cut, examined, re-examined, met and discussed. Jeff's surgeon called and wanted us to come to the office right away. Well, that couldn't be good. We arrived and took our place in the waiting room--a room filled with other anxious faces, and those faces who knew this visit was routine and were making grocery lists in their heads.

In the doctor's office, we tried to keep it light. Surely if we're laughing he won't be able to deliver bad news. That's just bad form.

"Mr. Melton, you have cancer. It's a metastatic melanoma and it has spread to all of your major organs. It is in your lymph nodes, liver, lungs...and it will kill you. You don't have much time and I suggest you go home, get your affairs in order and spend time with your family. You will die from this and probably in 6-9 months."

It took an hour before I could pull it together enough to leave the office without tears flooding my face. But we left eventually.

I remember the day I found out I was going to become a single mother. The fear, the anxiety, the anger, the gut-wrenching nausea....

One day at a time. It's a well-worn cliche`, but more true than any advice I've ever been given. And I've been given A LOT of advice since that day in November.

As most will know by now, Jeff died, like the surgeon said. But not without a fight and not without exhausting all the medical remedies known to help stage four melanoma.

I am a single mother now. It's just as exhilarating and happy as the day my girls were born. But it is exhausting and challenging, too. I love my daughters more every day. They are becoming these amazing people with spectacular lives ahead of them. I don't take credit for who they are...it is without a doubt that God is completely responsible for the wonders that are Lauren and Ashtyn.

My heart goes out to all the single parents--fathers and mothers. One day at a time--it holds so much truth. See the good, see the blessings and occasionally yell and scream at God. He's tough. He can take it--and He will always love you...to the moon and back.

2010-02-14T09:42:00.000-08:00

I was sitting with my youngest daughter this morning, watching a movie on the Disney Channel about a family who is temporarily torn apart because of a wish the daughter makes in a moment of anger. The family is divided, the mother and father forget who the children are and the children begin to disappear and forget who they have become.

In the end, of course, it is Disney, after all, the family is reunited. The closing shot is of the family reunited. They all understand more than ever how important they are to each other—how good it feels to be together.

My family has been robbed of this happy ending. My husband, my daughters’ father, the man who knew what it was like to sit up at 2 a.m. with our youngest when she cried and cried through the night as an infant. The man who shared my fear when our oldest was rushed to the emergency room by ambulance when, on the day before her second birthday, she suffered a seizure. The man who stayed by my side during the cesarean births of our daughters and held my hand, then held our babies. Only Jeff knows what we talked about on the day of our wedding, the Christmas Eves we helped Santa prepare a bounty for our little ones, the late night talks about opening our own business and the sacrifices it would take. We were a team. We went through everything a couple could experience and came through it all stronger and more dedicated and sure that we had one of those marriages that would endure—one our children would admire and one our grandchildren would hear stories about.

Our marriage was good. We saw each other through births, deaths, illnesses, laughs and tears. There were days we each wanted to walk away, but we could not see our lives without the other. There were days we were so happy, we wondered if it was too good to be true. I truly believed that when Jeff was diagnosed with cancer that our love would make him well. We would get through the cancer, too. We were brought closer than ever to each other…we leaned on each other even more. Only Jeff and I know the nights we cried together when he was struggling to find answers. Only Jeff and I know the nights he woke soaked in sweat from the cancer and how every night before we went to bed I would lay out a towel and extra pajamas to change into at 3 a.m. Only Jeff and I know the looks of love and heartache we exchanged at the realization that he was losing the fight and we would have to say good-bye to each other, our daughters and our life together. Only Jeff and I know what I whispered to him as I laid down on the floor by his bed the night he died.

I so desperately want to know what it would have been like to take family portraits over the years and see the change in our children, and the gray appear in our hair, and the lines of love and life show on our faces. I took so much for granted—I assumed so much. I was painfully wrong. We were robbed of together watching our children grow-up. Robbed of watching him teach our girls to ride their bikes, seeing them play soccer and basketball, hearing them sings their sweet songs. What would he say to the boys who asked them out? What would he think on the day they graduate from high school? How proud he would be to walk them down the aisle on their wedding day. How much he would spoil his grandchildren.

Jeff’s life and our life together were all taken from him. Someone made a mistake, had a bad day, and didn’t see the importance in doing their job and getting it right. Now it’s all gone---changed forever. A constant roller coaster of what ifs.

It’s Valentine’s Day today. Jeff always brought his three girls beautiful flowers. Huge bouquets of roses. It’s been two years without those roses. I am still trying to understand how and why this loss happened to my girls, to us, to our family. We have many blessings, but we miss him. I miss the history we shared, I miss his wit, I miss his friendship, and I miss the pride I felt when I listened to the investment seminars he gave. I miss being his business partner. I miss him being the daddy he was so good at being for our daughters.

I am so sad that we don’t get the happy ending and the 50th wedding anniversary. I will never have a 30 or 40 year anniversary. We were cut short of our 10 year anniversary. One mistake, one bad day and it all changed forever.

Cancer Survivor

2009-05-07T19:53:00.000-07:00

I realized something big today—I want to live again. I want to live. I did not die from cancer a year ago. My husband did, but I have been living like I was the one who was about to die. I have been scared, I have been closed off, I have been angry—I have been the one afraid to take the next step because I have been afraid of what might happen.

There is no protocol, no treatment, and no diagnosis for the ones who are left. We just try to keep going and make some sense of it all. We try to put one foot in front of the other and find some path to take that will make it feel normal again—whatever normal is anymore.

I am not the person I was November 6, 2007, the day before my husband was diagnosed. I have read that cancer survivors sometimes take the date they receive their medical notice that they are cancer free as their new birthday. I think that is a wonderful idea. I am trying to figure out what my new birthday is—but I don’t know if it is the first day I spent without Jeff, or is it the first time I slept through the night, or is it the first time I didn’t cry all through the day—or is it the first time I realized that Jeff was really gone. I want a new birthday because I want a new life. I have been living each day since March 26, 2008, as if maybe Jeff would be back if I were patient and good enough. Well, it’s been more than a year now and that’s just not going to happen.

I have focused on my children because they are my heart now. They are doing really well, but not because of me. They are thriving in spite of me. I am so tired and scared and worried and lonely. How can those characteristics equal a good mother?

Lately, I just want to close the front door to the house, put a for sale sign in the yard and move the three of us somewhere far away—Arizona, New Mexico, Maine, New Hampshire. Somewhere no one knows us and no one knows our past or our story. I can just be Holly with my two daughters Lauren and Ashtyn—relocating because I lost my job in Missouri and I need a new start.

I don’t want the looks anymore or the questions or the pity or the pat on the back for being so strong. I am not strong. I am not amazing. I am not anything special. My husband got sick and then he died. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. I will never be able to feel normal again. I will not be able to put it behind me and move on. I will not get past the guilt of being healthy. I will not get past the guilt of wanting to love someone again. I will not ever be who I was again. I don’t know who I am anymore—I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life. I am 43 years old, but I feel ancient. I don’t feel anything deeper than the surface—it’s like my soul is empty. I gave all I could to keep it together so Jeff could die peacefully and with the dignity that he deserved. I have tried to carry on his memory—his request for his life to have had meaning. But I am failing. This world is so jaded—I am shocked and deeply saddened that some of the things we could do to make it better for cancer patients are just regarded as the mutterings of a pitiful widow.

I don’t want to be the pitiful widow anymore. I want to move forward. I want to pack up Jeff’s clothes because he won’t be back for them. I want to move away from all the memories that are in every corner, every street, every face. I want to yell at Jeff for leaving me with a weed eater that doesn’t work and a tool bench that has eight hammers and 6,000 nails! I want to yell at him for leaving me to deal with his family that does nothing but judge me and ask for money that I don’t have to give. I want to yell at him for not being there to teach our daughters how to ride a bike and for not being there to be the male role model that they will need.

But I can’t do that—because Jeff didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. But one test—one stupid biopsy turned our world up side down.

So—I am angry. I am a cancer survivor—I survived my husband’s cancer. He did not. I want to live again. I want my life back. I just don’t know what that is anymore.

Letter to an Atheist

2009-02-14T19:12:00.000-08:00

A Letter to Ryan Culbertson-Faegre

I read with great interest the letter from the reader who explained his non-belief in God and why he feels he is an atheist. (Springfield News-Leader, Friday, February 13, 2009)

The past year and a half had me questioning my “faith” and “belief” in God. The morning my husband died from cancer I yelled that I no longer believed there was a God. How could there be when so much pain existed in the human world? After all I had seen my husband go through I struggled with the concept of a loving, healing God. I told my pastor that I just didn’t believe in God anymore—flat out. I threw away my Christian literature that spoke of God’s healing power and all encompassing love. I was beyond angry. I was convinced God was a hoax—a lie. I didn’t see the picture I had in mind--the one where Jeff was healed--become the reality therefore, God was not real and never had been.

My entire forty plus years on this earth, I was a firm believer that God was just there. I believed that no matter what God could fix it or heal it or find it. I just had blind faith that God would handle everything. When Jeff got sick, we didn’t understand it. We had lived a Faith-based life—we repented, we forgave, we prayed, we quoted and read Scripture. Surely, God would know how great a person Jeff was and heal him—Jeff of all people deserved a miracle.

Here’s the thing—the catch—that always took my breath away when I was in the middle of an “I hate God” cry. Jeff, the one person who had the right not to believe, not to trust, not to have faith—Jeff felt completely enveloped in God’s loving, protecting arms. He often told me that he knew without a doubt that God was there caring for him and that his cancer was in no way an act of God or his not being deemed Spiritual enough in God’s eyes. Jeff reminded me, taught me that God does exist. And He exists in our lives in ways we won’t see until a time comes when He chooses to share His ultimate, Divine Grace with us. Ryan, you have evidence of God in your life everyday—maybe you don’t see it as God, and that’s OK—but a Higher Divine Power is guiding you every step. If you keep waiting for tangible evidence that you deem proof of God’s existence, then, I am sorry, you will never believe in God—with or without religion attached.

Ryan, go to a NICU nursery where the Proof is born. Go to the cancer clinics where the Proof walk through doors everyday. Talk with the hospice nurses and the cancer patients who know their time left on earth is short. Talk with the wives, husbands, mothers and fathers, and children who have lost someone who was as close as their very breath. Proof of God is there.

It has been almost a year since Jeff died. It has been a battle and a struggle to let go of the anger and the pain. The grief will last—it just does. Grief is a void we feel when a part of us is lost—humanly. Something else will last for me, though. It is my Faith, my Trust, my Belief that God is there. Only now it is not “blind” faith. I don’t take for granted that God is there. I have seen and felt proof of His love, His care, His existence with every step and every breath my children and I have taken this past year. It has been demonstrated to me and it is being demonstrated to you. Look closely at your life—the proof is there—God exists.

We all have to examine our relationship with God at different times in our lives. It will change as we change—it will grow as we grow—the relationship will look much differently tomorrow than it did ten years ago, or even ten days ago. God won’t change. The ever-present, all-knowing, all-wise, loving God won’t change. He will be there whenever we decide to look down and see the single footprints of the times He carries us and the side-by-side prints of the times He is there next to us.

You aren’t “rampaging around downtown Springfield…” because you are proof of God’s goodness and an example of His love—whether you want to believe that right now or not.

January

2009-01-14T14:41:00.000-08:00

The Christmas tree stands in the corner of our sitting room. Like a close friend that was here for an all too brief visit. The Tree is a gentle reminder of years past—children who were once small, a family that was once complete and is now without a father, a husband--memories of vacations, a honeymoon, first Christmases, new babies. I look at the tree and see children who sleepily tumbled out of bed on Christmas mornings to see all the gift-wrapped glory that lay beneath its twinkling branches. I see my husband as he patiently assembled bikes and doll beds and tried to find the hundreds of game pieces that spilled out of packages ripped open in an excited frenzy. I see his smile as he basked in the happiness of his babies.

This year—our first year without his warm presence—is bittersweet. How time continues. Holidays come and go without regard to the absence of one so dear. How can it all keep revolving when my world stopped that heartbreaking day in March? “He is gone—he died—can’t you get that through your head?” This seems to be what the world is yelling at me, but it hits my ears in some foreign tongue, because I just stare and try to understand the words. But it does not make sense. He was just here—I think—I am sure he will be back in a few moments. He is just at the office or has been delayed by a late client or he has stopped to pick up some little treasure for our girls. But the time passes and the door does not open to his gentle smile. The dogs wait for their master who never comes—the children grow and change and they do not get to look over and see their Daddy as he cheers them on in soccer or basketball, nor does he get to hear their sweet voices as they sing a Christmas carol. Where did he go? I cannot understand why he is not here—he would never miss these things—these life events—the things that we dreamed and hoped for from the moment we first said “I love you.”

Come back to us—come home—the tree is beautiful this year. It is waiting for you—if I just leave it up long enough—like a beacon in the night, then I know you’ll find us and come back. We are not done yet—it is all just beginning—we were just really starting to love. We are a family and that will not change—even our littlest child understands that Daddy is still with us.

My arms ache to hold you, my fingers long to trace around the form of your face—trying to memorize every part of you—your voice, your laugh, your smile, how it feels to be in your embrace—how it feels just to know you are in the house—even if it is in another room where you are reading or napping. Just to know you are with us—we feel safe, we feel complete, we feel warm. My biggest worry is what to make for dinner and how to get our youngest to eat vegetables... I took it all for granted.

I never thought we would have a last kiss, that I would close my eyes and wake to find you gone. I never thought I would be so alone so soon. I never thought the light would go out in your eyes.

You are gone—somewhere I cannot go. Sometimes I feel you near—perhaps you are there and just within my reach, but untouchable. I talk to you and ask you how to keep going—how to know all I need to know to get through each day. I beg God to keep what is left of our family together—I beg him not to take any more from us. I pray for Him to forgive me for all my wrongs. I want to be with our children until they are grown. I want to be able to keep them safe and to catch them when they fall. That is all you ever wanted. I remember you told me you would miss being there to catch them if they fell. I promised you that I would take care of them forever. I would have taken care of you forever. You had to go—and I understand. It was not okay to go—I know that is what they told me to tell you, but it was not. It will never be okay for you to go. I have to move on—I know that—but move on to what. Who am I if I am not your wife, your friend, your business partner—the one you fought with—the one who cried with you—the one who bought you Christmas gifts—the one who needed you. Who am I now? What do I do with my days while the children are at school? I am not a wife anymore—my life is not the same—my dreams have to change, but what do I dream of now?

I have to start with the Christmas tree. It has to be put away—like a cherished friend who has come to visit and now must leave. I worry and ask “where will we all be in a year?” Will we be together next Christmas—can I count on that? What can I hold on to in order to get through the next year, the next week, the next hour?

If you can see me—if you can whisper words of comfort to wipe away my tears and ease my worry—please make it better. Help me to go on without you—to find some way to see a new life and to be okay again. I don’t need to be happy—just okay. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.

I need to start by putting away the Christmas tree. It is January.