Two Years Down
Originally posted March 26, 2020
“What would you do if I died?”
He asked innocently, lying across from me on our bed, staring so deeply into my soul like he always did; waiting patiently, knowing I’d need a minute to respond to such a heavy question. He knew that wouldn’t be a question I could answer flippantly considering he’d just fallen off a ladder and broken his back only one month earlier. The possibility of his untimely death felt like a very real fate that we’d just narrowly escaped.
It was February 3, 2018. We were celebrating our 5th wedding anniversary from the day before (Feb 2). Our kids were away for the night. We had dinner at my favorite restaurant, and in his mercy for the fact I was 7 months pregnant with our 3rd baby and utterly exhausted, he decided we should just go home and relax.
We’d been lying there for hours (fully clothed) reconnecting, talking like high school crushes who didn’t want the conversation to end, reminiscing on our five years of marriage and whispering our hopes and dreams for the next 50 years into the quiet of the night. Every now and then, he’d reach over and place his hand on my swollen belly to feel his son move – our miracle baby that wasn’t supposed to be. He was ecstatic to have another son.
Of the five anniversaries we celebrated together, this was by far my favorite one. I remember feeling so cherished and more thankful for him and in love than I’d ever been. Almost losing the person you love the most tends to bring into perspective what is truly important in life, and on that perfect night, I felt like I had all my priorities right.
We’d overcome so much in just the first couple of months of the new year. So much so, that maybe we were deceived into believing we were in the clear. So I never imagined that just 7 weeks later, on March 26, 2018, I’d wake up to find my best friend and favorite person cold and lifeless in our kitchen floor. Even now, it still seems unfathomable and fractured in my memory; more akin to a movie I’ve seen than memories I’ve lived.
It’s been two whole years today that I’ve lived without my husband and father to my kids, and sadly I can already feel time chipping away at the fine details of the memories of us and conversations we had.
Even so, I have to agree with Maya Angelou in that you might forget what a person says, but you never forget the way a person makes you feel, and I guess after two years, how he made me feel is the thing I miss the most.
I miss all the random and tiny ways he made me feel adored; like the way he’d sneak his hand under my pillow every night when I was falling asleep, grab my hand and whisper into the darkness, “Shannon… you’re my best friend.”
I miss the safety and the openness that existed between us – this emotional sacred space where I knew I could say anything, and I wouldn’t be judged or accused of having a mental breakdown or committing spiritual heresy.
So many nights, we’d sit side by side in our recliners after the kids were asleep and just talk. It’s painfully ironic that I’ve spent so many hours in professional counseling to learn how to process emotion and communicate it in a healthy way, only to be confined to the boundaries of my own mind. I so deeply miss just having someone to talk to.
I miss feeling so spiritually cared-for and supported in the ways he’d pray for me and speak life into my tired and weary soul. The last day we spent together, I had a 9-month-pregnant-meltdown about something silly. I was being overly-emotional, because I was sleep-deprived and huge and uncomfortable, but instead of retaliating, he showed me so much grace and love and insisted I take a nap. And one of the last memories of him that I have is of him putting his hands on my shoulders and praying for my peace and rest and comfort as I lay there sobbing. That was the last time he prayed for me – a moment when, arguably, I didn’t deserve his kindness, but being the person he was, he freely gave it anyway.
There are so many other feelings I miss, but I guess it all really consolidates into love. I miss feeling so loved and wanted by another person.
He used to just walk up to me in the house, grab my shoulders, and look me in the eyes like he had something so serious to say. There would be a dramatic pause, and then he’d usually just say something silly like, “You’re my queen” or “I love you, Boo,” and then crack a big smile or wink at me, kiss me, and go on about whatever he was doing before. There were thousands of tiny moments like that between us that seemed so insignificant at the time, but little did I know, they would become the building blocks of the feelings I have when I remember him.
Since his death, so many people have said to me, “I’ll never forget the way he looked at you.”
I hope I never do either.
One thing I know I’ll never forget is what he said to me on our anniversary after I answered his question:
“What would you do if I died?”
I thought for a long while, and finally just said, “I don’t know. I don’t think I’d make it with all these kids without you. I don’t want to do this without you.”
And then a look I was unfamiliar with came to his face – a look of shyness (something he was not) mixed with genuine humility. Tears welled up in his beautiful green eyes, and he said, “Well… you can be sad for a little while,” with the softest, simplest smile on his lips, “but then you have to move on. And you have to be strong. And you have to keep going. And I know you will, because you’re a fighter. You never give up. That’s something I’ve always admired about you, and I know you’ll be just fine without me.”
We were silent for a moment, and then to keep me from bursting into tears, he so masterfully broke the tension with comedy by saying, “But you should be worried if you die, because I’m taking the kids and moving to Africa to be a missionary,” which was our inside joke, because he was always waiting for the day for me to come home and tell him I felt called to the mission-field in Africa.
It’s been two years, but the words he said that night have been ever-present in the back of my mind over the last few months. In reality, there is no “moving on” with grief. It’s more of a “moving forward” where you learn to carry your loss more gracefully and more efficiently as you go.
The pain is never completely gone, but as the tree-trunk of life expands with new rings each year, the marred spot of loss that used to be the focal point of life becomes enveloped by new memories and experiences that expand the circumference far beyond the boundaries of that trauma.
It’s a slow growth, but one day, you realize that the event that seemed to consume you, no longer defines who you are or who you will become. It’s just a painfully beautiful and unique scar that adds texture and depth to the person God is forming you into.
I think his words have been so present in my mind, because I can feel my heart beckoning my thoughts toward the future more than it’s been insisting that I reminisce about that past.
I’ve been feeling the scales of pain from the past and hope for the future slowly balancing for months now, and today feels like equilibrium – a physical milestone of loss, but also a deep spiritual milestone; like I’ve climbed this mountain of grief, and standing at the apex, I can see from where I’ve come and to where I’m going, and I have peace about both.
His words that night were a gift to me; words God knew I’d need to have tucked in my heart in order to overcome the obstacles of guilt if I was ever going to reach this summit; words that even in his death reiterate and reconfirm his constant message to me: He loved me, and he wanted me to be happy and loved, even if he was absent.
What a precious man he was – a lion on the outside, but a gentle lamb at heart. He was my favorite person; my partner in crime; my go-to handyman that could fix anything; my sappy romantic, super sentimental, Jesus-loving warrior who wasn’t afraid to try anything twice (“because the first time could be a fluke” haha).
He was the opposite of what I thought I wanted, but he turned out to be exactly what I needed. He was the iron that God used to sharpen me and smooth out the areas of pride and selfishness in me. He was direct and intense and didn’t waste time with unresolved conflict. He was brutally honest, but just as equally merciful and forgiving and kind. He was a gentle leader and a strong servant. He was an amazing father. And he was my best friend.
Through his life, I found out what it meant to be truly happy; and through his death I’ve learned what it means to find joy in all things. And I know if I ever get the privilege of being a wife again, I’ll only be more kind and more loving and more grateful because of him.
Two years down, and forever to go. See you in eternity, Love.
Blessings,
Shannon
