After a really nice vacation with my mom and grandma, we returned to reality.  And reality is kicking my butt yet again.

I looked at the calendar today and saw that it’s already April 24.  It’s been nearly a month since Lorrie passed away, and yet there are moments when I feel like I’m reliving the moments when I first found out.  The grief is THAT overwhelming.

While I so desperately long for my community back in West Virginia, I find myself wanting to be isolated here.  Unfortunately, my sweet daughter is picking up on that and she desires the same.  Maybe we have this in common at this stage in our grief.  Being around people who are living out their lives as happy as can be, it’s too much.  Our world doesn’t look the same.  We are learning to navigate in a new way, and honestly I don’t want to learn.  I’d much rather go back four weeks and change this all.

In my isolation, I don’t have to lie or come up with an acceptable answer when someone asks how I’m doing.  Honestly, I feel guilty that I cannot say I’m great.  Or good.  Or today, even okay.  I thought I was having an okay day, but it turns out I’m not.  I feel guilty that I haven’t been reaching out to the very people who have supported me through this, asking how they are doing or taking an interest in their lives.  And to those friends, I apologize.  Most days start out fine, and I have the best of intentions, and then sadness overwhelms me to the point it is difficult to do anything besides sit on the couch.

I am trying to get back into a routine of reading Scripture and writing.  Writing is healing for me.  I can process my thoughts, and maybe along the way by sharing my journey can help someone else.  I don’t know when this fog will lift.  I don’t know when I’ll be able to answer someone honestly with a positive response when asked how I’m doing.  I have come to realize this, though.  The only time today I felt the weight lifted off my chest was when I was journaling and writing down Scripture.  My heart is no where near a place of being okay with what happened, but my head keeps reminding me of the truth:

God keeps track of my tears.  Not one is missed by Him. (Psalm 56:8)

God is near me as I try to navigate my grief.  (Psalm 34:18)

God will strengthen me.  (Psalm 10:17)

God is my shield. (Psalm 3:3)

God is my rock, my fortress, my mighty rock, my refuge.  (Psalm 62:6-7)

So, I stumble forward with trust.

Trust in God’s plan, that it’s for good.  (Jeremiah 29:11)

Trust in His goodness.

Trust in His truth.

If I can move forward with trust, I have hope.  Without hope, I can’t move.  The grief is simply too much.  With hope, though my heart doesn’t understand at all why in the world my family lost such a wonderful person, I can slowly move forward.  With hope, I can continue to lean on the Truth of God’s Word.  With hope, my mind can take over where my heart can’t bear to pray or open my Bible . . . reminding me of the Truths I’ve memorized over the past three years.

This sucks, but I am trusting in God.  I am hoping to one day see beauty from these ashes that surround me.

Thank you, to all the amazing people who have and continue to support us in this difficult time.  We feel your love and prayers, and please know how much we appreciate it.  ❤

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