Sometimes You Have to Wait for the Paint to Dry

Since I started Extra Grace Required, the Extra Grace Box and most recently, The Widow Army on Facebook, I’ve heard from so many of you just beginning your life after loss. It has shown me that I’ll never forget the emotions, the struggles, the pain of those first months and years. It has also caused me to pause and realize how far I’ve come since those initial months. And so, as we approach the holidays, I want to speak directly to all of you tackling your “firsts” and “seconds.” I won’t tell you how it’s going to be, because the grief experience can be as unique as our fingerprints. But, I will share where I’ve been and where I am today in hopes that you’ll see a piece of you in my own story.

To everyone new to grief,

My husband died in March, just an hour or so before Easter Sunday. I did not celebrate Easter that year in the normal, traditional sense. By the time Thanksgiving, Christmas and the New Year rolled around, I had many months of adjusting under my belt. This proved to not matter or benefit me much at all, if I’m honest. The firsts were the firsts, regardless of how many months they occurred since his death. They were terrible. I cried just thinking about how to handle the holidays. Our family felt empty and hollowed out. I took advice on creating new traditions and developing a game plan. That didn’t work either. Truly, the only method that worked for me was just one foot in front of the other until it was over.

I’ve listened to many of you say you wish you could just sleep until the holidays were over. I felt the same way that first year. We know we can’t do that though, and so we muddle through it. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt joyful, despite a deep desire to make it so. I overspent at Christmas trying to WILL joy into our family room Christmas morning. I traveled to see family at Thanksgiving, thinking if I surrounded myself with nieces and nephews and people who loved us, I would somehow forget. Forgetting isn’t possible. Although I did feel the joy and love of family, I cried every night before I fell asleep in my brother’s guest room. There is no way to forget the one you love is not with you. This remains true today and I’m positive it will be true forever.

The second year of holidays there were less tears. The knot in my chest and stomach weighed less. The tears were fewer, the smiles and laughter increased, and the empty space felt less dark, less cold and less frightening. But there was no forgetting who was missing from the celebrations. I was surrounded by lots of people, yet still felt very alone.

After I typed that last sentence I received a text message from one of my best friends. Her mom passed away this morning. I can’t make this better for her and I hate that. I am now typing through vision-blurring tears because I have an idea of the ache blended with disbelief in her heart right now. I remember.

I really dislike it when there aren’t words to soothe someone’s broken heart. “I love you,” was all I could offer and it feels not enough. The same I offer to all of you today. My words won’t be enough. Your game plan probably won’t feel adequate, nor will the new traditions you attempt at first. So I simply offer you my love. And more importantly, I remind you of Christ’s love for you. That love encompasses every tear, every ache of your heart and every doubt you have that you’ll be able to do this. You can, with His love and His grace.

You might not get it “right.” What exactly IS “right” anyway?! But one day, maybe on your third try (where I am today), you’ll marvel at how one baby step forward at a time, even when those steps are sometimes followed by giant leaps backward, you’ll look over your shoulder and see how far forward you’ve traveled.

My second year of holidays was better, but still felt empty. I cried fewer tears and was even able to talk openly about my husband, share memories that made me smile or laugh even. I still made the long road trip to visit family for Thanksgiving, knowing I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want my family to feel so barren, so I needed to fill up the space with people. Year two was better. Thanksgiving felt like part of our new routine and Christmas, although still not the same, was more joyful. I was carrying sorrow and joy together for the first time this year. Progress.

One baby step at a time, one holiday, one birthday, one crisis at a time and suddenly here I am approaching the third Thanksgiving, Birthday, wedding anniversary and Christmas without him. And not only have I survived, I’m recognizing all the ways big and small in which I’m mending my heart, my spirit and my life.

This didn’t happen overnight. It’s happening slowly, one step at a time. There were periods of time, and there still are actually, when I just had to sit in it. It wasn’t possible to brush away the feelings and emotions. No matter how I tried to cover it – new traditions, travel, more activities, etc. – all the gobs of new paint I was throwing on my life in effort to move on and cover up the empty parts didn’t work. They showed through. As much as I wanted to hurry it along, or just sleep through it, I realized it’s necessary to wait for the paint to dry. Sometimes you have to wait. Feel where you are until you know it’s time to try again. You’ll take another step forward.

This year I’m also realizing that moving forward, “healing” or “finding the new normal” doesn’t mean abandoning my love for my husband. It doesn’t mean I’ve stopped missing him. What it has meant for me (so far) is a process learning how to carry who he was and who we were together WITH me as I move forward in the life I’ve been given. I couldn’t do that the first year. I was hobbling along the second year. And so far, year three, I feel like I’m hitting my stride. I’m not traveling this year. It will just be myself, my three kids, two dogs and a complete Thanksgiving dinner ordered from the grocery store – pre-cooked. We are going to be ok.

I will always miss him. I will always wish he were here with us. Together was better, there’s just no sugar coating that. But the truth is, I’m more ok today than I was the last two years. The paint on this new life canvas has dried and I’m ready to pick up the brush again. This time not to try to hide or cover pain, but to create something new, maybe even something beautiful.

God gets my grief. He gets your grief. He’s not going to abandon you whether it’s your first year or your tenth. And I just KNOW you’re going to make it. I don’t know when it’ll feel better, maybe right now you just have to let the paint dry a bit. And that’s ok.

My heart is with all of you this Thanksgiving and Christmas. I pray you’ll know somewhere inside of yourself that this isn’t how it will always feel. The paint will dry and you’ll create new and beautiful things on your canvas. The texture of before will be there as part of the masterpiece He’s creating.

Sending so much love, understanding, comfort, peace, encouragement and EXTRA GRACE to every one of you.

Jodi

*If you are a person wondering how to support a grieving friend, please visit ExtraGraceBox.com for ideas on how to love them through this season. More ideas HERE.