Blog
From and about women who love Jesus and want to share His message through Scripture, everyday inspirations, and relatable stories.
“Here’s the thing about relationships,” the speaker said as he continued his talk. My husband and I held hands, sitting close together in a large ballroom with hundreds of other couples investing in their marriages. “You’re always moving. I don’t mean physically; I mean that you’re always drifting towards either isolation or oneness with your spouse. There’s no sitting still.”
People ask me how I wrote a book about grief. They ask me how I tell stories of sorrow and write poems about pain. The truth is this isn’t the first time I’ve written about pain. In my closet, I have journals and journals, packed into boxes and one wooden treasure chest, in which I’d written about what grieved my heart—the friendships lost, moving and losing homes that mattered, coming through illness . . . just to name a few.
Unfurling a large, yellowed document discovered among my grandparents’ personal items following their deaths revealed a hidden treasure—an extensive, detailed family tree. My family proudly claims our Norwegian heritage, but before this discovery the little historical information I had extended back only to my great-grandparents, who came to the U.S. in 1919.
Forgiving hasn’t always come easy to me, but reconciliation? I’m all about that. Let’s just forget about whatever hurt and pain has come between us and skip along. It’s fine. It’ll be just fine. I’m a classic under-the-rug sweeper.
We were ready to hit the backroads and leave the interstate behind, so we headed southeast out of Lexington on US-68. The travel guide recommended it as a route that “takes you through Kentucky’s Bluegrass region of rolling hills and scenic pastures highlighted by miles of black and white planked fences, horse barns that look like mansions, and tobacco fields.”
Growing up, I had a hamster named Frisky. Frisky got his name from the fact that he jumped on his hamster wheel the moment we placed him in his Habitrail—you know, one of those cages with little tubes and tunnels to scurry through.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I just don’t understand . . . ” These words barely came out of me between the crying, dry heaving, and pain.
As we drove away, I rested my head against the passenger side window and watched the funeral home in the rear-view mirror until it was swallowed up into a swirling kaleidoscope of browns and grays.
As part of an unofficial afternoon ritual, Hubs and I would gaze out our front window at the cul-de-sac outside. We’d chat about our day, enjoy watching the kids playing outside, and usually identify some yard work that needed to be done on the weekend.