I have been without him for 60 days. Two months today.
There is so much to hate about this. So very much to hate.
I am a widow. I am 31, and I am a widow.
His smile, his conversation, his laughter... they are gone.
I have lost much confidence, strength, and security. I have lost our routines. I have lost the familiar.
There is no natural highlight to my day; he doesn't come home from work anymore.
My children are so young, only three and five. They are fatherless.
I hate this for them. I hate this.
My three-year-old has bad dreams and cries for his daddy in his sleep. He was once a joyful, free spirit, and now he is often frightened or angry.
My five-year-old is trying to grow up too fast, preparing himself for the worst, taking on worries and responsibilities that are not his, and always readying himself for the moment when I might die too.
My sons ask about him often, when he'll come back, if he still belongs to us. They wish for him and remember. They are so small that I fear they will remember very little. I must carry the memories for them.
I weep for them, for what has been taken, for what they don't know yet that they don't have.
I hate the unwelcome anxiety, the unannounced panic.
I hate the long days and the short nights. I hate falling asleep, the hours I miss him most. I hate waking up, when I must remember all over again that this new day won't hold him for me.
I hate the trembling, the fear, the shaking, the worry.
I hate the loneliness, the deep sadness, the swallowing grief.
I am single. I am a single mom.
There are three of us now.
I am a widow. Unexpectedly, so very tragically, I am a widow.
There is so much to hate about this.
But, somehow, I am not overcome. Somehow, each day begins again. Somehow I feed the boys, get them dressed to face the day, and teach them words like 'strong' and 'courageous.' Somehow, I put one foot in front of the other. Somehow, my broken heart continues to beat on its own.
In God's goodness, by his grace, he is holding me above bitterness.
I have felt every shade of sadness, but I have not felt angry.
I have wished, with all my heart, to have my husband back for another day, for the rest of our lives together, to raise our children together, to finish our plans. I have wished to have him here, but I have never questioned God's sovereignty.
I feel a quiet purpose in this.
I do not feel like it is a horrifying mistake.
I feel thankful for more than a decade of marriage, instead of robbed of the four or five more decades I had hoped for, even planned on.
Daily I grieve the injustice of loss, the unfairness of death.
ButI have not believed God to be unjust or unfair.
The Lord has gifted me in ways I am still learning, and I am becoming more familiar with my gifts of faith and discernment.
In the face of this tragedy, although my heart aches with a raw deepness I have never known, I believe God is on his throne, and I believe there is purpose in his plan.
By his grace, I am not overcome.
I know where my hope and my husband rest, and they are both with the Lord Jesus Christ. I know my eternity is secure, and I know I will see Robb there.
Sometimes it feels unfathomable to get through this week, this month, this year, or the next.
But by his grace, I do. This is his gift to me.
By his grace, I am not overcome.
I trust in your unfailing love;
My heart rejoices in your salvation.
I will sing to the Lord,
For he has been good to me.
Ps. 13: 5-6