Hi! My name is Monica and I consider myself a professional blog reader (I just made that a real job!). As a professional photographer, I spend a lot of time on Instagram and blogs. My new blog is still in the construction stages, but will hopefully be finished soon. I’m honored to be able to share part of my journey with you. If you’ve traveled a similar journey, please link up at the bottom of this post.Pit Stops, Pot Holes and Hysterical Markers -
Road trips always provide adventure, twists and turns, unexpected events and precious memories. My husband and I loved to take road trips. There was always a sense of anticipation and excitement. Restaurants to try, places to see and people to talk to - road trips were one of our favorite things. Metaphorically speaking, our marriage was a road trip, complete with pit stops, pot holes and hysterical markers. Some pit stops were quick and we were back on the road, some were not so quick. Some pot holes were huge and caused us to take a new direction, some, well, they weren’t so big. Hysterical markers were what my husband’s family called “historical markers”. There were lots of these throughout our marriage, some truly hysterical and some not so much. Back to pot holes, though. The thing about pot holes is they’re not always visible ahead of time. Those are the worst – they catch you by surprise and jar every part of your being. One sunny July morning we came across the biggest pothole we’d ever hit.The sun came up that morning, as it always did in west Texas.
Bright and hot filling every inch of the sky, melting everything its rays touched. Cars hummed down the road, dogs barked, moms went to the grocery store, kids played outside. In the field, cows came up to the fence line, eager to see what all the commotion was on the other side of the fence.There were flowers everywhere and suits, lots of dark suits.
As I stood in a sea of people, their voices were muffled and I knew they were talking to me, but their words did not register.All I could see, wanted to see, needed to see, was the casket, my precious husband’s casket. It sat on a silver metal frame above a gaping hole in the ground, the top of it was draped with flowers and the green astroturf carpet covered the ground around it. At the end of the visitation the evening before, I’d stood, mesmerized, rubbing my hands over the top of this gray metal box, willing him to come out. Willing him back to life.I stood in that cemetery and all I could think about was hurling myself onto or even into the casket.
Everyone just needed to get out of my way and let me crawl in there with him! I wanted to scream, the kind of scream comes from the depths of your soul and the bottom of your heart, filling the air and silencing the well wishers.That casket held my precious husband, my dreams of what our lives could be, should be and now, never would be. That casket held my heart.From the roses draping his casket, to the bright sun and the spotted cows peering through the barbwire fence in that west Texas country cemetery, the scenery from this pot hole was surreal.
Disbelief filled my very being. The bargaining to not be in this pot hole began the moment his death became a reality. Please God, pull a Lazarus. Please God, please.This pot hole jarred every bit of my heart and soul, broke them into pieces, and scattered them by the roadside.
This pot hole threatened to be my undoing.Our marriage had hit several pot holes in recent years, but there was still the chance for a do-over, to do better, to be better, to put our lives back together and to have the marriage God wanted us to have, but this pot hole - this pot hole robbed us of that chance.
This pot hole was the final one we would ever hit. Now I would have to continue this road trip, this journey by myself, with a twelve year old and a two year old at my side.Never have I felt so empty, so alone, so tired, so scared, so shattered
. Never have I had to look at my sweet babies, like I did that day and many days afterward, and wonder how I was going to parent them without him.In July of this year, it will be ten years since the day we buried him. Ten very long years. Ten very short years. If you’ve ever lost a precious loved one, you know exactly what I mean. The years fly by quickly, sometimes, too quickly, putting too much time and space between the last time you were together. Other times, the pain is still fresh, as fresh as if it were happening now.Tears are filling my eyes and escaping down my cheeks as I type, just thinking about and reliving that day and the ones afterwards.
The deep aching, the floods of tears, the shattered heart that seemed to be in too many pieces to ever be whole again.Oh precious one, one who has lost a spouse (or a child or a parent or a loved one),
you are not alone. The Lord sees each of us and He hears each of us.In Psalm 40:1-3, we are told, “
I waited patiently for the Lord; He turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the huge, deep pot hole of loss, out it’s sliminess and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth.” (bold words are my paraphrase)Psalm 34:18 reminds us that “The Lord is close to the
brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”The good news is that the Lord did lift me out of that pot hole! He has put a new song in my mouth and He is doing a new thing in my heart and my life. He made a way out of the pot hole, and put a stream in the desert of my heart (Isaiah 43:19).Yes, there have been more pit stops, pot holes and even hysterical markers, but He has filled in the gaps every step of the way and provided in ways I can’t even describe.
He has slowly knit my heart back together and made me feel whole once again. He continues to hold me in His hands.If He has done it and is continuing to do it for me, I know that He will do the same for you.Do you have a story about losing a spouse? We would love for you to link it up below!
