“Really?” she asked. “Well, how did you know?”
My reason was marvelous, and miraculous, powerful, and true. But in that time and space, I didn’t want to offer an explanation of all the whys and hows. In that moment I just wanted to marvel at my husband, and the goodness of the Lord. His promises were true, and my husband was the first to know it.
“Oh, just a feeling,” I said with a coy smile.
A few weeks later was one of the harder moments in our family amid the joy of our coming little girl. It was the day that would’ve been my ninth wedding anniversary. My eighth wedding anniversary was spent with Joel in rehab. My parents had put together an anniversary dinner and brought it to the center. I had a nurse help me put Joel in a wheelchair and roll him down to the conference room to celebrate. The spread of food, roses, and candles was impressive. Still, it was less-than-ideal circumstances to say the least. Never in a million years could I have imagined that would be our last anniversary and meal together. Or that the next anniversary would be marked by being pregnant with his child yet without him.
Life had thrown many curveballs, but I would choose to rise. Despite how I felt inside, I would spend the day thinking of the man of my dreams and honoring our love. My girlfriends put together a dinner at a local upscale Italian restaurant. Ten of my favorite ladies gathered around the table to celebrate Joel and me. The talk quickly turned to giggles and chattiness, as most girl time together does.
“Tell me about how Joel proposed to you,” one of them said.
“It was really sweet but low-key. I was always worried he would do it in a public place like a basketball game. So I made him promise it would be just us. In the end he did it at his apartment. He handed me a dozen red, white, and yellow roses. He told me the yellow roses symbolized friendship, the white marriage and forever, and the red love. He said, ‘Sarah, I promise to love you and be your best friend forever. Will you marry me?’ ”
The table erupted in claps and a chorus of awwwwwwwws.
“Great job, Joel!” said one of my girlfriends.
The conversation then turned to my wedding day and how some people wait for their wedding day for their first kiss.
“Did you do that?” someone asked teasingly.
“Um, no,” I said to them laughingly. “I am way too much of a planner to have not planned my wedding day kiss.”
“Wait,” another said, “let me get this straight—you planned your wedding kiss?”
“Of course I did! We had photographers there. I had to know the general direction of which way his head was going and where I should put my hands. It turned out just fine, and we enjoyed the practice,” I said with a knowing smile.
Some couldn’t contain their disbelief, and others admitted they, too, had practiced their wedding kisses. The laughter and stories continued for hours on end, with tales of my husband filling the space. The evening came to an end with hugs, sweet cards from my friends, and slices of Joel’s favorite chocolate caramel cake. Friendship and laughter were just what I needed to get through a difficult anniversary. There was no one I wanted there more than Joel, but if he couldn’t be, this was a close second. We only got eight anniversaries together. Only eight. Still to this day, it hardly seems fair. Our forever was a shorter lifetime than I had planned but packed full of the most love I could have ever hoped for. You pledge at the altar in sickness and in health, never knowing the full scope of what that could mean. Yet I would promise it all again, even knowing the ending that was to come. The depths of the pain would be something I would always live with, but so was the overwhelming gratitude of walking through it all with him by my side.
A mere three weeks later, another anniversary loomed, the one I had been dreading. July 23, 2014, the one-year anniversary of my husband’s death. For months I had thought of this day, what it would look and feel like. I couldn’t imagine any way I could get through it. A moment of inspiration hit me that changed everything. Joel’s favorite thing in the world was acts of service to others. What if we all joined together and did random acts of kindness for others to honor his life? I mentioned it to several friends who loved the idea. I decided to title it the Choose Joy Project. In the midst of our sorrow, we would make a choice to choose joy over sadness and to honor him by blessing others. It was the perfect idea.
I posted the idea on social media, and to my surprise, over eighty families signed up to participate. I had cards printed for them to hand out that explained what the Choose Joy Project was for, directing them to my blog for more on our story.
The morning of the anniversary came quickly, and to my delight, I awoke with eagerness for what the day would bring. I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. Early that morning I received my very first text message with a picture. A friend was at the hospital and bought someone in line breakfast then handed that person the Choose Joy card. The next message came in—someone filled up a woman’s car with gas. The next message—someone gave away a free washer and dryer. Then the next—someone bought groceries for the next person in line at Walmart. On and on it went. One act after another.
I had been sifting through ideas myself and finally decided on what I would do for my Choose Joy that day. It would be threefold.
The first was simple—I bought someone’s drink in the coffee line behind me. The second was simple as well—I put some cash in an envelope and put it in a lady’s mailbox. She wasn’t just any lady but a single mom whose yard I had helped clean up a year prior during tornado volunteer efforts. Knowing she was a single mom tugged at my heart, and I hoped she would be able to use the cash to meet her family’s needs. I stuffed an envelope with cash and the card, put it in her mailbox, and made a quick getaway before she could see me. I only wish I would’ve gotten to see the look on her face when she went to retrieve her mail that day.
For the third act I would not go alone. I went home and picked up Milo to come along. I knew he was only two years old, but I wanted him to be a part of this day and see his daddy’s life making a positive impact in the lives of others.
I buckled Milo in his car seat, and off we went to the neighborhood gas station. I let my son out and went inside to buy a gift card. We made our way back to the car and waited. I had initially hoped to see a mother with children pull up so I could make my way over to give her the card. As time wore on, I finally realized my desired demographic was nowhere to be seen. The game plan changed, and I looked for another person who needed it instead. My eyes landed on an older gentleman who I knew would be perfect.
Hopping out of the car, I took Milo and my huge pregnant belly, and we made our way toward the man. As we approached him, he looked over, quickly looking down to avoid my gaze. I am not the best at talking to complete strangers, but this mission in particular had given me all the boldness I needed.
“Hi.” I walked up cheerfully.
“Um, hi,” he responded, looking confused.
I shifted Milo to my other hip so I could get the card ready.
“I am out today doing random acts of kindness to honor my husband for the Choose Joy Project. I wanted to give you this,” I said, handing him the Choose Joy card along with the gift card.
“This is for me?” he said, again perplexed.
“Yes, it’s for you. I just wanted to bless you today,” I replied.
“Are you sure?” he asked again in disbelief.
“Of course I am,” I said with a laugh. “Again, I just wanted to bless you. Hope you have a great day.”
I walked away quickly, leaving him there perplexed and delighted. Once we got in the car, I explained to my son what he had just witnessed.
“Milo, do you know what we just did?”
“No, Mommy,” he answered honestly.
“Well, today is the anniversary of your daddy going to heaven. There was no one more amazing than your daddy. So we are doing nice things for people to honor him,” I explained in a way that a two-year-old could comprehend.
“Nice things for Dadd
y?” he repeated.
“Yes, buddy. We were doing nice things for Daddy,” I reiterated.
He said nothing more, but nothing more needed to be said. A large grin spread across his face as he leaned his head against his car seat, shut his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
The day was a magical one. When despair could’ve drowned me, joy enveloped me. Hour after hour I heard unending stories of the way this project was not only changing the receivers’ lives but the givers’ lives as well. There is something about giving, selflessly, without expectation. That is who my husband was and what he exemplified every day. I missed him now more than ever. On that day, and every day, I had never been more proud to be his wife.
CHAPTER 8
The Arrival
The rain was coming down in buckets that morning as I awoke and looked outside. A feeling of heaviness enveloped me. Instead of eagerness, I felt dread. Grief is a difficult road to walk. You never know when a day of sorrow will hit. This day of sorrow just so happened to land on the day of my baby shower. The excitement had been building for weeks as I was preparing for this day. What I hadn’t prepared for was the difficulty such an event would bring. As happy as I was to celebrate my pregnancy with my nearest and dearest, all I could think about was my last shower for Milo. Joel drove me to the event, stayed for sweet pictures with me, and then returned to gather our presents and usher me home. Once there, I showed him each adorable outfit even though he was more concerned with the practical gifts we wouldn’t have to purchase ourselves. That was how it was supposed to be—him and me celebrating our baby together, not me celebrating alone.
I went to my closet and put on the lovely dress I had purchased for the occasion. I slowly curled my hair into soft waves and attempted to put on my makeup without crying. It wasn’t working. I once again said a silent thank-you for waterproof mascara.
My mom and I made our way to the event despite rain flooding the streets, making the journey a bit treacherous. We arrived fifteen minutes late, adding to my already frazzled state.
The house was beautifully decorated in peach and mint. They honored my request of no pink, not a touch. I have never really been a fan of pink, and though I know it’s traditional, up to that point nothing had been very traditional about my pregnancy and forthcoming baby girl. Gorgeous flower arrangements were scattered about. The food table held a massive spread of brunch food, a nod to the same menu that was served at Joel’s and my wedding.
My friend and photographer greeted me at the door to take my picture. I did my best to put on the most genuine of smiles. One by one my girlfriends came over to greet me, wrapping their arms around my neck in huge hugs. They were proud of all the planning and how it had come together. I, too, was proud. Everything was lovely, well thought out, and meticulously put together. The only problem was, well, me.
Despite my best attempts, it didn’t take long for them to sense I was a little off. As we gathered in the kitchen, they started to question me.
“Sarah, is everything okay?” my friend asked.
“It’s not,” I said, “and I don’t know why. I just feel so heavy today. Not full of joy, but sadness that he’s not here.”
As I spoke, I started to tear up. I blinked furiously to not let the tears escape.
“I don’t blame you at all,” she said. “I would be sad if my husband weren’t here, too.”
The relief at her validation was instant. As much as they wanted me to enjoy the day, they got it. They understood this pregnancy wasn’t a “normal” one. I was walking through grief and joy at the same time. With those competing emotions, joy isn’t always the clear winner.
She slung her arm around me and told me the words that always cut me to the core when someone spoke them.
“Joel’s proud of you, Sarah. He is. So, so proud.”
I knew she was right. I knew he was proud. If we could sit down and have a conversation, he would tell me as much. Somehow, her reminder was enough to pull me out of the funk and continue on in the day. I knew her words wouldn’t serve to fully pull me out of the depths I felt that day, but I hoped they would help me rise above it.
Before the close of the day, everyone gathered round to watch me open gifts. I was overwhelmed at their kindness. As I opened each gift, we all oooohed and aaaaahed. I made Joel a part of the day by telling the group which gifts he would love as well as funny stories of when we brought Milo home.
“Milo had a little bit of a reflux problem,” I began. “Sure enough, every evening bottle Milo would throw up on him.” They all laughed. “I would be in the other room putting on pajamas and suddenly hear a yell. ‘Sarah! I would run in the room to find them both covered in regurgitated milk, Milo with a huge smile on his face,” I remembered fondly.
I continued on opening gifts and weaving in stories. As I opened the diapers, I told them this was a Joel-approved gift. Sensible, practical. Just like he was. The thought brought a smile to my face.
It was a good day. A hard day, but a good day. The shower served as a reminder of just how much my husband was missed and still how far I had to go in not letting grief overtake me. The pull of the bitter and the sweet remained a constant. It seemed as if it would always be so.
I left the house that day with my mom and a car full of gifts. I came home to a surprise, the crib set up in the baby’s room and ready to go. As I sat on the floor beside the crib, folding her little dresses, and putting her new head bows in her drawer, I was overwhelmed. It was getting real—my new best friend would be here soon.
The summer months are brutal for a pregnant woman. By the end of the day, my poor ankles looked like something out of a movie. The only things that fit were huge dresses worn with cheap flip-flops. Not exactly the epitome of put-togetherness, but I hardly cared. I was reaching the uncomfortable point where a woman’s complaints increase exponentially. Thankfully my pregnancy was flying by at lightning speed. Summer was fading into fall, and I was a mere six weeks away from my daughter’s arrival. I couldn’t believe we were about to meet the newest member of our family in a matter of weeks. November couldn’t arrive soon enough.
I had intentionally planned things out a little differently with this pregnancy. My job remained the same, working as an analyst for an oil and gas company. My position wasn’t physically demanding but was mentally draining. With Milo, I had worked up to the very day I had him. I actually went to work that morning, while in labor. Life had changed this time around. I had the demands of taking care of a toddler as a single mom, while also taking care of our household and running all the necessary errands on my own. All of these factors made for an exhausting nine months.
This time I had scheduled my vacation accordingly in order to have the two weeks leading into my due date off. The forty-minute commute, each way, was getting more and more difficult to do on my own. This would allow me some downtime and much-needed rest before I had a newborn to care for. My plan was to spend time with my son, take lots of naps, and watch lots of movies. Oh, and also to finish the nursery I had been slacking on completing.
Before I knew it, October came as did my last day of work. My coworkers came to my office to take notes of what they would cover in my absence as well as to say their good-byes. I had finished all the odds and ends; now my only duty was to wait.
Wait I did. And wait. And wait. It wasn’t as if nothing was happening in the meantime. Quite the opposite. I was having contractions—and lots of them. Painful ones, too. They would come on hard and fast, going from ten minutes apart, down to nine, then eight, then seven, then six, then stop completely right before I hit the golden five-minute mark. This had gone on for weeks but started to intensify once I was home. Nearly every day I felt like it was the day I would go into full-blown labor, but my contractions continued to tease and fade away.
Soon I had my weekly check-in with my doctor. I was hoping for some major progression and the news I would soon be ready to have her.
The doctor checked me.
“Looks like you’re at a one,” he said firmly, in reference to my dilation.
“A one? I’m only at a measly one!” I complained. It was really far from the necessary ten I had to reach in order to have the baby.
“Well, on the bright side, it’s better than a zero,” he responded.
That was no consolation. Truth was, I was anxious about labor. I was nervous it would start when no one would be nearby to take me to the hospital. Visions of driving myself to the hospital, only to stop on the side of the road and deliver my own baby, filled my head. Maybe that was a bit on the dramatic side, but the concern for the event was real.
I decided I was going to move things along as much as I could. I took the primrose pills that are supposed to start labor. I used other oils that were supposed to lend themselves to labor as well. I drank tea, ate spicy food, and walked endlessly. All those things definitely helped increase labor, no doubt. The only problem was, the labor it did start was painful and inconsistent. I was starting to have a very real understanding that this baby had a mind of her own.
I awoke on November 1 feeling as if something was different. I had been in pain all night with contractions, which was nothing new. But by the time morning approached they were holding steady. My biggest fear was going to the hospital only to be sent home, especially given that the hospital was nearly forty-five minutes away. I was determined to wait it out as long as I could before making the trip.
The hours ticked by as I sat on the edge of my bed breathing in and then out. The contractions were as intense as they had ever been. I was ready to go to the hospital, but they still weren’t close enough to do so. I remembered a nurse telling me the first time to take a bath, and that would either stop them or intensify them. I followed her advice, drawing a warm bath and staying inside until my hands were pruney. The contractions did not stop; they sped up. I wondered if this could really be the moment.
I picked up the phone and called my mom to the house, telling her I thought it might be go time. My dad came over to stay with Milo. We sat on my bed for another two hours with me in too much pain to even speak. The contractions were holding steady at five minutes apart. Finally, I’d had enough. It was time. I looked up and said the first words I had spoken to my mom in an hour.
From Depths We Rise Page 11