by Jill Kelly
I know God had a reason for your suffering, even though I don’t understand it all. You were put in my life for a reason. If it were not for God blessing me with you as my brother, I would be lost in this broken world.
You are a breath of fresh air. When I look at you I don’t see “disabled,” I see my only brother��who is very able. Because you, Hunter James Kelly, are a life changer. You changed my life without a word, and because of you, I will never ever be the same.
I can’t wait to spend eternity with you.
You’re the world’s best brother.
I love you more than life itself!
Love, Erin
Chapter 17
Walking Through the Valley
After the girls managed to transition back to school in September, I became obsessed with busyness. Whenever idleness would rear its ugly head, I would run as fast as I could in the opposite direction. My daily agenda was completely jammed. As long as I could stay busy, it didn’t matter what I was doing. I started taking theology classes every Monday night at our church through Liberty University, and I also got involved in crafting.
I decided to make bookmarks. I loved scrapbooking and had plenty of paraphernalia for the craft. So I gathered all my stickers and colorful paper and created bookmarks. The girls and I spent hours designing and laminating. We made greeting cards, too. The craft phase certainly served its purpose in occupying some of that idle time, but I remained very restless.
We celebrated my first birthday (September 9) without Hunter with little fanfare. It was a sad yet wonderful day spent with special people who meant so much to us throughout Hunter’s life. Rather than bring me gifts, I had asked everyone to write their favorite memory of Hunter (see Appendix C), which immediately became greater in value and meaning than any gift I’d ever received. After I blew out the candles, we all grabbed a piece of birthday cake, handmade with love by Hunter’s best friend, Robert, and his mom, Elizabeth. We then headed into the living room where, one by one, Team Hunter shared their memories. It was heart-wrenching, and we all cried a lot. Nevertheless, the joy and love in that room were unmistakable, healthy, and healing. Even reading about Hunter stirred our hearts with a fullness of joy that only God could impart. I knew I would miss our team. A lot.
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Day 2006 came and went. Before I knew it, it was Valentine’s Day (Jim’s forty-sixth birthday and what would have been Hunter’s ninth). Here are fragments from my journal entry for that day:
As I do every year, I decorated our house with red heart balloons, red and white streamers, confetti, and sparkles. “Happy Birthday, Daddy and Hunter” heart-shaped signs were strategically placed throughout the house. Presents wrapped in shiny red gift wrap were piled on the kitchen table, surrounded by framed pictures of Jim and Hunter. Everything looked fun and festive, ready for a day of celebrating. But all I wanted to do was grab a blanket and pillow and go to sleep in my closet where no one would find me. I didn’t just want to stay in my room; I wanted to be where no one could walk in and ask me how I was. I wanted to disappear.
Jim and I went to the cemetery today. On the way there we stopped at a florist to buy a dozen red roses and two red, heart-shaped balloons…. When we arrived at the cemetery we dusted the snow off Hunter’s angel. Even covered in white, she’s beautiful. We tied one red balloon around the angel’s wings and decided to let the other one go—up to heaven and Hunter, of course. Jim wanted to build Hunter a snowman. So we did…. I brought a bag of black licorice (Jim’s favorite) for the ride, so we used two pieces for his eyes and a bunch for a smiling mouth. We found a leftover blue pop-top in the backseat of the truck for the snowman’s nose. A few sticks worked for arms, and Jim’s red Buffalo Bills hat fit perfectly on his head. He was the cutest snowman. Imagine that—a snowman at the cemetery.
I should’ve been more focused on Jim today. It’s his birthday. He’s alive. But Hunter’s not. It was so cold today. Jesus, please keep my heart from growing cold and hard during this season of grief.
Jim knows how much I love Valentine’s Day, and always have (how ironic). I was shocked when he sat me down at the kitchen table this afternoon to give me a Valentine’s gift. I had no idea what to expect. And I still can’t believe what he said. His gift to me is that starting in March, for a half-hour every week, he will sit down with me so I can teach him about Jesus and the Bible. How cute is that. As if I’m a teacher. I wonder if it will happen. Lord, thank You for giving me hope. Thank You for showing me that You are at work in our grief.
The next few weeks passed quickly. I was convinced I was moving along in my season of mourning just fine. Except for the obvious pangs of sadness, sorrow, and sleeplessness, I imagined that everything I was experiencing was just part of the normal grief process, if there is such a thing. My grief certainly never felt normal. I never felt as though anyone was feeling the way I was. Sleep deprivation and tear-stained cheeks were old friends of mine, so when I struggled more with both, I wasn’t surprised.
And then it happened. I went to bed the night of April 16, 2006, and woke up the next morning bound by a smothering gloom that paralyzed me from deep within. It was as if I had been wrapped in a shroud of emotional and spiritual darkness and cast into a bottomless abyss.
Frightened and confused, I immediately called my mother: “Mom, something’s wrong with me.” I was frantic. “Please come over right away.”
In a few minutes she was right by my side. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My heart is racing and I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack.”
She suggested we take a walk around the cul-de-sac. Erin and Camryn were busy in the playroom, so I agreed. As we walked, I talked and she listened.
During what would end up being months of severe depression, she continued to listen. Most of the time, my precious mother had no idea what to do, but she was always there. She listened. She prayed.
After our visit, my mother went into emergency mode. She contacted every prayer chain, prayer warrior, and pastor we knew. A handful of close confidants also rallied to provide encouragement and emotional support.
The heaviness of my grief was crushing. Here’s my journal entry for that day.
April 17, 2006—I don’t understand what’s going on. I woke up this morning oppressed by a heaviness of heart I’m not familiar with. HELP ME! I’m scared to death. What is this? I feel like I’ve fallen into a dark abyss of depression and despair. Lord, where are You? Why do I feel so alone, abandoned? Never in all my life have I felt so downcast, so afraid, so lifeless, so damaged. My thoughts and fears overwhelm me day and night.
Save me from myself! Is this normal? I feel like a prisoner in my own flesh. I feel like every ounce of life is being choked out of me. My chest hurts and my heart won’t slow down. Do You see me? Do You hear me? Please rescue me from this battle waged against me. Am I sick? I need help! Is this “the valley of the shadow of death”? My God, deliver me from this torment.
Sleep eluded me, and food had no taste. Within two weeks I had lost twenty pounds. The bold green irises of my eyes were fading to gray. With each passing day the immensity of dread and desperation grew. It got to the point where, a few times, I felt as if I would literally die from suffocation. I spent hours balled up on the floor in my closet, praying with my face buried in my Bible. I prayed through our entire house and anointed every entrance with oil. As much as possible I played worship music and recited every Scripture I had ever memorized over and over.
The LORD himself goes before [me] and will be with [me]; he will never leave [me] nor forsake [me]. [I will] not be afraid; [I will] not be discouraged.
(Deuteronomy 31:8)
The LORD will keep [me] from all harm—he will watch over [my] life; the LORD will watch over [my] coming and going both now and forevermore.
(Psalm 121:7–8)
For he will command his angels concerning [me] to guard [me] in all [my] ways.
(Psalm 91:11)1
&n
bsp; As my desolation continued to intensify, doubt hammered my faith. Every time I opened up the silverware drawer in our kitchen, I wanted to grab a knife. So I stayed out of the kitchen.
Whenever I was driving alone in the truck, it took all the strength I could muster to keep from slamming into a tree or the highway median. Eventually I was unable to drive or be alone. I had absolutely no control over the torrent of lies and fear stalking my mind, body, and spirit.
Some of my journal entries during the first month of this onslaught of depression might have easily put me in a straitjacket. This one shows how deep I had fallen, but thankfully, how great I still believed God was.
April 29, 2006—I’m going to die if You leave me here. My life is but a breath, but this is not life to me. I can’t drink this cup of suffering. I can’t bear the weight of this cross. I can’t live like this. Come quickly, Lord, and save me. I have no one but You, and yet You seem so distant. Have I allowed a mantle of doubt to hide me from the truth? I’m crushed in spirit. Search my heart. Save me. I have nothing if I don’t have You.
I knew my friends loved me and that they loved Hunter. But during the darkest months of mourning, some of the people closest to me said and did the most hurtful things. A few of my dearest friends made some suggestions they were convinced would help me in my grief: “Maybe you should consider taking down some of Hunter’s pictures. You wouldn’t want to make an idol or shrine out of them.”
They were just trying to help, but they didn’t understand. How could they? Would taking down pictures of Hunter really help me? If I packed away all the photographs, would the pieces of my heart start to mend? No. The pictures brought back wonderful memories. When I looked at them, I vividly remembered what we did that particular day and how I felt. As for making an “idol” out of Hunter, he was my son whom I loved and treasured. Keeping the photos where they could be seen and appreciated was a reminder to me of God’s goodness and love for our family.
To the left of my computer keyboard sat one of my favorite family photos. It was taken the day the Buffalo Bills retired Jim’s football jersey and placed his name on the Wall of Fame at Ralph Wilson Stadium. We are walking across the football field all dressed in red, white, and blue number 12 jerseys. The picture brings back all the sights, sounds, and feelings of that unforgettable day.
The stadium was jam-packed and the roar of the fans was electrifying. As Jim and I pushed Hunter’s wheelchair toward the middle of the football field where the podium stood, we could barely hear each other talk. Erin Marie was tucked in between us, and Camryn straddled my right hip. After Jim was honored, we were just about to walk off the stage when he leaned over, kissed Hunter on his forehead, and whispered, “I love you, little buddy.” I knew I’d never forget the tenderness of that moment, and pictures just like this one continue to bring back such precious memories.
During this dark time, I sought help, though sometimes it didn’t turn out as I had hoped. My sister-in-law, Kim, who I’m crazy about, invited me to her church for a Wednesday night service. She loves Jesus and had always been an encouragement to me. My parents were attending the same church at the time, and my mother also wanted me to come so the church elders could pray over me.
I still wasn’t driving yet, so our dear friend and nanny, Jennifer, came with me. Although I listened to the message preached that night, I was anxious to be prayed over. There was an irrepressible yearning for God to move, to do something—anything. But what I experienced was far from the grace and love His children are called to extend.
After the message, my mother went up and spoke to the senior pastor of the church while Jennifer and I waited. At first I thought it was peculiar that only the senior pastor’s wife made it over to where we were sitting. I assumed the elders present that evening would come, but they didn’t.
Once my mom, Jen, the senior pastor’s wife, and I were finally situated and only a few people remained in the sanctuary, we formed a small circle with chairs to the left of the altar. Without any sort of preparation or background as to why we were seeking prayer, the senior pastor’s wife started to expound (and take out of context) some verses in the New Testament book of 2 Timothy. As she talked about weak-willed women swayed by all kinds of evil, my body shrank into the chair and my chin hit my chest. Are you kidding me? I thought to myself. I’m drowning in grief and she’s talking about weak-willed women. Isn’t she even going to acknowledge our family’s loss? Does she not recognize the avalanche of grief I am under?
I don’t remember how long she went on, but my mother eventually and graciously interrupted her and said, “I don’t think you understand what’s going on here.” She didn’t.
I wanted to escape. The last thing I remember the pastor’s wife saying that night was that she thought I needed to put Jim before Hunter’s Hope. I could feel myself completely unravel as we made our way out of the church. I was in shock. I had gone there for prayer and encouragement, and I was leaving discouraged and heartbroken.
Before Jen and I drove away, my mom came up to me and said in between sobs, “I’m so sorry you came here tonight, Jill. I’m so sorry. I don’t understand what just happened in there, but I know God will use it. I just know it.”
And she was right. But it took time and forgiveness for me to realize it.
Weeks passed. I continued to descend deeper into dread and what I feared was madness. Finally, we sought medical intervention in addition to the intense prayers I was already receiving.
At first I was reluctant to go to our family practitioner. My fear, rooted in pride, kept me from seeking the appropriate help I needed. However, with the encouragement of my mother, I eventually gave in. It took three visits before I was comfortable enough to start taking the antidepressant medication my doctor graciously insisted I at least try. She was incredibly patient with me.
Though it seemed like forever before my medication started to work, eventually and thankfully it did, and I began to feel better. “Better” in that I was able to function. I didn’t stop crying or grieving. And I didn’t walk around like a zombie or anything weird. I just felt better. It’s hard to describe. (During one of my initial doctor visits my mother bluntly asked, “Is she going to walk around like a zombie if she goes on this medication?” I can laugh now when I think about how protective and bold my mother was.)
I’d never been on any sort of medication prior to this time, and even though I understood and accepted my desperate need for medical intervention, I was reluctant to tell anyone (except my mother and a close circle of friends) about the depth of what I was going through. Including Jim. I was afraid of what people would say and think. My faith had been hit so hard that the weakness of it during my darkest days was somewhat embarrassing.
While I felt let down and forsaken by some people, the sincere love and heartfelt prayers of so many others were an encouragement to me. Although few people knew the depths of my despair, those who did prayed earnestly for me and our entire family. I was so grateful for their care and generosity of spirit.
My greatest fear during those months of anguish was being separated from God. I believed the lie that I was somehow cut off from the God I believed in and loved with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength. Losing Hunter had been unimaginably dreadful, but just the thought of losing Jesus was utterly and completely devastating. He was my life. He was my hope. He was my salvation. Without Him, I knew I would never see Hunter again. And yet as deep as my despair, grief, and doubt went, He proved to be deeper still.
So while it seemed to me that my faith had failed me, Jesus hadn’t. It was in pursuit of that faith that I first met my Savior, Jesus Christ. And now in Hunter’s death and my grieving, that faith had been tested. In the midst of my confusion and despair, I came to realize that God was faithful, even if through the fog of depression I was unable for a time to see and connect with Him.
Slowly, ever so slowly, hope was nurtured back to life, my faith was renewed, and healing gradually began.
Chapter 18
I’m Free
Since becoming a Christian in the summer of 1998, I had been praying that Jim would also come to know Christ in a real and personal way. At that time, he told me that it didn’t bother him that I turned to God for help, “but don’t expect me to change, too.” Still, over the next few years I witnessed simple yet profound signs that God was at work in his life.
In May 2004, for example, Jim completely surprised me for Mother’s Day. He was in a rush, of course, to get out the door to catch a plane to an appearance. Before he left, though, he hurried the girls into the playroom near where Hunter and I were hanging out. And then he said, “Okay, is everybody ready?”
He motioned to the girls, and then they all started to recite Psalm 23: “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters…” (KJV).
I was astonished. Jim had memorized the Twenty-third Psalm for Mother’s Day! For him to take the time to memorize anything other than football plays assured me that God was moving in his life. Jim explained that he had written the psalm down and placed it in various locations so that he could read it often. I couldn’t believe it!
Then a few months later Jim was in Los Angeles for another appearance. He called me one afternoon while shopping with Tommy Good. “Jill,” he said, “I’m in a store right now checking out some necklaces with T-Good, and I was just wondering…”
Initially I selfishly thought, Oh brother, here we go again, like I need more jewelry. But then Jim shocked me: “I’m checking out some of the cross necklaces, and I was just wondering what you think would be better for me—gold or silver? There are some really cool-looking crosses, too. Should I get just a simple one, or a bigger one?”
The irony of this was the fact that when I had become a Christian, one of the first things I’d done was buy a cross necklace. And here Jim was picking out a cross. Why? All I could think was that God must be doing something in Jim’s heart for him to even want a cross necklace. And on top of that, he had called me to ask my opinion.