It puzzles me as to why people think because I seem to look like I’m fine that I am indeed fine. When I converse with people, we talk about the weather, kids, the craziness of life with Covid and everything else. As if everything is normal and fine. I’m not fine.

Within every single word that is spoken out of my lips and every word carried to my ears from another human, in between each phrase is the thought, ‘and my husband is dead.’

Here’s how my conversations go: “Hi Janae! How are you?” Spoken: “I’m alright.” Thought: ‘and my husband is dead.’ “Yeah, how are the boys?” Thought: ‘Their dad is dead.’ Spoken: “They’re doing ok.” “They’re such good boys, you’re doing such a great job.”
Thought: ‘Yeah I’m doing it all alone ‘cause my husband is dead.’ Spoken: “Thank you, I’m doing my best.” “You really are, we all admire you so much.” Thought: ‘What’s to admire? When your husband dies, there’s nothing you can do about it. Because he’s dead.’ Spoken: “Thank you.” And we part… Or go on while more thoughts of, ‘my husband is dead,’ continue.

It's torturous, and very painful to me. My constant internal reminder of what I couldn’t forget anyway. And I don’t know how to stop it. It’s an internal alarm going off with every action, because Grant is not here doing life together with me anymore.

I go to swim lessons for my boys and think, ‘I’m here but my husband is dead,’ as I watch my kids splash in the water. I go to the grocery store and think, ‘My husband doesn’t need any of this food. He’s dead, but I still have to shop here and get food for me and my kids.’

I drive around and think, ‘I’m driving this car because my husband is dead.’ I had to sell his car and get something else because I didn’t want to drive the car he drove, because he’s dead. I see a picture of him and think that was taken a year before he’d be dead.

It goes on and on in my mind, ‘my husband is dead,’ it plays over and over in a loop. I want it to stop, but it doesn’t. If you could see what I really looked like inside, you’d see me curled up in a tiny ball, trying desperately to unravel myself.

You’d hear the heaving sounds of a chest trying to stabilize its breathing. You’d see arms crossed, holding onto my heart space and my knees curled into my arms so tightly you’d be unsure of where my body parts begin and end.

My real body, the one you see, it stands in front of you. A different part of me, a truer part of what I am now, feels like a crumpled body nearly lifeless, colorless, unable to move, to speak and to even breathe.

Yet I have a sense that I’m being held in the hand of God. His literal hand. I’m curled up like this. It’s a picture truer than the reality you see standing before you of my body upright, with a smile on my face talking about the week.

The body standing is not truly who I am, just where I am. Why do you see what you see and not what is happening? I can’t be what I am right now. And, I’m afraid.

If I could be what I feel, who would take care of my children? How would anyone feel comfortable around me? Seeing that I look the way they feel inside? I wouldn't be able to function in this world. And I’m still here in this world.

And so we buck up, tie our shoes and keep on walking. We tell ourselves that if we just smile, we’ll feel better. Well, what about when nothing we do or say makes it feel better?

How then do we use all our spiritual and personal development tools to change to a positive mental attitude? How do we see the joy in the journey?

We don’t and that’s just it. Don’t. Don’t try, don’t see it, and don’t change. It’s not supposed to be that way. We’re meant to feel it. So, feel the pain, the heartache, the loss, the grief.

It’s not my job to get through it, or heal from it, or move on. My job is to just feel it. What comes next is the exciting part. One day God will put that crumpled little girl back on the ground, back into her body standing on the earth, the one smiling in front of you talking about the weather.

And that God, Him and Her, together They’ll say, “You can do it now, I’ve been holding you and you’re strong again, go on my sweet little girl, I’ll be right here if you need me.”

I’ll look up at Them with fear and trembling and ask how can I do this? They’ll both read in my heart that overwhelming desire to be picked back up and just held. But They know me better than I know me.

Before I hear an answer, I’ll look down and find that I’m standing. I’m standing back in my body and I just took a step forward, “I can do this,” I’ll exclaim!

I’ll start to believe in myself again and have the courage to stand up, be strong, keep going and feel joy. Not because I just exist, but because I’m really here again.

All that time I spent in God’s hands healed me, would heal anyone. They just held me when I couldn’t yet be what They know I am and created me to be.

My husband’s death is a constant message, a message that whispers what temporal reality really looks like. It’s the kind of message I can’t ignore. None of us ever should have in the first place.

I know that reality isn’t what we see, and one day, I’ll have the courage to live in the truth of that reality. It won’t be scary anymore, because it will be real in time. The knowing that what happens here on this earth, in this body, is just a small part of who we are.

That’s when I’ll know who I am. That’s when I’ll understand that message. In the meantime, I just keep letting God hold me. And so I keep smiling in conversations because I know what’s coming and it’s beautiful. Beautiful for all of us.