but I do.
As you could probably tell if you visited my blog today, I didn’t have any motivation up for Monday.
Nor did I do a weekend update.
Don’t worry, I didn’t sit around in the dark the last three days and do nothing.
On the contrary, I was non-stop busy. Too busy for pictures, even.
I spent my weekend volunteering to help some dear friends in my life.
I directed my first 5k to help raise awareness and money for orphans.
I cooked vats of Japanese curry and served many to help my sweet sister raise money for her mission trip to Japan in less than a month.
I ran 12 miles this weekend.
I fell in to deep and much soul-needed conversation.
I met some *hopefully* new friends.
And just this evening, I got to deal with my first Army life crisis.
I received some sad news that there has been a death on Music Man’s side of the family, and it just so happens that he is training in the field this week.
Which means no contact.
These are the times when it’s hard. When I get stressed because I don’t know who to call, or how to relay messages, or if I should burden him with the news right away for fear of him being pulled from the school. Or if it’s really better to wait.
I don’t know what the protocol is for this type of thing as I realize we don’t have a binder of emergency information or a phone tree.
I realize that it’s hard to be an army wife when you don’t have a support system like you do in an army community.
After numerous phone calls, tears, and advice, I tried going through the Red Cross in hopes that they could reach him.
Praise the Lord that Music Man came out of the field tonight and responded to my voice mail before the message was sent, so after all of the time spent on the phone with the Red Cross and not enough information anyway, I was able to cancel the message.
But it’s times like these when, after the initial moment of shock or sadness or fleeting anxiety, I breathe and I’m not sure how to step forward.
Usually, I go and run.
To clear my head.
To pray.
To just step away from the issue at hand.
But my legs are still heavy from this weekend, and I do indeed need this rest day.
But to rest seems impossible.
This is the first person close to Music Man that he has lost, whereas I have already had the pain of losing several people I love over the years.
My heart hurts for him.
My heart aches for my younger sister-in-law who just lost her father well before he should have gone. I want to hold her and tell her it will be alright. Even if it may not be.
My heart yearns to start living in the moment as it always does when death happens so shockingly.
Fleetingly, I even think about how we should start having kids because I want our families to experience the joy of a newborn before anything happens again.
Because I know that this won’t be the first death of a loved one in our life.
This won’t be the first family crisis we have to deal with all too soon.
My mind feels numb. As if I am stuck in peanut butter, unable to even breathe or think about tomorrow.
And then suddenly, I think of our initial plans for this coming weekend: the celebration of 50 years of a beautiful marriage.
Of joy.
Of love.
And how even though there is sadness, there is a sliver of light flickering in the distance, calling us to keep moving.
And I realize that hurt comes, and it rears it’s ugly head at the most unthinkable and unimaginable times.
But joy comes in the morning.
For no matter how ugly, and how unfathomable the hurt seems to be, when we lift our feet and begin to move forward, Grace will be there to carry us.
