Unbroken Continuity

"Sing, barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song, shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband," says the Lord.  "Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes.  Do not be afraid; you will not be put to shame.  Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated.  You will forget the shame of your youth and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood."  Isaiah 56:1-4

Me and John, our second Thanksgiving, 2009, Richmond VA 

In less than an hour, it will be Thanksgiving Day.  Exactly one year ago, John and I woke up in our cozy home in Grants Pass, Oregon, and for the first time in our relationship, we got to have a normal holiday together.  Most of our thanksgivings were spent either with me having to go to bed super early because I had to be at Target in the middle of the night for Black Friday (earlier and earlier every year), or simply separate from each other.  After two Thanksgivings together in 2008 and 2009,  I finally realized there was no point to spend this holiday together, being I was usually a zombie by the time the actual holiday arrived, so I encouraged John to spend it with his family and enjoy the day.  I used to work a 15 hour overnight shift going into Thanksgiving day and then had to be back at work within 12 hours to get ready for thousands of guest who would be body slammed through the doors just to get that perfect TV deal.  Oh, and house appliances, we can't forget those.  I used to hate the holidays simply because of my job.  I'd look forward to January when I could finally breathe.  

After my first real Thanksgiving with John in Oregon, and more so after losing him in March, I reflect today and wonder why it took me so long to leave that work style and have that day with my family, for my family is gone now.  

I remember last November and December, it was the first time in years, and my marriage that I truly enjoyed the holidays.  I got to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with John, with no schedule, no worry, and no bulls-eye awaiting me in red and khaki.  It  truly was wonderful.  

For Thanksgiving in Oregon, John and I made a lovely meal with our friend Toni who worked at Harry & David with me.  John made the turkey (teriyaki style), I made baked macaroni & cheese along with sweet potato casserole, and Toni made the dessert.  We went on a nice steep hike at Dollar Mountain afterwards that overlooks the beautiful town of Grants Pass.  This hike took us above the fog line and revealed a beautiful day above the clouds.  I remember watching a movie with John that night and snuggling with him until we both fell asleep.  I remember thinking that THIS moment was why I left Target.  My family.  My husband.  John.  

The last 7 1/2 years in Richmond, I despised Thanksgiving and Christmas because I witnessed consumerism at it's ugliest during a time of the year where honestly it was the last thing I wanted to think of.  This past year I adored both holidays with John.   

Today, I am at a loss.  I am speechless.  My heart bleeds for him.  My soul screams inside for his presence on this holiday.  Last year on Thanksgiving was the beginning of something beautiful.   I knew that day that I would never spend another holiday away from him, for that day was so perfect, so simple.  I knew then why we were meant to go west.  Why I was meant to leave Target.   I pictured countless Thanksgivings from that day.  Thanksgivings where we'd tell our parents that we're expecting a son or daughter, and they would be grandparents.  Thanksgivings where we'd create new family traditions with little ones. Thanksgivings where we'd meet our first grand child.  I pictured countless holidays from our true first Thanksgiving in 2013 where I'd come to love my muffin harder, stronger, deeper.  I'd watch him age and become more handsome with every wrinkle, every white hair.  I'd snuggle with him every holiday  and fall asleep to the sounds of his heart beating against  my cheek.  

 I walked into the woods this evening and just sat in silence.  I listened for him, searched for him and felt him near.  I told him how I would give anything asked of me to bring him back.  Anything.  I wondered, how can I be thankful this time?   As I sat quietly among the trees, I remembered  the short poem by Canon Henry Scott-Holland that was originally delivered as a sermon in 1910.  

"Death is nothing at all, I have only slipped away into the next room.  I am I and you are you.  Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.  Call me by my own familiar name.  Speak to me in the easy way you always used.  Put no difference into your tone.  Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.  Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we always enjoyed together.  Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.  Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.  Let it be spoken without effort.  Without the ghost of a shadow in it.  Life means all that it ever was.  There is absolute unbroken continuity.  What is death but a negligible accident?  Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?  I am waiting for you for an interval.  Somewhere very near just around the corner.  All is well.  Nothing is past, nothing is lost.  One brief moment and all will be as it was before.  How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again."  Canon Henry Scott-Holland

I thought to myself in those woods, I will always be John's wife, and he will always be my sweet husband, my muffin.  Regardless of where life takes me, regardless if I open my heart up again one day, I will always be his, and he will always be mine.  "There is absolute unbroken continuity."  How beautiful is that?  

I wrote a blog a few months ago titled, "This is John's Rock."  I remember writing it after reflecting on the 24 hours of John missing, and the events that proceeded afterwards.  I believe in my heart that during that time that I was surrounded, protected and loved.  God was present then, he is present today, he is in my future.

"Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope, the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness."  
Lamentations 3:21-23

I believe that God has been here this entire time, consistently, with complete unconditional love for me.  He was present the moment John and I met, and he was present when John and I were separated.  I believe John is wrapped in his light.  I remember that today.  

"How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again."  I picture this for John and I everyday and what an incredible moment that will be.  

So as I sat in the woods and reflected on my life today and the things I am thankful for, I am humbled by God's grace and love for me.   I am so thankful for my family, my friends, my job, my sweet animals, for Fayetteville, for Oregon, for good health, music that warms my heart, for the mountains and rivers, the trails, the woods.  

I am so thankful for John.  For who he was to me here on earth, and for the magnificent light he is now that shines on my soul everyday.  I am thankful for eternity.  I am thankful for God's love.  

 "Remember no more the reproach of your widowhood."

Today is not about remembering that I am a widow, that John is gone, that I am not  a wife or mother, that my life is forever different.   Today is about reflecting on how beautiful my life has been, how beautiful my life still is, how beautiful my life will continue to be,  and the eternal love I have in my heart with John, and the love God has for me.  Today is about drawing on the strength God gives me.  Today is about thanking him through pain and loss and being thankful for my faith in the unseen.  Today I honor John.

"Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back, lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes." 

I don't know how long I'll be here.  None of us do.  What I've come to realize though is that I have a purpose to fulfill and a mission to complete here on earth, and it's my job to figure out what that purpose is.  It's time to lengthen my cords, strengthen my stakes.  I know that when that purpose is fulfilled, God will bring me home to John.   Today, I thank God for that.

Happy Thanksgiving muffin.  My heart burst today and for all my days left with thankfulness for you.

Me and John, our last Thanksgiving 2013, above the clouds, Grants Pass, OR

The Blue Heron

Photo taken by Herb Wilburn

"According to North American Native tradition, the Blue Heron brings messages of self-determination and self-reliance. They represent an ability to progress and evolve. The long thin legs of the heron reflect that an individual doesn't need great massive pillars to remain stable, but must be able to stand on one's own.  Blue Herons have the innate wisdom of being able to maneuver through life and co-create their own circumstances. Blue Herons reflect a need for those with this totem to follow their own unique wisdom and path of self-determination. These individuals know what is best for themselves and need to follow their hearts rather than the promptings of others. Those with the Medicine of the Great Blue Heron may sit until the rest of us lose patience. And, when they follow the promptings of the heart, they are one of the most magnificent when they choose to soar"  T.Andrews, Animal Speak.

I remember the first time I got back in my kayak after John died.  It was on a Class II section of the beautiful Rogue river in Oregon, and I did this with my friend Lisa Byers.  I remember slipping into my boat on the river banks and feeling my hands shake as I attached my skirt to the cock pit.  I paddled out into the current and slowly allowed myself to flip over.  I remember letting myself sit there for a few seconds submerged in cold water, with nothing but the sounds of the current, thinking about what this was like for him.  I wondered if he even knew what was happening.  As I hung upside down,  I imagined myself holding John's hands and giving them a squeeze when I was ready to come up.

A man named Jerry McAward taught me how to roll.  I was 22 years old.  It was a long, cold day on a lake by the Lehigh River in Pennsylvania with my best friend Sarah.  We were in it together, wet suits and all.  Jerry had me hold his hands as we talked about the art of completing a roll.  The first thing he had me do before having me practice rolling though, was allow myself to flip over, and stay submerged, upside down, while he held my hands.  When I was ready to come up, I would give them a squeeze and Jerry would flip me back up.  Each time he would encourage me to stay there a little longer and focus on becoming comfortable upside down in the current.  He encouraged me to relax, be present, and trust his hands. You see, kayaking is all about trust.  Trust in one's self, and trust in the people you chose to kayak with.  Jerry was building that trust with me and quickly became someone that I always looked up to in the kayaking community, a true mentor.

That day on the Rogue, I pictured John holding my hands as I let myself drift upside down.  Finally I rolled up and took in a deep breath of air and felt nauseous.  I thought about him and why he couldn't make it to the surface, why he couldn't get air.  What stopped my strong, fearless John?  My mind self-destructs at times and searches for answers I'll never find, resolutions to problems I can't solve.  Scenarios of what I could have done differently to save him but can't now.  It's an urge to be there with him, experience what he did so I can understand, so he isn't alone in this.  I've even read the details of drowning and what takes place from start to finish.  I try to place myself there with him.  I have to know. 

 Lisa and I paddled down to the first rapid.  I remember feeling numb.  I couldn't believe that such a fun sport with incredible beauty killed my beautiful husband.  How something he enjoyed so much, something we always did together, something he was so good at could take his life.  How was I to continue kayaking?  How could I ever find that enjoyment again?  I remember feeling anxious about these thoughts as we paddled down stream, unsure of myself and my ability to really get back out there.

It was then, that something strange happened.  As we entered the first rapid, I noticed this beautiful blue heron sitting on the river bank staring at the two of us.  John and I always thought the blue heron was such a unique bird and so pretty.  We saw many beautiful herons when paddling the James river for years.  I locked eyes with this particular heron for a few seconds and oddly felt a sense of warmth wash over me.  It was like a protective presence reassuring me that this moment was OK.  That same heron stayed with us during a 5 mile stretch down the river.  It would fly ahead to the next river bank, watch us go through the rapid and then fly ahead to the next one and wait.  I had not seen anything like that before but for some reason, it gave me a sense of comfort and peace.

Ever since this first occurrence on the Rogue river, I've locked eyes with a blue heron on each river since.  Middle fork Smith, North fork Smith, Chetco, Sandy, New River Gorge, Gauley, and the James River.  This bird always seems to appear at the right time too.   I got to paddle with John's dad and uncle a few months ago on the New River near Narrows, VA, and watch both of them get back in their boats for the first time since John's death.  I remember a few days after John died, John's dad told me he would never kayak again.  I remember feeling sad about this, for I knew this was something him and John shared together, something he enjoyed so much with his son.  I knew John would not have wanted that for his dad.  Months went by though, and sure enough, Herb decided to get back in his boat.  Before we put on the river, I talked to John about this alone, and asked him to be with us on the river somehow.  I remember as John's dad paddled over to me he looked up and said, "Look Erin, a blue heron."  Sure enough, a beautiful blue heron flew right over the two of us just as we were starting the stretch.  I remember looking at my father-in-law and smiling, thinking to myself, "thank you Muffin."  I've had multiple friends tell me about heron experiences they've had since losing John that sound incredible. 

I started reading about the blue heron and what it represents.  I have to tell you, it sounds a lot like my fearless husband, John Wilburn.  I had lunch with one of John's best friends this past weekend in Fayetteville, Nick Milo.  We talked about John and how rare he was.  Neither one of us have met anyone else truly like John.   I never saw John worry, become afraid, or doubt his decisions.  He was true to himself and marched to his own beat.  He had big dreams and was determined to see them through.  He was kind, patient, present.  What Nick and I had was rare.  A rare friendship and a rare marriage.  John served a purpose in both of our lives, and we'll be forever different, forever better, because of him.

I've mentioned a few times that I always think about what eternal life is like for John now.  What is his mission and purpose in the after life?  I believe John understood our purpose here on earth more than I did, and more than many people do.  I believe he was ready for what was next.  I told Nick that I believe in my heart that there was never a moment of panic or worry for John in the end.  If anything, I believe he grew curious about what was to come.  I picture him moving towards that incredible light, ready to seek his next adventure.  

"Beside them, the birds of the heavens dwell; they sing among the branches."  Psalm104:12 

I have found new ways to draw close to John, to listen for him, to see him in a new way.  I hear him through myself, his family and friends.  I find him in the woods, the mountains, and on the river.  I see him in the blue heron that sees me and reassures me that this moment is OK.