The Space Between

"Always remember, there was nothing worth sharing like the love that let us share our name."  

The Avett Brothers

This past weekend I traveled to Narrows, VA where John's grandparents live.  Giles County Virginia is one of the most beautiful spots in the Appalachian mountains.  The New River runs through the center of many quaint little towns where big rolling mountains border both sides of the river banks.  My father-in-law grew up in this area and my husband spent a lot of time exploring the many hikes and fishing spots throughout child hood.  Life feels simple here.  I came this past weekend to do something that I've been preparing myself to do over the last few months.  

Last fall I went with John's grand mother to the Day Cemetery which is a family cemetery that is nestled in the woods of Narrows, VA.  The first time I walked up the steep hill to this place, I knew this would be where John's final remains would rest.  It is a beautiful spot, not like your typical industrial cemetery.  It is rugged, harder to get to, with a panoramic view of mountains and woods.  You can also hear Wolf Creek just below the hill where John spent many summers fishing.  You can stand in the cemetery, close your eyes and hear nothing but water, birds and the movement of the trees.  It is peaceful.  I knew immediately that this was the place I wanted to visit into old age to spend time with John as life continues onward.  It would be my quiet place from now on, where I could sit with him and think of all the beautiful memories we had.

John's grandmother and I went to a head stone place last December where I would be given the task to pick out a stone for John.  John's grandmother decided that she didn't want me to do this alone so she also picked out a bench for her and Jack.  She's a wonderful woman.  There are times you just have to make yourself laugh when faced with tough decisions.  Ellen and I laughed at the thought that we would both get to sit on her grave together while she is still alive.  I picked out a simple stone for him that would display his full name, and a quote from a song called "Fair Thee Well," by Marcus Mumford and Oscar Isaac. 

"If I had wings like Noah's dove, I'd fly up the river to the one I love."  I felt this quote truly expressed the endless love I have for John and how I would be with him if I could.

Saturday morning my mom and sister drove up from North Carolina, and the three of us made our way to the Day Cemetery.  My mom brought a few flowers, some that I had requested and others she simply knew I would like.  The three of us took some time to look at John's resting place quietly, letting our emotions do what they needed to do.  I've said this before, but seeing your husbands name and death date has a sting to it for it's a reality check that I tend to avoid.  We finally wiped our tears and got to work.  I asked my sister to photograph this process.  I wanted to be able to look back and remember.

 My mom placed the flowers all around him, even leading to the woods.  She is an incredible gardener and I immediately approved of how they would be planted.  We then both took shovels and began to dig.  We first dug a large hole where I would place the remainder of my husband.  John's grandmother gave me a beautiful white box where I poured his ashes into.  I placed the box in the center of the hole and then spread what I had left all around it.  We covered that up and then started to plant each flower.  

Daffodils are one of my favorite flowers.  John knew this about me and when we lived in Richmond he took an afternoon to plant about 50 daffodils that bordered the large oak tree in our front yard.  I would imagine they are getting ready to bloom now.  We placed daffodils in the center above his ashes.  We bordered those daffodils with red roses.  On both sides of his grave we planted bulbs that will one day produce lilies.  We then placed lavender flowers in between the lilies, daffodils and roses. 

Once the flowers were placed we took some mulch and spread it throughout each flower.  My mom took the ashes I had given her last year and released them at the base of the woods, letting the wind carry them to each flower.  Her and John had spent some time in her yard together planting trees, so she felt it was only appropriate to landscape with his ashes.  The end result was incredible.  I felt so grateful to have my family there with me to help.  I could not have completed such a task without them.

I went back to the cemetery alone and sat on Ellen and Jack's bench facing my husbands stone.  John lies directly beside his great grand mother and great grand father.  John's great grand mother's name was Drucie Smith.  John and I had decided that if we ever had a little girl one day, she would be named Wyndolyn Drucie Wilburn, after my grand mother and his great grand mother.   She would be called Winnie.  That's right, Winnie Wilburn.  Laugh all you want, we thought it was awesome:)  

I sat there quietly with our dog staring at his stone thinking, "how did we get here muffin?"  How in the world did we get here?  I thought about that little girl that I would never know.  What would her life of been like?  Would she had been as fearless as him?  I suppose at this point, it simply doesn't matter.  Why ponder things that are impossible to know?  Regardless of how I found myself sitting at John's head stone among the woods at the age of 31, it is where I currently am.  That is my reality, and what choice do I have but to embrace it?

Easter is next weekend and I believe it means more to me now than it ever has.  It's a time to remember what my father did for me.  The blood he shed for me.  It's a reminder that because of that selfless sacrifice, my husband continues on his adventure.  He is well beyond his grave.  My husband is radiating with love and light.  He is free.   Because of that sacrifice, I can suffer for a while yet still feel the sun upon my face.

I am so grateful for the Day Cemetery and more importantly, for John's family, my family.  I am a Wilburn and always will be.  I felt honored to be able to place him among his family, among my family, this weekend.

"By his wounds, you have been healed."  1 Peter 2:24 

 I sat on that bench in silence and recognized that the space between us really isn't that big.  Even if I am an old lady one day, sitting at the foot of his grave, the years that pass and the space between us won't compare to the reunion I know that is coming because of the sacrifice my father gave for me.  For that alone, I will sit there and smile.

As the Fog Clears

"I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them as rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in him."  Philippians 3:8-9

Something has happened to me in the last week and as much as I would love to tell you that it's something wonderful and amazing and uplifting, it's more so frightening, isolating and down right sad.  I am going to try and write about it because I think for anyone going through an incredible loss, this realization is important.

I think I was actually foolish enough to think I would feel healed after walking through this for an entire year.  As if day 366 would arrive and miraculously I'd be a new Erin.  I survived an entire year without my love.  I was proactive.  I spread his ashes, took a new job, moved back across the country to a new town, made new friends, tried new activities, stayed busy, constantly on the move.  I did all of those things.  I made it through 365 days.  I was a bad ass, a strong woman, wiser.  Yet when I woke up on March 10th, I did not feel new or refreshed, I felt despair.  John is still gone, life still continues here and there is no reward for this hardship.  He is not returning.  You know, I think at times I've actually convinced myself that he was.  Am I crazy?  As if I would go through one year without my husband and if I did that successfully, he would come back and this nightmare would end.  I realize that is simply not the case, but I think at times, his absence has been so much easier to endure and walk with, if I live with that thought process, that this too shall pass and he is returning.

Over the last week, I've come to realize that I am really not a bad ass, or this amazingly strong woman, or maybe even wiser.  What I am is a master of repression.  I am a master of denial, avoidance, distraction.  I know how to survive.  I remember how painful this felt right after John died.  For the first two months I literally had a full body ache from head to toe.  It was terrible.  The pain that came with his death was disabling, and honestly a miserable way to live.  I think within the first 60 days, I decided I could not take it and simply wasn't going to allow it anymore.  So I began to repress, to tuck it away a little at a time.  The real raw pain that came with his absence was scary, to know the body and mind can feel so empty and dull.  I hated it and wanted nothing to do with it.  So I became busy, distracted, I threw myself into anything to avoid the pain.  You know I've only really cried in front of a handful of people?  My mom, my sisters, three best friends, and my Chaplin.  Isn't that a bit odd?  I've refused to let go in front of anyone really.  

I woke up on March 10th and for the first time in months, I felt that raw pain that has been tucked away for a while now and I have to tell you, I've once again turned into that person that felt disabled months and months ago.  I can't tell you how frustrating that is, to think you've done all these amazing things for a year, and that life is supposed to be better, easier.  Yet my realization now is that I haven't really fully grieved, I haven't allowed that raw pain to hang out because it's simply frightening, it impairs me.  Repressing only works for so long, like a splinter that you don't deal with.  Eventually you become more agitated, infected, until you simply can't avoid it anymore.  

John is still gone.  His physical absence is so evident and alarming.  So now what do I do?  I suppose there are another 365 days ahead of me, 3 years, 10 years, 20 years, 50 years?  I feel his absence is almost like a tumor growing inside of me that I simply have to learn how to maneuver around.  It won't ever fully go away, it will always be there, living within me.  You know, with that reality, I've come to understand that the old me is no more.  I don't even know her anymore which is sad, but that's the honest truth.  She can't exist with this new reality.  She is not capable.

I traveled to Richmond, VA last week for work and to spend time with our friends.  We cleaned up a creek in honor of John, paddled the James together and enjoyed each other's company.  It was strange.  I felt as if I was visiting a ghost.  A past life, where other lives continue on.  During the creek clean up, we had a moment of silence for John and someone asked who this man was, why we were cleaning up a creek in honor of him.  "He was my husband."  That's all I could muster out.  "Was".  My friends are all mostly married, some now parents, they are all getting older and life is changing.  I feel as if I am watching this from a distance, watching all of them move forward while I am stuck in a fog.  "He was my husband." 

 We had a pot luck over the weekend where all of our friends gathered to spend time together.  I remember taking Henry Hollis (my best friend's 2 year old son) and carrying him into the front yard, just the two of us.  We talked about how to identify an airplane vs a star, and how airplanes blink.  We looked at the stream in front of the house and talked about how it runs underneath the drive way, making it's way to the creek.  I watched Henry take these small things in, I watched his mind explode with excitement, I watched the innocent joy in his eyes.  I thought about John and what a great Dad he would have been, had we had children.  I thought about the things he would have taught them, shown them and the adventures he would have taken them on.  I thought about John as an innocent small boy and how the world must have been so big to him then.  I looked at Henry and prayed for a long life of discovery and adventure.  I prayed that Henry will never be a "was," while I am still here, yet will always be an "is."  

 Life is continuing, so what now?  There is one word that I continue to hear silently in the distance, whispering to me through this dull pain.  "Faith."  That my friends, is all I have left in me.  It is all I can say.  It is my only option, it is the only way to survive this.  Complete and absolute faith in the God that I love so much, who loves me unconditionally, yet I fail him every single day.  There are no more question marks with the absence of John, only periods.  There are no "whys," or "hows," only "is."  Faith in what I cannot see, yet I can certainly feel.  Faith that this burden is not carried by me, but carried by the God that I love.  Faith in John's eternal life, eternal purpose, eternal glory.  Faith in eternal love, and eternal reunion.

I can't really tell you what that will look like this year, but as the fog is continuing to clear, I will try my best to share with you.  

Where The Music Continues

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.  He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside quiet waters.  He restores my soul; he guides me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.  You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies, you have anointed my head with oil, my cup overflows.  Surely goodness and loving kindness will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."  Psalm 23:1-5 

They say when it is your time, something incredible happens.  There is a light that is so bright and beautiful, that it would certainly blind you on this earth, yet for those that pass into this final chapter, those that cross over into this other universe, this light embraces you.  It radiates you with love that words cannot describe, love we aren't capable of as humans, and you can't help but be drawn to it, to move towards it.  It becomes one with your soul, and it is at the center of that light that you come face to face with your creator.  They say the love you feel from him is beyond words, and the deepest love you felt here on earth does not compare to the love Christ fills you with.  You are finally home.   Every time I allow myself to picture this experience for John, for my best friend, I feel as if my heart may burst.  I am humbled by this God that I love, yet his love for me and John is beyond words.  His love is beyond unconditional, beyond forgiving.  This love he gives us is endless.

  
"My eyes were next drawn to a river that stretched from the gathering area in the middle of the city to the wall.  It flowed toward the wall and seemed to end there.  The river was perfectly clear with a bluish-white hue.  The light didn't shine on the water but mysteriously shone within it somehow.  The entrance through the thick wall was breath taking.  The opening seemed filled with light that was the purest of white, yet it seemed to have countless hues that changed with even my slightest movement.  I was filled with excited anticipation of entering that beautiful gate.  I was immersed in music, in light, and in love.  

 I had no idea what gift I was about to receive, but the anticipation on the faces of the people let me know that it was something extraordinary.   I felt like a kid again, like that fifth-grade kid who loved God.  Like that kid who used to look forward to Christmas like you wouldn't believe.  I couldn't wait to open the gifts that waited for me under the tree.  And I couldn't wait for the gift that waited for me now.  The music continued, such beautiful music, and I became even more excited.  It swelled and with it so did my anticipation."   Captain Dale Black, "Flight to Heaven"

I have been hollow the last few weeks.  Here, yet somewhere else, somewhere dark.  It's as if I have been preparing for John's death all over again.  As if living through it once just wasn't enough.  I actually broke out into hives a few days ago.  It's as if my body is physically reacting to this date, as I have remembered what we were doing 3 days before, 2 days before, 1 day before.  I have allowed myself to remember everything, every moment, every detail of the day I lost John.  Today is that day for me, it was a Sunday.  I have become dark during this remembrance, letting the horror take over and swallow me whole.  As if I am walking through quick sand, and can't seem to move.  As if I am the one now swimming and can't breathe.  I've allowed all of it.  I feel ashamed for admitting this, but it's the truth. 

 I think maybe John had enough of watching this from his new universe.  He appeared to me in a dream the other night, this hasn't happened in quite a long time.  It was a strange situation, because I was attempting to cross country ski through a blizzard, yet I couldn't get my skis on.  I kept begging him to help me, I told him I could not move without him.  He looked at me sternly and continued to say over and over, "you have to figure this out Erin, you have to move on your own."  I continued to ask for him and he continued to stand bold and strong repeating himself while looking me in the eyes.  "You have to move on your own."   

John's brother and my sister-in-law have spent the last two days with me.  They flew all the way over from Seattle to snowy West Virginia.  We told stories about John, enjoyed good food and listened to records that John loved.  It was the first time in weeks that I have felt calm and at ease.  I see a lot of John in his older brother and  feel reminded through him that John would keep his eyes ahead.

  Death can take place within seconds.  I've become somewhat obsessed with it over this past year, intrigued by the act of life and how quickly it can end.  You wake up one morning with a beating heart, lungs that breathe for you, limbs that move, a voice that speaks.  Within a matter of seconds, these abilities that you are so used to, this pure muscle memory, can abruptly end.   It only takes a few seconds.  I think there are probably so many moments throughout our lives where each of us are faced with death, yet we don't even notice when those moments happen.  Death is not a thought circulating throughout our minds each day, we are not wired that way.  Yet, it can happen so quickly, with no notice or warning.  Was John ready?  

   It was just like any regular day of kayaking for us.  It was a Sunday morning.  I got up and made lunches for our dry bags, strapped boats on the car, threw our gear in totes, walked Jake, all routine.   I was walking with John to the river, waved to him as he made his way into the woods.  I can still picture the back of his helmet.  We said we would see each other soon.  Within 24 hours, there was a whirlwind of ambulances, rescue gear, walkie talkies, the sound of a chopper circulating throughout the gorge, my friends in kayak gear setting up teams to search for John.  There were people everywhere.  I remember people asking me questions that I couldn't hear or seem to answer.  Like white noise.  They had found his boat, his throw bag, yet not him.  What does John look like, what color was his life jacket, describe his helmet.  I couldn't seem to remember anything.  Why should I tell you what he looks like, no one needs to find him, he's fine and will show up any minute wondering what the circus is all about.  I remember driving around for hours, honking horns, screaming his name late into the night.  I remember being drenched from the rain and shivering, yet not feeling the cold, I was a force of adrenaline that could not stop.  As hours passed, I felt useless, desperate, empty.  I couldn't answer those questions about him because this outcome seemed impossible to me.  I remember actually thinking how pissed he would be when he realized my mom was on the way to Oregon.  He'd tell me I overreacted and scared everyone.  That was the outcome I predicted, the outcome I wanted so badly.

"The man said, 'this is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called woman," for she was taken out of man.'  For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh." Genesis 2:23-24

Part of my flesh, my heart, my existence was taken away on March 9th, and the rip that it left on me has felt like an open wound, slowly healing a little every day.

I felt like I was witnessing the existence of hell itself on this day.  Yet, something strange happened the morning John's body was found.  I remember having this moment right before I was told that he was gone where I thought to myself,  "I am on the most beautiful trail I have ever seen."  The sun beamed through the red woods, the moss was so green and lush, the rain had stopped, the sky was a perfect blue, and there were water falls around every turn.  The 48 hours of rain produced sun shines of green lush forest and small majestic waterfalls everywhere you looked.  I didn't realize it at the time, but that brief moment of clarity in the midst of despair was just the beginning of an incredible lesson I believe God so desperately needs me to understand and walk with while I am still here.  

As I reflect on the last 365 days, I am humbled by the many moments this past year where God's love, John's love, has reminded me of this very simple, yet crucial life lesson.  How to truly see his presence, feel his guidance, and know that the holy spirit resides in me through total darkness.   How to root that belief in the center of my being so it stands strong like a redwood tree during each storm in my life.   How to know when those small moments of beauty we see here on earth reflect a much bigger picture of what is to come, eternal life.  How to surrender myself to this eternal love and let my creator establish himself in me.  How to see his light.

"Cast all your anxiety on him, for he cares for you.  Be alert and of sober mind.  Your enemy the Devil prowls around like a lion looking for someone to devour.  Resist him, standing firm in your faith, remember that your Christian brothers and sisters all over the world are going through the same kind of suffering you are, and the God of all grace who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.  To him be the power forever and ever.  Amen."  1 Peter 5:7-11

 If there is one thing that is certain for all of us, it is that we are all facing our own mortality.  There will come a time when we won't be here anymore.  Sometimes this happens before a child is born, at 2 days old, 2 years, 15 years, 30 years, 102.  It is different for everyone, yet the outcome is still the same, inevitable, certain.  At some point we will all feel the pain of loss and our deaths will bring pain to others.  Our hearts will ache for the absence of a loved one.  We will all suffer.  I will continue to suffer.  For to truly love someone unconditionally, we surrender to the immense pain that love will eventually bring us when it's physical presence is no more.

  I am not afraid to die.  What terrifies me more, what frightens me to my core, is the thought of not living.   Not embracing the moment I am in and committing to it, respecting it, giving this moment everything I have.  Not falling so hard for someone the way I fell for John and surrendering to the kind of love that leaves you speechless.  Not allowing myself to one day feel a little one growing inside of me and becoming a mother, a grand mother, a great grand mother.  Not experiencing the beauty of an adventure, a new river, a new trail.   I've come to realize that if these moments come, they will be because of John.  My future is because of him.  I think there have been times over the past 12 months where I've chosen not to live, I've chosen defeat, the past, no future.   I'm so ashamed of those moments.  It doesn't honor John and it doesn't reflect the endless love God gives us. Yet in these moments this past year where I've rejected life, I believe I have been surrounded by light.  I have been embraced by it.  Someone once told me that it is not time that heals our pain, it is simply love.  I have to say that over the last 12 months, I have witnessed this over and over again and I believe it to be true.   

"By his light, I walked through the darkness."  Job 29:3

Over the last 12 months, our friends and family have honored John in a way that is so remarkable, so beautiful, I see his light.  John has been honored through his school at Virginia Tech, the Richmond paddling community, multiple churches, American Whitewater, The Shenandoah Community Foundation.  Multiple young men and women will one day go on their own adventure because of him through the John Duncan Wilburn Adventure Scholarship, http://www.fnfsr.org/john-duncan-wilburn-adventure-scholarship/ I see his light.   Other's have followed their dreams.  My sister and her husband opened their first art studio.  My brother wrote his first book.  Some left undesirable jobs and took chances.  Other's went to Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, the Sawtooth Mountains, Alaska.  His ashes created adventure.  I see his light.  Some let go of their fears and moved out west.  Some cleaned up the river banks.  Some grew gardens.  Some got engaged.  Some welcomed new little one's into the world.  Some told their children about John.  Some ran marathons for him.  Some put aside the TVs, cell phones, they went outside.  Some mountain biked more, kayaked more, adventured more; and through each new and familiar journey, they took John with them.  I see his light.  

I discovered new remarkable loves over the last 365 days.  I met my other soul mate, Melissa Joyce who I've walked hand in hand with through this loss.  I learned so much from her genuine and compassionate spirit.   I developed a family of incredible women on the West Coast who started walking with me the day John died and have been present ever since while I am thousands of miles away.  Jared Sandeen became a brother to me and a pillar of strength with his faith.  Friends and family from all over the country went out of their way to send their love.  I have received a letter from someone different every week for the last 365 days.  Every single week.   I fell in love with Fayetteville and have crossed paths with so many new incredible individuals in this town that have shown me, John is not forgotten.  I see his light.  I have learned to be alone again, to embrace those moments of complete silence and solitude, to appreciate them and listen.  I still feel warmth in my heart and a sense of calmness in those moments of total silence.  I see his light.

I have changed.  I believe God has needed me to change.  I wrestled with him over this for months, argued with him.  I refused.  I begged for my past life, for John.   Yet, the God I love is so patient and understanding,  slowly and surely, I have changed for him.  This change has led me to understand that John is not stuck in the past.  He is very much in the future, he's already there, just around the river bend.  

"No one sews a patch of unshrunk cloth on an old garment, for the patch will pull away from the garment, making the tear worse.  Neither do people pour new wine into old wineskins.  If they do, the skins will burst, the wine will run out and the wineskins will be ruined.  No, they pour new wine into new wineskins, and both are preserved."  Matthew 9:16-17



   I have learned to be here right now, to slow down, to listen.  I have gone to the woods, the rivers, the trails.  I have taken my husbands perspective, his outlook and applied it to right now, and for that, I am continuing to live, I am continuing to know him even better.  I now see those moments of beauty that he chose to see and acknowledge every day.  John was present, he was in tune.  John was ready. I believe this is what God wants me to understand, for it determines so much of my life to come.  It determines the kind of wife, mother, sister, daughter, co-worker, friend; the kind of leader I will be.  I  am now the woman John always knew was there.  I am now the woman he saw all along.  I believe I now know the purpose my husband served in my life.  John saved my life.  I now march to a new beat.   I can now move on my own.  I see his light. 

So I weep this morning, yes.  Yet my tears are not of sorrow this time.  I refuse to cry for my loss and to let John's death become a darkness that engulfs me.  I refuse to beg and scream and plead.   My tears today are not for the loss I have endured for the last year.  For what I lost, I believe John gained.   Today marks the day that John went home.  Today is the day he met his creator, the day he was embraced by the light and reunited with so many loved ones.  I weep with joy as I picture the love he must have felt, what he must have seen, the truth of the universe and our loving God that he gained knowledge to that day.  I weep for his homecoming.   

I was able to go see John a few days after his body was recovered from the Smith River.  I don't think there is anything that can prepare you for an experience like that at my age, as a newly wed.  I sat with him, just the two of us, and held his hands, stroked his hair and face, kissed his lips.  I have never seen a person look so peaceful and beautiful after they are gone.   It became so clear to me sitting in that chapel that John was somewhere truly inspiring, a place he would never want to leave.  I remember feeling so honored to be present with him in that moment, to feel the peace and warmth I believe he felt on his journey home.  I see his light.




John is everywhere now.  He lives among the Redwoods, the oceans, the mountains.  Rivers flow with him and trees now grow with him.  I hear him through music, birds singing, children laughing, high fives after a good day on the river.  I feel him in the wind, the sun, and a warm fire.   I see him in the sunsets across the gorge, a blue heron, the rain, the snow, and through all of you.  He is my guardian angel, my protector.  He is a monumental pillar of strength for me.   I am so proud of John for that.  I see his light.  I know he is waiting for me with that huge smile, just around the river bend,  anticipating our reunion, so excited for my homecoming, where the music continues.