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.