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.  

Think Of These Things

"Finally brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things."  Philippians 4:8

In a few hours, it will be January 17th.  My husband would have been 31 years old.  Only 31 years old.  I am not sure I will ever get used to saying that, to know he only had 30 years here on earth.  The thought still baffles me.  I woke up this morning from a reoccurring nightmare that I have had ever since he died.  It's actually quite silly that I have dreams like this, considering how happy we were but regardless, this scenario seems to haunt me now.  In my dream, John and I are the normal couple that we were when he was alive, we are happy.  Yet for some reason in this dream, John leaves me.  The entire dream is spent chasing him and trying to find him so I can tell him he made a mistake.  In each dream I always get so close to him, almost within reach, and then I wake up.  I shake my head at how silly it is, yet I always feel frustrated afterwards.  John would have never left me, he thought I hung the moon.  I look forward to the day that these dreams stop, and the only dreams I have are visits from him that leave me with a smile and better understanding.  

John and I started something years ago for each other's birthdays.  We decided to stop giving each other gifts and simply devote the day to each other, doing something that we both enjoyed.  Last year on John's 30th birthday, we ventured down to California with our good friend, Lisa Byers to kayak the North Fork of the Feather River.  We spent two days paddling different sections of this incredible gorge and camped out with our friend Lisa that night.  It was that same weekend we met Haven who greeted us with handfuls of avocados.  You can see some of the footage from this birthday weekend on the video we made of John a few months ago.  He was so happy to be on the river that weekend, the perfect way to move into his 30's.

On my 30th birthday with John, he got up that morning and made me pancakes.  We then ventured into the Applegate Valley where we mountain biked all day together, exploring new trails in Southern Oregon.  I actually played a little joke on him that morning.  He was convinced that when I turned 30 years old, I would get what he called, "Baby Fever," and slowly start pushing him for babies.  While he was still asleep that morning, I acted like I was asleep and started "sleep talking" and saying, "babies, babies, I want babies!" over and over again.  When I opened my eyes, he was sitting up, staring at me with golf ball eyes:)  It was so worth it.  He stayed with me that day from the morning we woke up until late that night.  My birthdays were always a reminder to me of how much I was loved by John and how he also celebrated my life by devoting the day to me.

When we lived on the east coast, John and I always spent his birthday with our incredible friends, Colleen and Joey Ciucci.  These were the first friends John introduced me to when we started dating.  Colleen and John's birthday's were only 4 days apart.  Every January, the four of us picked a weekend to go mountain biking together to celebrate John and Colleen.  This was so much better than presents.  Simply devoting the day or weekend to each other and doing something beautiful.  Our last birthday weekend with the Ciucci's was actually spent at John's parents house in Toms Brook, VA because Colleen and Joey had a new baby.  The Wilburn's actually helped watch her while we went mountain biking.  If you look in the picture above, you may see that Joey has a baby bump, that would be Cassidy hiding in there:)  

Colleen, Joey and I decided to continue this tradition as life moves forward without our best friend John.  We are heading to Douthat State Park in Virginia tomorrow to go mountain biking, and devote the weekend to each other doing something beautiful. I am bringing a part of John with me on this trip and plan to release him on one of his favorite trails.  Our other great friends, Nick and Meghan will be joining us.  It breaks my heart that I don't get to continue this tradition with my husband.  He is the one that started this beautiful tradition on my birthday and I can honestly say that it meant so much more to me than any present anyone could have given me.  I hope I can do the same for others one day.

Everyone tells me how milestones are so hard.  Some tell me I'll barely be able to get through the day.  I have to tell you, I disagree.  Everyday is hard, because John isn't in it.  There is no one day that is harder than another.  January 17th will be hard, so was January 15th, and 16th, so was June, September, November, the list goes on.  January 17th marks a day of many beautiful memories and time spent with John that I will cherish forever.  It marks a day of devotion to each other, getting outside and having an adventure together.  It marks a day of unconditional love.  I am so grateful for the birthday's I got with John and for the adventures we had together on his day.  So tomorrow, we're going to continue to honor him by getting outside, devoting the day to each other, and having an adventure.  I have a feeling we'll find him there with us.  I think it is important to honor those that have gone before us on these mile stones, honor who they were and what they stood for.  John stood for adventure, so that is what I am going to do.  Those memories are true, they are lovely, they are worthy of praise.  January 17th, I chose to think about those things and remember him.  

John surprised me with a duck pin bowling birthday party, Richmond, VA

Mountain Biking, Douthat State Park

Mountain Biking, Douthat State Park

Mountain Biking, Douthat State Park

  Birthday football tackle, Douthat State Park:)

Happy Birthday muffin, I pray you are enjoying new adventures today that are far beyond anything I could imagine here.  I love you always and forever.  

Dear John

"I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me."  Philippians 3:12

Dear John,

I am above the clouds again, gazing out at the incredible Mt. Rainier, flying back to my home, flying away from ours.  I pictured you summiting this inspiring peak as you did multiple times throughout your journey on this earth.  You and I had planned to do this together at some point, but I was never sure if I would be strong enough.  My endurance could not compare to yours.  Yet as I stare at this intimidating, yet beautiful peak, I feel drawn to it.  Maybe I will make the trek to where you once stood one day.

And really muffin, that is what this trip was all about, being near you..  Many would call what I did a vacation, yet it never felt like a vacation, it felt like a summit through thick snow, through a blizzard..  A journey into the past, a part of my grieving process, a part of my need to heal.  I have to tell you muffin, it broke me down.  I've always considered myself to be someone with thick skin, with confidence and determination, someone who can handle anything thrown at her.  Driving into the mountains of southern Oregon seemed to transform me.  I became the person I was back in June when I left.  I couldn't sleep, at times I couldn't eat, and I cried more in those few days than I have in months. 

 You were everywhere my love.  I went to one of our favorite restaurants the night of my 31st birthday with our good friends, Jared and Lisa.  Multiple times I looked towards the restroom, expecting you to appear at any moment.  Your seat sat empty as we enjoyed each other's company.  I went for a morning run through our neighborhood and gazed at the house that was once our home.  A new couple now lives there and enjoys those beautiful mountain views from the front porch.  I drove through the Applegate Valley where we spent many motorcycle rides.  I even went back to the Smith River where you spent your last day with me and kayaked our last river.  It was then that I knew you were so near.  I paddled ahead of our group through each rapid with a confidence I have not felt in a long time.  I could picture you ahead of me making each move look so graceful.  I stopped at our rock and placed you there with an incredible view of the water and mountains.  I closed my eyes and pictured you standing there with me, the way you once did.  You were so happy muffin, so content and excited for this new chapter.

I mountain biked through the redwoods and passed the magnificent trees you and I once gazed at together.  I sat in silence and listened to the trees speak to each other.  I watched how the redwoods allow small beams of sunlight to peak through their branches.  I felt you in that light and in the wind as I flew through the twist and turns of the forest.  I felt your strength rise within me as I climbed to each overlook.  You were with me.  

I felt you around every corner muffin, around every river bend, as if you were just within my reach, but I couldn't catch you, I couldn't get to you, and it broke my heart.  It broke my spirit.   As I finally drove away from Grants Pass, it felt like an explosion was taking place in my chest, as if I was leaving you behind and for the first time in months, I panicked.  

I have to say that God delivered as he always does.  I prayed to feel you near muffin, in fact I begged before I came out here.  Yet, I felt you so much and so close that it ripped at my heart, it broke me down and revealed the darkness I felt months ago.  You were so close, yet your absence was so evident, and the permanency of this loss became so clear.  You are gone my love, off to a new adventure and a new beginning surrounded by perfection.  I am here muffin.  I realized from this journey to Oregon that you have moved on and you need me to do the same.  You need me to let go.  You need me to look ahead.  Returning to Oregon has revealed to me that I haven't done that.

I felt strongly on this trip that God is preparing me for something, and he needed me to visit our home so I could  face it, see it for what it now is, and let it go.  If I don't let go, I don't stand a chance muffin.  What we had was rare my love, I know that and I realize how incredibly blessed I was to experience a love like ours.  Our souls were one.  I used to think you ruined me.  Your love was so incredible, I felt it would be impossible to love someone like that again.  But as I fly this morning, I am realizing that it is just the opposite.  I can and will experience that again because of  that precious gift you gave me.  

Through the pain I felt this week muffin, I was surrounded.  Our friends came together and surrounded me.  Milestones took place from Christmas, to Birthdays, to a New Year.  I looked into the eyes of these beautiful people and felt God's love radiating throughout this inspiring place that was once our home.  I was not alone.  As I am now staring down at the Grand Canyon, I am realizing that this trip maybe broke me, but it didn't take me.  I am still standing, maybe with some bumps and bruises, but I am still standing, I am still breathing.  You needed me to see this place for what it now is, so I can let go.  

Because of you beautiful husband, I am flying back to the east coast with a new confidence that I can do that. I can move beyond you, yet know you are always with me, just around the river bend.  There will be new joys, new memories, new love, new beginnings, and it's all because of you.    I can now fly with my own wings.  Thank you John.  I love you always and forever.

Where is God?

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.  I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid.  The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning.  I keep on swallowing.  At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed.  There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me.  I find it hard to take in what anyone says.  Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in.  It is so uninteresting.  Yet I want the others to be about me.  I dread the moments when the house is empty.  If only they would talk to one another and not to me.  There are moments, most unexpectedly, when something inside me tries to assure me that I don't really mind so much, not so very much, after all.  Love is not the whole of a man's life.  I was happy before I ever met my wife.  I've plenty of what are called 'resources.'  People get over these things.  Come, I shan't do so badly.  One is ashamed to be making out a good case.  Then comes a sudden jab of red-hot memory and all this 'commonsense' vanishes like an ant in the mouth of a furnace.  C.S. Lewis, "A Grief Observed."

It is Christmas morning.  I am currently sitting on a plane gazing out at a clear blue sky. I would imagine many are with their families today, sharing meals, opening presents, instilling traditions that will live on for years.   I on the other hand, decided this Christmas morning, to fly.   I am spending time above the clouds.  I am flying to Oregon today.  This evening I get to see my best friend Melissa Joyce.  We decided to spend this Christmas together, probably drinking good wine, lots of it:)    I will be in Oregon for the next week spending some time in the places John and I loved so much.  I get to see friends that embraced me when I needed it the most, those that put their own safety on the line to rescue John, having only known John and I for 6 months.  I am not sure how it will feel.  I feel as if I am visiting a ghost.  A past life that seems to become foggy as time passes.  How long will I be able to remember the details of Oregon with John?  I left Oregon 6 months ago with two loaded cars and John's ashes in my lap.  It was a beautiful day, yet all I remember was darkness.  I wonder if we'll have a love hate relationship, Oregon and I.  Oregon will blow your mind with it's beauty.  It is so lush and green and beautiful.  Living there with John, I'd laugh on my way to work at the scenery I got to see everyday cruising down I5, because it was that ridiculous, like something in a movie.  For months I was convinced we were just on a long vacation and surely this wasn't permanent.  I think John and I sounded like freaks the first time we kayaked the North Fork of the Smith together.  I was so blown away by the scenery I screamed a few times every time we'd paddle around a bend where I was blasted with more water falls, peak mountains and pitcher plants.  This would just make John laugh even harder.  I was a freak!   It felt as if we were in a different world.  To see the crashing waves of the Pacific ocean in the distance as we descended into the gorge of a Class IV white water river was absolutely bizarre to me.   I could not believe we had pulled it off, we finally moved out west and landed in Oregon.  So to see such beauty this week, yet know I can't share it with John anymore, that he only got to experience it for 6 months, that we had only scratched the surface.  It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.  Yet I am going, I have to go, I have to be there and see for myself.  The state motto for Oregon is "Alis volat propriis," which means "she flies with her own wings."  I am going to see if I can fly solo there without John, to see if I still love her rolling green mountains as I once did with John.  Will she embrace me as she did last December?  I hope so.  I know he would want that.

December has been productive I suppose.  I've  taken care of some things that I've been avoiding. I finally took all the finances my husband left to me and started investing it with a financial company.  I've just let everything sit for months which long term is pretty silly.  He left it for me, so as his wife, I feel it's my job to do something responsible with it and plan for my unknown future.  I finally made an appointment at a headstone place and picked out a gravestone for John with his grandmother.  This will be placed at the family cemetery in Narrows, VA next spring beside his great grand parents.   I emptied a full closet and multiple drawers in my house, and boxed up the majority of his clothes with my sister and sent gifts to our families and closest friends.  Each of them will have clothing that belonged to John.  I couldn't bare to give anything to Goodwill.  I gave our beautiful wedding photo to John's grand mother to hang in her house.  It sits above their fire place now where I get to visit it often.  I've taken down all framed photos of us in my house with the exception of one in my bedroom.  The "John Duncan Wilburn Adventure Scholarship," is almost finalized and I sent communication out to our families and friends for donations this Christmas.  So many are starting to donate which makes me proud.  I took John's car and registered it in West Virginia.  It's been sitting in my dad's garage for months.  I've even started driving it again.   I got a West Virginia driver's license and gave away my Oregon ID.  I spread more ashes in some beautiful places on the east coast.  I even got back in my kayak for the first time in months and spent an afternoon paddling in West Virginia.   Fayetteville continues to embrace me.  I started going to yoga, joined a "stitch and bitch" group (yes I am learning to stitch), got back into hip hop zumba, started playing music with some talented ladies, attended multiple poetry readings, bought a bike trainer so I could bike indoors with a group that rides twice a week, attended numerous pot lucks, an art coalition, a housewarming dance party, oh, and I hiked and mountain biked a lot this month, when the daylight allowed me.  My job keeps me on my toes, traveling throughout the Appalachians, helping many team members.    I am productive.  I get things done.  I know how to stay active, stay busy.  I've always been this way.   Yet, no activity, or check list completion seems to be filling this void.  I can exhaust myself yet feel fully alert, fully aware of what is missing.  It is like an on-going hamster wheel in my brain at times, his death spins all day and all night.  How do you fix that?

God.  I admit God and I have been in quite a wrestling match for the last 9 months.   I question him constantly.  I worry constantly.  I beg for John's presence constantly.  I try to will things into action.  Every now and then, I even yell.  I petition for a different outcome, for my previous life, my marriage, my heart..  As if I am a special circumstance and a miracle should happen on my behalf.  Christ raised Lazarus from the dead, so bring back John.  Bring back my husband, I've had enough of this non-sense.  I don't want anymore time to go by, I'd like things to rewind.  

I will be 31 in 4 days.  John and I were born 19 days apart.  John always enjoyed calling me a cougar when I was older than him for those 19 days.  Soon I will be a year older than him, 10 years older than him, 30 years older.  I will age while he is ageless and perfect.  One time in Colorado I had a severe allergic reaction to some mosquito's that was so bad both my eyes completely swelled shut.  John had beer cans smashed up against my face  to help with the swelling.  He told me later that the reason he was so frightened during this episode was because he thought to himself while trying to help me, "wow, this is what Erin is going to look like as an old lady, holy shit!"  Even in a bad moment, that man knew how to make me laugh so hard.  Now you really get to see it happen Muffin, while you remain young, vibrant, and beautiful.  Something about that just doesn't seem fair.

"Did you ever know, dear, how much you took away with you when you left?  You have stripped me even of my past, even of the things we never shared.  I was wrong to say the stump was recovering from the pain of this amputation.  I was deceived because it has so many ways to hurt me that I discover them only one by one."  C.S. Lewis

I have not been present lately the way my husband was.  I seem to be in a fog.  I have been afraid, I have been worried.   He took with him what feels like part of my heart, a leg, an arm, an eye, a lung.  I feel handicap at times. I am fighting for a past that is gone and a future that is impossible.  I continue to get pinned, yet ask for another match.  Where is God?  Where is John?  At times I believe both are being drowned out by my voice.  I spend so much time talking and petitioning that I am not listening.   I talk to God everyday, but I'm starting to realize it's about what I want to say, not what needs to be said or what I need to hear.  It's what I need from him.  I haven't really considered what he needs from me.   No wonder I can't always hear him.  I have these moments where I am so consumed in my thoughts, I feel as if  God is at a distance gazing at me and shaking his head, yet still with a smile and understanding, as if he's waiting for this page to turn. 

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding.  In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight." Proverbs 3:5-6

I think God makes it pretty simple, and the more I look back, I see a paved path that has been laid before me the moment John was gone, a path I somehow chose to trust, regardless of the pain.   I believe it is a path that God even showed John when he embraced him.  A path that John is even watching over and OK with.  And really, how did I do that?  I look back and remember how weak I felt, the ache in my chest and the panic that surged throughout my day.  I was a walking zombie.  I felt lifeless.   How did I get up, stand firmly and look his family and friends directly in the eyes as I spoke about him at his own funeral?  How did I go back to work?  How did I manage to take a great job and move?  How did I do anything?   I reflect on that today as I fly above the clouds in awe of what God has done for me and continues to do, yet too many times it goes unnoticed.  Where I am right now is not where I was 9 months ago.  I have grown stronger.  I have laughed and even smiled.  I have danced.  I look back today and know this did  not happened on my own account.  I was carried.  Yet I keep screaming.

 Isn't that all he really wants from us?  To love him and therefore trust him?  I find it easy to do when life is good, when I am happy, when I have great things.  It was easy to thank God everyday for my awesome life in Oregon with John, of course.   Yet when the carpet is ripped out from underneath me, and I must suffer, I must bear my own cross, I fail him.  How do you trust him through pain and suffering?  How do I wake up everyday and give him thanks when John is gone?  How do I bear the pain and the loss, yet somehow see a bigger picture here?  A bigger purpose?  

When I think about Christmas, wasn't that really about seeing and trusting a bigger picture?  God gave his only son to the world, knowing he would suffer incredible pain.  His only son.  Jesus came into this world, taking on a body of flesh and blood, to live among people like you and me.  His most important teaching centered around love and trust.  Loving him and each other, and trusting in a bigger picture, eternal life.  He was mocked, beaten, flogged, and eventually killed at a young age, around 30 years old.  He suffered immense pain, yet he loved and trusted in a much bigger picture.  Isn't that remarkable?  To know something to be so true and right in your heart, that you can bear the pain?  Because of that, I believe I can, in fact, I must bear this pain and still give him genuine thanks for what he has done for me, what he has done for John, not what he has taken from us. 

 And isn't it easy to blame God?  As humans, I think it's only natural to want to place blame somewhere.  Surely this was someones fault.  I've admitted that I raged at God after this happened.  I shook my fist at the sky and cursed his name and my own faith.  Yet he still paved a path just for me, when I didn't deserve it.    As time has passed and as God continues to try and speak to my heart, I am realizing that life is what happens.  We all have choices that we either make or don't make.  Sometimes those choices lead to immense pain and suffering.  I don't believe God orchestrates it, I simply believe he foresees it.  Yet he still receives us, he still cries with us, he still leads us, and he still loves us unconditionally.  Even when we scream. I find that incredible. 

A new year is coming soon, and I've decided to stop worrying.  I've decided to stop petitioning, stop predicting the future, stop asking for the past.  No more screaming.  I'd be a fool if I thought that meant to no more pain, no more grieving.  But to worry and to be afraid as I have been for the last 9 months, I  have to let this go and start trusting in a bigger picture.  I really do believe that John's life continues, just in a much better place, with much bigger purpose.  John is still needed, he is still growing, he is his best self now.  I trust that.  I believe that God is going to do something extraordinary with the life I still have here, because he loves me, and I am his.  I believe I will do extraordinary things because of John Wilburn.  I believe in the power of eternal love.  I believe Christmas is a reminder, regardless of where life has taken you at this moment, to trust in a bigger picture. 

"I tell you the truth, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices.  You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy."  John 16:20

 Last Christmas, John and I welcomed my mom, sister and brother to our home in Grants Pass, OR.  My mom was recently separated from my dad during this time after 32 years of marriage.  I remember the moment I saw her get off the plane and walk through the doors into the lobby, I saw sadness in her eyes.  My mother has always been someone I considered to be extremely strong, but losing her marriage broke her.  It broke her spirit.  It went against everything she believed in, and what she thought her life would be.  This was her first Christmas completely outside of the normal Johnson family tradition, and she was spending it with John and I.  On Christmas morning, John turned to me in our bedroom and said, "We need to do something fun with your mom today.  Something to take her mind off of things."  Shortly after presents, John was loading a cooler and hauling everyone into the car.  I could tell he was on a mission to take us somewhere, with a specific focus on my mom.  My mom likes to be in charge, she'd have no problem with me telling all of you that.  She's very much an alpha lady.  But John took over this particular day, told her he would take care of lunch and everything she needed, and shoved her into the car.  He drove us into northern California, and into the Redwood forest.  This was my first time ever seeing these trees since moving to Oregon, and I have to admit, I found them absolutely inspiring.  To look up and not see where a tree truly ends is a unique experience.  We spent the afternoon hiking beside the trees and had a picnic by the Northern California coast.  John didn't mention to my mom that for the picnic, he literally took all the food directly out of the refrigerator still in the baking dishes and threw it all in a large cooler.  A massive turkey was pulled in full form right out of the cooler in a 9x13 baking dish:)  We all dug in with our hands.  This made my mom laugh so hard I think it brought her to tears.  It was typical John, keeping things simple!  That night he poured my mom a glass of wine, sat her in the living room, told her to stay out of the kitchen and cooked everyone the Wilburn traditional Christmas dinner. He even spent that evening playing guitar side by side with her. I believe he made my mom's day, he made her Christmas.  He sure made mine.

 I remember that beautiful memory this Christmas day as I fly above the clouds..  Walking through the redwoods with John and watching my mother's sadness turn to laughter.  He showed all of us on that day that even through suffering and pain, one can still see a bigger picture in the distance.  One can still find joy and peace among the trees.  I believe that is where God is.

Merry Christmas Muffin.  As I gaze out into an endless sky, my heart is full of love and gratitude this Christmas for the lesson you taught me on this day.  I love you always and forever.

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