Life is a Series of Ammo Cans

I don't know how or why it's suddenly August, but here we are: August. August has been my favorite month, not only because it's sunny and full of flowers and butterflies, but because it contains my birthday. This year, August is the month in which I will say my final goodbye to my beloved.

When Maury died in May, August felt far away. Now, it's here, and just when I'm seeing some progress in my grief journey, I have to steel myself to carry him--in a cardboard box--onboard trains, planes, and Ubers, just for the privilege of sinking him into the peaty soil of his homeland.

I tell myself this is what he wanted, that his children need it, that I can do it; I've survived worse. I tell myself lots of things, but none of them offer any comfort. He knew this would be hard for me. In fact, he apologized for it during his last week on earth. I told him I would be okay. In other words, I lied. It isn't going to be okay. It's going to be as far away from "okay" as you could possibly get. But I'm going to do it anyway. Because that's what love does. It forces you to go to great lengths. It stretches you beyond your limits.

I seem to be doing surprisingly well, all things considered. I'm not sure if that's because of my faith or because I'm an undiagnosed psycho. Jury's out. But somewhere around the two-month mark, the ache in the pit of my stomach eased a little. I stopped crying in the bathroom at work when a project overwhelmed me. I cooked a meal or two and even went out to eat twice. I started whipping the place into shape, since many things fell by the wayside during his illness. I even cleaned out some of his stuff, which admittedly brought a few tears and some surprises.

He isn't here to defend himself, so I feel bad writing this, but my husband was the ultimate hypocrite when it came to his health. He would preach for an hour on the advantages of detoxing, oil pulling, never consuming seed oils, and only eating organic foods. Then he would sneak off to Dollar General, load up on sweets, and hide the receipt. Once, he hid Little Debbie Snack Cake boxes in the floor joists of our basement so I wouldn't see them in the trash. Not long ago, I found a single Raisinet in our hallway, thinking it was a poop nugget from the dog. I know--ew. When I realized what it was, Maury launched an Oscar-worthy defense, complete with waving arms, declaring that it must have been there for months (as if I don't vacuum every other day.) No lie--we were still debating it when the dog brought me a ball of paper she'd been playing with. I unfolded it. Voila! A receipt for Raisinets purchased that very day! Along with Mountain Dew and Sugared gum drops.

So I was not surprised when I found this while cleaning out the basement: an ammo can, stuffed with Twizzlers. It brought about one of those laughing/crying moments so common in a widow's life.

That's life, isn't it? A series of days, each like an ammo can. We open them one by one, expecting contents that speak of preparedness, survival, maybe even control. But that isn't always the case, is it? Sometimes, they surprise us, not always kindly. What we do then, in the face of the unexpected, defines who we are.

You would think the world would cut me some slack, given what I'm going through, but you'd be wrong. Lately, my "ammo cans" have held more than I bargained for, leaving me to face their sordid contents alone. It's brutal, having no strong arms to surround me, no warrior to fight for me. There's not even any opportunity for discussion. It's just here's your can full of misery, followed by silence where comfort should be. The potential to fall into despair is great and very real when those "cans" tell me I'm worthless.

Maybe your cans have been telling you the same thing. You can't change their contents, but you can change what happens next. Lean in to Jesus, who reminds us, again and again, that no matter what the ammo cans throw at us, we're worth everything to Him.