Beauty for My Ashes

September 12, 2013 –

I was walking into class at APSU (Austin Peay State University) when I noticed a blue butterfly directly in my path. I gently approached the beautifully adorned insect, concerned it would fly off if startled, and used my camera phone to take its photo. I felt such peace as I stood there, less than a foot away from the butterfly, admiring its gorgeous colors.

After about 5 minutes, I continued to class, where I posted my butterfly picture to Facebook during a short break.

The day was no different than any other day. I finished my classes and returned home to my family. I realized I had not spoken to my dad in over a week, so I decided to call him before dinner.

We talked about our usual subjects – my husband, our kids, dad’s business, and my classwork. Then, we talked about my husband, Chris, still looking for a job 5 months after being medically retired from the military. Dad, always concerned about our finances, offered to help.

Dad loved to give. I was the child who never asked for money, and I didn’t like taking his money even when he offered it. He would have to find excuses, such as birthdays and Christmas to give me anything, and it drove him crazy.

Money was never the thing I wanted or needed from my dad. What I really wanted was my dad’s devotion, respect, and presence. He understood this about me, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Dad, I don’t need your money. We are fine. God is taking care of us,” I insisted.

The phone got silent, and then I heard his “proud daddy” voice.

“Ok. Well if something changes and you need me, let me know,” he lovingly stated.

It was our final conversation.

Last week, the butterfly photo popped up in my “On This Day” Facebook feed.  As I looked at the picture, I thought about what I have gone through during the past 4 years.

The first year, I was in excruciating pain and numb at the same time, if that makes any sense. My heart was shattered. I couldn’t stop crying, and everything was a reminder of dad. The only thing I could do was cry out to God because no amount of comfort could touch the deep ache in my soul.

At the same time, I had to fulfill my responsibilities. I had to be there for my sisters – who were equally devastated, comfort my hurting children, be present for my husband, and finish my college courses. My life had to keep going, even though most days I didn’t want to get out of bed.

The second year was worse. I had graduated from school and had way too much time to think. The numbness had worn off, but the pain was still as real as the day he died. The memories were more vivid, and my emotions were still raw. I wanted to hide from everyone. I felt guilty for still being so broken, even though I now realize it was perfectly normal to still be mourning.

My crying out to God morphed into screaming toward him and begging him to take the pain away.

During the first 2 years, I had known God was not going to leave me, did not want me to suffer, and was going to turn this tragedy into a triumph, but I couldn’t understand how allowing his beloved daughter to go through so much pain would eventually turn to good.

The third year, I started seeing some purpose in my pain.

I looked around and saw others with wounds similar to mine. I could understand their suffering, and I realized I had something they needed – hope. I chose to give voice to my pain, rather than stuff it down or pray it away.

I started talking to people about what it is like to experience traumatic loss. I wrote blog posts concerning my grief and talked about finding hope in the midst of it. I spoke publicly about finding the goodness of God in our darkest moments. I started seeing beyond my pain.

Tomorrow marks the 4th anniversary of Dad’s murder.

A part of me still craves my dad’s hugs, smiles, laughter, reassurances, encouragements, arguments, and lectures. I wish he could be there when my children graduate from high school and college, get their first jobs, become engaged and married, and have their babies. I have moments when I “ugly cry” because I miss him.

I still have the pain, but it does not debilitate me; it inspires me.

It pushes me to reach out with compassion in my one-on-one conversations and through my writing. It gives me patience to listen, while not pretending to have all of the answers, to those suffering around me. I cry with those who are mourning, and I speak life in the midst of physical death. The pain draws me to pray harder for others, and it compels me to proclaim the freedom of forgiveness.

The 4th year, I learned some of why God allowed me to experience suffering and how he is turning it into good.

God didn’t take my pain away. He used it as a force to change me.

I, like a caterpillar, am transforming into something breathtaking.

God is giving me beauty for my ashes by helping me look more like him.