1,461 Days

As I have written about grieving the loss of Amy, a theme has emerged. It is of the struggle to find balance. It is the tug between darkness and light – fog and clarity; the conflict between focusing on the past, the present, or the future; and the challenge of holding conflicting emotions in the same space. 

***

In many ways, it seems like it was only yesterday that Amy died. The memory of that 5:30 a.m. phone call often elbows its way into my consciousness. It is particularly vivid when I’m on my front porch on cool, fall mornings as the stars give way to a rising sun. But, as intense and familiar as those memories can be, it wasn’t yesterday – it was 1,461 days ago - four years.  The question that always accompanies those memories is the one I felt in that moment – now what?

 

Much has been written about the stages of grief. Writers offer that grief is a process or a journey or a path or one of countless metaphors we use to try to make sense of something that defies comprehension. I have also used and overused those metaphors to help myself understand the discordant and chaotic nature of the grief process. Some of those descriptions come close, but all fall short of capturing my experience.

I could hardly move beyond the emptiness during those first months and years. I recently read a piece in which someone made the distinction between being lonely and being alone. Their description of being alone involved choice and emotional agency. That isn’t the case in death.  My grief has been a synonymous entanglement of loneliness and being alone. Both of those can occur in crowded spaces filled with friends and family. I’m still bushwhacked by those emotions that appear with a breathtaking intensity.  Yet, as jarring as they can be, I’m discovering that they seem to come less often. 

Hindsight offers a glimpse of how grief continues to amplify my emotional responses. A poignant song can activate a flood of tears. I seem more attuned to other people’s emotional states and find myself absorbing their feelings. Amy’s death opened a portal that allows me to feel and live life at a much deeper level.

These days, I find myself grieving less about what was lost and focusing more on what could have been. I envision Amy as a doting grandmother. I can close my eyes and see her on the top bleacher of a gym or stadium, recording Liam’s basketball and football games. I can almost hear her voice on those videos, shouting encouragement and arguing calls made by the referees. I know how much she would enjoy helping plan a wedding or a shower with her family. I find myself thinking of the trips we dreamed of but that never took place. 

“Life goes on.” It is an overused cliche that has brought me no comfort over the past years. Yet, there is truth in that statement. There were days and months after Amy’s death when her memory consumed me. Now, I catch myself looking past her photographs. A pang of immense, indescribable guilt always follows those oversights. I don’t cry as often at the cemetery when I place new flowers on her headstone. Oddly, the harder I try to cling to those old emotions, the faster they seem to melt away.  New friends have entered my life, and our family continually reshapes itself through births and marriages with people who never knew Amy.  And someday, the “what could have beens” will fade further into the background. Those are the realities I grieve today.

Because of those emerging realities, I’ve spent much of the past months pondering how to measure whether a life matters. Scripture offers that “… you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes” (James 4:14 ESV). Given that we are simply a blip on the continuum of eternity, what lasting impact can we possibly have on the world around us?  

Amy showed me how it’s done.  When she cuddled a baby in the church nursery, it was a tactile way of communicating to that child that this is a place where you will be nourished and loved unconditionally long after I’m gone. Her daily check-ins with her sisters reinforced the reality that regardless of circumstances, they were a family that sticks together. Amy’s quilting was a tangible demonstration of how she viewed relationships and life – a plethora of incongruent patterns and colors that can be stitched together with intention to make something with lasting beauty.

It warms my heart when someone says, “I was just thinking about Amy.”  It reminds me that Amy’s life had impact. The ripples of her existence and the relationships she sustained will outlive her memory. My world went dark the day she died. But now I more fully recognize that pieces of Amy continue to be reflected in her family and friends.  Those pieces live on in me.  Nowadays, instead of darkness, I recognize that the world, my world, is brighter because Amy was, and continues to be, a part of it.

I miss her…

The Legacy of Jim Tom

I was a wildlife officer in Graham County in the late 1980s. During those early days of my career, I spent many days lost. Sometimes in those pre-GPS/cellphone days I was physically lost. I was often given directions that included colloquial descriptions that I couldn’t decipher. Other times I was lost in the sense that I didn’t know what I was doing. The game law seemed straight forward while sitting in a classroom in Chapel Hill, but out in the field I discovered that was lots of gray area between those poles of black and white. More than anything, I felt lost and adrift because I didn’t know anyone.

But during those first few years, I met some fascinating folks. Most were ordinary people who had experienced extraordinary lives. I recall a woman who taught school in a logging camp. She rode a narrow-gauge train to the camp where her classroom was in a railroad car. An old logger told me of skidding logs from the deep in the Smokies with a team of steers before Fontana Lake was flooded. Or the quiet Cherokee man who fought the war behind the war in southeast Asia during the Vietnam War. One of the more colorful characters I came to know was Jim Tom Hedrick. 

In those early days, my sergeant, Travis Whitson, spent a considerable amount of time with me. He showed me around the county, introducing me to people and giving me the lowdown on the various folks we encountered. After running into Jim Tom, Travis shared that while Jim Tom had many challenges, he was a mechanical genius. He was a skilled unlicensed electrician. Travis added that the rumor was that Jim Tom was the first person in the county to use propane to fire a liquor still.

 

Over time I saw more and more of Jim Tom. I would often find him hanging out at Robinson’s store in the Snowbird community. Jim Tom was a talker. I don’t think he ever knew my name, so he just called me Game Warden. Many of his stories began, “Well lemme tell you Game Warden” and off he would go. I once saw him wearing a cap that proclaimed, “Jim Beam 1000 gallon club.” I asked, “Jim Tom have you drank a thousand gallons?” He thought briefly and said, “Well, lemme tell you Game Warden. Me and ______ was running still one time and got to drinking. When we came to two weeks later, they was 25 empty half gallon jars laid around us.” He thought again, obviously doing mental math. “Yea,” he added, “I’d say I’ve drunk a thousand gallons.”

Other times I would run into Jim Tom camping in his school bus. One day I pulled into his site while he was setting up on Big Snowbird Creek. He noticed me eyeing his four cases of beer on the picnic table. He raised his hand to protest my thoughts. “I know you’re thinking – that that’s a lot of beer for just me. But it ain’t that much. Afterall, I’m gonna be here for two weeks.” I stopped back by a week or so later. The beer was gone. Jim Tom said, “I see’d you up here a couple of days ago, sneaking around trying to watch me. I hollered out, ‘I see you over there in the laurel Game Warden. It’s just me Jim Tom. I ain’t a fishing or hurting nothing. Come on out.’ But you didn’t move, so I hollered again, “Come on out Game Warden. I ain’t doing nothing wrong.” But you stayed still – hunkered down in the laurel - real sneaky-like. So, finally I walked over to where you was a sitting. Turns out you was a stump.” We both laughed.

I was saddened to hear that Jim Tom died back in September. His death surfaced the thought of how easy it is to label someone or dismiss them. I visited my daughter recently and saw a miniature liquor still on her shelf. I flashed back to when Jim Tom built that still for me. He apologized for charging me for it, but he explained how much the copper cost and how long it took to build. He said that the wormy chestnut blocks were getting harder to find. It sat on my mantel for years before I passed it along to Elizabeth.

I turned the model over and written in pencil was a simple inscription “Jim Tom 1989.”

As I grow older, I spend quite a bit of time thinking about legacy. Jim Tom gained notoriety from his five-year stint on the Discovery Channel’s show, Moonshiners. I suspect there are scores of those little stills sitting around people’s homes. But are those Jim Tom’s legacy?

These thoughts have been prominent over the past months. October 8th was the third anniversary of Amy’s sudden death. November 14th was the second anniversary of my brother, Dennis’ death. And over the past weeks I have spent time cleaning out my dad’s workshops. As I have worked, I’ve considered their legacy. A more difficult question I've pondered is what am I leaving for others?

As I considered that question, I circled back to Jim Tom. There’s a notion attributed to several different people that folks do not recall what we do, they remember how we made them feel. Jim Tom left me with a host of great stories. He built two of those tiny stills for me. They are nice mementos, but that’s not his legacy piece. The thing that Jim Tom left me was a sense of connection and belonging in a place and time where I felt disconnected. That seems to be enough.

https://www.townson-smithfuneralhome.com/obituary/MarvinJimTom-Hedrick

 

Of Storms and Rainbows

It’s been three years since Amy died. Since that moment when my world was forever changed, I’ve written of my journey through grief. I’ve shared some of these thoughts publicly, but most I’ve kept private in my journal or discussed with a few close friends. We could argue my motivation for sharing. Some may say that I continue to seek sympathy as the grieving husband. Others suspect that I’m struggling to somehow keep Amy alive - living a life of denial. The more noble story is that I’m sharing what the process has been for me to help others. Quite frankly, it’s a mixture of all those and other things - a cocktail that varies from day to day.

Even after three years, my grief-driven lows can still strike with an unnerving velocity and intensity. It can be like a sudden, unexpected summer thunderstorm that rolls across the mountain, catching me far from home. A full week of sunshine that is blotted out by ominous, dark clouds as the air becomes charged with an electrical force that is more felt than seen. This tingling alarm is followed by blinding flashes of lightning, a cacophony of deafening thunder, and a flood of drenching rain. It can be overwhelming and emotionally violent. But more often these days the storm is a low, distant rumbling with a light, almost gentle, soaking shower. Some storms last for minutes. Others continue for hours. On increasingly rare occasions, they can last for days.

These emotional storms can be triggered by a song or place or gathering or any number of sensory stimuli. Some, such as birthdays or holidays, can be forecast and are anticipated. Others come upon me without warning. While both cases can be disorienting in the moment, I’ve learned that regardless of the circumstances, the clouds eventually lift, and the sun shines once again.

It’s in this middling space between the storm and sunshine that the rainbow appears.

In the weeks and months after Amy’s death, I doubted I would see the sun again. I zombie-walked through each day, unsure whether I could breathe in enough oxygen to live. But slowly, over time, my capacity to smile and laugh without guilt is returning. I realize that I still have the ability to give and accept love. In the most surreal moments, I recognize that sadness and joy; hopelessness and hope; sorrow and happiness; and loss and love can all occupy that rainbowed space between the storm and light. I’ve come to look for these metaphorical rainbows as an assurance that even the fiercest grief storms will not destroy me and that somewhere beyond those dark clouds the sun will certainly shine.

I miss Amy. Hardly a moment passes that she doesn’t come to mind. Her death is a constant reminder that life is fragile. This fragility reminds me daily to readily forgive others, to tell people I love and appreciate them, and to be kind. I’m trying to keep short accounts.

And I’ve gained a new appreciation for rainbows.

Illumination

Two years ago today, as dawn was breaking, the light went out in my life. My wife, Amy, died after a short, but intense struggle with Covid. As the days folded into weeks and weeks into months and now months into two years, I have longed for the time when it all gets easier. I’m still waiting. As I wait, I have become more attuned to the snatches of light that briefly illuminate the path and beckon me forward. I’ve come to realize that in the darkest moments, the most minute light casts an outsized glow.

There are blocks of time in those early weeks and months that evade my memory. Many of the vaporous recollections after Amy’s death are reflective of the late night, shadowy world between dreams and consciousness, - difficult to discern what is real or imagined. I sometimes walk through the basement of our home, now just my home, and recall a hazy image of preparing to give her eulogy. Did that really happen?  Or I “see” her standing at the workbench I built, the one she thought was too big and took up too much space, sorting through her quilting cloth and telling me how glad she was that I built that table.

As the months passed, I grew increasingly concerned that I would forget the details of Amy – the texture of her hair or the smell of her lotion – the way she sang all parts of Bohemian Rhapsody gloriously off key. I woke with a start one morning with the realization that I couldn’t remember the sound of her voice. I had saved her voicemail message from her phone, but it sounded too mechanical – almost metallic –familiar, but not her voice. But, when I hear her daughter, Taylor, shouting encouragement and guidance to her son Liam when he is playing ball, I can hear Amy’s voice as clear as spring water. I recently heard Amy’s sister, Dawn, speak a phrase and recalled Amy using those same words. Words that penetrate the darkness.

Central Park, NYC January 2020

Often, I find myself wishing to relive a moment with Amy. Oddly, it is rarely a desire to revisit warm memories. I hold those tightly and can feel all their details. No, the times I want to go back to are those when I disappointed her or let her down in some way – a desire to make amends. Two days before she died, Amy’s condition was worsening, and she was deeply depressed. She asked me sit with her and tell her a story. This was something of a game we played. I love to tell stories and she loved listening to them. But that night, I was so concerned for her that I couldn’t conjure even the simplest story. When I told her I couldn’t think of one to tell, she whispered, “That’s okay.” I realize now that Amy didn’t need to be entertained as much as she needed me to attend to her – to provide a momentary distraction from the fear that she was dying.

When I visit Amy’s grave, I usually carry a small stone from somewhere I’ve been – a hike, a trip, working in the yard - and I tell her the story of finding that stone. Most recently, it was a hen-egg sized, red, rounded stone from a creek bed in southwestern Wyoming. The stone was polished as it rolled about inside a glacier that crept down the valley before being left behind as the glacial ice inched back up the mountain. The stone had laid there in Cottonwood Creek, washed over by thousands of years of pulsing water. As I walked the creek bed, the wet stone reflected a sunbeam from the late summer sun.  In that reflection, as Amy would have said, the stone “spoke to me.” I told Amy that story as I placed it in the center of her tombstone when I returned home.

That is my experience with grief.

 

 

 

One in a Million

 

As we approach the threshold of one million deaths from Covid in the United States, it is easy to get lost in the incomprehensible vastness of one million people. This is especially true for those of us who live in rural areas. As those numbers climb, I lose the ability to relate to that many people. Perhaps in makes more sense to consider one of a million.

My wife, Amy, was diagnosed with Covid on October 2, 2020. We went to the emergency department at a hospital in a neighboring county that evening. Amy’s oxygen levels were low but stable. She was given a prescription for steroids and sent home. Over the next days she improved slightly but crashed on October 7^th. She died the next day at age 55. She was one in a million.

 

Amy’s death was jarring. I never envisioned offering her eulogy. I stumbled and crashed my way through months of mental and emotional fog that still rolls over me when I least expect it. I’ve questioned God and tried to understand His sovereign will. I often feel lost and alone and empty and rudderless. I am one in a million whose life has been changed forever.

Over the past 18 months I have endured social media videos of precious little children trick or treating, dressed as the Coronavirus; listened to “experts” tout the healing properties of horse wormer; seen “proud Americans standing up for freedom” dragged from commercial jets because they refuse to wear masks; listened as pundits politicized pain and hurt; and heard skeptics attribute those million deaths to preexisting conditions as though it was Amy’s own fault that she died. Unfortunately, ours is just one of a million other families who have been forced to drink this cocktail of anger, disbelief, selfishness and individualism.

Amy’s five-year-old grandson, Liam, has cycled through a season of soccer, t-ball, flag football, and basketball since her death, and is now starting that seasonal succession once again. Amy loved sports and longingly anticipated the day when Liam would begin playing. When Liam looks to the sidelines or into the bleachers, he sees many of his family cheering him on. But he doesn’t see his Gigi filming every play and shouting encouragement. Liam is one in a million who sees an empty seat that should be filled by a loved one.

 

I am fortunate to be embraced by family and friends who have helped carry a load that is heavier than I can shoulder alone. Amy’s family invites me to family gatherings; church friends have fed me physically and spiritually; and so many people have given me space and grace to verbalize thoughts that are rambling, often incoherent, and accented with both tears and smiles. Each of these individuals are one of millions who are helping others navigate loss.

Over the past months I have been sorting through Amy’s things. Each item requires consideration of how it is to be handled. What do I do with a poem from her college English class? Or what of the handwritten letter from her dad, who was responding to her apprehension of whether she could make it in college. He affirmed how proud he was of her and how much confidence he had in her abilities, and most importantly – that he loved her. As I filter through these fragments of Amy’s life, I realize each decision is one of millions that families are wrestling with as we struggle with what to hold to and what to release.

I find myself in a space with no guardrails or absolutes. It is a place where extreme sadness and loss coexist with budding happiness and hope. This is a dark and empty void punctuated with flashes of light tinged laughter and the delightful squeals of grandchildren playing baseball. It’s where memories of the past mingle with the hope of a haze-filled future that lies just beyond the horizon.  I find that people can frustrate and disappoint me, and yet many more offer love and support.  Here, I catch the faint whiff of honeysuckles after a late afternoon thunderstorm. I am one of a million people in this space.

***

 In the United States, one out of every 332 people have died after contracting Covid 19.

 

 

Inclusion - A Pre-K Approach

 

Lainey
photo by Courtney Brown Caveny
courtneycavenyphoto.com

My son John was recently teasing his 4-year-old  daughter, Lainey.  I’m sure it was all in good fun, but John pushed her a bit too far. Lainey vigorously chopped her right hand into the open palm of her left hand. John continued to pester her, so she chopped again with more intensity.

“What are you doing,” he asked.

“I’m telling you to stop,” she replied.

“By chopping your hand?”

“Yes, Daddy. It’s sign language.”

“Where did you learn sign language?”

“At school,” Lainey responded.

This was news to John.

Lainey is in a Pre-K program in a rural, mountain school  made up of predominately white students. The school is in a tight knit community of families who have lived in that area for generations. It would be tempting to characterize it as a homogeneous community where people that are different may not be welcome. Tempting, but wrong.

 ***

Diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) are hot topics around the country. Virtually all organizations are struggling with how to implement DEI strategies into their programs. For many, this stems from an increased sense of social awareness and the recognition of the changing societal norms. For others it is a sound business practice to have a workforce, board of directors or customer base that reflects the shifting demographics of our country, state and community.

But what does it mean to develop and implement DEI strategies? And even if we are committed, where do we begin? Maybe my granddaughter’s elementary school can shed light on this challenging topic.

One of Lainey’s classmates has a hearing impairment. An embarrassingly short time ago, this student would have been placed in a special needs class or sent to a school hearing impaired. Nowadays, these students are more likely to be placed in a mainstream classroom with other students their age. This creates a more diverse learning environment for all students. Of course, there are challenges that come with diversity.

How does a teacher communicate with a student who can’t hear or speak and hasn’t yet learned to read or write? In this case, an adult attendant, who is fluent in American Sign Language (ASL), accompanies this student in the classroom. This attendant ensures proper communication between the student and teacher, and the student with other students. All students get the same message from their teacher and all have the same ability to interact in the classroom. This creates a fair and equitable learning environment for everyone.

The diversity and equity elements have been addressed by those in positions of authority. Policies or laws have been established and implemented to provide students with equal access to the classroom and once in the classroom, an equitable experience. But none of those practices necessarily creates an inclusive, welcoming environment for all students. To address inclusion, Lainey’s teacher decided to have a short sign language lesson each day. With the assistance of the attendant, their goal is to teach the students one new word in ASL each day. Not only is Lainey using this new skill in the classroom, she is also taking it home and sharing it with her family. Most important, it allows the students to engage with each other, and for all to feel included in the classroom and on the playground.

What is the lesson for us as adults?  Each of us carries (or drags) a suitcase through life filled with experiences that lead us to congregate with folks who look and sound like us, and who live similar lives. We tend to feel uncomfortable with people who are different which can lead to unintentional, and far too often intentional, acts of exclusion. And for those who are willing to take more inclusive steps, the fear of getting it wrong can lead to paralyzing inaction.

Organizationally, inclusion can’t be mandated by policy or enacted by law. Inclusion requires stakeholder involvement in identifying solutions. It requires new learning by those in the dominate culture and an increased awareness of the needs of those who may be marginalized in society. Including others doesn’t mean we have to compromise who we are or our culture – it means broadening the definition of how we define our community.  

Maybe we should approach this delicate topic like a classroom of 4-year-olds. Learn a new skill every day; have the courage and commitment to apply that skill; and show ourselves grace when we don’t get it right, but not let that stop (right hand chop into the left) us from trying again.

A Celebration of Amy's Birthday

August has always been a month of celebration for me. It is a month sprinkled with birthdays that include my dad and mom; my daughter; my niece in Nashville; and my sister-in-law. The first Sunday of the month is traditionally the Caveny reunion, a date that stems from my great-grandpa John’s August 1^st birthday. A favorite August event from my childhood was the Caveny cooter (snapping turtle) stew. The extended family and community gathered for a stew flavored with garden fresh vegetables and a little pork for those less inclined to partake of the namesake turtle. I recall August shopping trips for school clothes at the Belk department store on Main Street in Kings Mountain, my hometown. While there was sadness as summer waned, heading back to school always carried its share of excitement –with me in brand new clothes. 

Amy’s birthday is also in August. I struggled a bit with the preceding sentence, debating whether to use the present tense “is” or recognize it as something from the past by using “was also in August.” In an ancillary, parallel internal dialogue of whether this is a date to celebrate or commemorate, I decided to go with a “celebrate” in the present tense. Today, August 20^th is Amy’s birthday - a day of celebration. 

In all honesty, it’s been difficult to find moments to celebrate over the past months. My experience with grief is one that it is physically and emotionally draining. I often find myself too exhausted to recognize those fleeting instances of happiness that flash and flutter through the periphery of my life. One evening as I mourned all the things Amy and I would never do, I determined to capture those darting snatches of memories that summon a smile and an occasional laugh – a focus on the good times. The list has grown long, and I have come to enjoy scrolling through it, especially on the darker nights. Below are a couple from that list:

While walking down to visit our favorite Irish restaurant and pub, Tír na nÓg, in Raleigh we walked past a club where live music pulsed through an open door into the street. Standing just outside the door was a 300-pound guy with thick, twisted dreadlocks that hung past his waist. As we passed Amy leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “Now there’s something you won’t see back home in Elkin.”

Every time we passed that spot she asked, "Remember that guy with the dreads?"

 

***

 

One evening Amy met an old friend in Elkin for dinner. She promised to bring takeout back for me. When she arrived home later that evening, my gnawing stomach amplified the realization that she was empty-handed.  I asked about my food and she said, “I saw I guy on the corner who looked a little down and out. I stopped and asked him if he had anything for supper. When he told me ‘No,’ I give him your dinner.”

 

I ate my sandwich with a broad smile that night. It was delicious.

 

***

 

Last year (2020), we were at Myrtle Beach on my birthday. Amy asked what I would like to do for my special day.  I suggested we drive north to Cherry Grove and have lunch on the pier. The sensory experiences of that meal mingled and became intertwined with childhood memories of pier fishing with my dad.

 

Now fishing piers, the crying caw of seagulls, shrimp po’boys and the smell of salt air bring to mind a wonderful lunch date with Amy and fishing with my dad.

 

***

 

Amy planned it all out – a train ride from Newark, New Jersey into New York City.  I was borderline terrified of the Gotham experience while Amy was giddy with excitement. We departed the train near the 9/11 memorial around noon and Amy insisted we experience a genuine NYC small diner lunch so we ducked into a tiny pizza place.  The guy behind the counter spoke with a heavy eastern European accent, so I quickly stereotyped him to be a Russian mobster, which added to my concerns. He had no time for my extended selection process. I was put off by his brusqueness, but Amy loved it. “That was so New York,” she said as we walked back onto the street.

 

It snowed as we walked through Central Park.

 

***

 

Amy fell in love with Union Station in Denver, Colorado. Originally opened in 1881, she said she could visualize all the different people who had arrived in the city by train from across the decades. We spent much time there watching people. When she saw someone she deemed as interesting, she would point to them and ask, “Tell me a story about him.” She laughed as I wove intricate stories of what led that person to walk through the door at just that moment.

She reminded me that good or bad, everyone has a backstory that brings them to this point in life.

 

***

 

I was lured to a play on the campus of the University of North Carolina with the feigned disclaimer from Amy that there would be nudity. In all fairness it was a great performance but as it was nearing the end I leaned over and asked in an overly loud whisper, “I thought you said there would be nudity.” She shushed me. “But,” I protested and she cut me off with a hard look. In the final scene the male lead was tied up in the standing position. The female lead snatched a sheet covering him to reveal him totally nude facing the audience. Amy looked over with a mischievous smile and said, “There you go.”

 

***

 

In 2018, Amy and I had dinner at the Little Rhein Steakhouse along the Riverwalk in San Antonio, Texas.  Amy cried through much of the dinner, recalling how her parents brought her and her sister, Dawn, to that very restaurant in 1982. She told me how she was sure that their dinner cost her dad close to a week’s pay from the Chatham Mill. She described through tears how she treasured that memory. She said we [she and I] should always be creating memories – that those memories will outlive us.

 

She was right.

 

***

 

But my best memories are of us simply sitting on our front porch on a cool summer evening or on a warm afternoon in winter.  Regardless of season, Amy always said the same thing: “We sure live in a pretty place.”  A slight summery breeze and night sounds carried her words to me again last night as the setting sun flooded the sky with orange just west of Bullhead Mountain.

 

***

August has a heightened sense of celebration for me these days. Memories of sagging sawhorse tables of family reunion food, ladles of steaming cooter stew dipped from a black washpot, birthday cakes, and stiff, new Wrangler jeans are now joined by remembrances of white-knuckled subway rides, college theatrical performances, and saltwater fishing piers. When I see a person who strikes me as unusual or who veers from the mainstream, I try to see them through Amy’s eyes and ponder their story - what brought them to this moment in life? I view life on a deeper level because of Amy. My life is richer because of her. Her continued gift to me. That alone is reason to celebrate her special day.

Happy birthday Puddin.

In Search of a Bigger Pie

Our recent county budget hearing highlighted that our lives, even here in Alleghany County, are becoming increasingly complicated and complex. A snare that is easy to step into is to think of those two terms as synonymous. Two recent examples shed light on how we can tease apart the intricacies between those problems that are complicated and those that are complex.

Developing our county budget is a complicated process. There are countless services that residents expect to be delivered and those services have to be funded at a sustainable level. Fortunately, we have skilled staff that can assess those needs, weigh them against projected revenue and then deliver a balanced budget. It is a complicated task but one that we can delegate to experts who can then deliver a finished product.

That budget hearing also revealed the complex side of the budget process. Representatives from groups that receive funds from the county budget spoke of the impact of the proposed reductions in their 2021-2022 appropriations. These groups make valuable contributions to the public safety, education, health and the economic growth of our county.  Ironically, these financial requests make up a small fraction of the county budget.  The county commissioners had to make difficult decisions concerning these proposals, all of which they recognize as valuable to our community. As someone said during those discussions, “The pie is only so big.”

Another example comes from the creative place-making (or community development) discussion hosted by Blue Ridge Energy and the Town of Sparta. As representatives from local industry, small businesses, educational institutions, agriculture, real estate and other community organizations came together over the course of the day, several issues or themes were consistently raised during our discussions. One was the need for more housing. As this need was more closely examined, the complexity of the issue became increasingly apparent. Given our limited resources, we discussed whether the focus should be on affordable housing for low income individuals; housing for young or senior adults; housing that meets the needs of families; housing for weekenders or second home owners; or housing for seasonal workers. Once again someone addressed the realization of limited resources with a familiar analogy, “The pie is only so big.” The facilitator responded, “Maybe you need a bigger pie.”

Determining how to carve up an existing pie is a complicated process – baking a bigger pie is complex. So where do we begin?

Visioning is the first step. The facilitator in the creative place-making workshop challenged the participants with the question, “If you could wave a magic wand, and resources were not an issue, what would you like to see happen in your community?” This is not “think outside the box” rhetoric. It is removing the box to think more broadly of the current and future needs of our town and county.

The second step is getting the right people in the room. Complex issues require that we develop or strengthen networks and relationships with existing teams or organizations.  It is vital that we include people in the conversation who can allow us to develop a 360 degree, three dimensional view of our challenges. This is an uncomfortable process because it forces us to hear from people with whom we may disagree. Complexity requires that we lean into this discomfort instead of pulling away into our comfortable echo chambers where we all sing the same songs.

Finally, if we are serious about baking a larger pie, we have to rid ourselves of a small pie mentality. It is true that our community faces many challenges around resources. Both examples provided here highlight those issues. But some seem to revel in, and even perpetuate, a “poor but proud” attitude. A continued, narrow focus on our resource challenges or shortcomings will keep our pie small with increasingly smaller pieces for everyone.

Perhaps, as we wave that magic wand, we can even dream so big as to envision ice cream with our pie.

Through the Fog and Snow

My closest friends know that I tend to describe life with a mixture of metaphors, analogies and similes. Whether that is a defense mechanism or just a product of my culture, those tools help me communicate how I experience the world. I find them especially helpful in defining my emotions.

As I travel through this season of grief, I’ve struggled to find words that adequately describe my emotional state. Adding to that difficulty is the fact those emotions can change with little notice. Within a short walk across the room, I can experience anger, sadness and a lingering denial of Amy’s death. 

One analogy I’ve used many times over the past months, when asked how I’m doing, is that it’s like I’m out in a snowstorm. The snow is blowing, forcing my head down; the clouds are low, hiding the horizon; and there is a ground fog that casts an eerie shadow across the landscape. The footing is slippery, and I feel as though I may fall with each step. But the scariest part is that I feel as if I closed my eyes and turned around twice, I could no longer find my way back home. It is an unsettling and disorienting state.  Yesterday, after an overnight snow, I saw a visual image of my analogy. Low clouds, heavy fog and 4-5 inches of snow. After a light lunch, I determined it was time to face the fog and go for a walk.

I made my way up the drive and turned toward Bullhead Mountain. About half way up, I met my neighbor who was plowing his drive. We talked for a half hour; a long rambling conversation about grief and death and Heaven and what it’s like to move on without a loved one. Then it was on up the road, following a set of tracks to the next home until they turned down the drive. From there, there were no more tracks other than those left by me.

I planned to walk up to a pasture opening, just before the trail turns up steeply to Bullhead. I had hoped for a panoramic photo from this elevated point, but the fog closed in, limiting visibility to a few feet in each direction. As I walked across the pasture a tall, leafless tree appeared from the fog, its branches encased in snow and ice, standing alone in the field. I felt a kinship with that tree.

As I stood staring at that lone tree, the clouds seemed to thin for just a moment. The sky lightened briefly as if to remind me that there is sunshine just above and beyond those clouds, and that the snow and fog are temporal.

Winter is a strange season here at the foot of Bullhead Mountain. Bitterly cold weeks are interspersed with spring-like days. Clouds are blown away to reveal the bluest skies of the year. The snow rarely stays long before it is spirited away. Mysteriously, as time passes, there are more warm days and fewer cold ones and less snow and northern winds are replaced by southern breezes. 

Then, daffodils begin to bloom.

An Old Commandment for a New Year

For many of us the start of the new year is a time of new beginnings and resolutions to change behaviors. Perhaps it is better described as a time of new intentions or the resumption of failed ones from previous years. I have kept a journal for 25 years and each year I write a recap of the old year and list my intentions for the new one. Unfortunately, the intentions list is virtually the same every year. I find it nearly impossible to change.

2020 was a challenging year and one I’m glad to see in the rearview mirror. Covid 19 caused us to continually adapt and balance the public safety concerns of our communities with the economic and emotional health of the individuals that make up those communities. It has been difficult to strike the balance between what’s best for us collectively with the fear of losing our individual freedoms. I feel safe in saying that we all felt, feared or sensed loss in 2020.

For my family, our loss was real and tangible. Coming in waves roughly 2-3 months apart we lost a brother-in-law to cancer, my brother was diagnosed with ALS, we cancelled a much anticipated family vacation to Yellowstone, my daughter and her family moved 7 ½ hours away, and my wife, Amy, died after contracting Covid. It was an inexplicably hard year for us.

As I was repeatedly knocked off my feet by those cascading tragedies, I began to feel further and further from God. I use the word “feel” intentionally. I embrace the promise that “I [God] will never leave nor forsake you (Hebrews 13:5).” But what I knew to be true and what I felt in those turbulent months were vastly different. This fueled the sensation of being untethered and free-floating with no sense of direction. So, for New Year’s Day I decided to forgo the traditional southern meal of black-eyed peas, pork and greens to instead fast to see if God had a word for me as I began 2021.

On the morning of January 1^st in place of breakfast, I began reading the Gospel of John. Immediately I was struck with the words “In him [Jesus] was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1: 4-5).” I read on through the first five chapters before going on with my day. Throughout the day those words, “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” rolled repeatedly around in my head.

I made it through most of the day without being especially hungry, but that evening there was a gnawing in my stomach. My head ached from a lack of caffeine. The sun set and evening news came on, both reminding me that it was time for supper. I turned back to the Gospel of John.

In chapter 13, as Jesus was talking with His disciples he said, “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another (John 13: 34-35).” It was as though I heard those words for the first time! I prayed, “So is that it God - my charge moving into 2021? Love other people? What does this kind of Biblical love look like? How can I show this kind of love when my heart is broken and I can barely breathe?” Then I realized that I had heard this communicated for weeks and shown what this kind of love looks like in action.

Leading up to the holidays, a missionary working with predominantly Muslim refugees spoke at our church. He shared that many Muslims are converting to Christianity. He said that he always asks, “What brought you to Jesus,” and they say, “We saw Him in the love shown to us by Christians.”  Then, in the week after Christmas, Ben Gatton shared his thoughts on choosing love for the new year in a blog post for Hope Fellowship Church. Ben wrote:

“…love is often a choice isn't it? When we choose to live in God's love and center our lives around it, we can live in compassion for others and see them as God does. Love connects us to God's children and reminds us that we too are children of God. Love compels us to serve, to listen, to care, to grow.”

Finally, in late December I was serendipitously introduced to the writings of Canadian pastor/author/blogger Tim Challies while visiting my daughter. His son died suddenly in November at age 20. Challies has written frankly about his grief journey here and here. In a January 4th post (just days after I received the imperative to love one another) Challies quoted author J.R. Miller:

“Grief should always make us better and give us new skill and power. It should make our heart softer, our spirit kindlier, our touch more gentle; it should teach us its holy lessons, and we should learn them, and then go on, with sorrow’s sacred ordination upon us, to new love and better service.”

As I follow Ben’s example of “choosing love,” a love fueled by a grief that has given me “new skill and power,” I have two questions for you, my friends and family:

Will you hold me accountable when I don’t act in a loving manner? I give anyone who reads this license to challenge my actions or speech with the question – “Is this coming from a place of love?” 

Second, will you commit to love as well? Will you set aside political bickering, debates about Covid restrictions, and rambling theological arguments to choose instead to love one another in spite of our differences? I’m not asking that you compromise your beliefs or values. We can still be firm in our convictions while showing love - a love that is improbable, unlikely and maybe impossible in a worldly sense.

 “By this all people will know you are my disciples...” The words of Jesus.

Where is God?

It has been four weeks since my wife, Amy Caveny, died on October 8, 2020 after contracting Covid 19. Most days I trudge along in a fog, struggling to focus on day to day details. Every single thing in the house reminds me of her and that she is no longer here. She will never be here again.

Not only do I miss Amy every moment of every day, her death has shaken my faith in God. I hold that God is sovereign and that he either causes things to happen in this world or allows them to take place – either way God is in control. Neither of those options feel especially loving during this time of inexplicable grief. God seems far away.

But during this horrible time people have overwhelmed me with kindness. A dear friend cried with me in the parking lot outside the emergency department at Alleghany Memorial as staff did their best to save Amy’s life. Within minutes of her death, two elders and their wives from our church sat with me on my front porch as I tried to imagine a life without Amy. Chris Durgin built a beautiful box from cherry wood that came from logs I cut from Amy’s grandmother’s homeplace. Danny Linker sawed those logs into lumber last winter. We buried Amy’s cremated remains in that box.

My coworkers from Wilkes Community College have kept me well fed and friends have taken me out for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I have discovered that these offerings of food go beyond physical nourishment and are a covert way of attending to my emotional needs for connection. Days after Amy’s memorial service a friend stopped by with an apple pie. As he was leaving he asked if there was anything else he could do. I told him that I had funeral flowers in the basement that were dying and that I couldn’t walk through them anymore. I told him I could load them on my truck and drive them to the transfer station, but that I couldn’t imagine throwing them onto the trash heap. He raise his hand to stop me and simply said, “I’ll take care of it” and he did. Such simple yet precious gifts.

I have come to treasure those that stop me when I’m out to offer their condolences. They usually suggest that they don’t know what to say and settle on some version of “I’m sorry.” I have discovered that those two words carry much weight to those of us who are hurting.

As I reflect on these past weeks, I realize that God isn’t far away. God has been sending expressions of love to me every day. When I confessed through tears that I didn’t know if I could bury Amy my family said, “We’ll help you.” When I felt as though I would be consumed in a cavernous emptiness, someone showed up at my door and said, “I just had to lay eyes on you.” I requested memorials be made to the Alleghany Pregnancy Care Center, a ministry Amy loved and supported, and people have responded with over $3600 in donations in her name. Other gifts have been given to the Solid Rock Food Closet and Ebenezer Christian Children’s Home. These expressions of love would surely put a smile on Amy’s face. They have to mine.

I now see God in a different light. When I thought I couldn’t see His face, He showed up by placing a friend in the aisle with me at the grocery store that just nods a hello. He speaks through a clerk at the convenience store who says, “I’m sorry about your wife.” He pops up in a late night text from a friend who writes, “Just checking in.” 

 As I have ached with grief, I have experienced and witnessed the love of a sovereign God at work through my family, friends and neighbors. God is closer that I imagined.