faith

For breakfast: coffee steam and candles.

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I’ve been obsessed these past two days with getting this blog up and running. Everything published before this post was originally written and shared on Facebook. I’ve gathered those posts here for the sake of congruity and perhaps even for safer keeping. I’m grateful for the space and connection Facebook originally provided, but at some point, it became difficult and inappropriate to share my heart on such a haphazard platform. I had entered a desert. The lowlands. It stretched out in front of and behind me, in seeming infinity. It was a place of dirt and dry earth. There were mountains, but they were in the distance and only served to contain me in that low spot. I needed to walk alone for awhile, in that deep valley of sadness. And, in doing so, my faith walk got deeper, too.

As I write this, it dawns on me that Jesus also spent 40 days and nights in the desert. This was about the same amount of time that I spent in my own dusty barrenness. I’m not saying that I am like Jesus, but it should not surprise me that there is something to be said for the sacredness in this time of desert walking and wordlessness.

It has been 4 1/2 months since Carl died. It seems like an agonizingly long time and yet, as the days and months and years will continue to pass between us, I know that someday I will look back on this day and realize that the distance between now and then was miniscule. But time stretches. It shrinks and expands and then doubles back on itself.

For over a week I have found myself, for the first time, suspended in a place of happiness, inspiration, hope, even giddiness. I have felt energized by some strange and unexplainable joy. It felt like God. It was God. It is God. It felt impossible to feel so much joy in the face of so much loss. I don’t fit the mold of what I imagine grieving “widows” of unexpected tragedy to look like.  Yet I also know that is what Carl loved about me. That is, he loved my optimism and passion for life. And that is what I loved most about him. Of course, God knows that even the unspeakable loss of the man I loved with my whole heart could not stop this life force within me, even tho, at first, I so badly wanted it to. I am both devastated and satisfied in a way that I’ve never before experienced. I cry as I write this. I feel like a conundrum, an oxymoron, an absurd paradox. All last week I was on the verge of breaking out of my skin with a renewed sense of euphoria and hope. Today I simply feel like I’ve made it to the edge of the valley where I will sit and rest for a moment before continuing my walk into the foothills and, eventually, someday, maybe even the mountains.

I created this blog so that I might have a space that I can more openly write about my journey through grief. I’ve been a wanderer my whole life, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would travel through a landscape like this. All I know is that, like Jesus after his 40 days and nights in the desert, I am hungry. But it is a strange hunger. Not for food, but for more of God.

Then Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. After fasting forty days and forty nights, he was hungry. The tempter came to him and said, “If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread.” Jesus answered, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.’” ~Matthew 4:1-4

As I write this, I once again notice how Carl’s bible smells like him. Somehow, in drawing close to God, I feel closer to Carl, too. I draw close, not for Carl, but because of him. I draw close because this is what was meant for me all along.

“I am a bow on your hands, Lord.
Draw me, lest I rot.
Do not overdraw me, Lord. I shall break.
Overdraw me, Lord, and who cares if I break?” ~Nikos Kazantzakis

For those of you who have found me here and are reading these words, thank you for journeying with me. I pray that, even in breaking, grace might be found.

with love and honesty,
Jessie

deep grief, interviewed.

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Thank you inMagazine for the beautiful interview and article about journeying through grief. May it help someone else out there to feel a little less alone or to better understand how they might help someone they love navigate this strange landscape of loss.

“Deep grief is an extraordinarily personal journey. It’s a brutal landscape. How can the people in our lives know how to accompany us as we walk through that endlessly changing and often treacherous terrain? I’m not sure that it’s ever fully possible. To some degree, it is a solo journey, but I’m not so sure that any of us are built to walk it truly alone. Surviving the unthinkable is a process without directions or timelines. I can only say that, for me, the feeling of love and connection, despite this gaping hole of loss, has been a blessing beyond words. In the words of Ram Dass: ‘We’re all just walking each other home.’ That, I think, is the best we can ever hope to do.” ~Jessie Marianiello

I love you, my friends. I truly, truly do. I would not be surviving this without you.
I love you, Carl. Thank you for so perfectly showing up on page 34. You know it made me smile.

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*Interview and article by Bethany Wesley.

{originally published March 13, 2015}

Ragamuffin.

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“Abba, I abandon myself in your hands. Do with me what you will. Whatever you may do, I thank you. I am ready for all: I accept all. Let your will be done in me and in all your creatures. I wish no more than this, O Lord. Into your hands I commend my spirit. I offer it to you with all the love of my heart, for I love you, Lord, and I give myself, surrender myself into your hands without reserve, with boundless confidence, for you are my Father.” ~Charles Foucauld

{originally published March 11, 2015}

In the still quiet place we meet.

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Unearthing myself. Found things. A stash of gorgeous fine art papers, an extra special journal, and an old self-portrait. Sundays are for surrender.

I love you, Carl. And I miss you every day. But there can be beauty, yes, even in this. Today I sit still, quietly, in this space that you brought me to: with God.

Blank paper. An invitation.

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{originally published March 8, 2015}

the always peaceful voice of God.

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“Over time I have come to believe that brave does not mean what we think it does. It does not mean “being afraid and doing it anyway.” Nope. Brave means listening to the still small voice inside and DOING AS IT SAYS. Regardless of what the rest of the world is saying. Brave implies WISDOM. Brave people are not simply those who JUMP every time. They do not necessarily “do it anyway.” Brave people block out all the yelling voices and listen to the deepest voice inside the quietest, stillest place in their heart. If that voice says JUMP, they jump. And if that voice says TURN AROUND — they turn around, and they hold their head high. Often the one who turns around shows GREAT BRAVERY, because she has been true to herself even in the face of pressure to ignore her still, small voice and perform for the crowd.” Glennon Doyle Melton

These days, I don’t want to be brave. I only want to be quiet. But guess what. It takes great amounts of bravery to allow oneself such stillness. I abandon the world. I hush the white noise and instead trust the always peaceful voice of God. I am in sacred territory now. It has come at a great expense and there is not one bone in my body that is willing to let these gifts of great loss pass by without notice.

The way & the truth & the life. I am unraveling. Rebelling. Renewing. Undoing. I surrender.

And, in doing so…
I am whole.

I love you, Carl. Infinitely.

{originally published March 2, 2015}

intricacies.

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“No matter how many twists and turns appear, life always expands and moves in an upward direction. This means every tragedy foreshadows a more profound triumph, while each loss paves the way for even greater gains to emerge. If you just keep watching — everything goes that way.” ~M.Kahn

I received a very remarkable gift in the mail yesterday. It was from my dear friend, Tommi, created by another dear and talented friend, Kristine Mays. One might think that they knew each other, but they did not. They only have me in common, but it seems this is the way that love expands. Oh, if they only knew what happened to my heart when I pulled this gorgeous golden sculpture from its pink tissue filled box and into the morning sunlight!

I feel blessed to have such deeply loving people in my life. This heart is so sturdy. So intricate. So gorgeous. Just like the people in my life. Carl’s heart and mine were so interwoven, in a million beautiful ways. Even in death, this cannot be undone.

I cry a lot these days. Yes, still. Perhaps this will go on for months or years or the rest of my life. All I know is that I still have a whole ocean of love for the man that wove himself so thoroughly into my being. I’m still traveling the valleys and precipices of all this loss. There are moments of such great sorrow, but a long time ago God planted within me a nomadic heart. He must have known what He was doing all along, because one thing I know for sure is that I’m not meant to stay in these low-lands forever. And so I continue on this journey in search of new views. I continue my search for the mountains I’ve always been meant to climb, knowing that Carl is a part of all of it–and always will be.

There isn’t one step of this that’s been easy, but in some ways, things are getting a little easier. I have begun craving my time in the studio and, for that, I am grateful. I’ve become more aware of tiny moments of hopefulness beginning to return. I show up for life in ways that I might not have been able to do before.

Grief is a deeply humbling experience. It strips you down to your barest bones. Patience for pretense no longer exists. Worldly goals fall away. Many of my old ways of thinking no longer apply.

What is left?

Perfect freedom. Devastating, blinding, obliterating freedom. The kind of freedom that comes through having lost everything that mattered most and, in the process, gaining God. It changes everything. Yes, e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. I am not who I once was. I feel strong and completely shattered all at once. If I am wise, I will allow this experience to break me open and, from that break, I’ll grow. I’ll grow like a stubborn weed in a field full of beautiful friends.

And I might continue to cry, a whole ocean’s worth. I’ll cry for everything good that I have been blessed with in this life, knowing full well that, eventually, some of those tears will also turn back into smiles. I love you, Carl. Always and forever, with my entire intricately woven self. You are always a part of me.

{originally published Feb 20, 2015}