The Fixer

All my life I’ve been a fixer. I “fix” things. Arguments among family members. Being the peace-maker between my parents. Tracking down a best friends boyfriend who did her wrong. Didn’t matter that they were in the middle of officiating a high school basketball game. Yes, I did have him stop the game, called him over to the side of the court, and lectured him on his mistake.

Punching one of my brother’s peers in the face at the swimming pool (not one of my best choices) because this peer had picked on my younger brother for years. I had warned the kid hundreds of times. This particular day he called me on it and held my brother under water. The swimming pool had to close for the day. Even in the 60’s blood wasn’t a good thing for public swimming pools. I can still hear the complete silence – other than the kid crying from a nose bleed – as well as the stunned look on my mother’s face. The kid never bothered my brother again. Expecting a spanking when my Dad came home, I only got his shaking head saying, “Raylene.” When I think about that moment really hard, I think I also heard him chuckle. The fixer teaching the fixer.

For the past 20 years I’ve bounced in and out the 5 stages of grief. Being careful not to stay in one stage too long. You see this made me feel in control of what I couldn’t control. For some that doesn’t even make sense. For those of you who know me, understand that concept well. When I’m thrown into devastating circumstances, the only control I have is how long I spend in each stage.

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I spend a great deal of time in the “Bargaining” stage. This is where a “fixer” works their hardest. Trying to negotiate and make adjustments. I’m an expert in this area. I’ve trained myself to flow flawlessly through the stages, while surviving as a young widow, while running a school campus, managing 800 students and 85 staff, managing a blended family, as well as helping my parents with end of life issues. I hold my cards close to my chest. No one knows “the fixer” is at work.

Twenty-two days ago President Trump declared a National Emergency due to COVID19. My adrenaline ramped up. While others are continuing with their daily lives, I’ve already mentally moved into action. That’s what “fixers” do. My grandsons are in Arizona for spring break. I have to buy food for them as well. My husband had heart bypass five months ago. I must shelter him from all germs. My daughter is pregnant and lives an hour away. I must make sure she’s ok. You see? Yep I start fixing. In my gut I know this isn’t going to turn out well.

I began paying attention to the news. I follow the briefings. I do intelligent research as the country moves into March 15 where the CDC warns against large gatherings. My husband and I both have lost our jobs. I’m trained for bad news. I’ve had many situations of catastrophic news so my mind is prepared – it’s wired to go into “fix” mode. I follow the time line and daily news briefings.

I make plans and move in and out my grief map. Some days I would wake up into the acceptance stage. Telling myself, “this will be ok. This can’t last much longer, just hold on.” Some days I would move into the bargaining stage. “Ok we have to be extremely careful but everyone in my family is still alive.” The denial stage is easy for others to linger in, but not a “fixer.” Time in denial is burning daylight for me. There’s work to be done and plans to be made!

I spent two days in the depression stage. My poor husband. He doesn’t “understand” the “fixer.” Depression stage isn’t pretty for a controller. Sudden bursts of solid crying. For no reason. Thank goodness I don’t allow myself to remain in the depression stage very long.

Today I have to admit – “the fixer” has no answers. Everyone I love is at risk. The knot in my stomach is tight, deep breaths aren’t always attainable. COVID19 has forced me to bounce through the stages of grief several times a day. I pray with God, even bargain at times. God knows me for this and accepts me with this fault. I try to find peace in scripture, my faith tells me God is in control. But…there’s always a but with me…..But I need a sign. Similar to Doubting Thomas, I need to see. I need to see there is life out there. That this isn’t our new norm. That there are still things I can “fix.”

As the child of a lumber yard worker, we only needed four things in our house for repairs. A hammer, duct tape, rusted screw driver and baling wire – with these four items you could fix gates, fences, bicycles, cabinet doors, even cars. The possibilities were endless. The above pictures are of my Dad’s hammer, tape, and screw driver. I had them out this morning. Holding the hammer I know he used to “fix” things always makes me smile. Today holding that hammer brings me to my reality – acceptance. Acceptance that “it is what it is.” We can not control the cards we are dealt, only the way we play our hand. This “fixer” is letting go.

God’s promises, learned in my hometown church Bethel Baptist, are the tools I have to use. These tools withstand all tests of time. I’m adding a 6th stage to my grief cycle – that is Hope. As we are in the season of Easter, imagine the hopeless feeling of Jesus’ followers. But then Sunday came – the tomb was empty – Christ arose. I know our Sunday is coming. God’s plan is flawless. He is the true “fixer.” So we wait. We pray. We bounce through our emotions. We worry. We accept and then fear again.

I will continue to try to “fix” because it’s in my DNA. What this ‘fixer” will focus on during these troublesome days, is spending more time in the Hope stage. As I’m writing this the lyrics of “The Solid Rock” are flowing through my mind.

My hope is built on nothing less

Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.

PAUSE.

My heart is full of worry and uncertainty just like every one of you. The first thought on my mind when I woke up this morning was wondering how many more cases of COVID19 were reported overnight, as well as how many families were grieving today due to this disease.
Then I was sent a “pause” and heard another thought….my Dad….oh how I wish I could hear his voice but his wisdom still pushes through all the confusion in my mind.

He reminded me of another scary time. I was born in 1957 in Nocona. Our parents were experiencing much what we are currently yet they didn’t have instant news, daily updates from Dr. Fauci, nor a country filled with billions of dollars to produce equipment and medicines almost overnight. The horrible disease facing our families was polio. I looked at some numbers and we experienced over 16,000 cases of paralysis and over 18,000 deaths each year from 1951-1954. There were only 150 million people in our entire country so those percentages are horrific. The sadder part of this is polio was mainly a childhood acquired illness affecting children under five.

Dr. Jonas Salk did invent a vaccine. I remember lining up at North Ward school in Nocona for several Sundays after church, (maybe 4) to receive my sugar cube containing the vaccine. What I didn’t know at that time was I would make friends with one of the sweetest girls in my life. She was a year older than me and the vaccine didn’t come soon enough for her.

She contracted the disease, faced extreme physical issues, many many surgeries. At one point, as a teenager she was in a body cast for months, attached to a plywood board. We went to her house for Sunday School each week. Looking back I’m flooded with tears for her. How close did she come to receiving the vaccine? A few months? And never did she allow us to feel sorry for her. She continued into adulthood, became an educator, married, had two amazing daughters and is currently chasing grandchildren in her motorized wheelchair. One little word, polio, changed our world.

We are asking ourselves these questions today. The news is everywhere. We have instant updates. We don’t have to wait for a small town doctor to deliver the news in our home-town newspaper. We all have family members who are in vulnerable groups and, to be honest, I believe we are all vulnerable. Schools and churches closing brings all our fears to the surfaces.

So in my Dad’s way he refocused me this morning. He reminded me of my raising and remembering what I learned in that small town. Proverbs 27:1 “Do not boast about tomorrow for you do not know what a day may bring forth.”
Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

When I was faced with being a young widow thousands of times I wanted to give up. During these times Isaiah 40:31 gave me hope. “But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.”

Today I’m thankful for my Dad’s “pause.” As I rethink who I am and how I was raised, I have asked are we near the end of the world as we know it? I don’t know. But I do know Who does know. I also know He expects us to continue living and taking care of each other. He is control and has provided us with the abilities to produce supplies and medications overnight. Man did not acquire this knowledge alone. We all need to “pause”, listen to the news less and spend time listening to Him. Our Lord of hope and promise.

The Last Night

The relationship between adult siblings many times doesn’t get nurtured as we have children and must dedicate our time to our own lives. My brother and I grew up in a nurturing environment with our Dad’s large number of siblings. Being surrounded by aunts, uncles, and cousins always created happy memories.

Once the calendar flips to January, I begin to relive Dad’s last days on Earth. The longer he’s been gone, has oddly made the memories of that time more vivid. Last night as I was thinking about Dad’s last night in Hospice, I began to focus not on Dad but the relationship Tommy and I shared that evening. The two of us spent the night in Dad’s room. Dad was resting peacefully on his bed. The nurses had bathed him and shaved him as if he was walking out the next morning. There were two chairs and being the older (more clever) sibling, I chose the one that pulled out a bit to make some sort of place to stretch out a little. Tommy was left with a standard chair.

We spent the next 8+ hours just reminiscing. It was a magical time I’ll never forget. We just talked. About random things in our lives growing up. Remembering how Dad held us accountable for everything we did. How I rarely followed family rules knowing there would be consequences. We laughed – not cried – over family memories. I can’t imagine the joy and pride Dad must have felt, knowing he was living his last hours and his children spent those hours with him sharing memories. Dad wasn’t physically conscious and hadn’t been since he entered a Hospice on Wednesday. Yet Tommy and I both felt him participating in our conversations.

The nurse came in around midnight and took Dad’s temperature. She shared his temperature was rising, which was a normal expectation. She also shared Dad would be made comfortable, as they would continue to drop the room temperature. Tommy had one jacket with him and I had a Texas Tech fleece. She wasn’t kidding about the temperature drop. There was a point the room was so cold we were literally shivering, but Dad was very comfortable. This brought on more laughter, because in our home the air conditioner didn’t go in the window until July 1st and it was removed September 1st.

While Dad’s passing will always bring tears, I treasure the time spent with my brother. Hours no one else would understand nor appreciate. Conversations no one else would consider entertaining. Intense memories no one else would appreciate. That night with Tommy will always remain tucked in my heart. It was a night that brought us closer on a completely different level. What a legacy our father created for us that allowed us to celebrate memories on his last night before entering a Heaven. A simple man who lived life and let us watch.

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MEMORIES IN ROOM 10

The past 24 hours haven’t been easy. Eleven years ago yesterday my Daddy entered Room 10 at Hospice at Wichita Falls. He had been battling stage 4 colon cancer for several months and his body was tired.

He’d put himself through multiple surgeries and the poison of chemo all for me and my brother. Left up to him he’d spent his last six months of life fishing and sitting on the tailgate of his truck talking to his cows. But he raised a fighter and I was going to help him win this battle.

When your hero faces a life threatening diagnosis you’ll grasp at any positive word any doctor will say. I did that. Hard headedness and determination was present with David and Goliath and it was present in me. Our family would beat the odds.

Many times God’s plan and our plan aren’t the same. I’ve had to face that multiple times in my life. I’m not ashamed to admit that I don’t like it, and at times I still question God. I was angry that Dad’s disease progressed as it did. Even as he was being loaded into the ambulance and taken to Hospice, I was bargaining with God. The reality of losing him wasn’t getting through to me.

Now back to Room 10. We were instantly surrounded by nurses who were more like angels. They treated Dad as if he were royalty. The pain he was experiencing was immeasurable and yet he never complained. They ensured he was comfortable, clean, and pain-free. For the first time in months, he was relaxed and his face lacked grimace from pain. Even at this point, my mind was still in denial. Not sure what I was thinking but I wasn’t thinking I was losing my Dad.

My brother and I spent this night alone with Dad in his room. There were two chairs and being the oldest, I quickly realized which one would provide the most comfort. Tommy and I had one of the most memorable nights of our lives that night with our Dad. He wasn’t conscious, but we talked as if he was and we both believe he could hear every word we said.

We laughed and discussed how Dad had raised us to always take care of family – and he had a large one. How consistent he was with discipline yet how gentle he was at teaching life lessons. We laughed about slopping pigs, and being chased by a crazed bull. We reminisced about the Eldred Christmas’s and how 150 relatives was a small number for our gatherings. The stories were endless as was the temperature drop every time the “angel” would enter our room. As Dad’s dying progressed his temperature increased. The nurse shared with us it was “going to be a cold night for us.” I had a small Texas Tech blanket and Tommy had only the jacket he’d worn. As Dad’s temperature increased they would crank down the air conditioner. It was January and cold outside. The temperature inside his room seemed to reach freezing temperatures. Knowing that he refused to use the air conditioner at home because it would cost money, made this ironic. In his final night on Earth, his comfort was what mattered.

The common theme through our all night talk was how amazing was the man laying in the bed beside us. How he came from a lack of money, food, and education, and through determination, a sense of business, and work ethic, grew to raise a family, make good money, and pass down the importance of integrity and a strong work ethic to his children. A man having only a 10th grade education, grew up to manage a lumber yard serving millions of dollars in contractors and local builders, ran many small businesses on the side, and turned everything he touched into money. He never met a stranger and provided help to anyone with need.

While all the above is true, I believe his pride rested on the proof that his children took part of him with them when they left home. My brother earned a degree in Electrical Engineering from Texas Tech, and developed his own successful consulting firm. Dad beamed every time he wore a Tech hat and someone would ask him how Tommy was doing. He was so proud when Tommy branched out on his own. Making his own business decisions and calling Dad for advice.

And then there’s me. The one who tried his patience on a daily basis. The one who tried my teachers patience on a daily basis. I earned three degrees in education. Teaching reading for thirteen years, earning a Master’s in Curriculum and Instruction, a Master’s in Educational Leadership, and a Superintendent’s certification. For my final twelve years in education I served as a middle school principal – working daily with students who resembled me many years ago. Our Dad’s pride was in raising us to serve others. In teaching us the value of a penny and that your reputation, once tarnished, can never become shiny.

At 9:00 p.m., on January 11, 2008, we were all gathered around Dad’s bed. Jesus came into Room 10 and peacefully and quietly took Dad’s hand and led him to his home in Heaven. While my heart was still not prepared, feeling the presence of Jesus in that room is eternally etched into my memory. Each year that I lived in Wichita Falls, I would return to Room 10 on the evening of January 11th. If the room was unoccupied I was allowed to go inside and sit in the same place I did the night Jesus came. I could feel His presence surround me and provide me the belief that Dad was with Him. Sitting around fishing and watching cows. Without pain and no longer needing Room 10.

As I reflect on these memories this year I have realized I too no longer need to go to Room 10. All the warmth, love and safety I felt in Room 10 is living in my heart. Dad remains a part of me daily. I’m blessed he didn’t tell he how to live – he lived and let me watch.

The Silent Widow

On the inside, I’ve wanted to write this for years. On the outside I continue to smile and ignore the knot inside of me screaming “you must tell.” The knot continues to scream, this story must be heard! The knot continues to ask me why am I “uncomfortable” sharing? Do I think I’m the only one suffering in silence? Why is the topic of becoming a young widow taboo? Yesterday the knot won.

I’ve shared being raised in a small community. My life lessons came from a father who believed in discipline and from Southern Baptist preaching where I began attending while still in a baby crib. I attended this same church every time the doors were open. This alter is where I gave my heart to Jesus at age nine and ten years later said my wedding vows, moving with my husband 50 miles away from where I was raised. I was so scared to be that far from all I’d ever known, but I had found my soul-mate. My best friend. Life was as it should be.

After marriage I completed my degree in education while working full-time. My husband’s job caused us to move around Texas for three years and during this time we had our first child. We managed to move back to our town and settle down. Our daughter was born and our little family was complete. Gary and I made the decision for me to be a stay-at-home mom. We felt God blessed us with two beautiful, healthy children and we wanted to be the ones who raised them. This came with a cost. Raising a family of four on one income was difficult. We could only afford one car and a smaller house than we would have liked. However, our focus remained on family – not fortune.

Years passed quickly and memories were collected. To say our marriage was perfect would not be true, but it was near perfect. Arguments were few, our children made us proud, every summer we spent two weeks in a pop-up camper in Colorado with just us, nature, and fresh air. Life was just as we’d planned and dreamed. The “knight in shining armor”, that all little girls think is real, actually had found me. We raised our children in church, battled through job losses, held hands while we watched our son thrive as a Rider Raider, cried together at his graduation, and as we left him in Lubbock, Texas to become a Red Raider.

Our daughter was finally the only child. She was social and always with friends. Gary and I looked forward to weekly date nights and talked often of how blessed we were to have found each other. We made plans of how we would grow old together. We watched friend’s marriages deteriorate, which seemed to always pull us closer. We went to church, gave of our finances to church, and would have people often tell us we were the “perfect family.” And you know I began to believe that as well. God sure was good. Until…

On April 11, 2001, I was teaching and my assistant principal came to my classroom at 3:10 and told me to get my purse. I resisted – not sure why. I couldn’t leave. There were 25 students in my classroom – one of them being my best friend’s son. She demanded and my mind began going in so many directions. First I just knew something had happened to my son at Tech. Was it my daughter? She remained quiet and escorted me down the stairs. When we reached the bottom she shared that my husband was “in trouble. They think he is having a heart attack and I needed to get there.” Me in shock saying he’s only 46. It had to be something else.

As we drove I begged, prayed, screamed, bargained with God. Please let it be a mistake. I even told God we have been the perfect family. Living by His Word. I stayed at home and raised the children. We were involved in church and raised our children there. We ensured they trusted You as their Savior. We gave our money. We prayed as a family. Come on God. Doesn’t that make a difference?

When I reached my husband’s office I saw him laying on the floor with EMT’s shocking and shocking his heart. They threw him on a gurney and ran past me. From there everything seemed surreal and in slow motion. We followed the ambulance, which continued to rock as they continued to try and shock him back to life. After waiting in the ER, the doctor talked to me and shared the standard line, “We did everything we could to help your husband but he expired at 4:28.” What do you mean expired? No I’m 44 years old. We have two children. One is away at college. Our daughter is 16 years-old. Our 25th anniversary is in three months and we have a cruise planned. He still has to watch our daughter graduate. He still has to walk her down the aisle. He can’t expire! He’s my soul mate. The only one who understands my quirks. None of that mattered as the doctor escorted me and my daughter to where he expired.

There is no pain like seeing the pain on your 16 year-old daughter’s face as she looks at her hero, lifeless, on a gurney, his shirt cut open, burned spots glaring where shock attempts were made, not to mention the large white tube still hanging from his mouth. At that moment I didn’t even try to talk to God. God was dark to me. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t speak.

At 44 you don’t visualize yourself walking around a cemetery looking for the perfect place to bury your 46 year-old soul-mate. You don’t plan on sitting at a gigantic conference table planning a funeral while your children watch stunned with tears in their eyes. All these things you do and everyone is watching. They are watching to see how strong you are. You hear whispers among those in your home. They are all wondering “how is she going to do this?” “They were so attached I don’t see how she can make it without him.” “They’ve been married 25 years. They grew up together. She doesn’t know life except with him.” You go through the motions of the viewing and funeral service. Everyone covers your house with food, company, and activity. But the time comes that you must face the word “widow” and the silence begins.

Your friends have gone back home to their families – which are still in tact. They hurt for you but everything in their world still works like before. I had a recliner no one would sit in because it was “his.” His spot was still at the table. His clothes were still in the closet. His pillow still on the bed just like he left it that last morning. More silence. I could not hear God nor could I feel God. I felt abandoned and forgotten. My Southern Baptist lessons taught me that God was almighty. He could have saved my husband that afternoon yet he chose not to. That’s how I saw it.

And the things people would say -“He’s in a better place.” What? Like NO the better place is here with his family taking care of business. I had one friend tell me, “Gary’s death had made her husband realize how important she was to him and that he had began to shower her with attention and gifts.” Well I’m so glad that my husband died so yours could be a better man to you. My final break with God was when a friend in our Sunday School class shared that I should begin attending the singles class. My presence in the “couples” class was too hard on the rest of the members and, well, I wasn’t part of a couple anymore. The anger continued to swell inside and I knew I needed help.

My search began. I called every organization, every church and no one had any type of support for a “young” widow. They offered grief support groups and I tried to attend but there was no one there like me. Some had lost young children and others were in their 60’s and 70’s and had lost their spouses. Some had lost parents. Please there has to be someone like me. Someone my age, thrown into poverty through sudden death, worried about their children’s health. Staying up at night watching and listening in fear that their child would try to hurt themselves because their pain was so raw, and they refused to even say the word “Dad.” Trying to keep one enrolled in college four hours away and having no idea how he was handling his grief. Both refusing to discuss the death with me. More silence.

I read every book I could afford on surviving widowhood. Oh there’s that word again. Nothing was written about the “young widow.” Everything was spiritual, sharing scripture and prayers. No I know what the Bible says. I know where to find the scripture. I need to talk to someone who mirrors me. Someone who had a husband one minute and the next he’d expired. Someone to tell me how they made it one minute at a time. I needed someone who knew what I felt without having to say a word. Someone whose child would graduate from college without his proud father watching. Someone whose daughter would graduate from high school without Dad. Someone who dreaded a wedding because there’s no one to walk her down the isle. Someone who would feel bittersweet at every holiday, weddings and births of grandchildren. But I found no one. Silence.

Seventeen years have passed and not one year has been easy. Some easier than others. All happy occasions remain bittersweet. It still amazes me how quickly I can return to April 11, 2001. Recently a friend’s husband passed suddenly. Her children are similar to mine. With the blink of an eye it threw me back in time. Fragile. Unsettled. Feeling the rawness I know she has in her heart. My heart continues to ache as I know how hopeless her days and nights are. I reached out to her with shared silence. The silence only she understands. Wanting her to know she is not alone – there is someone like her. Someone who’s broken, lived minute to minute, and is now able to live day to day. She responded that, “I provided her comfort during desperate days.” Those of us who had the label “young widow” and plowed through the fog must provide comfort during desperate days – even if it takes us back to a place we prefer not to remember. It’s painful for us to go back to “that time” but we have to break the silence. Too many suffer in silence because the topic is too difficult for those unlike us to hear.

Life is unpredictable and our days are numbered before we are born. Yes, I learned that in my small Baptist church. It’s easy to say yet hard to accept. But I no longer will remain silent. The knot inside is no longer a tangled mass. It will always remain and that’s ok. It’s a scar inside and never do I want to forget, because with my grief knot I will continue to reach out to those like me. Those who will openly speak about the unpredictability of life not because someone has told us but because we live it.

Foreshadowing of a Picture

This morning I decided to begin the dreaded task of going through thousands of family pictures and dividing them up between my two adult children. I say this is my purpose when actually I think I’m trying to declutter my own mess.

Of course once you start going through pictures they speak for themselves. There’s a reason each picture was taken. Memories are tied to pictures.
Family gatherings. Kids being kids. Snow fall. Vacations. Graduations. Birthday parties. Team photos. Looking through pictures is reliving the past years – step by step. Pictures serve as reminders of happy times. Times when life was friendly and carefree. When you are raising children you snap pictures of their first tooth, their first steps, first birthday – all the firsts. Mothers are the most guilty of this behavior. It’s like we want to stop time and hold them right there. Wishing they would forever consider us their best friend, their only love. We take pictures for years of activities and most pictures do land in a box somewhere. But it is our right as mothers to capture these memories. And we take that right very seriously.

As I went through picture this morning there were thousands, maybe millions of tears. How did all this happen so quickly? Yes I admit I still have that dress tucked away hidden in a drawer. And his first t-ball jersey? Yep I have that as well. Those mother buttons with his picture in his football jersey which I proudly wore each Friday? Yes they too are in the same drawer. I could admit to so much more but any mother reading this knows exactly where her drawer of hidden memories is as well.

As I continued my walk back in time with the pictures I suddenly came across one that made me pause – reflect – and to be honest was very different than all the other pictures. Spring Break of 2001 our perfect family of four took a vacation to Ruidoso. Not to ski but to be together to laugh, climb mountain trails, take in the incredible smell of pine trees during a short rain shower, cook out, eat smores – all the family “things” we had enjoyed for the past 20 years. Our son was home from Texas Tech and our daughter was a sophomore in high school. Perfect ages to share stories of past vacations and memories as we sat around a camp fire.

On one of our adventures their Dad insisted we pull over and take pictures. Now we were married for 25 years and to my knowledge I do not ever remember him suggesting a photo session. Of course the kids were in favor so we all jumped out of the SUV and endured the 20 mph freezing cold wind – for a picture. As usual I began telling them where to stand because I’m never in a picture – I take the pictures. Gary made it clear that he was taking the picture of the three of us. My response, “Ok let’s just get this done and back in the warm car.” We continued the week of togetherness which ended too soon.

As I gaze at this picture tears fall – tears flood. What makes this picture different is that I do not remember Gary ever taking a picture of me and the kids. This picture is the only picture that exists of me and the kids – without Dad. Second, four weeks later he passed with a sudden heart attack. On a Wednesday before Brady was to come home on Thursday night for Easter break. This vacation was the last time our precious family was together as one.

As I remember the story behind the picture, it’s as if somehow Gary knew – without really knowing – this picture would represent our new family. Our family without him in the picture. A broken family who would face unbearable grief. A family with so many unanswered questions. A God serving family who would wonder “Why us?” A family who, 17 years later, is still unable to talk about the missing piece.

To me this one picture, 10 seconds of time, represented a foreshadowing of what was to come. Through continued tears I am reminded that we never know when the last time is the last time. In the snap of your fingers life can change – never to be the same again. Changing and shattering all your foundation – allowing blame to be placed on God and causing doubt in faith. Pictures truly are worth a thousand words. Sometimes the words may be silent and subtle. But the story is there for those who see beyond the obvious.