Whew, the first week of the year has been a struggle. I’m glad to report that the Death Flu of last week is now officially over. After a week of rest and repair, celebration of the new year is in full swing. It’s Friday! Come on 2023. Give us all you’ve got!
Yesterday, I sat down to consider a fresh start for the new year. Considering my journey since 2020, I’ve experienced extreme adversity while watching it breed personal toughness, character, innovation, strength, creativity and success that I didn’t know possible. Through this, miracles flavor every situation with hope through faith. That has been the most beautiful revelation of all.
So long ago, my parents gave me the ultimate freedom to flee, fly, fall, and heal to fly again. Each time, my journeys took me higher and farther than I thought possible. For that, I can never thank them enough. My mistakes were mine, not theirs. That goes for success, as well. A great gift to give a young girl in the 1900’s.
During the winter of 1973, unaware of a grieving process, I lost the first true love of my life. His name was Derrick Ray Wilson. A Junior to my Senior, he was bright, strong, very handsome, and a jock in all sports. Our love was forbidden by four parents, but love we did until he died unexpectedly on a cold January night while fighting with his mother in the hallway of his childhood home. A raging argument turning to death in a matter of seconds.
That night, I was moments from seeing him perform at a wrestling match. Makeup. Tight Jeans. Pony tail. School Sweater. Almost ready to race out the door, the phone rang twice. Answering, my father’s voice didn’t give any indication that it wasn’t an ordinary business call. Hanging up, he whispered something to my mother. She told me to take two aspirin. They needed to tell me something important.
Derrick was dead.
That was the extent of the news. Critical information shared.
Derrick was dead.
No details needed. None known anyway.
No need to go to the wresting match.
Time for bed.
Off you go.
Farm life can be brutal. There isn’t a way to sugarcoat the facts when telling a little girl her favorite lamb died or the dog just got hit by a car. There aren’t proper instructions for sharing with your 17 year old daughter that her boyfriend dropped dead in the hallway of his childhood home while fighting with his mother. This was unchartered territory. They did the best they could, overwhelmed in a fog of disbelief themselves.
Over the months until graduation, I grieved constantly through fake smiles. I was really good at being really good and really bad at being real. Those were months of private hell I wouldn’t wish for any one. Thank goodness, no one ever noticed.
I went on to finish my Senior year, even playing the lead in the Junior-Senior play to adoring fans. It was a play about a pair of star crossed lovers finding and then losing each other in a concentration camp. I just played the raw and grief stricken lover I was in real life. On the outside everything was wonderful. On the inside, I walked in grief. But, of course, in those days, a child of 17 can’t grieve. Right?
Get up.
Patch the wing.
Take 2 aspirin.
Fly again.
Just like that.
Fly I did, right out of the coop and off for a summer in Switzerland. Not on the beaches of Lake Geneva, nor on the year round slopes of the Alps as a proper heiress would do.
I flew to a little restaurant in the town of Rufenacht outside Berne to the home of people that became a safe place to fall. There, I pulled weeds the garden, picked the produce for the freshly cooked meals, waited tables, and hung the laundry to dry in the attic to the tunes of the Sound of Music. That’s where I healed.
Alone.
In a foreign country.
Just me in the wilderness of grief.
Panic attacks would awaken me at night in my tiny, dark room in the 4th floor attic of a 400 year old house. In the night, I would scrapbook my days and journal private and painful thoughts. Even so many years ago, my writing healed me that summer. My words helped me grow stronger wings. In September, I became a brand new college coed, just months after devastating tragedy.
Fifty years later, I’m taking a little more time to heal through this round of grief. VST knew Derrick. It’s comforting to know that two great loves of my life played football for the same side. Somewhere up there in the heavens, they’re having a great time tossing the ball while waiting for me to arrive.
I’m not alone this time.
God has me covered. Great friends, new and old, watch over me while helping me through the rough spots.
I’m not in a foreign country.
This beautiful desert is my forever home in a country I love so much.
I’m my own best friend in this wilderness of grief. There are fewer foggy days, more meadows, and the views are beautiful.
LIFE is beautiful.
In the words of Taylor Swift, who gets so many things right —
I’m dancing on my own
I make the moves up as I go
And that’s what they don’t know
I keep cruising
Can’t stop. Won’t stop grooving
It’s like I got this music
In my mind
Saying, “It’s gonna be alright.” Taylor Swift — Shake it Off
Whatever you do today, remember this. It’s Friday!!! Whatever struggles you are facing are at the end of their week. Do something you love doing this weekend. Try laughing at bit. It’s great medicine.
Back on Monday.