Saturday, I made myself go back. Back to the beautiful Emory campus. A stroll through the quaint and bustling Emory Village and the Candler School of Theology whose outside surroundings became my sanctuary for eight months. A contemplative stroll back to the hospital where my husband lived for 8 months. A place I could not even enter the lobby the first month, then the place where we were finally together yet isolated from the outside world. A place that held both comfort and trauma in the same breath. A place that felt like home and a place that felt like hell all within in same twenty-four hours . A place we finally found answers. I expected something louder when I walked through those doors. I was prepared for grief to rise up to meet me in a recognizable way— sharp, heavy, undeniable. But what I found instead was numbness. And that surprised me! Not emptiness, exactly. Just a quiet flattening of everything. I did what I have learned to do over these past six years: I slowed my breathing. I reframed my thoughts. I stayed present. And underneath it all, and out of nowhere, they came: nervousness sadness gratitude—all existing at once, none asking to be the loudest. Ambiguous! That is the closest word I have. I walked the same halls where I once knew, without anyone saying it, that we were nearing the end— the end of my role as caregiver, the end of his fight, the beginning of something I never asked for: widowhood. I found the alcove where I sat with my sons, preparing them to see their father when finally allowed, despite the weight of COVID restrictions. Those fateful words I began hearing –“Critical. Unstable. Guarded prognosis. Other family members only during end of life care.” I remember choosing my words carefully then, trying to soften something that cannot be softened. During my walk through that place there were small things I didn’t expect to remember— the sound of the elevator, the cafeteria’s familiar scent, the sterile air that somehow still lingers in memory. All of it still there. All of it unchanged. Except the people— I asked about them. The names I had carried with me all this time— the nurses, the valet, the transporters— the ones who held doors, held space, held us together. No one I asked remembered them. This devastated me! Mark, Sandra, Alton, Abachu, Blessing, Ryan, Linda Alton, Julie. But I guess that makes sense. This place has held so many stories, so many families, so many endings. We were one of many. But to me, they were my everything. These were people I will likely never see again, yet they changed me— shaped the way I understand and sit with grief, the way I show up for my clients, the way I love the people still here. They were part of the hardest chapter of my life, and somehow also part of what was most human within it. And even now, I carry them forward—even if I am the only one who remembers their names. Before I left, I stepped into the chapel. There, I noticed a stained glass piece inside a circle; a tree, full of color and life. And then it hit me— I have this same image in my own kitchen window. The same tree. Within a heart. The same reaching branches. The same quiet symbolism of growth. I stood there for a moment, taking it in— how something that once held me in one of the hardest seasons of my life now holds me in the space where I now nourish and gather and continue continue life. A reminder that growth does come. Not in the way we expect. Not without cost. But it comes. For 6 years now, my life has been this quiet pairing of gratitude among trauma and grief, and making do while God makes a way . And maybe the most unexpected truth of all is this: Daring to grieve has been the place where the most growth has happened for me. . It is not the life I would have chosen. But it is the life I have learned to walk in. If you are grieving, or if you are loving someone who is, please hear this: You are not doing it wrong. Even when it feels unclear, uneven, or impossibly heavy— Grief and gratitude can exist together. Love and exhaustion can sit in the same space. And to those walking beside us trying, in all the ways you know how; it matters more than you will ever fully see. We may not always have the words. We may not always show it. But we carry you with us, too.

Integrated grief is the process of fully acknowledging the experience of loss, allowing it to become part of our story, and then transforming that loss into an intentionally meaningful and full life. Bob and I had many dreams. Most of them came true while he lived. They arrived as gifts of ordinary days, in family trips, wonderful friends around our table, and the joy of raising our three sons to use their gifts and follow their own dreams. Our empty-nest dreams were simple and sacred: continuing family summer vacations, holidays filled with laughter, long porch mornings with coffee and evenings with wine, planning rehearsal dinners and celebrations, pouring our time and love into our grandchildren, supporting church events and mission projects, walking our neighborhood and nearby nature trails, tackling small DIY projects, and simply loving, serving, and enjoying one another. When Bob died, I believed all those dreams died with him. But thanks be to God, now that I am in the integrated phase of my grief journey, I no longer believe that. On the day he died, he heard me say, “Bob, you made all my dreams come true.” That frail squeeze of my hand and his last whispered words— “Thank you”— tell me his dreams came true too. Now, during solo walks… solo porch time… and quiet car rides, I sometimes wonder what he would say to me about our dreams. I imagine him smiling, with that methodical and gentle voice I knew so well: “Sweetheart, they are your dreams now. I want you to dream new dreams and chase new dreams, and I’ll be cheering you on all the way. Take that trip. Find that job. Love our sons and our grandchildren well. Don’t let your grief define you or shrink you. Find love again. I don’t want your life to end just because mine did.” This is what it looks like to make do while God makes the way— to walk forward with grief in one hand and hope in the other, trusting that the same God who carried us through love will now carry me into what comes next. Not instead of Bob. But because of him. And with and because of God. 

It’s here! “Outta Nowhere” is out there now! I’ve got some “scited” (scared AND excited) news here! It is finished. Just this one sentence capsizes my brain. Excited that a publisher had confidence in me and my framily believes in me. It blows my mind I’ve FB friends who have read my ramblings and suggest it’s been helpful and hopeful and that I should write a book. Now I have that book. And a website. And a blog! My blog will contain enteries that the book did not contain and a time of question and answers that may arise from the readers. Wait! What? I am an about to be a published author? My cathartic practice during my healing can now possibly- maybe-someday be of help to others. This is yet another miraculous mystery I’ve been a recipient of. Thanks be to God that this process is d-o-n-e, DONE. Wait? What! My work really is not done? This is the scariest of scares! I’m scared because I now have to become a self-promoter which is way outta my comfort zone and will be hard hard work. I will have to remind myself that I’ve done some mighty hard things these past 5 years. I know good and well that I, nor my experience, isn't unique. I’m well aware that I'm not the first- or the last- woman who will lose a husband barely past their silver anniversary . I’ve concluded that the world really does not need another grief book. This is a voice of dubious and unhelpful thoughts that have been screaming at me a lot lately, so my voice of conviction and faith must step up and be louder. I am reminding myself I can do hard things! I am humbled and grateful for the support and trust and anticipation that has been lavishly given to me. I do trust that if nothing else my book will serve as a gift to my sons as a way to remember their wonderful loving father and pass his legacy to their children, and just maybe, a story of their mom’s resilience, redemption and grace. I’m eternally grateful for your grace filled and life saving care, concern, and communication with my family and me from day one on December 8, 2020. As the ending of “Outta Nowhere” says, “to be continued….”

Creating a blog is an idea I toyed with for years… and then vacillated over for years more. Friends often told me how much they loved my Facebook posts during our joyfully chaotic parenting days. I even imagined blog names: A Milam Minute Milam Monday Musings Life, Love, Laughter, and Lunacy A Tot, a Teen, and One In-Between I could never decide. And then life happened. So the blog never happened. Then… death happened. The journals I kept throughout Bob’s long illness and after his death slowly became my Facebook posts. Friends encouraged me to turn them into a book. So I gathered those journal pages and compiled a manuscript. I sought publishers. Two said no. Two said yes. Edits happened. Some things were cut. Some things I wasn’t yet ready to share. But the end of this book says not "the end " but to be continued " This blog is how the story continues. Now that the book has been birthed, so has its sibling—this blog. Naming it was surprisingly easy. “Making Do While God Makes the Way.” Those words were spoken by our pastor , Scott Dickinson during a Christmas Eve message early in Bob’s illness. We watched virtually from his hospital room on a cold, rainy, and very strange COVID Christmas Eve. Scott spoke of Mary and Joseph—how they had to make do, to improvise, as they trusted in God’s care and providence. They set out on a risky and obligatory journey. The conditions for the birth of our Savior were bleak. They must have felt disappointed, lonely, and afraid. Yet also faithful, hopeful, resourceful, and resolved. “Making do while God makes the way.” That night, alone in a hospital room Bob and I felt those same emotions—disappointed, lonely, and scared… but also faithful, hopeful, resourceful, and resolved. Thanks be to God. Scott graciously gave me permission to use that phrase for the name of this blog. (And who knows—maybe someday it will appear on a mug or a t-shirt.) “Making Do While God Makes the Way” reminds me of God’s grace and promises—that I am never alone and that no matter how hard life gets, my family and I will be okay because God holds our future. It helped me be okay when I was not okay. It reminds me that when I cannot see God’s hands, I can still trust God’s heart. Because God lives, I can face tomorrow. These words have also become my honest answer to the often-asked and greatly dreaded question: “How are you?” “Making do while God makes the way.” Not “good.” Not even “okay.” Those would feel fake. I have learned to reject the idea of “fake it till you make it.” Instead, I try to grow, stretch, and learn while showing up to life exactly as it is. This blog will be a place where I: Share some of what I left out of Outta Nowhere" Fill in missing pieces Answer your questions Continue the story God is still writing If you are walking through grief… If you are waiting on healing… If you are trying to trust God in the middle of uncertainty… You are not alone. This is me, making do… while God makes the way. Welcome to my blog. Just as Outta Nowwhere ends with , "to be continued, this blog is only the beginning. I’d love for you to come back and walk this journey with me as we keep trusting God together, one day and one prayer and one word at a time—making do while God makes the way.