Grief.

I’ve tried to pinpoint the triggers. Sometimes I can, sometimes I can’t. My mind wanders into open doorways of memories way too easily. It seems to come over me in waves like a high tide. If I’m observant, there are signs the water is rising, but there comes a moment when the waves crash over me, and I’m pulled into an underwater current going farther and farther from the surface.

I can’t breathe.

Even in the middle of the day, my world is gray, my movements slow, the sounds around me muttered, and my brain disengaged.

The days of extreme grief strung together for weeks at a time. I wondered if I’d ever come up for air again. I longed to see the land and shed my water logged clothing for sanity and stability. I longed to see the sun and run on the sand, holding hands with my kids.

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While Papa was settling in at the assisted living place, my mom and I were left with the question of what to do with his house, and all the things in his house.

My parents moved to Arkansas right after Caleb, my oldest was born. My mom says it’s my fault… I got married and moved out of the house at 18, leaving my parents early empty-nesters.

To combat the empty void, my mom decided to pursue her doctorate degree at North Texas. I’m pretty sure she also re-modeled her bathroom, redecorated and painted a few rooms all in one summer too!

So 4 years later, Ph.D in hand, she’s ready to teach at a University but there was not a position for her in Tyler or Dallas. She began putting out resumes right as my pregnancy test turned positive. At the time I hated to tell her to stay, because we didn’t have deep roots in East Texas yet. Adam and I both grew up there but we didn’t have jobs that we wanted to be at for the rest of our life. We had thought of moving too. I thought it’d be our luck, that I would convince my parents to stay close and then we’d be the ones moving. For all we knew, we might join them in Arkansas.

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The day we returned home from Arkansas, the Lord moved mountains for me. The family Papa stayed with while we were gone confirmed he had digressed beyond our level of care.

There was a fairly new assisted living facility in our town that we checked on before bringing Papa to our house. At that time it was full, with a waiting list.

Now desperate, we called again. The moment my mom called the lady on the other end said, “Well actually we have a room available right now. If you want it, I’ll write your name down and hold it for you.”

Ummm, YES!

We pulled in our driveway at 4:00 p.m. on a Monday, and by 4:15, I was in the office signing the papers. I didn’t want anything to happen to that room.

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Life went on pretty well with the kids in school. Papa had lived with us for 6 weeks when we realized this wasn’t going to work much longer. It was actually the weekend my adoption was finalized (if you haven’t read that story, it is a MUST! Not only is the story heart-warming but it also won a writing contest and I got to have a 1-on-1 meeting with Bethany House Publishing!) that we realized the magnitude of the situation.

It started with an argument over Papa saying his electric razor was at his house. I was helping him pack his suitcase for the weekend – he was staying with other family while we went to Arkansas for the adoption court date.

“Why would it be at your house Papa? I asked. “You don’t go over there to shave.”

“Sure I do!” he bantered back, in stubborn Smith fashion.

“Papa, you’ve never taken a shower over there before,” I reiterated, racking my brain trying to figure out where he was coming from.

“Yes I have. I did just yesterday,” he stated firmly.

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