Author Archives: Ashley

May 17, 2013 · 11:40 am

Anchored.

DSC_0346I packed up a Budget truck the morning after Ian’s funeral and puttered onto the highway knowing exactly one person in the great city of Albany. I wake up next to him every morning. There is not a familiar winding road or an old friend’s knowing smile or a “usual” cup of coffee in this whole arctic state. To muddy already-confused waters, every unsuspecting New Yorker that I encounter meets “Ashley Dickens”.

What you see is not what you get, New York. It’s not your fault. You can’t know that just a couple of weeks ago I was Ashley Peterson. [Actually, legally I still am because, well, too much change.] I was Ashley Peterson, and I had two little brothers not just one and a job I loved and people to go drink caramel lattes with at a moment’s notice on a Tuesday and I held my baby brother’s hand the afternoon that he stopped breathing which happened to be 72 hours before I walked down an aisle in a white dress.

You can’t know that. You can’t possibly know that everything I am in this state is everything that I’m not. And truthfully, I’m not sure how much to tell you because nobody likes to be the sad one. Loneliness is amplified when it feels like the world around you is still laughing and for the life of you, you just can’t remember how. Y’all know I’d rather laugh than cry, but it doesn’t always happen these days.

Part of me thinks that I can sleep grief off, much like a nasty cold or a headache. Two aspirin, a glass of water and eight hours in bed and I’ll wake up remembering normal. Yet each new morning, I find it again. Curled up next to me, staring me in the face, pressing in on me and quietly reminding me that it’s not going anywhere. There is an awful sinking in my stomach as I remember that it hasn’t even been three months since Ian stopped breathing, and I probably have so many more months to go before I finally get to see him again. The very idea can leave me so profoundly exhausted that I can barely stand the prospect of dragging my grief out of bed for a whole new day.

Some days are better. Some days I can laugh about milk or the Flying Biscuit [though really, did any of us laugh about that?], and those days are good to have. Other days, my heart just throbs and it’s hard to breathe.

I say this because sometimes, it’s braver to be Clark Kent than it is to be Superman. I’ve received enough emails from hurting people that read this blog to know that I am not alone, and you aren’t either.

There’s a song that I must have played for Ian in the hospital ten thousand times. A piece of it says:

Give me faith to trust what You say

That You’re good, and Your love is great

I’m broken inside, I give you my life

I may be weak-

But Your spirit’s strong in me.

My flesh may fail,

But my God, you never will.

Hebrews 6:19 says, “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”

Lately, I cling to that idea of hope as an anchor. When waves of grief threaten to sweep us away, we are to be anchored in something far weightier. My hope is in a God who does not change even when five sit at a dinner table where six belong. My hope is in a God who is incapable of being anything but good to me, and anything but good to Ian. My hope is in a God who cannot, will not fail even on the many days that I crumble. My hope is in Jesus, who prays for me when I don’t remember how. We must decide that God is good-PERIOD-before cancer. Before the miscarriage, the freak accident, the lost job, the broken marriage. God is either good, or He is not. We are either anchored in His unchanging goodness towards us, or we are mercilessly tossed about by an ocean of sin ravaging the world today.

The effects of sin may leave us broken and bloodied, but they will never leave us destroyed. Jesus made sure of that when he hung broken and bloodied on a cross in our place. And though a violent battle rages, the war has already been won.

May your soul be anchored in hope this weekend.

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Filed under God's faithfulness, Grief, Hope, Ian

May 16, 2013 · 11:01 am

Got Milk?

DSC_0011Confession is cathartic and this is mine: I have a highly illogical but very real fear of running out of milk.

I mean that quite literally—there are few things in life that make my heart race and bring me closer to the brink of losing my ever-loving mind like an almost-empty milk jug.

The explanation is deceptively simple: I stir skim milk into my Carolina-blue mug of caramel truffle drip coffee every single morning.  If you’re the kind of person that channels Snow White when you rise with the sun and greet the day by cheerfully  singing songs to small woodland creatures, I salute you. My Mother used to be one of you, and when I was a little girl she’d often wake me up by singing to me. I recognize that this ought to have been one of those precious moments that people make Hallmark cards about, but I’ll have you know that the second I figured out how to start locking my door at night, I did. And we owe our present loving relationship to that sage six-year-old decision of mine.

Y’all. Until my first cup of coffee in the morning, I am hanging on to this world by a gossamer thread and the hopeful gurgle of my coffee pot is my proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. I stumble out of bed convinced that my name is Phyllis, and often refuse to respond to anything else despite the trivial little detail that nobody has yet been notified of the change.

The bottom line here is that coffee is critical to life as I know it. No milk in the morning=no caramel truffle coffee=Ashley behaving something like Cruella Deville from 101 Dalmations. Normally I love a good puppy, but sans coffee I am entirely capable of skinning a small army of them and promptly proceeding to prance around my apartment in my new puppy fur coat singing “Baby I’m a fiiiirreewooorrrkkk!”.

I might recommend staying away from myself before cup number three every morning.

The milk thing is easy enough now that I’m married, given that I do most of the grocery shopping and thus get to decide how much chocolate pie we’re going to eat on any given week [answer: at least one] and whether or not it’s rational to buy two gallons of milk at a time. [It is.] This was NOT always possible when I had roommates who rotated buying milk with me, and didn’t always share my dedication to milk in the mornings. [The HUMANITY!] Kellan and I had a coming to Jesus moment about milk early on in our marriage [though who are we kidding-it’s going to be “early on in our marriage” for quite a while, still], and my heart melted just a teensy bit when I discovered two jugs in our fridge upon my return to Albany on Tuesday.

The man gets me. What can I say? I think it’s one of the sweetest things about marriage, thus far—someone knowing all of your little idiosyncrasies and neuroses, and loving you without a single “unless”. To be both known and loved is beautiful.

Wedded bliss had a close call yesterday afternoon when my husband almost had to hop a plane for an impromptu business trip. Mercifully it was postponed until next week at the last possible second, and so date night is saved! With milk in my fridge and my husband at home, I think we can already declare this weekend a winner. :)

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Filed under First World Problems, Love, The love of my life.

May 15, 2013 · 11:51 am

Of Tacos and Moons.

Home again, home again! [Or perhaps more appropriately, whereIlive again, whereIlive again.]

Yesterday, I put on my blue suede shoes and boarded a two hour flight from RDU to Albany. Every minute had all of the pent-up, gleeful anticipation of Christmas Eve—I was just silly excited to FINALLY see my husband again! I married that man because if there’s one thing that Sweet Home Alabama taught me, it’s that marriage means you get to kiss your husband whenever you want.

And I want. Distance puts a damper on that, thus distance=not okay.

Leaving this time was an enormous  step up from a the first time that I left RDU to fly back—that time as I sat at gate A25, I was valiantly fighting the lip-quivering urge to  ugly-cry like a small, emotionally disturbed child, and trying to determine which of my friends would be most likely to come pick me up, hide me in her bedroom closet and NOT tattle on me for ditching my flight.

Don’t hate me for my emotional stability and rational decision-making.

Reunited at long-last, Kellan and I arrived back at our apartment and I melted all over the tile kitchen floor because ROSES. Not only had my devastatingly handsome husband carefully arranged pink and yellow roses in a mug [Bless him, he couldn’t find the vase!], but every inch of our apartment was spotless. He’d even folded up the bathroom towels just the way I like them because the man knows that his wife is neurotic and nothing gets me like a well-folded towel.

Hello, Sailor!

Amusingly, a quick perusal of our fridge showed that like a dog to it’s vomit, a husband without his wife will return to his old ways and  four rather suspect pieces of deli turkey,a box of instant mashed potatoes [a phenomenon that I am utterly convinced will usher in the fall of human civilization as we know it] and an oversized package of mini kit kats presented too much of a culinary challenge for a Tuesday night. Serendipitously, every Tuesday some of Kellan’s buddies from work partake a little tradition that they like to call “Taco Tuesday”, and when Kellan offered to take me I felt like Mary Bailey when George offered to lasso her the moon. [“Do you want the moon, Mary? I’ll do it. I’ll lasso you the moon.” BestillmybeatingHEART.] Now, rumor had it that Taco Tuesday is hallmarked by cheap margaritas and cheaper tacos, and so I didn’t hate it when an over-packed restaurant necessitated a game-time switch to a quaint little brewery called Druthers, where Kellan and I ordered matching his-and-her steak and spinach salads.

Unfortunately, there were no leftovers and so Fancy and I are off to the grocery store. Wherever it is. :)

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Filed under The love of my life., Then I found $5.00

May 14, 2013 · 8:53 am

My Eleventy-Billion Dollar Desk. [He Sees.]

Once upon a time [oh, just a couple days ago], I wrote a blog about a little black desk. A dreamy little number that I’d seen and fallen hopelessly, irreversibly in love with, but ALAS could never be mine because it was eleventy billion dollars.

That day, my perfectly-lovely-in-every-way dearest friend from growing up in Ukraine commented on a link to the story, saying “Ashley. I want you to have that desk. You need to buy that thing for yourself, and I would chip in a few dollars to help you! I’m sure other friends would too!”.

I thought it was precious. Precious and outlandish and heart-warming–…and I didn’t give it a second thought. I didn’t give it a second thought because the LBD that I’d fallen in love with was far too extravagant a purchase for me to even consider it this side of forty. Or a hundred and twelve. Owning it was as tangible to me as owning my own, personal submarine.

I logged on to facebook later that day and to my utter astonishment-…well, THIS:

photo (1)

To my chagrin, my sweet friend Colin had started an online campaign where people could donate money to buy my frivolous little LBD. His description read as follows:

We all love Ashley. If you can’t remember why, start by reading here:

http://ashleypdickens.com/2013/05/08/my-little-black-desk/

And then recall that her ability with words is amazing.  I, on the other hand, do not get along with words.  So, the only way to thank her is to buy her the little black desk so that I can continue to read the words in a way that make me happy. 

I would pay $10 for a book that is trash compared to Ashley’s writing.  So, I figure, the least I could do is contribute $20 to a desk that will make her writing at least 3x as amazing.

When we reach our goal of 689.89 (including shipping and taxes!), we will tell Ethan Allen to “SHIP THAT DESK”!

If Ashley says “This is absurd,” you know this is a good cause.  Nothing is better than things that you don’t think you will ever get.  So give a bunch of money to something awesome.  Get her this desk!

P.S. Kellan has promised to give free room and board and coffee to any friends who contribute and then promptly visit them. 

I paused to look up aneurysm  in my medical dictionary, confident that I’d just experienced one. What!? I felt strangely like the first and last time that I tried a deep fried twinkie at the North Carolina State Fair-a sort of strange mix of wonderful and what-have-I-done. I had never been so mortified and felt so loved all at the same time! The absurd, precious gesture all by itself was what stole my breath away—and truly, it never occurred to me that it would actually work. I mean, sweet idea, but ain’t nobody got time for that!

Except, it seems that people did, in fact, have time for that. A lot of people. People that love me and love Kellan and care about hard years and what and if I write. From friends that danced with me at my wedding two months ago to friends from elementary school in Ukraine that I haven’t seen since I was twelve. My sixth grade teacher. My in-laws. My parents. My Aunt and Uncle. Friends living across the country and across the world. My sweet husband. People that should have spent that money on the houses and kids they’re saving for or the missionaries they give to or any number of things that really matter-but chose to spend it on me instead. Grateful tears spring to my eyes just thinking about them all.

Five days later, I was the baffled, rather speechless owner of an eleventy-billion dollar desk that never would have been mine any other way. Y’all. I feel so very, undeservedly, extravagantly loved. That silly piece of furniture is infinitely more special than it ever could have been had I ever defied reason and ordered it myself–and not because I love it. [Though I believe that my original blog leaves little room for discussion on that matter.] It’s special because I love the people that gave it to me. And for the rest of my life, every time that I sit down to write at my LBD, I will think about the way that those sweet people extravagantly, irrationally loved me. That eleventy-billion dollar little black desk points me to a God that sees me. A God that sees me in the midst of a world wracked by cancer and grief and a thousand other real problems, …and somehow, the trivial little things that matter to me still matter to him. God sees me. And God cares about my silly, little black desk.

I am indescribably grateful to those of you that cared, too. Thank you for reminding me that he sees.

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Filed under Blogging, God's faithfulness, My favorite people

May 13, 2013 · 11:08 am

Temporary Sting.

DSC_0005Saturday morning [the day that Ian graduated] began with a jolt as the phone on my bedside table began to buzz at 7:30 AM. It felt like it didn’t stop all morning-messages and phone calls from sweet friends that were praying for my family poured in all day. Offering to attend the ceremony. Offering to bring wine later.

We walked on to NC State’s campus, and everywhere we turned happy families were taking proud pictures with their grinning, red-gowned graduates. The joy in the air was palpable—and we didn’t belong. As we walked across the brick sidewalk, I remembered Ian. I remembered driving him to work at his coffee shop the summer that we both lived at home and shared a car. He would often ask to pick up breakfast on the way, and would happily munch on his egg mcmuffin as I lectured him on the perils of fast food for twenty minutes. [I’m a big sister. It’s what we do.] I remembered Stephen and I making him Mexican food at Stephen’s campus apartment, right after I moved home from Senegal. I remembered visiting the dorm room he’d hastily cleaned up right before I arrived, and seeing a gargantuan pile of easy mac spilling out from beneath his rumpled bed.

I remembered Ian’s other accomplishments that we’d celebrated as a family. His first, fumbling piano recital. Little hands struggled to find the right keys and an exceedingly proud face beamed from the piano bench. I remembered sitting in the front row as he and his curly hair starred in Oklahoma, and each girl in the audience swooned. I thought about every play, a cappella concert, musical, soccer game, and tae-kwon-do meet. My family had always been on the front row for each kid’s accomplishment, whatever it was—and now, we were slowly walking towards Ian’s last.

I found myself in the front row once again, as administrators sat my family right in front of the graduates. A thousand curious eyes bored into the backs of our heads as Ian’s story was explained. Mom walked to the stage to receive his diploma, and the audience rose to give him a standing ovation. As if they were wide-eyed children with their noses pressed to the window looking at a terrible accident from the safety of their own cars—everybody in the room gratefully thinking how awful. I’m so glad that’s not me. I would have been thinking the same thing had roles been reversed. We then clapped as everyone else’s Ian walked across the stage one by one.

I left as quickly as I could. Ben and Michelle had insisted on coming [and true love is sitting through ANY graduation—but especially this one], and they took me to grab lunch and go to Saturday night church. We sang a song called “Come Behold the Wondrous Mystery” and I cried because the idea that God sent his son to die for me can never again be glazed over or trite after you’ve watched your parent’s son die. I cried thinking about heaven, grateful that Ian is there and longing to join him. I cried because death has been defeated, and the sting is only temporary. I cried because that temporary sting throbs with a dull roar and aches in every piece of me.

The gospel matters. When curly hair falls softly onto the kitchen floor, it matters that you have been loved with an everlasting love. When white blood cells flicker and falter and fade, it matters that you have been relentlessly pursued by the God of the Universe. When your hold your little brother’s swollen hand as he dies three days before your wedding, it matters that God is before all things, and in him all things hold together.

It matters that the sting is temporary

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Filed under Family, Grief, Ian

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