Category Archives: God’s faithfulness

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 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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May 1, 2013 · 5:36 pm

Towards the Sound of Guns.

DSC_0135The other day, I picked up Kellan’s copy of “It Happened on the Way to War”, and began to read. Authored by a marine, he references over and over again the idea that “marines move towards the sound of guns.”

Towards the sound of guns. I’ve mulled it over and played with it in my mind—this idea of running towards what most people sprint away from. It has arrested and engaged my attention largely because I feel like moving towards the sound of guns is precisely what so many people did with my family while Ian lay dying in the hospital.

So often, my parents and I would look at each other gratefully in the wake of someone’s extravagant kindness and exclaim, “I NEVER would have thought of that!” Whether we’re just a special brand of insensitive or simply complete and utter dolts was never determined. What we do know is that the way that we care for people in the heat of battle will never be the same again, thanks to the sweet lessons that we learned from the friends that loved us so well.

This blog comes from a fellow learner. The following are five helpful things that I’ve been taught over the past couple of months—things that might prove to be helpful to you as you step into the messy sea of humanity outside of your front door, and put flesh and bones on who Christ is and what He came to do

1. Move towards the sound of guns. If you remember nothing else, please remember this. I was most grateful for the people in my life that ran “towards the sound of guns”. People that did it understanding that there would be nothing comfortable or safe about walking onto the oncology floor or into the ICU—and that it would only get worse as I burst into tears or ranted or numbly refused to say more than four words to anyone. [It was always a crapshoot.] These were the people that showed up. I think about the first week of Ian’s diagnosis, when his organs began to shut down and he landed himself in the ICU for the first time. [That punk always had a flair for the dramatic.] My apartment was a five minute drive from UNC Hospital, and I’d convinced my bleary-eyed parents to get some sleep with the promise that I would be by his bed the second that the nurses let visitors back onto the floor. There was very little light in that dreary, gray room, and every day sobbing people filled the halls as someone else died. Ian had an angry-looking tube protruding from his pale neck as a dialysis machine filtered his blood, and he could barely move his hand or flutter his eyes. It was the worst place to be.

 For me, initially it was always hardest to walk into the hospital. Whether it was into the oncology wing, or into the ICU, there was a curious emotional rush that came with actually stepping foot into the building. That early morning as I steeled myself to go sit with Ian in the ICU alone, my roommate Ashley grabbed my arm and told me that she was going with me.

She was in grad school with ZERO time to spare, and I vehemently insisted that she shouldn’t come. But seven AM found Ashley lugging a cooler of snacks and my computer into theDSC_0148 ICU, arm in arm with me. Both of us in sunshine yellow gowns, blue gloves and hair nets, she sat there all morning, praying with me, reading to Ian with me, and simply not letting me be alone. I was so grateful.

I think about Amy, who showed up the night we were told that Ian would probably die—three impossibly long weeks before his actual death. I texted her asking her to pray, and seconds later my phone lit up. “I’m on my way”. Ignoring my stubborn insistence that she didn’t need to come, half an hour later she found me crumpled over a chair in the waiting room, sobbing. She threw her arms around me and sobbed too.

I think about Michelle, who as Ian lay dying in the final days of his life, would watch over him with me as my parents occasionally escaped for an hour or two to debrief. We’d each hold one of his hands, and we’d sing to him, pray over him, chat with him and tease him as the steady rush of the ventilator hummed in a dark room.

Each of those women ran towards the sound of guns. Now, there were days during those last three weeks in the ICU that I refused to step outside to see anyone. There were days that I asked people to stay away, and I sincerely meant it. There were days that I knew friends were sitting at a neighboring Starbucks or parked in the critical care waiting room “just in case I needed them”, and I never even said hello. I STILL have a thousand unanswered texts and emails from friends [we’ll get to those in a moment]. People ran towards me with no expectations placed on how I would respond. They were simply there. [And the night I decided after a week and a half of not leaving the ICU that I couldn't go on without a piece of Tia Maria cake from the Twisted Fork, Ben was ready and waiting to load me into his car.]

 2.      Release your expectations. My Facebook messages and emails are STILL backed up with hundreds of notes. Over the course of Ian’s illness, I began to pick up my phone less and less until I never picked it up at all unless I absolutely had to. During those last three weeks that Ian was in the hospital, I NEVER responded to a text unless it was DSC_0216imperative. Don’t misunderstand me—it was life-giving every time I heard from someone. Sitting beside Ian’s bed, I listened to every voice mail  read every text and email [often out loud to him!], and opened every card. I was so grateful to the people that consistently reminded me that we were not alone. I simply did not have the emotional capacity to respond. And that was okay.

 3. If you want to help, there are almost always practical things you can do. I think about the night Ian was diagnosed. Danielle ran home to grab the bedding and pillows off of her bed, so that my Dad wouldn’t be cold and [extra] uncomfortable as he slept beside Ian’s hospital bed. I think about Jess and Ben, who made an enormous dinner [healthy, and in disposable containers! Make it your mantra.] and delivered it with hugs and a card. I think about Haley giving me a hundred dollar bill to pay for parking in a card that reminded me that I was not alone. I think about Gretchen and her chicken pie and caramel latte, Heather and two pieces of cheesecake, Amy and two dozen cupcakes, and a thousand other meals. The people that not only said “let me know how I can help”, but “I’m bringing food, what time should I come?”.

If someone’s world is falling apart, they often haven’t the foggiest idea as to what they need. “What can I do for you?” will garner exhausted, blank stares. “Call me if there’s anything you need” will leave your phone silent. Move towards the sound of guns. While Ian was sick, people:

  1. Showed up at my parent’s house with groceries.
  2. Landscaped their yard without ever asking.
  3. Coordinated dropping off/picking up my little sister from ballet.
  4. Cleaned their house.
  5. Texted INFORMING [not asking] that they were bringing dinner to the ICU. [Man can only survive on hospital chili for so long!]
  6. Texted, emailed, wrote cards and called with no expectation of a response. And said as much. Hallelujah.

 4. Offer an escape. I think about Danielle sitting with me in the waiting room and insisting that we watch an entire episode of New Girl and just LAUGH. [And let me tell you, that show is HI-LARious!] I think about Jess, Haley, Gretchen, Ashley, Hartley, Michelle and Danielle showing up at the door of the ICU with a bottle of white wine, glasses, and binders of notes as they planned my wedding and I drank. I think about the friend that snuck wine coolers in to my Mom. [I’m telling you, if you don’t need a drink in the ICU, …well, you’re probably a Baptist.] The point here is, sometimes your friend will need to cry. Sometimes she’ll need to laugh hysterically about the fact that ANOTHER person just died in the room next door. [True story. The vicious cocktail of grief and no sleep makes it difficult to muster appropriate emotional reactions.] Sometimes she’ll need to be really angry, sometimes she’ll need a distraction, sometimes she’ll need you to just stay away because she has zero emotional energy left, even for you. Loving someone in the midst of the darkest time of her life is an art, not a science—but love always implies some sort of action.

5. Pray. I remember walking into the waiting room and seeing Hartley and Michelle on their knees, begging God to heal my little brother. I remember friends that wouldn’t leave without praying with me. I remember texts, emails and voice mails voicing prayers that reminded me that even when my exhausted heart ran out of words, thousands of people were storming the gates of heaven on my behalf. On Ian’s behalf.  [It was the only way I fell asleep, many nights.] Get loud. Let them know you’re with them. Pray like it’s YOUR little brother dying in the bed in room 17. Remind them of hope-of mercies that are new every single morning. Scream with them that it SUCKS, and insist with them that Jesus is good no matter what.

There are caveats to this, and I’ll talk about those another time. The examples that I’ve given are a simply drop in the ocean of kindness that was lavished upon my family during [and after!] Ian’s five-month bout with cancer. We are indescribably grateful for the multitude of you that loved us so well in the midst of the battle.

What have you found to be helpful as you’ve cared for people?

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April 26, 2013 · 8:18 pm

The Bathroom Floor. [A Broken Hallelujah.]

JCP_3471 bwI am thankful for a husband who loves me even when I’m breaking. Who knows when I’m crying on the bathroom floor, and instead of going on a run or telling me to get up, comes to sit down beside me and pulls me, shaking, into his lap. How did you know I was crying? He smiles softly. I’m your husband. I always know. And I’m not going anywhere.

God tells husbands to love their wives the way that he loves the church. Honestly, I think he knew that sometimes, we would have a hard time seeing him another way. Kellan is to incarnate God’s love towards me. And right now, Kellan is how I see him. Quietly. Softly. I’m your God. I always know. And I’m not going anywhere.

Sometimes, you can’t get off the bathroom floor. And what you need is not a God who tells you you’re fine and pulls you to your feet—what you need is a God who holds your hemorrhaging heart. A God who understands what it is to watch someone in your family struggle to breathe and die.You will scream if you hear “light and momentary” when your heart knows that in sixty years tears will still burn at the back of your eyes when Ian isn’t there on Christmas morning. That the soundtrack that has played in the background of your life will now forever be marred by curious dissonance of a key misplaced. No matter how happy I am, something will always be missing. Broken.

Tragedy is an interesting thing. Without warning, you join the massive ranks of bloodied, red-eyed, broken people. People suffocating under the weight of an impossible ache that feels like it will never, never go away as they struggle to get out of bed and answer phone and drive to the grocery store in a world that they no longer understand.

It makes me think about Mary.

Her brother died too, after all. I imagine the raw panic that welled up inside her as Lazarus lay white-faced, laboring to breathe, and she stood by helplessly. Maybe it was the first time she’d called his name, and he’d simply stared blankly through her. Maybe it was the wheezing as though he was drowning and everything in her felt like she was drowning with him. Maybe he could no longer move to motion for a glass of water or squeeze a hand. Her big, strong brother looked so frail laying there in that bed—nothing like the kid she’d grown up with. Mary did the one thing that she could do to help, and sent word to Jesus to come quickly—because she just KNEW that He could save her brother.

She waited for him to come-and every agonizing minute felt like a thousand. I imagine her sitting by Lazarus’ bed, holding his hand, fighting back the tears that threatened to consume her as she thought about how they’d playedJCP_1584 bw house together when they were little. Sure, he’d pretended to hate it-but secretly, he’d loved every second of hanging out with his sister. [Even when she made him be the dog.] She thought about the first time he’d fessed up to having a crush on the neighbor’s daughter. She’d pretended to be surprised when actually, she had known for months because that’s how sisters are. She thought about the walks they used to go on, conversations around the dinner table, and the incessant teasing that she’d always made a grand, indignant show over.

Mary waited for the only one who could heal her brother. She watched panic fill his deadened eyes as his dry mouth searched for air it could not find. The wheezing grew louder, and slipping in and out of consciousness he would sometimes moan, and sometimes a tear would roll down his cheek. As she wiped each one away, she would have done anything in the whole world to save her brother.

Mary held his hand the whole time. And with tears streaming down her face, she crumpled over her brother’s body as he shuddered one last painful time, and then silenced.

When Jesus arrived days later, she hadn’t slept. Her eyes were red and swollen, her head was pounding, and she walked towards him unsure whether legs could carry a heart that heavy. Her lower lip trembled as she quietly whispered, “If you’d been here, my brother would not have died.”

My question has been different. You see, Jesus was there as Ian died.

JCP_3555 bwLord, you were there. You saw every labored breath, every weak move of his hand, every teary, fearful glance towards the monitor beside his bed. You heard. You never left. And my brother died.

I find no answer as I ask God why he said no. Instead, I find a God that cries with me. That hates it even more than I do, and that longs for the world to be restored to what he created. I find a God that is redeeming all of the ugly, sad things in the world, and in the meantime sits with us on the bathroom floor.

If we claim to follow God, we must join Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego and decide that He is good and worthy—PERIOD. That He is better than life itself. And while I would rather He’d taken mine than Ian’s, I with them cry that my love will not waver “even if He doesn’t save”. For the believer, this must be our defiant “nevertheless” in the face of broken, hellish ugly. This is not what you intended, it’s not what you created, and you’re redeeming the world from sin and death. You’re coming back, and you’re going to make all of the sad things become untrue. And until then, you ache with us.

I can offer nothing but a broken hallelujah.

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February 28, 2013 · 6:33 am

A Time to Dance.

DSC_0117It’s impossible for me to think about dancing without thinking about Ian.

When we were little, my Mom and Dad used to have us kids [at the time, just Ian, Stephen and I] clean up the kitchen after dinner. This inevitably took worlds more time than would have otherwise been necessary, because somewhere between clearing and rinsing, one of us would begin to sing. Before anyone knew what had happened, we were busting out three part harmonies and singing our little hearts out, dancing around the kitchen with reckless abandon. We watched a lot of old musicals growing up [Singing in the Rain was a favorite], and I think we just thought treating the kitchen as a stage was entirely normal. I remember one of our favorite songs to sing:

Heaven is a wonderful place

Filled with His glory and grace

I want to see my Savior’s face,

Because Heaven is a wonderful place.

It was the first song we ever learned a three part harmony to, and we couldn’t sing it enough because we thought that we were straight-up-awesome. Lest I mislead you to believe that we were particularly spiritual children, I ought to confess that if we’d learned “Apple Bottom Jeans” first, that probably would have been our song of choice. But it happened to be a song about heaven.

I remember the day that I learned how to swing dance. I came home and immediately made Ian and Stephen dance with me in the kitchen for hours—Ian was mesmerized. IMG_1672My brothers loved knowing that they could flip their big sister around-and everybody knows that it’s better to drop your sister head first onto the tile floor instead of a middle school honey that you’re trying to impress. [And let’s be real—Ian was always trying to impress middle school honeys.]

Dancing quickly became one of Ian’s very favorite things to do. We spent many high school afternoons dancing in the kitchen as I would teach him new turns and flips that I’d learned. When he hit college, the student surpassed the teacher as he went on to participate in competitive ballroom dancing. He loved it-in fact, he had excitedly promised to teach my Dad and I how to waltz for my wedding.

Ian never got to teach Dad and I our dance. He’d roll his eyes if he knew that Dad and I watched a YouTube tutorial in the kitchen a couple of days ago, and then promptly decided that we could simply wing it. I wish more than anything that he could have been there to teach us, or that Ian and I could have had the dance he promised me at my wedding. He was so excited for March 2nd.

The past months and weeks have been full of mourning for my family. We mourned the loss of Ian’s health with an abrupt cancer diagnosis. I mourned that night as I rushed to the hospital with the large pizza he’d asked for, barely able to read the words “Cancer Hospital” on the doors through frightened tears. Barely able to believe them.  I mourned the nights that I spent wandering the hospital halls with Ian as he got his exercise—the kid who literally would run circles around me on runs together had trouble shuffling along for more than a couple of minutes. [I would do DSC_0447lunges as he walked—telling him that he wasn’t challenging me enough. :)] We mourned when we had to settle for a fake Christmas tree at Christmastime because he was too sick to have a real one in the house. We mourned the loss of his curly “white-man-fro” the day that we shaved his hair off in the same kitchen we used to dance in. For the past several weeks, we have mourned-[is there a stronger word?]- as his body deteriorated more than I ever thought possible—and the boy that used to pick me up and do curls with me became the boy that could barely squeeze my hand. I have been overwhelmed by suffocating, numbing grief as I spent too many hours to count sitting by his bed, holding his hand in room 17 of the ICU. “ Ian, I’m here. Ashley’s here. I love you so much. You’re doing a good job, buddy. You look great! We’ve got this. I love you so much. I’m so proud of you.” Over. And over. And over again.

I prayed for him. I sang to him. I read him emails from sweet friends. I played a twenty second clip of his acappella group singing “Lean on Me” to him at least a thousand times—holding my phone up against his ear to make sure that he heard.

You may not have ever known my brother [and oh, I wish you could have!], but he’s never been a “mourning” kind of kid. In fact, I’ve never known someone so full of life-always moving, always singing, always joking and telling Emily’s dog how much he hated him and banging out new songs on the piano and complaining about girls and dancing. He looked like he might burst at any second from pent up energy and joy!

If I could change this, I would. If I could bring my little brother back, I would—I’ve never pictured my wedding day or the rest of my life without him. I still can’t. Poor kid,IMG_1431 I don’t know how many times I made him play “wedding” when we were little—it’s certainly a scene he would have been very familiar with. But somehow, in all of His goodness and sovereignty, God chose to take Ian home. I hate it. I don’t want it. I don’t understand it. All I know is that God never changes-even when white blood cells and lungs do. When eyelashes are gone and breath is labored, God is still good. When skin is pale and the only sound you hear is the steady rush of a ventilator in a dark room, God is still good.  When hands can no longer be squeezed, when you realize that your kids will never grow up knowing Uncle Ian, when you get home from the hospital and walk into his room just to try and smell him—God is not doing what we want Him to, but God is good even then. He is incapable of being anything else.

I don’t know much. I just know that the first day I got to see Ian in the ICU, I cried over his broken body and begged God to let me switch with him. I fervently meant every word—if you’re a big sister, you understand. You protect. You take the hit. I begged God to let me climb into that ICU bed—stick the vent down my throat instead! He’s too little. I can do it.

I begged, and very distinctly heard Jesus say, “Ashley, I already switched places with Ian.”

While I mourn the fact that my baby brother is gone, I know that God loves him with an intensity that I could never match. I know Ian’s having a BALL right now—there are no tears for him! [And vain thing that he was, I’m sure he’s excited to have his hair back.] And I know with absolute certainty what Ian would say if he could talk to me right now. He’d cock his curly head to the side, raise a sarcastic eyebrow at me, grin, and tell me to go dance like I meant it. Yesterday was the worst day of my whole life—but it was the BEST day of Ian’s. He got to go home.

DSC_0035And so I choose to celebrate. I celebrate every minute of the 21 years and 187 days that I got to be his big sister. I celebrate his life. I celebrate the beautiful truth that Ian knew Jesus, and is in heaven right now—and I get to tackle hug him the second that Jesus takes me home.

Ian loved me, and he loved Kellan. Two days before he was rushed to the ICU, we sat around making a list of all of the things he wanted to do after he’d beaten Bessie. [Something he never questioned would happen.] The very first thing out of his mouth was, “I want to come visit you and Kellan and go see a Broadway show in NY.” The very last time that he smiled was when my Mom told him that Kellan and I had just picked out our wedding bands. March 2nd is not a time for mourning—Ian would HATE that, and that would not be an accurate picture of what March 2nd signifies. God has done something beautiful in bringing Kellan and I together, and Ian was a part of it. He would want us to celebrate. And celebrate, we shall.

If you’re coming to our wedding on Saturday, you may think it’s ill timed. You may feel odd, but as my Dad mentioned to me just last night, we believe that God timed this exactly how he wanted it. We are devastated and overjoyed all at the same time—and what a sweet thing to have so many people that have loved us and prayed for us through this roller coaster ride come together over the next couple of days! You are the people that have walked with Kellan and I through our relationship, and through cancer. You will walk us through the coming months and years-and words cannot describe how grateful we are for you. We’re excited to see you. We’re excited to dance with you!

Baby brother, I miss you so much it hurts. I will every single day for the rest of my life—every single time I sit down at the piano or watch Singing in the Rain or go dancing or do anything at all. I’m so glad that you don’t hurt any more—that you have your curly hair back, and that you get to watch everything happen as Kellan and I promise each other for better or for worse.  There is so, so much joy in that—and I know you share it. Dance in heaven while we’re dancing down here—I just can’t wait to dance with you again. :) I love you forever.

There is a time to mourn and a time to dance. -Ecclesiastes 3:4

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