When I experienced the sudden trauma of the events surrounding the Yeti’s death, I went into shock. I felt emotionally and spiritually paralyzed.

I transformed into an auto-pilot state of being.  There was no way to process what had happened. Being first on scene, I had to be interviewed by the police.  His brother asked if he had a will. I felt so matter of fact about it all.   The wind was knocked out of me.  I couldn’t even collapse, break down, scream, cry.  None of the things you’d expect.

My kids. I need to tell my kids.  How do I call my boys and tell them?  I needed help, but my person who I turned to in time of need was no longer physically here. Asking for help seemed impossible in those moments.  Someone needed to take over for me, but I felt I had no one.  I had lost my best friend, my love, my soul mate.  His family surrounded his children, understandably so.  I had no one.   What I did find was the encouragement of my beloveds spirit, guiding me through these moments and the difficult days that would lie before me.

Make calls. Receive calls. Answer questions. Call my family. Call our employers. Call his friends.  As I delivered the news, one phone call at a time, I remember hearing disbelief over and over again.

Sleep was evasive. Food had lost its appeal.  My body systems were on auto-pilot.  I later discovered these were symptoms of the shock I had experienced.

In times of sorrow, I had believed I would reach to the most obvious place for solace, to God.  My logic always told me that when someone you love dies, call on God. Except, in reality, I wasn’t able to do that. I was unable pray.  Not just in the moment, but for months.

Family and friends reached out to us in so many ways to tell me they were praying for me.  I was tremendously grateful  for every one of those prayers, because I couldn’t find my line to the Lord.

His son said to me, people are praying for us, but I don’t know how it makes a difference.  I replied, I am thankful for each of those prayers, because they are the platform that is holding us up.  Without them, we would be face down in the dirt right now.

Time passed, one grueling day after the next,  and one night, a few months into my grief journey,  I decided to try to pray.

Sobbing, that ugly, soaking, gut wrenching cry that comes in the depths of grief, I mustered up a few feeble words.  All I could say was “Jesus take away the pain”  over and over again. JESUS TAKE AWAY THE PAIN.  It was sincere. It was a prayer.

It was hours later that I realized my faith was still intact.  When I couldn’t call on the Lord, others had done it for me.  Thank you for those who prayed for me and our children.  You carried me when I couldn’t find faith in the heartbreak of grief.