RAMPART

He will cover you with his feathers,
    and under his wings you will find refuge;
    his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

PSALM 91

I fought with all my strength not to throw up on the brand-new funeral home carpet. My stomach was tied up in violent knots, and every fiber of my being was fighting the steps I took as I somehow inched forward. Someone grabbed my hand. It belonged to my cousin Chelsi. Of all the people in the room, it had to be her. There were so many times in my life that she tenderly came alongside me to do brave things. Like fearlessly jumping off the dock at the lake when we were little kids, or driving way too fast in my brand-new red Monte-Carlo when we were teenagers. She confidently stood shoulder to shoulder with me on my twenty-first birthday while I mustered up all the tenacity in the world to slam my first shot of tequila. She stood beside me on my wedding day with Riley and, with a gentle smile and nod, she beamed with approval as I stepped into the brave adventure called marriage. With her beside me, I was convinced in my bones I was invincible, and I was convinced I could do anything.

            And here she was again. In perfect timing and unison, just like every other major event in my life, her hand made sense. She met my stride, and our fingers locked perfectly. And just for a moment, I felt like a little kid again. I closed my eyes and wished with my whole heart we were jumping off the dock together, or better yet, taking a shot of tequila. Seven-year-old me would have never imagined her built-in shield and sidekick was about to walk her down the aisle of her husband’s funeral visitation. Holding her up. Steadying her not collapse on the floor. Guarding her from the chaos that was about to unfold. But here we were, about to do the impossible, together.

I snapped back to my cruel reality. Flowers and photographs of Riley’s life adorned the walkway as I approached his urn. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think straight. Maybe it was the pure shock and devastation of it all. Or maybe it was the sobering realization that Riley was truly gone, and all that was left of him were ashes in emerald-green marble. I flashed back to when I saw him for the very last time alive here on this earth. The sweet stoplight exchange. I tried to picture that Riley. His smile lit up the whole highway. Not the Riley that was lying in the trauma bay bed. Not the Riley hooked up and tangled in cords and breathing machines. I tried to hear his laugh. I tried to picture his smile. This could not be it.

All that was left was this vase of ashes.

We stood in silence and none of it felt real. His name was engraved in gold and the dates that marked his life were etched below. Just letters and numbers. My head was spinning, and I could not bear another second of the pain. That was enough. I turned around and started to walk away. My eyes were so weary. So swollen. So bloodshot.  I could not believe more could flow, yet still tears started to blur my vision and almost ruined my perfectly put-together eye make-up. Then I looked up toward the door of the funeral home.

I stood frozen.

I could not believe what I was witnessing.

There were still ten more minutes before the visitation started, but floods of people began to overflow through the doorway. I looked at Chelsi and then gently squeezed her hand. Our somber moment together was interrupted and now abruptly over. I took a Xanax, and a deep breath. I grappled with God. I desperately called on him for strength. The same strength that kept showing up repeatedly.

 The strength that made no sense.

I took another deep breath, swallowed as hard as I could and shoved them down so deep, so cavernous that they were suddenly nowhere to be found. Nausea began to take over, but I somehow ignored the overwhelm and pressed on. There was no time for hysteria, the crowd was moving towards me. In that moment I knew there were two ways I could handle this situation.

I had a decision to make.

The first scenario was me melting into an inconsolable puddle on the floor, and never recovering, a complete disaster of a woman who could not hold herself up. I was terrified because my body and mind were on the trajectory towards that scenario. The second scenario, however, offered a pillar of grace and strength. A picture of a woman held up by God’s unshakable stronghold.  I prayed to be that woman. I prayed for composure. I prayed for poise. I positioned myself next to Riley’s urn, straightened my shoulders, lifted my head, and stood up confidently. I looked at the mob getting closer. Regardless of if I was ready, I was about to mourn with the masses. I was about to grieve with hundreds. This was one of my last duties as Riley’s wife, and I was going to show every single one of them how proud I was to be his. I counted it as an honor and privilege. I knew God had already assigned my defense. He knew I needed her beside me. So I stood tall. I stood strong. Like a stunning castle on top of a majestic hillside.

A castle fully surrounded by a remarkably robust rampart.

An unbreakable wall protecting me from succumbing to the darkness that wanted me to crumble. But I was untouchable because of God’s might who lived in her.

Her safety for me did not stop there. She would go on and surround me with protection for the days, months, and years after Riley died. My built in body guard.

A vivid picture stands still in my mind, and will forever. Chelsi was six months pregnant on her hands and knees tenderly and humbly scrubbing my floors, cleaning my kitchen, folding my laundry and checking on me every single day. She sat beside me through all the horrific phone calls, the funeral planning, the paperwork, the questions I could not answer, and the conversations I could not hold. Her strength during that cold, relentless January season was unmatched. The bitter winter could not hold up against her walls of refuge for my heart. Her stability was held up by God’s righteous hand. And after the brutal and beautiful seasons we traveled and trekked through together, there came a day when death lost its gutting sting over my heart and she walked with me down a different aisle. Not one of horrowing sorrow, this time it was one of tremendous jubilation.

We exchanged a funeral for a wedding.

She sat in a chair in a fourth-floor hotel suite with her brand new baby fast asleep in her arms. Hair long blonde hair curled and pinned back seamlessly. Just less than two weeks before she brought her daughter into the world. Her eyes were tired- yet beaming. Scars still fresh, body in full-blown pain and recovery, yet there she was. Spending the morning with me on my wedding day. Then we stood beside each other at the altar. I held my long white dress and she held her sweet baby in one arm and a pen in the other. Witnessing my next chapter and signing the papers to seal the deal. She stood up in front of hundreds of people and gave a speech about our life together. Our bond, our friendship, our story. A testament of what it’s like knowing someone your whole life. A testament to someone who has had a front row seat and lived through the unbelievable joy and harrowing sorrows. 

But the truth is, I still see the beautiful little freckled-faced girl reeling in a fish. I hear her whispers and giggles when we would sleep under the stars and chase fireflies in the darkness as children. The belly laughs that would explode out of her when we were young and wild before the desert seasons of life took us down desolate roads. I remember the bliss before we were marred by death and tragedy and sometimes I grieve over those days. But I would not trade our days together now as mothers. Because it’s still blissful and filled with toddlers and babies and coffee and Jesus. And the desolate roads changed us and formed us into who God created us to be- women who chase after his own heart. Even in the versions of each other buried in seasons no one knew we were dying in. But God. He has rescued and delivered and prevailed through both our lives and gifted us each other as lifelines over and over again.

-

There are not enough pages to tell the story of us. A book could not hold all that she means to me, and unfortunately, these paragraphs do not scratch the surface of all that she has done for me in our thirty years together.

Our sacred history.

The chronicles of Kate and Chels.

Nothing will ever come close.

She listens graciously, loves fiercely, and not a word of judgment will fall from her lips. Nothing mean, or harsh or rude. Just quiet listening and sincere empathy. Self control and patience and gentleness and grace- so much grace. Through weddings and funerals and babies, joy and sorrow, life and death, seasons and shifting- she has walked tirelessly with me through it all. Guarding my fragile estate over and over again. Her strength seems to always speak for itself. It’s quiet and steady, but you know it’s there, and will not waiver. She is a beautiful wall of protection and grace held tightly together with God’s immovable might. She was built brick by brick by the one who holds the stars in his hands, who moves mountains with his power, and quiets the sea with his voice. And when he was finished forming a ferocious fortress, a remarkable rapmart, in all of his grace and mercy, when the last stone was laid, and the walls were tall and strong and good…he lovingly assigned her to me.

Thank you Lord, for assigning her to me.