I often update this journal when I am taken out of the flow of my ordinary days - it seems that those are the only times I can process life and complete thoughts, and these are also the times where I am left with nothing that can do to distract myself....where I am once again faced with the weight of the load that I shoulder, and grief comes so close to the surface that it cannot be ignored. Usually this is during hospital stays with Clark, but today I am on my own as I travel home from the funeral of my dearest friend, Rachael Stowe, whose writings and posts carried me through admission after admission with Clark. I would bookmark her posts on What if we fly, and gift myself the time to read them in my most lonely and isolated moments alone in the hospital with Clark during covid. In those moments, where I have often felt so lost, angry and bitterly sad, reading Rachael's words were a balm. They helped me to regulate and bring my brain back to calm. To feel peace in my soul and to have something to grab onto and be able to say, "okay, this is my way forward. This is my next step." To choose joy amidst suffering, to plan to allow myself to stop and just be in the ordinary moments, to sit and watch the dust sparkle in the sunshine as it pours through the kitchen window. To make plans to snuggle and read aloud, even if only one page of a book we've been dying to get to. To hang the twinkle lights I've been planning to hang for months. To trust that the Lord has already given each of us the grace to weather what we find in ourselves in the midst of. To pull my head above water and remember for the hundredth time that I'm not alone, And to know that I had and still have a beautiful intercessor in Rachael.

As I pulled up the caringbridge I realized that it was exactly a year ago today that I wrote, and as I was writing, so grateful that Clark was being discharged, I was also texting back and forth with Rachael in hopes of seeing her, her husband Jeff and their beautiful children when they came to town. Rachael's treatment had been delayed, so her family took the time to come to DC for a much needed time away from home. And our family was so excited to be a large part of their itinerary. Between her treatment schedule and Clark's hospitalizations, it truly was a miracle and a gift that the timing worked out just perfectly. Rachael and I had both prayed for this gift of time, and the opportunity developed almost overnight. Somehow that week Clark had almost nothing scheduled as far as appointments, which is very rare. And we were able to be flexible and spontaneous the entire time they were in town. 

We had dreamed of such time together because we had spent so much time praying for one another. Rachael and I grew up together, but college took me away from Indiana and times of visiting were few and far between. Fast forward into marriage and family life where we reconnected at a best friend's consecration. A couple years later when Rachael's youngest was born just a week after Clark, and her diagnosis came less than a year later, covid crashing upon us all in the midst of it. 
We spent these last couple of years sharing the things of daily life, raising young children, homeschooling, and minimalist living, but even more than that we shared late night texts of prayers quickly answered, crying ourselves to sleep in sadness and grief over one another's suffering as it made our wife and mama hearts ache to see each other go through what were given to carry. We rejoiced for one another as we held joy and struggle, miracles and grief in our bodies, hearts and souls - reminding each other how good God is and that he will never leave us, even if at times he seemed, at least to me, so very far away. 

Our girls became pen pals very quickly and their sweet connection was immediate. 
They have been known to discuss literature, saints, and everything under the sun in their letters and are currently co-authoring a book as they write each letter back and forth. Our time together was such an immense blessing and the girls were thrilled to finally meet in person. 

For months after, Rachael and I talked about how much it meant to just be together, meet each other's families, and just soak in the beautiful hearts that we have been sharing with one another from afar. Our time together was an absolute Godsend - a highlight of our lives that we would forever hold in our hearts as a true and beautiful gift. 

And then a few months later we were able to travel to see Rachael and her family, squeezing out every possible moment together, watching our children play, sharing dinner and dessert and a sleepover for the girls, and just being in the same room, Rachael and I, holding our youngest boys cradled in our arms, exhausted and far too tired to still be awake, burying themselves as deeply into our bodies as they could. And we just sat there, in our exhaustion, Rachael not well from her latest treatment and Clark not well from the metabolic challenges that color our lives, sharing what was on our minds and hearts. I think we both knew that this might be the last time we would see and hug each other, but hopeful that we were wrong. I think Rachael knew better than I, or maybe I just wasn't willing to believe it. I realized as we left town that I didn't get a selfie with her. I started to feel anxious about it, but convinced myself that I would have another chance. 

And then, just a month ago, I received one last text from Rachael. She was not well, and the end was near. I was so touched that she took the time to let me know. More honored than ever to be her friend, walking alongside her as the end we hoped would be far off came ever closer. 

In the days leading up to and following her death, more than once I picked up my phone to text her for prayers. More than once I found myself in the places I so often shared with her. The 2am cleaning up of another vomiting cycle, threatening to have us heading to the ER or another hospital admission. And as I grabbed my phone to ask her for prayers, all in the same moment realizing that I could no longer text her, the tears streamed down my cheeks and the deep feeling of loss set in. What will I do without you, Rachael? Who will lift me up in only the way that you were able? I barely needed to speak before Rachael truly understood what it was that even my own words would fail to fully express at times. What will I do without the confidant whose prayers and intercession permeated the background of so much of what I have shared here on our caringbridge?
Why do the holiest and most humble ones always seem to die so young? 

And as I sit here, my heart crushed for her husband, her precious children, and all of her family and friends who know and loved her and who she loved so well, I know that this is not the end. I am convinced that Rachael was a living saint. Her death will have a ripple effect far beyond anything that we might ever know or see. And I hope to feel her in my days and nights, knowing that she is near, praying for us and she did when she was alive, now watching over us in her own loving and tender Rachael way.

Rachael, dear friend, you have flown for the final time. I love you. I miss you. And I can't wait to hug you when it's my time to fly.