A Belle Abroad

I was 18 when I met Chris.  Fresh out of high school, green as I could be, and learning how to transition from Small Town, NC to campus life at UNC.  That was the last time I was “single” – a few short months of my freshman year of college.

The last time I was “finding myself”, I was barely old enough to vote, couldn’t legally drink a beer, and didn’t have a car at my beckon call.  Last time I was “discovering Katie”, I’d never had a job.  Last time I was “figuring myself out”, I’d never paid a bill, been financially responsible, or even had any real experiences “adulting”.  I was still naive enough to believe that I’d always be a size 6 (or smaller).

So today, as I “rediscover”, “re-create”, and “redefine” Katie, I find myself going back to that time.  Because most of the pieces of myself that evolved from that time evolved with Chris.  I grew into myself, but as a couple with him.  The “me-ness” was more like “us-ness”.  There isn’t anything wrong with this.  But it does make for some additional needs to focus on “me-ness”, defining myself in my individuality, rather than my duality with someone else.

It’s tricky.  I’ve made it an adventure, of course.  But because of that, I tend to reflect back on that younger version of myself.  I reflect back on who I wanted to be, what I wanted to accomplish back then, and what defined me then.  Not attempting to go back to that time and pretend the last 15 years never happened.  But rather, returning to my initial values and what defined me at my core.  In essence, taking it back to my roots.  (*internally humming Garth*)

Not long ago, I came back across the following.  It’s a letter of advice written to me from my dad, thanks to my 12th grade English teacher and some homework assigned to parents.  It’s still to this day one of my most cherished possessions.

After re-reading it – through some fresh tears – I realized going back to my roots wasn’t such a bad idea.  My dad had some pretty great advice for me back then.  Good enough that I think it still applies today.  I’ve reflected on it a lot recently as I re-work my place in the world, and feel confident in who I am as just myself.  Maybe you’ll find some value in it too.

February 7, 2001

Dear Katie,

Today you are 17.  Very soon you’ll be 18, and considered an adult by most facets of society.  In some ways, you’ve been an adult for years.  You have assumed responsibilities for your actions and met the challenges life has presented you with a sense of confidence that has allowed you to be very successful.  In other ways, you’ll always be my little girl.

In three months, my little girl will graduate from high school.  In August you’ll be off to college to enjoy one of the greatest adventures of your life.  You’ll have more freedom than you can imagine.  You’ll be in charge of your life.  You’ll decide when to get up, when to clean your room, when to go to class, when to eat, who to talk to, how much to study, if at all, and when.  You’ll be exposed to people from all over the world with varying educational, religious, and ethnic backgrounds.  You’ll hear more lies, see more drunks, and be exposed to more foolish people and actions than ever before in your life.  Enjoy it all!!!  Learn from it.  Experience some of it.  Grow to appreciate life to the fullest.  Observe other people and their individual lives.  Watch the sun shine but smell the vomit.  Find your passions.  Take a chance.  Remember your grandmother – call her.  Dreams are the only thing you haven’t accomplished yet – work toward them.  Cherish your friendships – new and old.  Focus on positive results.  Overcome your fears.  Not all rules are good – break some.  Exercise your body and your mind.  The truth is always the best answer.  Read anything that interests you.  Be a good example.  Know that you are loved – home is only a phone call away.  Continue to lock your car.  Look both ways when crossing one-way streets.  Read something that doesn’t interest you.  Dance.  Call your mother often.  Brush your teeth.  Laugh when you’re happy.  Don’t come too early or stay too late.  Be true to yourself.  Always do your best.  Trust in your gut feelings.  Help someone out every day.  Change your sheets.  Smile.  Leave your watch at home sometimes.  Appreciate opportunity – use it wisely.  Watch lots of movies.  Time is limited – use it to your advantage.  Save your money.  Sing in the shower.  Hug your father when you see him – he’ll always be your biggest fan.

You’ve always tried to do your best at everything you’ve attempted.  Be true to yourself, learn everything you can, continue to do your best and you will follow a path of success on each and every step of your life.  May your days of college enrichment enhance your life and prepare you for a life of happiness with a rewarding future.

Love,

Daddy

I had a blog post drafted many months ago with this title of Triggers.  It listed everything from Edward Jones offices to crepe myrtles to Hot Tamales to the UNC Athletic scandal.  It listed song after song.  It listed movies and genres of movies.  It listed television shows.  It listed cities and countries and theme parks.  It listed so many things that I thought of at the time as “triggers”.

I never published it.  Because as it turns out, those were all just memories compared to what I’m facing right now.  Those were all just triggers to remember some wonderful moments with Chris compared to the trigger staring me in the face, as I type this.

Because today, at this very moment, I’m sitting in Raleigh Orthopaedics.  I’m sitting in the exact same waiting room I sat in April 2016.  I’m going through the exact same process I went through before.  I’m staring at the exact same carpet, the exact same furniture patterns, feeling the exact same hard chairs from before.  I’m listening to the same staff say the same things I heard before.  My wifi even remembered the old passwords.  And I’m doing it all by choice.

There are parts that are different.  It’s a different surgery (thumb instead of hip).  Recovery time is much shorter.  Mobility will be much better.  And the relationship is certainly different.

See, I started dating.  And after a lot of really awful, horrible, disastrous experiences (more on that later), I tried online dating.  And after even more awful, horrible, disastrous experiences (more on that later, too), I met someone I liked.

So now I’m seeing someone steadily.  Someone that respects both my past and my plans for the future.  Someone who cares deeply about my well-being, maybe even over his own.  Someone who speaks fluently in all the languages of Katie – sarcasm included.  Someone who walked into surgery today with a shirt on that said, “That’s a horrible idea.  What time?”

So when he finally admitted that he would need very minor surgery, he did so very, very carefully.  And he said he would have everything taken care of – someone to take him, pick him up, etc. – unless I wanted to do so.

And after some long considerations, and some tears, and some long moments asking myself my motivations and concerns, I offered to face this head-on.  Not for him.  I mean, I like him.  But I’m not putting myself through this for him.

And not for Chris.  I’m not facing this all over again for the sake of Chris.  There are many things I do for Chris, and will continue to do and work towards for Chris.  But this isn’t one of them.

This demon, this awful memory, this insane trigger I’m choosing to face head-on, I’m facing for me.  I’m sitting in this waiting room for myself.

It is painful.  It is uncomfortable.  It is awkward.  I mean, let’s be real here:  how many girls have sat in this waiting room for 2 different men?  Ooooof.

But here I am anyway.  Facing the awkward, uncomfortable, and painful memories.  For one single reason.

You can call me crazy.  You can call me insane.  You can call me a glutton for punishment.  You can call me whatever, as I have no control over anyone’s opinions of me.

But the reason I sit here is because of fear.  I sit here to face fear head-on.  I sit here because I don’t want to know that something completely out of my control has control over me.  I sit here because I don’t want to know that this fear beat me.

I just cannot live with the knowledge that the fear of something completely out of my control faced me down.  Because that means that fear has control over me.  That means I’m controlled by something I loathe.  That means I’m controlled by something other than my faith.

So here I sit.  Feeling uncomfortable.  Feeling awkward.  Nervous about the nasty words that might spill out if I have to endure the “blood clot talk” again.  But I have faith that God and I will help me hold my tongue.  I have faith the strength will come when it is needed.

I did not plan to share this moment publicly.  There’s a lot I’m admitting in just under 1000 words.  But writing is my therapy.  And I obviously could use a little outlet right now.

So thanks, followers.  For allowing me my therapy.  For being supportive.  And for helping me to feel loved and secure enough to admit things I probably wouldn’t have before, but probably need to.

And if you feel the urge to pray, I ask that you pray for peace and faith, over strength and patience.  Whoever is praying for patience – you can stop now.  I’m good on opportunities to learn patience.  But faith and peace… those buckets could use some filling.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to hold my tongue when we’re discharged.  Maybe, just maybe, I’ll show the love Chris embodied and that I’ve told myself I’m working towards.  Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to look back at this as something else I’ve had the strength and faith to conquer.

I’m at least going to stretch out with my bare feet on this uncomfortable couch, and look forward to the chocolate and wine I’ll dig into later.

~Katie

Laundry:  the chore that never ends.  It is not difficult, and it is not time-consuming.  It’s just never “done”.  It can never actually be checked off the To Do list.  If it weren’t for the fact that I have no interest in it, I might go as far as to join a nudist colony – just to avoid laundry.  Well, maybe not.  But it’s certainly a good selling point.

It’s also one of the few chores that has multiple steps required for completion.

Step 1.)  Wash

Step 2.)  Dry

Step 3.)  Fold

Typically, it’s Step 3 that I avoid: folding.  And I can’t even identify why I don’t like it.  Maybe because it’s tedious.  I’m actually just as likely to wear an outfit I found sitting in the dryer as I am to wear an outfit neatly hanging in the closet.  And if others can’t tell, why does it matter?

But this time, I’ve been stuck on Step 1:  washing.  Night after night, I’ve sat in the closet, unable to complete Step 1 of laundry.  Because of Chris’ last load of laundry.

There are hundreds of things I miss about Chris.  His smile, his laughter, his horrible singing, his even worse dancing, his obsession with NC State recruiting, the way he played tag with Finley, running around the house like a giddy child.  But one of the things I miss most is his smell.  I loved the way he smelled.  And it’s something I know I’ll never experience again.

And the last load of his laundry is all that’s left of his smell.  It’s the only place I’ll be able to experience that.  It’s not even his normal scent, but rather his “been in bed for a few days after surgery” scent.  Which I have to admit, I love a little less.  But it’s still all that’s left.

So I waited.

Then somehow, on a random Tuesday evening in late July, I did Chris’ last load of laundry.

I know that sounds insane.  He died over a year ago.  So obviously, that last load of clothes was there for a while.

And had I admitted and published this particular barrier months ago, I can imagine what would have happened.  I would have publicly admitted that I knew I needed to tackle this one load of laundry.  And I’d hear you out there, telling me to “be brave”, and “you can do it”, and “God’s got this”.  I’d hear you shouting your words of encouragement to me.  Some of you may even have said, “Just wait until you’re ready.”  Friends, this laundry has been sitting here, unwashed, for 15 months.  It’s time.

I never planned to do it that night.  I had a ton of other things to get done.  Emails, my own laundry, grocery shopping, playing with Finley, bills, etc.

But somehow, after putting other clothes in the dryer, it suddenly seemed like the next load to wash.

After 15 months of that pile of laundry just sitting in the closet, night after night, that night it seemed right.

In the past, when I tried to get up the nerve, I ended up just sitting on the floor in the closet, crying.

But that night, as I picked up the basket, I smiled.  There were some tears welling up, but they weren’t the same.  They were happy tears.  Remembering memories.  And realizing I could do this.  I could do this baby step.  And I would be okay.  Because something else happened too, that night.  Something completely unexpected.  Something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.  And something I’m not sure I realized that I had not truly felt… until then.  Something that others have told me, something that I’ve said out loud to others, but something I’m not sure I really believed until now.

On a random Tuesday in July, after coming home from work, walking Finley,  and sitting down on the couch to enjoy a little homemade dinner and finally watch a little Netflix, a wave of normalcy sat down with me.  A normalcy that had eluded me for months.  But, out of the blue, it walked right back in, like an old familiar friend.  And I realized, for the first time, that I’m going to be okay.

That although life has not gone at all how I planned, I’m going to be okay.

That although I’m rebuilding my world on my own, I’m going to be okay.

That although I stumble and bumble and take missteps, I’m going to be okay.

Sometimes, I think my fear is just in letting go.  If I let go, it symbolizes that something is changing, that something is ending.  And sometimes, I’m not ready to accept that change.  Or that end.

But that night, sitting with a random meal, and a random movie, I finally felt normal again.

Sometimes, it’s the smallest tasks that weigh on us the most.

Sometimes, it’s the smallest of the baby steps that can impede our progress.

Sometimes, it’s the tiniest rocks that stop our momentum.

Sometimes, the greatest barriers are the ones we put in front of ourselves.

So, I took a baby step, I removed a barrier, and I accomplished Step 1:  I washed the laundry.

When you write from the heart, you always take the risk of the wrong person latching on to your thoughts.  People may connect with your feelings, but maybe for different reasons than what you intended.  It’s the reality of social media, blogs, and the exorbitant number of opinions floating around out there.  So, I realize that as this is published, it could be misconstrued.  But I am willing to take that risk for the sake of those for which it was meant.  I’m willing to take that risk so I can advocate for the great teachers out there, the good teachers out there, and even the well-intentioned teachers out there.  Because sometimes, you just have to risk it to honor those that deserve the risk the most.

Below is a story that very few people know.  A story about a good teacher, a year of accolades, and the price you pay to be “great”‘.

I’d always been a “good” teacher.  I guess that’s what’s expected of any Teaching Fellow.  I thought I was the kind of teacher you’d probably want your child to have.  I worked to make every student feel loved, appreciated, and respected.  I believed that every student in my class could succeed.  I worked with every child until I thought we had at least made progress.  I believed that if a student didn’t get it, it had to be a problem with my delivery, my instruction, or my approach.  I took student failure personally, feeling accountable to every student’s success.  I rarely lost my temper; misbehavior was dealt with quietly, via one-on-one student conferences.  And, for the most part, my students knew that I was there to help them succeed.

At the end of my 4th year of teaching, my principal decided it was time to “mix things up”.  I was asked to loop up with my current 7th grade Math students and teach 8th grade Math and Social Studies.  I was nervous – as anyone would expect.  Eighth graders were big, and mean – supposedly.  And I really loved my 7th grade hallway.  But I have a tendency to get bored when things stay the same too long in my career.  So, at any rate, the change was timely.

In addition, my principal asked me to take on some added duties.  I was in charge of Student Council already, including the annual pep rally and Spirit Week.  But I was also asked to help set up a school wide remediation period.  To help the rest of the staff figure out what that might look like.  To help schedule it.  To help coach others in how to use an additional 28-minute period.  To lead a lot of staff development workshops.

And as the school year started, I realized I also had to learn how to teach 2 new subjects.  I knew how to teach 7th grade math concepts:  ratios, proportions, two-step equations, surface area, etc.  But 8th math was an entirely new ballgame.

And although I was “certified” to teach Social Studies, this was very new ground.  Because not only could I not approach it the same way as I approached Math, but I also had a much wider range of student background knowledge in my classes.  So I had to get creative.  And try new things.  And get innovative with my delivery, with student assessment, with lesson plans.  I had to learn to differentiate.  Because still, I could not accept a student failure because of something I could have done differently.  To me, that was unacceptable.  To me, if a student was left behind, I felt personally responsible.  So I worked and worked and worked to ensure that I tried absolutely everything in my power to help every student “get it”.

Most school days, I arrived around 6:30am, and left between 5:00 and 5:30pm.  I took work home at least 4 days per week – papers to grade, lessons to plan, workshops to present to staff, etc.  So although I left the school building, I typically I worked another 2+ hours once I arrived home.

At the time, Chris was just starting out as a financial advisor.  His hours were just as long, as he worked to build a client base.  I half-heartedly would scrounge up dinner each night – if we didn’t get take-out – hurriedly clean up, then go back to schoolwork while he waited for me to actually sit beside him with nothing in my hands distracting me.  I was always relieved to get texts that he had to work late, because those were the nights I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about not spending time with him.

Early in the spring, after this had gone on for months – late hours, me constantly working, our time together being squished into an hour or two throughout the week – I found out I’d been nominated for Teacher of the Year for our district.  I was ecstatic!  Such an amazing honor!  In the world of teaching, there are very few accolades.  So a nomination like this could be a career highlight for a teacher.

Somehow, I made it through the preliminary rounds, and was invited to the banquet for finalists.  And somehow, through a mistake or a glitch, I was named the 2010 Teacher of the Year for Johnston County Schools.

It was a whirlwind.  There were newspaper articles, interviews, constant visitors in my classroom.  It felt like all the hours were suddenly being recognized in this new and wonderful way.  It felt like I was on top of the world.

I was even named WRAL Teacher of the Week.  Gerald Owens came to my classroom, interviewed me, videotaped me, presented me with gifts.  I don’t know what being celebrity is like, but this had to be pretty close.

Chris was excited for me too.  Although, he wasn’t very excited that it didn’t come with more monetary rewards.  I’d kept promising him that the workload would get lighter “after Spirit Week”, “after this interview is over”, “after I’m done with this staff development”, “once EOGs are done”, etc.  But after months of the workload not changing, it was taking a toll.

One afternoon, late in the spring (EOG weather), we grabbed a quick dinner at Arby’s – pretty typical.  As we were sitting over our roast beef sandwiches, Chris said the words that make you stop mid-curly fry:  “We need to talk.”

He told me he was incredibly proud of me.  He told me he didn’t want to take away from any of the awards I’d received, because I deserved every single one.  But we could not continue living the way we were living.  I could not continue this workload.  Because if I did – if the workload continued – he was going to divorce me.

And with that, at 6:18pm, at the Arby’s on Highway 70 in Clayton, my world momentarily stopped.  Because, as it turned out, no matter how many students I never gave up on, my husband just admitted it was possible for him to give up on me.

This had never occurred to me.  I knew our marriage was strained.  I knew we bickered a lot.  But I thought it was normal.  I figured it was just part of what happened.  I figured we’d both power through, and just…deal.

After that evening, I rarely stayed past 5:00pm at work.  I rarely brought work home.  If I did, I discussed it with Chris first.  And it was limited to once per week, if that.  He kept me in check, and held me accountable.  If I couldn’t get it done in a reasonable time at school, it would just have to wait until the next day.  I still never gave up on students, or teachers, or any project on my to do list.  But I stopped letting it take time from what mattered more than my job – my marriage.

Since that day in May of 2010, I’ve never looked back or regretted my decision.   Especially, not now, that I’ve lost the one thing I was never prepared to lose.

I’ve shared this story with a only handful of people, and each one has shared a similar story back to me.  Because it’s the common reality of being a “great” teacher.  It’s because we have huge hearts, and big ideas, but just not enough time in the day to do it all.

It is common.  It is too common.  Too common that teachers pour more into the feet that walk through their classroom doors than the feet that walk through their front doors at home.

It is a horrible price to pay.  A sacrifice that too many understand, and have endured.

And it is the reality of being a “great” teacher.

Many “great” teachers have made the conscious decision to simply be “pretty good”.  Because they couldn’t dedicate enough time to both.  So they had to choose their own children, over someone else’s.  Believe me, they feel guilty every day.  They want to work with every single child until they get every single concept, until they can read and understand every single word, until every student has breakfast in their bellies, and shoes that fit their feet, and knows someone loves them, believes in them, and each child has set a goal for today, this week, this year, and their whole life, and can tell you all about it.  Teachers want to do that.  And many accomplish many of those things for many students.

But there is a sacrifice.

It’s the sacrifice that no one talks about.  No one warns you about in college courses.  No teacher realizes until they’re in too deep, emotionally involved with both their job and their families.  Too passionate about education and students and learning, but also value being a sane wife, husband, mother, or father.

So they realize they have to decide between two types of guilt.  Guilt of not doing their job as well as they know they could, or guilt about taking time away from the family they cannot replace.

So most make a choice.  The one that allows them to sleep at night.  To be sure they’re not taking so much care of others’ children that they’re building a broken family at home.

It is the price you pay to be great.  Either in school or at home.

It’s the price of being a teacher.

I remember that day like it was yesterday.  I remember every conversation Chris and I had that day.  I remember every text we sent that day.  I remember our conversation on the porch that day.  I remember dancing in the kitchen that day.  I remember every tear and laugh we shared that day.

But I also remember every move I made in the middle of the night.  I remember every word of the 911 call.  Every desperate chest compression.  I remember every second that the paramedics were here.  I remember every call I made.  I remember sitting on the floor of that same kitchen, waiting.  I remember sitting on that same porch, hearing the worst news a wife can hear.  I remember sitting on my hardwood floors that I loved so much, begging the paramedics to tell me I was sitting in a dream.

But they didn’t.

I can go some days without that night ever entering my mind.  But that becomes more difficult this time of year.

Others are celebrating birthdays, and anniversaries, and baseball season, and azalea season, and happy annual events.  I am too.  But it will always be grayed by those vividly intense memories.

But I will keep going.

Because on the night of April 23, 2016, Chris Wall took his last breath on earth.  And I did not.

On the night of April 23, Chris’ life stopped, while mine kept moving forward.

And as it rolled over to the first minutes of April 24, 2016, I went from a Party of 2 with a network of friends and family, to a Party of 1 with an army of family and friends.

I went from, “I believe I’m independent, in theory,” to “I have to be independent, whether I like it or not.”

I went from happily married, to living with loss.

I know it will get easier.  I know that this Hefty bag full of grief I carry will slowly deflate, and maybe just become the weight of a more reasonable purse.  Maybe like a crossover bag, so it won’t hold me down or inhibit me as much.  Hands-free.

I miss him every day.  But I will keep going.  I don’t want to look back and know that I was conquered by something out of my control.

I may fill my next few days with distractions – questionable or otherwise.  But I will keep loving.  I will keep serving.  I will keep going.

Because I have to plan for my tomorrow’s, rather than live in my yesterday’s.

I will keep moving.

Forward.

If you are not aware, this is a semi-colon.  In grammar, it is used when a sentence could have ended; but instead it continues on.  (See what I did there?)

In mental health, it has become a symbol for pushing forward in life.  Even when the world is dark.  Even when depression, loss, or pain sets in.  Continue on.  Press forward.  Don’t give up.

In a much more enthusiastic tone, Jimmy Valvano encouraged us to do the same as he faced incurable cancer.

“Don’t give up!  Don’t ever give up!”

The world is dark and horrible and unreasonably cruel sometimes.  But it’s also beautiful and remarkable and ever-evolving.  If we let it be.  If we evolve with it.  If we become something more beautiful with it.

The Art of Kintsukuroi (or Kintsugi)

The Japanese call this Kintsukuroi.  It’s the art of repairing broken pottery with gold to show that something can become more beautiful, even after it’s broken.  It makes the broken-ness an actual part of the object’s history, rather than something that needs to be fixed and hidden.

So I might have been broken.  I may even still be.  And I may be travelling through the rest of my life, living with a deflating but always-present handbag of loss for all of my steps on earth.

But I will continue on.  I will continue living my remaining dreams.  I will continue working on loving others.  I will continue improving my service to others.

I will persevere.  I will persist.  Nevertheless.

Forward.

Do you ever hear a song and are immediately taken back in time, to a single moment, or a feeling?  It’s like a time capsule that takes us back to a single memory in time like nothing else can.  Or take us back to an emotion.  And when you hear it, everything stops – except you and that song.  Funny how songs can be so powerful that way.  Maybe it’s the hypnotic melody.  Maybe it’s the perfect string of lyrics woven together.  Maybe it’s the effortless way a word sung portrays a wider array of emotions than the same word spoken.  Or maybe it’s just the fact that, along with driving and all sports, I’m awful at singing.

But as of April 24, it will have been a year since we lost Chris Wall.  I cannot describe for you the pain.  I cannot describe for you the frustration.  I cannot describe for you the extensive number of emotions I have felt, even on a daily basis, since that day.

But these songs can.

So as another letter to Chris, here is My Year in Review, via the songs that have said it better than I can.

Dear Chris,

It’s been a year, and yet I still can’t believe you’re gone.  Maybe that’s why I’ve made it such a “Record Year“.  Maybe I’m still in disbelief.

I’m sure this isn’t what you anticipated at “7 Years” old.  I remember it rained a lot in the days after.  I imagined that being your “Tears in Heaven“.  I don’t know if you saw it coming.    Your planning says you did.  Our last day together says you did.  But I didn’t.  Maybe you just always knew you’d go first…

How was the trip on the “Stairway to Heaven“?  Mike & I considered playing it at your service, but in the end, decided you wouldn’t approve.  I remember reminding myself that at least you were finally pain free.  But I’m sure it still pained you to leave us so soon.  I could feel it – for a while at least.

Me, well, you know how that’s gone.  On the outside, I’ve been the “Comeback Kid“.  All “Eye of the Tiger“, “Fire Away“, bring-it-on kind of attitude.

…We both know I’m so broken.

I miss hearing you tell me I look “Wonderful Tonight“.  Remember when I walked down the aisle to that?  You cried – we saw you.  I guess our recessional, “God Blessed the Broken Road“, means something a little different now, too.

“My Church” has become something different than it was.  I’m trying to cope by using a “Saltwater Gospel“.  Mostly, I just like to sit on the beach and stare out at the waves, imagining you’re happily deep sea fishing, just beyond my line of sight.

Have you been looking down on me, proudly humming “My Girl“?  I’d like to think so, with all the pieces you and God are making fit together for me.  Sometimes I wonder if you’re fulfilling your promises even after death, taking “I Cross My Heart” across that eternal dividing line.

I try not to think about how much I “Wish You Were Here“.  Team Hoss is getting together, in your memory.  All your “Friends in Low Places” miss you, and want to celebrate you.  It goes without saying…”You Should Be Here“.

I’m glad you walked away experiencing “The Dance“.  You did such an amazing job while you were here.  And don’t you see how much your influence is living on?  I hope you’re at least looking back at your life in reflection, thinking to yourself, “I Lived“, and just hoping the same for me.

But you know where I am these days.  Looking for a “Parachute” to catch me from my free fall.  You were “More Heart, Less Attack“, and I’m still struggling to not be the opposite.  Or at least to not depend on a “Vice“.

I’ll never get “Over You“.  That’s not even in the realm of possibilities.  I know I am so blessed to have been loved and adored by a man like you.  Even still, “I Could Use a Love Song” these days.  I often wonder if you were the only man “Strong Enough” to handle me.   But I assume you’ll nudge the right person to walk in, at the right time, when we’re all ready for that.  We both know I’m no good at it.  Maybe you’ll even find someone to help me to become the woman you always saw in me.  So when I do “See You Again“, I’ll be a better version of myself.  For you.

So…continue to “Lift Me Up” with your memories and your planning.  And “Remind Me Who I Am“.  Thank you for not using my dreams more…that one time was rough.

We always knew “Life Ain’t Always Beautiful“; we’d experienced enough to at least know that.  But please be at peace in knowing that I have “No Regrets” about our time together.  Not one.  And neither should you.

We love you.  And we miss you, and your ability to be a “Simple Man“. Thank you for being the man that you were, and for inspiring us all to be a little better ourselves.

Until I see you again…”Somewhere Over the Rainbow“…

I love you.  Always,

Katie