I don't want your sympathy or pity...

It's time to talk about this thing that I've been carrying around for a while. A thing that I have not addressed because it hurt. And no matter how many times I sang, Blessed be Your name when I'm found in the desert place... I still felt the sting.

A day I will never forget. I even wrote a letter for the box I will one day give to my husband explaining what had happened. And I try not to litter that space with nonsensical things. (Though it's hard not to some days.)

November 1, 2010. I have mentioned this briefly before. It was a Monday night and I had only been on campus for about 24 hours after getting back from a weekend at home. I was working on Greek when I got the phone call from what my caller id said was Mom. Not knowing what she could have wanted after only spending an entire weekend with me, I answered a little annoyed at the disturbance. But it wasn't Mom, it was Josef. And I never heard his voice sound so soft on the phone before.

"Anna boo?"

"Yeah, what's up? Why are you on Mom's phone?"

"Mine's dead." Pause. "Mr. Cushing passed away today."

Pause. He has to be kidding. There's no way. "What?"

"Mom wants to talk to you."

I don't remember what she said. I don't remember much of anything as far as words go.

I remember disregarding my Greek flash cards. I remember laying on the floor; broken. I remember being thankful my roommate was at class. I remember finally crawling into bed and crying more.

When LeAnn returned I had to explain what was wrong. My words did not convey why I was so upset. I didn't know then why I was so upset. I'm still not entirely sure.

The emails I sent to my professors and boss were short. I wouldn't be in class on Tuesday due to the loss of a mentor.

A mentor.


He was a mentor, a man I respected as a teacher, as a scientist. I wrote him a letter explaining how thankful I was to have him as my middle school science teacher. How I couldn't think of anyone that could have made the seventh grade sex-talk less awkward. How his genuine concern that his students were actually learning deeply impacted my view on educators. How much I appreciated him using acid to unstick my glued fingertips. How he would have made an excellent school administrator. How I remember that he shared not only my dad's first name but also his middle name.

It's strange, the memories we hang on to.

I went home on Tuesday to vote, and also to be alone. The hour drive was rough. Voting was harder--it was at a school and one of the administrators was talking about, "the death of that teacher at that rural school." His name was Mr. David Lee Cushing, and he was one of the best teachers I ever had.


Really, I wanted to talk to people that knew who he was. (As much as I love and appreciate my roommate, she didn't know who I was talking about. And she doesn't know what to do with crying, she told me so. I love you, LeAnn.)  But we didn't talk about it. Not really. Mom said she thought it was a heart attack and Dad couldn't remember "what's-his-face's" name. So I went back to school after dinner not feeling any better.

I went back to classes on Wednesday. I think Blanco would have given me another day if I had asked. He made sure I was okay after class, offered some good words of encouragement and extra Greek help. Thursday was when all of my profs asked how I was doing. Numb.


When Friday rolled around I got dressed up after class and went back to Grand Island. It was the day of the visitation. I went into the church hoping, praying, for some closure once I saw the body. But there was no body. It was an unexpected death (and I think that's why I was shocked to tears) and an early burial. He was only 40.

While I was standing there alone, trying not to cry, I heard his dad speaking. They sound the same, and when I turned to see who it was I knew immediately it was his father. He was talking to someone about the cause of death--I had heard it was a heart attack (he was overweight). It turns out that he had some kind of disease that causes liquid to fill the lungs, I can't recall what it's called now. They thought he was having a hard time breathing, and so laid down on the floor to try to clear his airway. It was too late when he realized that his lungs were filling with fluid. He couldn't get up. He essentially drowned.

I almost lost it. He drowned. What a painful way to die. I had to leave. I went out to my car and tried to call Claire. I tried to call LeAnn. I knew they were all busy. Finally, I called Cole. He was playing a game with his family, but he took the time to listen to me cry for a good five minutes.

I called Dad, told him I was done at the visitation. I drove an hour just to stand in a room for ten minutes and not even see the body. We went out to eat together. We didn't talk about it over dinner. It wasn't until we were out on the sidewalk and I was getting ready to go back to Seward that we finally talked about it.

He put his arm around me and asked me how it went. I told him the whole story. Sometimes what a girl needs is to just cry into her daddy's shoulder when the world doesn't make sense. When I finally got myself under control (it took a visit to the art gallery where Mom shows her work) I was able to drive back to Seward.

Why is this coming up now? A friend's dad died this last month (July). And she seemed to be handling the death of her father much better than I handled the death of my teacher. The difference is that she had weeks of preparing for that loss and I was blindsided.

Life is a funny thing.

How did You go and make me pretty?

My friend, Leesha Harvey, is an aspiring musician, and she's awesome. You should go look up her music, it's great. I don't know if it's on iTunes or not... but you can do a free download of her new album, and then donate to get the lyrics and some awesome photography! Go here! (The title of the post came from one of her songs, hence the plug.) (Lisa, I think you would enjoy this.)

It's funny, I was originally going to talk about music here--one song particularly. And then, while I was getting ready to start the post that song played and that line just struck me, and it had to be a post title.

So, the main event:

This morning in church we sang "Blessed Be Your Name." Now most people know that song, especially if they attend a church with contemporary worship--it tends to be a favorite. So, it's not strange that we sang it or anything. However, it got me thinking. If there's one song that has been a theme in my life, it's this one. I mean, there are all kinds of songs that I can listen to and remember a period in my life that was totally in sync with it, but this song in particular has been with me through many storms.

Maybe there's someone out there that isn't familiar with the song. (If so, go find it on YouTube, a ton of artists sing it, feel free to get a variety!)

I just want to share with you all my journey with this song.

I grew up singing this song: Sunday mornings, and some Wednesday nights when I was in middle school and high school, and Church camp. It's been a huge part of my churchgoing experience. Most you know how it is: you sing a song so many times it can start to lose meaning. Not so with this song, not for me. It speaks to several different times in one's life that it is always relatable in new ways.

When I was first told I had to wear a back brace I didn't think it would turn into a two year ordeal. But while I was in that thing, the song was able to speak to that wilderness. "God, this sucks. Why am I having to go through this? Yet I love You. Blessed be Your name." And I guarantee you that when I was finally released from the spine doctor, my heart was singing (along with my mouth)

"Blessed be Your name 

When the sun's shining down on me 

When the world's all as it should be 

Blessed be Your name"

I found out last year that the lady that took my senior pictures, a family friend, has a rare lung disease. Basically, her lungs are turning into smooth muscle, which means no breathing once it gets too bad. She was pregnant when we found out. I was home for the weekend, or something, and Mom told me just as I was arriving. I remember going down to my room. I was angry at God. Why would He let that happen to her? She is one of the sweetest ladies I know, and she needs Christ in her life. While I was in my room, I was laying on my bed, staring the ceiling, choking on tears. Suddenly, this song popped into my head. And I sang. At the top of my lungs, not thinking about the people above me.

 "Blessed be Your name 

On the road marked with suffering 

Though there's pain in the offering 

Blessed be Your name." 

Over and over again.

"You give and take away 

You give and take away 

My heart will choose to say 

Lord, blessed be Your name." 

The idea that the life within her womb could have brought her closer to death made me feel ill. And still I sang, even though it hurt.

When I found out that my middle school science teacher had died, I was alone in my dorm room. I don't remember where LeAnn was, but I'm glad she wasn't there. I had been studying Greek. And then I wasn't. I was laying on the floor crying my lungs away, until I couldn't hardly breathe. Then I climbed up into my bed, and cried some more. I tried to sing again. I thought maybe that this loss would be easier to bear if I could honestly still sing, "Blessed be Your name, God, even though this isn't fair." But I couldn't make my lung work anymore. So I went home for the visitation. And after I spent five minutes in the room, I went out to my car and cried some more. I called my friend Cole and cried to him for a while. (Cole, I'm still incredibly thankful for your silence when I couldn't speak, and for your encouragement when I was breathing again.) When I hung up with him, I stared at the roof of my car, and I was finally able to sing again. 

"When the darkness closes in, 

Lord Still I will say 

Blessed be the name of the Lord" 

(Someday I will be able to write a more in depth blog about this, but right now I can't.)

While this song speaks to me in my joys, I find it is a megaphone to my sorrows. And today when we sang it in church I wasn't either. I was neither joyful nor sorrowful. I simply was. And that was okay. For here there may be sorrows sown, and there will be joys reaped. I'm learning that through it all, the good and the bad, God is making me beautiful. I don't understand, and it's painful, but He's doing it. And I love it. So, I will sing with arms raised and heart abandoned because I know that threw it all, even when the way is tough and my heart is numb, "Blessed be Your name!"

"I will remain silent. Time will not heal the loss. Look to the One before us. Journey this road to the Cross. And we walk, we walk. What else can we do? Though the road seems that much harder, now that we're walking without you." [Leesha Harvey]