Tag: Psalm

Posted in August 6

The Price You Pay For Answers.

Posted on by imtaylorwalker

I’ve always had a habit of getting invested in the most irrelevant things. Once my curiosity is peaked, you can bet I’ll be doing an internet deep dive for all the details. My husband used to joke with me and say, “Okay, Google…” anytime he knew he was about to get me started on something.

My brain does something like this…

“Holy cow, why are cashews so expensive?” *Googling…* “So that’s where cashews come from? Wait, what’s cashew apple? Why have I never seen a cashew apple at a store?” *Googling…*

Yes, I’m insane. I recognize this. But seriously, if you didn’t just stop to google a cashew apple, WHO are you? And HOW are you just content with not knowing something? I need to know your secrets.

Usually, this characteristic is completely harmless. Knowing random information about cashews never hurt anyone. In fact, I’m counting on this to help me win at trivia night one day. But there’s a reason for the saying, “Curiosity killed the cat.” Sometimes, the information isn’t what you expect. Sometimes, you see things you may be better off turning a blind eye to. Sometimes, you cause more harm than good.

But that’s just the price you pay for answers.

**If you haven’t read my post, The Call, pause and do that now. It’s good context.**

Caught up? Okay, on we go.

When Riley spoke on the phone with Dr. Nelson, she told him the wreck was an accident. There had been a terrible rain storm, and the other driver hydroplaned, resulting in a head-on collision. At this point, no information was disclosed about this driver. I didn’t know who it was, if they were dead, alive, in jail, in a coma… nothing.

One of the first questions I asked Dr. Nelson at the hospital – “Is the driver alive?” I had to know. I thought I was prepared for the answer. I thought I knew what she’d say. Because how could anyone walk away from a wreck like this? There’s no way, right? Wrong.

“The driver was a young man. He’s completely fine. He sustained no injuries.”

She went on to say that it was just a terrible accident due to the weather. Nothing could have prevented it. And she wanted to believe that Mom and Bruce did not suffer.

At that moment, I didn’t have the capacity to really stop and think about all she said. My brain was just trying to keep up. So much was happening.

On the way home, I received a phone call from the local sheriff. He asked me if I had spoken with anyone else regarding the wreck. I told him what little information I collected at the hospital, but that was all I knew. He informed me of the driver’s name – Nicholas Sponholz – and the charges they gave him. And that’s when it happened. The curiosity peaked.

It’s almost funny to look back now. Had my curiosity not gotten the best of me, I would have believed the wreck was just a freak accident. I would have clung to the words of Dr. Nelson, thinking Mom never suffered. I would have lived the rest of my life in ignorant bliss. Sounds kind of nice. But that’s not how this story played out. Because once I started digging, I couldn’t stop.

The short version is this…

The wreck was not just a freak accident. It could have been prevented with a touch of common sense and courtesy. Nicholas was accelarating… in a monsoon… 65 in a 55… passing a vehicle that was probably just being mindful and cautious of the rain. His speed caused him to hydroplane from his lane, over a grassy median, into a street sign, across another lane, and into Bruce’s car. Bruce took the direct hit and died on impact. Mom survived an hour, confused and in pain, before she died.

What that story doesn’t tell is the fight it took to get these answers. The lawyers. The bills. The phone calls. The EMS reports. The medical examiner body diagrams. The witness statements. The expert opinions. The depositions. The disappointments.

For over a year, my brother and I clawed our way to the truth. We wanted answers. We wanted an apology. We wanted justice. I’m not sure we ever fully got any of those things. Just limited answers, half-truths, and no apology.

Was it worth it? I’m not sure, really. I guess that depends on how you look at it.

So many people told us to move on – Mom wouldn’t want this for us. Those words fell on deaf ears. Our minds had already been made up. We needed this guy to take some responsibility and own up to his carelessness. Our criminal system is weak, at best, and it was failing us tremendously. This felt like our only shot to hold him accountable. But, in order to do this, we had to pay a steep price.

We had to read and see, in grueling detail, the final moments of our mom’s life. What she felt… how her body responded… what she looked like. We had to sit in depositions, answering 100’s of questions from a lawyer that did his best to minimize the value of Mom’s life. We had to listen to Nicholas push aside every. single. question. about that day with a ridiculous, repetitive response of “I don’t recall.” These are all things we’ll never be able to unsee or unhear.

But would I do it all again? You bet.

She was my mother. She was worth the fight. She always will be.

We didn’t get everything we’d hoped for. Of course, Mom would’ve had to walk through the doors for that to happen. Even in the disappointment, I cling to the hope that our fight will be the very thing that prevents this from happening again.

Throughout this journey, there was a particular verse I repeated over and over (and over) again. I wrote it on note cards and mirrors, highlighted it in my Bible, and even sang it in a catchy tune to make sure I always remembered.

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.

Psalm 46:1

On the days I felt I was drowning, I clung to these words. God was my refuge when I was consumed with anxiety. He was my strength when I was too weak to move forward. He never wavered, even when I did. He was my constant. My calm.

The good news – He still is. Our God is the same yesterday, today, and forever. No matter the valley you find yourself in, you can always cling to that truth, friend. I know this because I’ve witnessed it. And you will too.

Posted in the girls

What They’ll Never Miss.

Posted on by imtaylorwalker

Grief has layers. LOTS of them. It makes me think of that line from Shrek. Yes… I’m actually about to quote a Shrek movie. Please don’t leave. “Ogres are like onions. They have layers!” To me, that’s grief – an onion (or ogre) with endless layers.

There’s a list a mile long of things I miss about my mother. She was so deeply woven into every aspect of my life, like any good mother would be. I miss her voice. I miss her high-pitched laugh. I miss her obsessive need to check in every couple of hours. I miss her calling everyone a “goober”. I miss her asking to pray for me. I just miss her. But this particular post isn’t about what I miss. It’s about my girls… and what they’ll never miss.

There are very few memories I have from my childhood that don’t include my grandparents. Summers spent fishing and four-wheeling at Miller’s Campground… Sundays spent in Siler City listening to Papaw preach… Never hearing the word “No” come from their lips (well, minus the times Mamaw Fletcher would chase me with the flyswap for being too sassy). Core memories at their finest. I can’t imagine what my life would have looked like without them.

Insert onion peeling.

The layers of grief seem to just keep appearing, no matter how much I peel. And the worst layer is grieving for my children. It is… hard. I don’t really have a better word for it. It’s just hard.

They’ll never get to have sleepovers with Mimi. Or go on “Girls Trips”. Or get spoiled with her random gifts. They’ll never see her in the stands. Or hear her tell stories. Or call her with questions. “Secondary Loss” is what professionals call it… The ripple effect of the primary loss. Something about putting a name with it makes it sting a little more.

I remember the very moment the ripple effect became reality for me. I realized Sadie would never have a picture made with Mom. Not a single one. Ellie was only 11 months when Mom died, but at least she had pictures she could look back on. Sadie was robbed of that. And the thought of her never getting to see herself with Mimi crushed me.

Secondary loss doesn’t feel so “secondary” if you ask me.

But here’s the punchline of it all. They’ll never know. They’ll never know what they’re missing out on because they’ll have no reference point. She was gone before she even had the chance to make an impact on them. She didn’t have the time to make lasting memories. Ellie was too young. And Sadie wasn’t here. And the ugly truth is – you can’t miss something you never knew. And that’s the hardest part. I’m left to mourn all of the “could have been” memories with Mimi for them.

So what’s my ray of hope here? Truthfully, I’m still searching for it most days. This particular layer of grief keeps a dangerous hold on me. I often struggle to see how God can use this layer for His good. My mind will fill with thoughts like, “God wouldn’t have taken her if He really loved you.” Or, “You must have really messed up for God to let this happen.” When these lies slip in, all I can do is cling to Psalm 118:1,6:

Oh give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;
for his steadfast love endures forever!

The Lord is on my side; I will not fear.
What can man do to me?

In my darkest moments, these verses offer two simple, powerful truths. First, God loves me. No matter what my spiraling thoughts say, I cannot deny God’s love. It says it right there in His Word! Second, God is not against me. He is not out to destroy me or see me in ruins. He can’t be because, once again, His Word says so!

I don’t know about you, but I find so much comfort in those truths. To never have to doubt my Savior’s love or question where He stands – what a relief. I may not have this particular layer of grief figured out. I doubt I ever will. But I can move forward with the knowledge that God is holding me and my girls in His loving arms.

And He’s holding you too, friend.

Posted in prayer

When I Couldn’t Pray.

Posted on by imtaylorwalker

From the moment I received the call, I couldn’t calm my thoughts. It was like a broken record playing in my mind. I was constantly in a state of trying to convince myself this wasn’t real… she couldn’t be dead. I’d tell myself, “She’s just on a vacation on some tropical island with no internet or cell service. She’ll be back soon.”

That sounds delusional as I type it out. But I think I needed the delusion at the time. I needed to not face the facts. I was trying to keep my baby alive, and the truth was just too much weight to bear. Any time I let reality set in, I was met with sheer, uncontrollable panic. But as long as I lied to myself, I could keep going.

Being in denial is A LOT of work. Especially when you’re surrounded by constant reminders that your mom is, in fact, dead. My mind was working overtime to keep the lie up. It was almost impossible to focus on anything else… including prayer.

It’s not that I didn’t want to pray. I desperately wanted to. I wanted to beg God for answers. I wanted to ask Him for help. I needed to talk to the One who could heal this hurt. But I couldn’t. Any time I would try to pray, my mind was pulled in 50 different directions. I wasn’t able to get out more than a couple sentences before I was swamped with thoughts like, “You can’t think about this, Taylor. You can’t have a panic attack right now. You can’t burden your baby’s health with this grief. Just forget about it for now.” So, I stopped trying.

It wasn’t out of anger toward God. Because honestly, at the time, God was the only one I wasn’t mad at. I knew that He was the reason I would get to see my mom again one day. He was my glimpse of hope. I couldn’t be angry at Him.

I don’t think I realized it at the time. But I know now that I stopped trying to pray out of fear. Fear that prayer would ruin my delusions. Fear that prayer would make me aware of my new normal. Fear that prayer would hurt more than it would heal. I felt so guilty for not praying, especially at a time when I needed to cling tighter to God than ever before. But I was so stuck in fear.

The only way I could really communicate with God was through music. I would hear songs at church or on the radio, and I’d think to myself, “THAT’S what I want to say to God.” And a lightbulb finally switched on in my mind. I closed my eyes and said, “God, please accept my songs as prayers to You until I can get my thoughts together.”

And that’s what I did for about the first six months of my grief.

I would whisper an “Amen” at the end of any song I felt drawn to. When I found ones that pulled heavy on my heart, I’d listen to them on a loop and say, “Lord, this is my cry to you.” Some of my most played songs were Same God, Goodness of God, Hymn of Heaven, and My God is Still the Same (Go ahead and save those to your playlist – you can thank me later).

I’m not saying I took the best approach. It was messy. But I really believe the Lord offers us so much grace in our grief. Scripture is filled with verses about weeping and mourning and sorrow. Look at just about any chapter in the book of Psalms, and you will see those emotions displayed in great detail. The most captivating part about these recurring Scriptural themes is that God’s promise to listen and comfort always follows. And in that promise, I find peace.

If you’ve found yourself in a season where it seems hard to get your prayers out, I hope you’ll give yourself permission to try different ways to communicate with God. Romans 8:26 says,

The Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.

Maybe you can communicate through songs of worship. Once again, the Psalms are a great point of reference, as the authors often tell us to sing to the Lord. We are told to use our voices to make a joyful noise and lift up praise to Him. This repeated command gives me complete confidence that the Lord hears the songs we cry out, and He knows the posture of our hearts.

Or maybe you can communicate through journaling. Many, including myself, have found it’s easier to stay “on track” with a prayer when you’re forced to put a pen to paper. It can allow time to pause when your mind may wander. When you’ve collected yourself, simply pick up where you left off.

Journaling prayers also gives a physical way to chart your “progress” with grief. Don’t mishear me – you’ll never get over your loss. However, I know there were days I convinced myself I would never be able to feel happiness again. But through journaling those intense prayers of pain, I have been able to look back and see firsthand that my joy and happiness was not forever lost like I’d thought. And that’s given me so much hope for the days and years ahead.

When you’re in the thick of grief, I think it’s easy to feel like you’re doing everything wrong. The way you grieve, the way you parent, the way you work, the way you pray…

Unfortunately, grieving doesn’t come with a “one size fits all” survival guide. We’re going to get a lot of things wrong in this season, but there’s one thing we can always get right – opening our hearts up to communication with God. He doesn’t expect it to be perfect. He just expects us to do it… in whatever way we can.