Healing the Wound, Leaving the Scar: Memorial Day 2025

What an honor it is to recognize the most reverent of occasions, Memorial Day.  This day is profoundly personal, as I know the true weight it carries.  While we were both on active duty serving in the United States Navy, my husband, Seaman Jason Springer went overboard in the Pacific Ocean on March 5, 1997, and was lost at sea, ten weeks and four days after we were married.  Today, through the work I do with the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, I represent all the families just like me whose loved ones gave their final full measure of devotion to our country.  We come together every Memorial Day from across our great nation to remember lives well-lived in service of a cause greater than self.  

In this space we create in Washington, DC, where we pause to remember, we speak not just about the sacrifice, but about the love, the hope, and the enduring mission that continues long after the flags are folded, long after the last trumpet fades away.  We are called to do more than grieve their death but to remember their lives - and to make those lives matter through the ways we live.  

I remember the day I got the news that Jason had gone missing, and then again 23 hours later when they called off the search and declared him dead. Those moments when time stood still are seared into my memories.  Over time, as I have healed, I have also evolved, learning and growing through my grief and in faith.  And there have been many beautiful moments among the ashes.  A beautiful song I love called "Heal the Wound" by Point of Grace says:

        Heal the wound, but leave the scar

        A reminder of how merciful you are.

        I was broken, torn apart.

        Take the pieces of this heart,

        And heal the wound but leave the scar.

Never for a moment would I want the scar to go away, because it is a reminder that he lived and loved me desperately. I still carry him and his love with me - and I always will. Death and grief aren't something to get "get over," but something that stays with you - like all your scars of life.    

Death doesn't erase their love for us.  Love, in all its forms, lives on.  The love we have for those who served, the love they had for their battle buddies, for their country, for their family—those things transcend time.  The memories we shared, the moments of laughter, and the quiet times when words weren’t necessary—they live within us all, still resonating through space and time.  Those pieces of love remain, and we carry them with us in everything we do. Their mission, their purpose, their devotion to something greater than themselves—that too can serve as a beacon for us.  This can become part of our collective mission.  Together we bear the burden.  And while their physical presence is gone, their spirit, their courage, and the love they embodied live on in us as we remember them and all they stood for.

I know I’m not alone in this feeling.  As I come together this weekend with 1,600 survivors of military loss from around the country and the world, we remember our service members.  Each of us carries our own unique story of loss, but we all share the same deep love and the same fierce pride in those we lost.  For us, Memorial Day isn’t just about honoring the dead; it’s about remembering how they lived. It’s about celebrating their lives and the indelible mark they left on this world.

One organization that has been a lifeline for so many of us is the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors—TAPS.  This organization, which has supported families of fallen heroes since 1994, does more than just provide practical resources.  We offer a community of survivors who understand, who’ve walked the same road, who share the same pain. Through TAPS, we are reminded that we are never alone.  TAPS has an unwavering commitment to ensuring that survivors can continue to heal, grow, and draw strength from one another through peer emotional support.

Even more, TAPS is about honoring the memory of our loved ones in a way that gives meaning to their sacrifice.  TAPS encourages us to keep their stories alive.  We talk about them, we share their stories, and we ensure that the love they showed while they were with us continues to inspire future generations.  We understand that the best way to honor them is to live in a way that reflects their values of courage, honor, and selflessness.

Memorial Day has become much more than a day of reflection for me, but also a day of action. It’s a time to think about how our service members’ service shapes not only our lives and the world around us.  It’s a day to remember that freedom is never free, and that the peace we enjoy today is the result of sacrifices made by so many before us.  It’s a day to reaffirm the promise that we will never forget. And perhaps most importantly, it is a day we seek to lift others up and love on a community of the broken-hearted. We stand with them, shoulder to shoulder, as they remember.

This day, Memorial Day, reminds us that while our loved ones are no longer with us, their spirit endures in all of us.  Their mission, their cause, is now our mission. It is our responsibility to keep their memory alive, to carry their torch forward, and to support each other along the way. That’s the true meaning of Memorial Day—not just remembering the past, but continuing the work they started, living our lives with the same integrity, honor, and dedication they did.

So, as we reflect today on the sacrifices made, as we pause to remember the fallen, let us also remember the love that never dies. Love connects us to them, strengthens us in our darkest moments, and carries us forward with hope and resilience. May we all honor their memory and live in a way that reflects the depth of their sacrifice.

In 2 Corinthians 1:3-4, the Bible says we are to comfort others with the comfort we have been given by God. May our purpose include bringing comfort to others who are bearing these burdens, and may we honor those who have gone before us by serving others well. We are their living legacies.

Goodness of God

I came through a complicated 10-hour surgery this week, and I am doing well. Sleeping and waking haven't been as easy as usual, but the moment I became conscious this morning, the music and words of the song "Goodness of God" were singing in my head, so my first thoughts of the day were:

"I love You, Lord

For Your mercy never fails me

All my days, I've been held in Your hands

From the moment that I wake up

Until I lay my head

Oh, I will sing of the goodness of God

'Cause all my life You have been faithful

And all my life You have been so, so good

With every breath that I am able

Oh, I will sing of the goodness of God"

I don't recall ever waking up to the beginning of a song I was singing in my head. It was such a beautiful moment with God in the quiet of the morning.

Experiencing those peaceful, comforting moments makes you long for more. Whatever your day looks like, or however life is falling on you today or in this season, it's my prayer that you will take a quiet moment alone with God, let him meet you where you are, and experience his goodness as you let him lift your spirit.

Doing Hard Better Than Anyone Else: Thoughts on Veterans Day 2024

I joined the Navy at 23 years old.  The atmosphere suited me - organization, structure, challenges, the camaraderie; I loved it, and was convinced I would be the first female Chief of Naval Operations.  I lived and breathed my uniform as an extension of me.  One and a half years into my service, I embarked on another adventure, marrying Jason Springer, my best friend and a fellow shipmate.  Jason and I had gone through two training schools together and were stationed on opposite sides of the country; he in San Diego, I in Winter Harbor, Maine.  Only 74 days after we were married, Jason went overboard from the USS Kinkaid and was lost at sea in the Pacific Ocean, making me a widow one month shy of my 25th birthday.  We had only been together for 8 days of our short marriage, and his death sent me into a tailspin.  I looked for him in every uniform, and though my uniform still very much defined me, I changed so much over the course of the next year that I had a difficult time recognizing myself.  

After serving four years, I took my uniform off for the last time to go to college and study psychology.  I needed to understand how something like the death of a spouse could so fundamentally change a person.  And even though leaving the Navy was my choice, it still felt like another death, like my identity was being stripped away.  I cried the day they read me out for my clearance, and I turned in my military ID card.  Life was not unfolding according to my plan, but God’s plan for me was bigger than what I could see.  Proverbs 16:9 says it best: “In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.”  

Each veteran’s service is as unique as the social fabric of America.  I’ve met veterans from every state in the US, every territory, Africa, Europe, Asia, and the Middle East - from a white girl born in rural Arkansas to a Green Card holding Nigerian, from a black boy who grew up in the Bronx to a naturalized citizen from Lebanon.  

What each veteran has in common is a love of our United States of America - a country like no other, where freedom reigns and hope is alive.  And if anything else is universal among us, it is this - we find purpose in a cause greater than self.  In the Navy, we are taught there is no “I” in team.  One of the Air Force’s core values is “service before self,” something the Army calls “selfless service.”  As inspirational as these are, the Bible says it even better in Philippians 2:3-4 when Paul said, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit.  Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.”  Through Christ, we have inherited a heart of service and a mandate.

A few weeks ago, I went to a convening of veteran service organizations at the Bush Institute. One hundred twenty leaders from across the country, working on a broad spectrum of veterans' issues, spent two days collaborating and discussing the “Veteran Landscape.”  Among our discussions were: education and career opportunities, suicide and mental health, and how to set veterans up for success when transitioning out of the service.  There are so many issues facing veterans, but their most universal struggle relates to loss: loss of structure, loss of camaraderie, and loss of purpose.

Having lost Jason and my Navy identity, I can wholly relate to this.  I needed to find myself - find my purpose.  These experiences had to be useful, and Jason’s death could not be in vain.  On the 3rd day after he went missing, and two days after the search for his remains was suspended, words could not describe my anguish.  The pain is still vivid after 27 years.  I thought I would die of dehydration from the tears that wouldn’t end.  In the quiet of my room, I verbally cried out to God, “God, please take this away from me.  I can’t do this anymore.”  In Philippians 4:6-7, Paul writes, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.  And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”  God met me in that moment, in the heaviness of that room, and calmed the storm.  His palpable peace filled my lungs and mind, and in the greatest moment of clarity I’ve ever known, I looked at my desk and saw a brochure from the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, also known as TAPS.  I called the number and that evening met a woman named Bonnie who would go on to become one of my dearest friends.  In that first conversation, I made a commitment to “make it matter.”  And through Jason’s death, I found my purpose, as I have worked for TAPS for 11 years now.  In 2 Corinthians 1:3-4, Paul says, “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”  This is my purpose.

When I speak with wives whose husbands have died by suicide, it can be gut-wrenching.  When moms share their broken hearts, the mom in me cries with them.  When I attend funerals of our fallen heroes, it takes me back to the day a uniformed officer placed Jason’s folded flag in my hands, and I heard the mournful “TAPS” played for the first time.  Yes, sometimes it’s hard, but I had a recent conversation with General Martin Dempsey, the 18th Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, in which he said, “We have to do hard better than anyone else.”  He was speaking about veterans, but this is relevant to us all as Christians.  We draw on the strength of Jesus to lean into hard places, dark places.  Jesus didn’t run from the broken.  He didn’t shrink from pain.  He calls us into the world, starting in our families and communities, to hold these difficult spaces.  

In 1 Peter 3:13-15, Peter calls to us, “Who is going to harm you if you are eager to do good?  But even if you should suffer for what is right, you are blessed.  Do not fear their threats; do not be frightened.  But in your hearts, revere Christ as Lord.  Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.”  Our veterans might well live under this scripture, as they have since the inception of this great American experiment, sought to do good, often under threat, often afraid, and often suffering, sometimes even for years after their service, as I have seen, as many of us have seen.

Like these damaged and repaired flags, which have been gifted to us as a reminder, we each can point to our own scars and brokenness.  But just as these flags have found new purpose, through the generosity of our scars and Christ’s wounds, by which we are healed, we can proclaim a new purpose.  And with absolute certainty, we can give an account of where our hope comes from.  As the old hymn goes:

    My hope is built on nothing less

    Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness

    I dare not trust the sweetest frame

    But wholly lean on Jesus’ name

I have been married to my husband Arie for 25 years now.  By the time he retired from the Navy in 2014, the total time he had been deployed away from me and our three kids was more than 5 years.  Others who have served no doubt share similar experiences, and I recognize that you don’t have to be a veteran to understand struggle and sacrifice.  Nonetheless, in recognition of this Veterans’ Day, to my fellow veterans and the families who have served alongside them through many sacrifices, I say thank you for doing hard better than anyone else.  In the spirit of service, may we all continue to serve God by serving others, finding and renewing our purpose.  And as we lean on Jesus’ name, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” (Romans 15:13)

The God Who Sees

The God Who Sees

Last night at youth group, I had an amazing small group of high school girls who changed before my eyes over the course of an hour.  As they leaned in, their walls began to slowly lower.  Texts from two of them later revealed how deeply they needed to be seen, heard and loved.  There is so much more to unpackage, process, and be open to around this.  Their messages were heartbreaking and illuminated their brokenness, reminding me of my own recent brokenness.  I am in awe of God as I share how the last 24 hours have unfolded.

This morning, I spontaneously decided to take the day off to be with my kids.  Peace was in my heart as I showered and contemplated how we can meet people where they are.  I thought about the high school girls last night.  Praising, worshipping, and praying in my bathroom, I thought about all the people who walk around us every day.  There are so many people and so many needs.  We can't possibly see them all and pursue them all.  But what if we can help people find us?  What if the people who need prayer can know we are here to pray over them and love them as they go through their trials?  The Holy Spirit got me excited about wearing a shirt that says, "How can I pray for you?"  My hands were literally trembling with energy as I prayed about this and continued preparing for the day.  Never have I trembled with that kind of spiritual energy.  I had an image of someone walking up to me in the grocery store to tell me their story, and praying together at that moment - two people meeting God together, tears and all - pure joy and pain all in one place.

An hour later, we were late getting out the door for the Texas State Fair and were meeting friends.  Stepping out of my house to the van, I saw a work van blocking my driveway.  Here is the exchange I had with the driver.

Audri: "Oh, I need to get out."  

Driver: "I'll be done in 15 minutes."  

Audri: "If you'll let me out, you're welcome to park in my driveway."  

He began walking around to the driver's side of his van.

Audri: "How are you today?" 

Driver: "I'm doing okay, how are you?"     

Audri: "If I got any better, I don't know if I could contain it!"

Driver: "Wow, that's really great."

It wasn't an energetic "wow," but rather one of curiosity.  Hearing this in his voice, the Holy Spirit urged me toward him.

Audri: "Can I pray for you?"

Driver: "Yes, of course."

I placed my hand on his shoulder and began to pray for unspecified needs for this man.  While I didn't know his needs, God already knew and was sensitive to the condition of his heart.  When we finished praying, he looked at me from behind orange mirrored sunglasses and I could see a tear coming down from the bottom of the right side of his glasses.  

Audri: "I see you.  What's going on?"

Driver: "There's just a lot of stuff going on in my life."

Audri: "What is your name?"

Driver: "Alberto"

Audri: "Alberto, look, a week ago, I was completely empty.  I was suicidal and had completely burned myself out.  My community, the people who love me, they met me in that place and they lifted me up to God when I didn't have the strength to do it myself.  Alberto, I don't know where you are.  I don't know what you're struggling with, but I know you can't do it alone and you need God.  And to get close to God, if you don't have the strength to do it right now, the people you surround yourself with will do it for you.  You need community."

He began to cry.

Alberto: "I really needed to hear that.  Everything that you said, I was right there two months ago.  I really needed to hear this.  Thank you so much.  Can I have a hug?"

Audri: "Absolutely!"

Hugging there at the end of my driveway, two complete strangers experienced a bit of healing and a lot of the presence of God.  

Audri: "See this house?  This is my house.  Now you know where I live.  If you ever need a hug or a prayer, come find me."

This beautiful interaction with a man named Alberto at the end of my driveway, on a bright sunny day, was no random encounter.  God knew we both would be there.  The emptiness I'd felt over the last week had made space for me to be filled by God.  I'd spent the morning praising Him and listening for the urging of the Holy Spirit and my heart had already been prepared for that moment.  God had already prepared Alberto to receive that moment.

None of the events of the last week are a surprise to God.  And I won't live in shame or hide the fact that struggled to that degree of hopelessness.  2 Corinthians 1:3-4 encourages me that God never wastes a single hurt.  We are not perfected in order to serve.  It is through our brokenness that God prepares us to serve others.  "Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God."  I praise God for the comfort he has brought me through others who were unwilling to watch me suffer, and who lifted me to the presence of God when I couldn't get myself there.  Lord, don't ever let me forget my brokenness.  Amen!

You Raised Me Up

You Raised Me Up 

At 3:27 p.m., I got a text from a dear friend, "Hey Audri.  We missed you last night, but I sure hope you are feeling much better!"  He was checking in on me, knowing I had been sick with Covid for a few days.  At 4:17 p.m., I texted him, "I am physically, but please pray for me.  I feel emotionally depleted and can't stop crying."  

At 5:45 p.m., when he hadn't responded, I was gripped with guilt.  I suddenly wished I could stuff those words back into my heart.  My transparent vulnerability had laid my burden squarely on the shoulders of someone I cared about.  I immediately texted him, "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have put that on you.  I'm okay."  I lied.  All I could think was that he, too, couldn't let me be weak and was also willing to just let me go unseen.  Maybe like everyone else, he was assuming my strength.  I'm supposed to be the one others lean on, not the other way around.  He's also a leader in our church.  I'd said too much.  Now I would never be trusted to lead or minister to others.  I sank. 

At 6:39 p.m., he finally replied.  "No, Audri don't feel sorry at all!  I appreciate you sharing that with me so I can pray for you.  Is there anything else I can do for you to help with these feelings?"

Immediately, I replied, "I don't know, aside from prayer.  I appreciate your heart though."  I was already convinced that he was really too busy and was responding out of obligation, not because he actually cared.  My mind had already convinced me that no one really did.  Now I was just trying to push him away.  (I couldn't live in grace in those moments - couldn't recognize that his delayed response was nothing more than him living life, and serving others.  He was busy loving other people.  My broken heart couldn't see clearly.)

At 7:26 p.m., I left my house with no destination in mind.  I just needed to get away.  The walls felt like they were closing in on me.  Despite four other people being in the house, I felt completely unseen, and I had been withdrawing over the previous three weeks.  My noise-canceling earbuds lived in my ears.  They filled my mind with music that reinforced a growing sense of hopelessness.  At the time, I couldn't fully articulate why I was collapsing.  I kept losing myself and creating growing distance between me and my husband, me and my kids, me and everyone who loves me.  Every hurt, every sense of abandonment, every foothold of darkness and self-doubt seemed to land on me simultaneously.  My mind began to convince me that nothing would change.  I would continue to be invisible to those who were supposed to see me and care enough to do something about it.  My spiral wasn't their fault.  I wanted to disappear.  My mind began conjuring all the ways I could make that happen.  How could I die with the least impact on others?  Storm clouds formed in my mind, and within two blocks of my house, I could hardly drive through growing sobs of despair.  In hindsight, I came to realize that I was under spiritual attack.

At 7:27 p.m., as I pulled up to a stop sign, my friend finally replied.  "Of course, Audri.  I would love to get a coffee with you sometime and just catch up on how you've been post-Germany."  Over the summer, we had served together on a missions trip to Germany that had radically changed me.

At 7:46 p.m., I replied, "Germany was amazing.  God has worked on my heart so much since then.  I've never prayed so fervently in my life as then and now.  So much has changed inside me.  In a way, I feel like I woke up.  I feel like God is doing something in me.  And I'm fighting a spiritual battle.  I'm praying, singing, writing, and leaning into God more than I ever have, but...I can't eat.  I'm not sleeping.  I've lost weight.  I got Covid.  My marriage is under attack.  And I can't tell you how desperate I feel right now."  

No reply.

At 7:48 p.m., my husband called.  "Where do you go.  You sound melancholy."  I lied.  "I just needed to get out and take a walk, and I'm going to the store.  Text me what you need."  It was everything I could do to hold in tears to get him off the phone.

At 7:55 p.m., I was convinced that I didn't really matter.  I texted my friend a final, "I'm so sorry."  By then, I was sitting in a random parking lot with a death grip on my steering wheel.  I really wanted to go where no one would ever find me, and all I could do was sob.  I was done and was trying to formulate a plan to take my life.  Even then, it was tearing my heart apart.  I work with those whose loved ones have died by suicide.  The thought of the trail of destruction I would leave behind only made me cry harder, only made me more despairing.  Within less than a minute, my phone rang.  

"Audri, what's going on?"  

"Zach, I can't breathe!"

This is where it started.  We spoke for 15 minutes, during all of which I sobbed.  I poured my heart out, but I honestly can only remember feeling like my heart and mind were imploding.  He listened and encouraged.  Then I said it.  I wanted to die.  I don't think he hesitated.  He knew I wasn't safe.  

"Audri, where are you?  Drop me a pin.  I'm on my way."  

I dropped him the pin and waited, sobbing uncontrollably and holding on.  

At 8:36 p.m., Zach pulled into the parking spot next to me.  He brought reinforcements - God and two other friends from church, Wes and Caitlin.

I melted out of my van and into the arms of my friends.  All I could think to say was, "You came for me."  Even now, I'm overwhelmed nearly to the point of tears, recalling the sense of relief and love I felt.

"Of course, we came."

They poured into me.  They all hugged me and held on until I could let go.  At one point, I doubled over with tears, shame, guilt, and the weight of everything falling on me.  As pain poured out of my heart, my words struck a chord of fear.  Serving with these people in our church was where God had placed me, and all I could think was, "Now they will know I'm not fit to serve."  The darkness in me had me convinced that I'd said too much.  With penetrating eyes that spoke to me of their own conviction, they told me that all these things were a lie.  They saw me.  They heard me.  They held me.  As I fought my own mind, they fought with me.  They.  Fought.  For.  Me.

For an hour, God surrounded us in that parking lot.  We talked.  We listened.  We prayed.  Believe it or not, we ultimately laughed.  In the end, I told them, "I need to pray."  They had already prayed over me.  Now, it was my turn.  I don't recall my prayer, but I recall the peace that poured out of me by then.  The tears had flowed away.  I could stand.  I could breathe.  I could hope.  I could pray.  And God met me there in that parking lot, with three people who love me deeply.

Now I sit here listening to "You Raise Me Up" by Josh Groban.

When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary
When troubles come and my heart burdened be
Then, I am still and wait here in the silence
Until You come and sit awhile with me.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas
I am strong, when I am on your shoulders
You raise me up to more than I can be

Zach, Wes, and Caitlin raised me up.  When I couldn't breathe.  When I couldn't pray.  When I couldn't see God.  They saw Him for me.  They held me up until I could feel His presence again.  I will never be the same again because of what God brought me through.  They continue to pray for me.  And we continue to serve God together.

Wes reminded me five days later that God can use me more because I emptied myself out that night - and that God then filled me up.  

I can't adequately express the importance of being in community, surrounding yourself with people who love God, and allowing yourself to be vulnerable and seen.  I sang "You Raise Me Up" in a karaoke bar 14 years ago because it was a beautiful song.  Now I will sing it because of these three friends whose love lifted me to God when I needed it most.  I love them more than I could ever show.

Fast forward...

At the time of this spiritual attack, I was working my way through a Certified Biblical Counseling course.  It felt that the closer I came to being finished, the harder life became.  The day I submitted my final paper to become certified, the storm cloud lifted.  It was literally as if a switch flipped in my brain.  Joy returned to my heart.  I could breathe.  I began to look back and almost felt silly that I was so overwhelmed.  There was simply no reason for me to have been experiencing that level of desperation.  It was unprecedented in my life.  God is so good.  He has restored me.  Personally understanding the nature of spiritual attacks has been something I have leaned on that has strengthened how God has used me in counseling ministry since this time.  I continue to be in awe of what he's done and is doing in my life.  What a mighty and faithful God we serve.  

Seeing and Being Seen

People feel invisible. 

Sometimes I am that person. 

I want to be seen and to see.  Both require something of me - to open my aperture.  It starts with my own choices.

Our perspective can be painfully microscopic, and we lose (or fail to develop) a sensitivity to those around us.  We get busy moving through the world, focused on ourselves, and often miss truly seeing people.  The truth is we frequently don't even see ourselves in the sea of expectations. While we can’t know everyone and the burdens they carry, we can have a heart that is open to seeing people how God sees them, and ask God to put people in our path whom we can acknowledge and encourage.  We can try to see the person God sees - both their brokenness and their potential. 

In those moments, both big and small, who we are called to be is not a mystery.  Jesus calls us to love others. God loves them.  He has always loved them, even the Sauls and the Matthews of the world, those who have persecuted others and taken advantage of people.  We are called to love them and we frequently forget that God loves us too, even through our sins. One way to love others is to see their struggles and their needs.  I don’t want to be invisible, so I will start by ensuring those around me know that I see them.  But how do I “see” them?

The chorus of the song “Give Me Your Eyes” by Brandon Heath, says:

Give me Your eyes for just one second

Give me Your eyes so I can see

Everything that I keep missin'

Give me Your love for humanity

Give me Your arms for the broken-hearted

The ones that are far beyond my reach

Give me Your heart for the ones forgotten

Give me Your eyes so I can see  

God “sees” us.  Psalms 121:7-8 says, “The Lord will keep you from all harm—he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”   

We can start by asking God to make us sensitive and compassionate toward others around us.  Our prayer can be that God would slow us down so that we don’t miss opportunities to see others, and that when we do see them, God would show us how to love them better in a million different ways through our words and actions.  Is it a kind word?  Maybe a hug?  Perhaps a moment of prayer?  May we never be too busy for the Holy Spirit to speak to us and urge us toward another person, and for our response to be one of obedience and compassion.  Our ever-present prayer can be “give me your eyes, God.”   

Baseball Gloves and Jesus

I was getting ready for bed after a day at baseball camp during our mission trip to Germany.  As I contemplated the devotional I would give the following morning, an image of a baseball glove, with a baseball nestled snugly in the pocket, came into my mental view.  The Holy Spirit spoke to my heart, “You are hidden in Christ.”

This led me to Colossians 3:1-4

“Since then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.  Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.  For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.”

What does it mean to be hidden in Christ?

This means that our identity and security are in Christ.  We don’t depend on the world to give us our identity.  But the world tries to tell us we can find our identity in other things, such as relationships, grades, achievements, and sports. Everyone is vulnerable to this, particularly children. Every day, we are bombarded with distorted messages about what is important in life.  

While we are hidden in Christ, our faith cannot be hidden.  We have to find entry points to share Christ with others.

Matthew 5:15-16 says, “Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl.  Instead, they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

We are shining a bright light into the lives of others to draw them to Christ.

But Paul says to set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.  It is easy to become distracted by life - by the game.  This is true for us all.

How do we avoid becoming distracted? We do this by remaining connected to Christ.  In John 15:5, Jesus said, “I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.”

Remaining in him through this intentional time of devotion and prayer keeps us hidden in Him - focused and securely attached to the vine - much like the ball is securely held in the glove.   

We put him first - grounding our day in Christ.  I pray that this dedicated time of devotion will be something each of us continues well beyond our time together here.  This is the example we are setting for one another and staying hidden in Christ in this way will yield fruit as we keep the “first thing first.”  There is a song by that title, whose lyrics illustrate this beautifully:

        I don't wanna love what the world loves

        I don't wanna chase what the world does

        I only want you

        I only want you

        First thing's first

        I seek Your will

        Not my own

        Surrender all my wants to you

        Keep the first thing first

        To live Your truth

        Walk Your ways

        Set my eyes

        Lord I fix my face on you

        All my desires reversed

        To keep the first thing first

In John 15 goes on to say, “This is my command, that you love one another.”  We will love one another and all those we meet by…

1. Staying hidden in Christ - keeping our identity in Him.

2. Staying connected to the vine - keeping distractions away.

3. Keeping the first things first in our personal prayer life.

4. Letting the light and joy of God shine through us.

1 John 4:19 says, "We love because he first loved us." If we remain in him, we will then pour from a full cup. We will love others well with the love he has given us, and everyone is lifted up to Christ.

Learning, Growing, and Healing Through Peer Mentoring

When I was a teenager, I vividly recall a tense conversation with my mom in which I was no doubt being self-centered and selfish. While the full context has long left me, one thing she said still rings in my ears, “Audri, you need to get over yourself - not everything is about you.” But I was a strong, independent young woman determined to make my own way or, maybe in that moment, get my own way. 

Like most Americans, I valued independence. And while independence can drive motivation, there are times when it can turn to isolation. Grief is one such time when insisting on “going it alone” can set us up for more difficulties by isolating us from others who could bear witness to our lives, speak into our struggles with wisdom, and provide encouragement and a listening ear. It may go against our culture to embrace interdependence, but I’m convinced that we are truly stronger together.  

When my husband Jason died, I tried to hold it, contain it, control it - my grief, that is, and all the turmoil it was creating. The inner chaos was like a hurricane pounding at my soul. So overwhelming were the unrelenting waves of conflicting emotions and sheer exhaustion, that I couldn’t begin to express what felt at the time to be an undefinable anguish. How could I allow, much less invite someone into that storm? Frankly, it didn’t occur to me that it would even be appropriate to share, so I held it close. It was my own personal burden. Besides, who in their right mind wouldn’t run away if I told them what was really happening to me on the inside? It might even be described as a kind of premeditated guilt I felt as I even considered leaning on a friend or anyone else, so I didn’t.

Eventually, when the tears would not stop flowing and it felt like I would not survive, I reached a point of surrender and cried out to God, “Please take this away from me. I can’t do this anymore.” A peacefulness filled the room and I looked over at something my casualty officer had given me - a TAPS card with the Helpline number. Without even thinking about it, I dialed the number, and though I was numb, the words purged out of my mouth to Bonnie Carroll on the other end of the line. As we shared those painful moments and bonded over our widow stories, I began to see the value of the “we” as opposed to just the “me.” While I cannot recall all the things we both said, I do recall saying, “If nothing else good comes from Jason’s death, this will be a way I can relate to someone else in the future and help them - and that will just have to be good enough.”  

Even then, I was a Peer Mentor in the making, though it took a few years of being on the receiving end before I felt ready to let my story be in the background enough to support other survivors. I had to reach a point where my compassionate curiosity outweighed my need to process my own grief. Once I was ready, embracing becoming a Peer Mentor was an active and intentional choice. Supporting others with military loss was the way I chose to create meaning from Jason’s death.    

While I initially thought I would be helping others, I quickly realized how much being a Peer Mentor gave back to me - we call this “reciprocal peer support.” Because of my connection with Peer Mentors and others in the TAPS family over the years, I have gleaned three notable lessons about healing through grief.

1. Passive Healing: We sometimes need to choose stillness. We can’t control our grief any more than we can hold a storm in our hands. So rather than create more stress by actively resisting or stuffing it, we can try to relax into it or “make friends” with our grief.  

2. Active Healing: We sometimes need to move to think and heal. Being active requires our presence, participation, and commitment. Creating active distractions is a healthy tool we can use to combat unhealthy rumination.

3. Mindful Healing: Leaning into mindfulness - being intensely aware of what you're sensing and feeling in the moment, without interpretation or judgment - can help ground us when we are feeling out of control on the grief rollercoaster. This is especially helpful when we are feeling overwhelmed. Being grounded helps us reconnect with our mind and body and find more stable footing in the moment.

 

These lessons, and so many more, only came through engaging others as I explored the impact of Jason’s death. Loss, and having the support of a Peer Mentor as I navigated it, became a catalyst for change and growth. Learning about grief, and who I am in relation to it, will be a lifelong exercise. While I could have pushed on alone, reaching out to TAPS and receiving the compassionate support of Peer Mentors who knew how to meet me in my darkest moments has yielded wisdom, hope, and friendships I could never have imagined. TAPS allowed me to stop struggling against myself and relax into a community where I could learn to thrive again.

Over the years, my mom’s words have continued to ring true. While still certainly personal, in order to honor and remember Jason, I had to make my grief about more than just my own pain. Becoming a Peer Mentor opened the door for me to finding purpose in the pain. And there is a special kind of magic when you surround yourself with people leaning into their purpose.  

Peer mentoring is the perpetual gift that we give one another - the gift of grief companionship. TAPS will always need people like that who want to make a difference in another person’s life - and whether becoming or receiving a Peer Mentor - that person could be you.

Continuing the Legacy of Love

You may have heard it said that to love someone means to forever have a piece of your heart existing outside of your body. When that person dies, it can naturally leave us feeling a lack of wholeness. That hole in our hearts calls out to us and can only be occupied by the person who created it because it is shaped just like him or her. Honoring the love and life that created this space in your heart doesn't mean trying to fill it with other things. Our loved ones can still live on in that space, albeit in ways that are different than before.

Frequently, others tell us that we need to “let go”, sometimes making statements like, “Aren’t you over that yet?” Getting over the loss of someone so central to our existence is simply not realistic. They are inextricably linked to us - past, present… and, future. 

Within the TAPS family, we have always leaned into continuing bonds - acknowledging that while our loved ones are physically absent, they continue to be a powerful part of our daily lives, along with an enduring part of who we are and who we are becoming. It is in this spirit that we strive to know them in a new way and be their footsteps in the world. We are their legacy of love, even if the love we shared was complicated, as love frequently is.

It may sometimes feel scary when we let ourselves feel that love, as the pain can penetrate so deeply that it may seem hard to cope. TAPS founder and president Bonnie Carroll is often quoted as saying, “We only grieve because we love.” Special days such as birthdays, anniversaries, and Valentine’s Day can feel especially difficult, yet they provide natural opportunities to maintain a bond with our person through intentional acts of connection. Whether a special day or every day, we can reinforce this relationship in healthy ways.

What it means to carry on a relationship with a loved one who has died can (and should) look different from person to person, as we all have a unique bond and experiences with our loved one. Much like snowflakes, no two relationships are alike. 

WAYS TO REMAIN CONNECTED TO YOUR LOVED ONE

There are many ways to approach remaining connected with that person you loved so dearly… and always will.  We share a few of those for helpful consideration below.

- Seek out others who knew your loved one and would like to share the stories of who they knew them to be.

- Display a favorite picture, artwork, or quote loved by your person. 

- Volunteer for a cause that was close to their hearts and commit your time in their name.

- Engage in an activity your person loved or finish a project they started.

- Wear a favorite item of their clothing or a piece of jewelry that holds special significance.

- Make their favorite meal or eat at your loved one’s favorite restaurant.

- Write them a letter to share about recent events and how they were remembered or their presence was felt.

- Use pieces of your loved one’s clothing to have a special item created (quilt, bag, doll, etc.). 

- Find ways to say their name and bring them present into your day.     

- Establish a new tradition with your person in mind.

- Create a peaceful outdoor space where you can go to process your thoughts and even speak thoughts out loud to your person.

- Build a memory container to hold special items and plan time to visit those memories.

- Schedule time to connect with memories around your loved one. It is helpful to schedule a follow-on activity, as well, to help you transition out of memory mode to the next thing you will do to step forward in your day.

- Live our best lives in tribute to them.

Giving ourselves the freedom to show love for our person in new ways can keep them close to us, helping us remember and honor everything that made them the incredible people we have known. They are part of the fabric of our being, intricately woven into the beautiful and complex tapestry of who we are. They lived remarkable lives, left indelible marks on those who loved them, and will live on through each of us as we remember and continue to embrace them.

LOVE LIVES ON.

Falling in Love with Karate

Wado Ryu Karate is a journey I started back in 2007 while living in Yokohama, Japan.  My son was 8 years old and I was looking for a physical activity for him to get him moving and active.  There was an advertisement on the Navy base for a karate class, so I decided to go check it out.  I expected to enroll him in the class and let the shuttling commence.  To my surprise, I found there was only one student.  My son joined the class and the sensei invited me to join them as well.  I "tried out" the class and found I really enjoyed it.  Being there to encourage my son was awesome and it felt like something we could grow in together.

The man who taught our class was Sensei Obuaki Ohta.  Ohta-sensei was only about as tall as me and was probably 55-65 years old.  He only spoke basic English terms, most of which were limited to "kick" and "punch."  He would model the kata movements and I would follow after him.  I spoke some Japanese and was able to ask him if I was doing it okay.  Invariably, I was certainly not doing it okay.  He would come over and move my arm, push me into a deeper stance, or adjust my hand or foot placement.  

One day, Ohta-sensei watched me run through my kata and he made a correction to one part.  Focusing intently on that one correction, I tried again.  When I got through, I had corrected that deficiency, only to have him come to me and slightly adjust my thumb.  At that moment, I realized I would never arrive.  Suddenly it became clear to me how a person could work their whole lives to perfect their craft and never fully master it.  This commitment to craft and perfection approached with humility, reached deep into my soul.  

I felt an intense connection and respect for my sensei.  Attending class excited me and I pushed myself.  He invited me to test on two occasions during my time in Japan.  Both times, my son and I were the only non-Japanese people in the whole auditorium.  We were not fluent, so we depended on non-verbal cues and our limited Japanese skills to follow the flow of the students and the guidance of the judges.  We were thrilled to be a part of the culture, both of the country and the sport.  

Unfortunately, our time was too short.  When I was 8 weeks pregnant with my twins, I took my 2nd test but was not allowed to spare for obvious reasons.  By 10 weeks, I had to stop my karate lessons and wound up moving to Okinawa to be near the neonatal intensive care unit in case I had pregnancy complications.  Leaving my training behind was difficult and I longed to return.  Trying to juggle the demands of twins, homeschooling my then 10-year-old son, caring for three dogs, and dealing with everything while my husband was deployed left little time for karate, so I wound up not returning to my beloved sensei and the sport I loved so well.  When the twins were 7 years old, we wound up moving back to the United States.

Back in North Carolina, I searched for a dojo in the Wado style, with no success.  There simply was no option anywhere near us.  I considered another school of karate and opted not to pursue that.  My heart was with Wado.  Children, family life, homeschooling, graduate school, and military retirement kept me busy.  Eventually, I became a working mom as well.  Like this, life continued, and ultimately we relocated back to Texas to finally be closer to family after 25 years away.  

Landing in Dallas, Texas, with twins who were now 9 years old, I began to wonder if we might be lucky enough that there would be a dojo near us that taught Wado.  A quick Google search revealed the Academy of Classical Karate in Plano.  With tremendous excitement, I dove into their website and made a plan to visit. 

Walking into the dojo felt a bit like going home.  I was beyond excited and as I stepped into the class, I felt some muscle memory dusting off the cobwebs.  Because the kids were in the youth class, I was able to join the parents' class and wound up surrounded by others who were equally invested in their kids and karate.  These were not your run-of-the-mill parents.  I had not trained with others my age and it was thrilling to be a part of a larger training group, though I honestly had no real idea of what I was getting us into.

Our dojo is the best dojo in the United States.  I didn't know it at the time but two of the twins' instructors were soon to be members of the first USA Olympic Karate Team.  From the excellence in athletes that the dojo produces, to the world-class coaches, to the opportunity to be a part of the WIKF Texas team, our dojo is firing on all cylinders.  All of this said, what speaks to me most is how committed the coaches are to developing athletes of character.  

The Academy of Classical Karate has 5 Traits of a Karate-ka: Humility, Integrity, Self-Control, Courage, and Courtesy.  I'm so grateful to have others reinforcing this in our kids as well.  We used to stop at the dojo door after every class and I would make the kids recite these principles before leaving for the day.  These are excellent concepts I know will continue to grow in them as they train and deepen their love of both karate and their dojo family.  Many of the people who have been training here have invested 20-25 years of their lives doing so.  The roots go deep and the branches are broad.  I'm thrilled to be a small part of such an incredible group of people.