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The last couple of weeks leading up to the two year anniversary of Jeremy’s death, I have been flooded with memories of that January and February of 2020. The things that lead up to February 13.

I’ve thought of conversations that Jeremy and I had in the hospital room after we knew he would be going home on hospice. They consisted of talking through a lot of practical things, like what truck I would need since he wasn’t going to be around to take care of our older truck. However, we also talked about unfulfilled dreams, like getting a camper and doing more camping trips with the kids or taking a trip out west with them.

And we talked about the table that he wouldn’t build.

Ever since we had moved onto the farm, we had discussed him building a three-plank farm table that was long enough to fit many people around to share community over a meal. To connect. And preferably over a meal that we had raised here on our farm. We had even gone out looking for the lumber for it a couple months before he started feeling sick. But we hadn’t been able to find what we were looking for.

Probably for just as long, I had been asking him for a pool, because if you know me or have been privy to my yearly summer complainings, and there have been many, I don’t like the heat in Georgia. He would always say that he didn’t want a permanent concrete hole in the backyard. And I would sigh.

And let it go.

For a little.

Until I brought it back up again.

One day, right before he became ill, I presented him with another one of my brilliant ideas. He would humor me, listen and appear to consider what I was asking, as he did this time. My idea was, “What if we cut down the huge oak that hangs over the sunroom and eventually put an above ground pool in its place? Then someday add a deck to make it look nicer? AND we could just have the wood for the table cut from the tree?”

I had always had a little ache in my heart when I thought about taking down that tree. It was so beautiful and old. However, it always made me nervous during a storm with how it hung over the house. I still struggled with the thought of taking it down. Then I realized, if we did this, it’s life would continue with meaning and purpose. It would be providing a place for people to come round and find a place to belong. To commune. To connect. It would be a reminder of the time, effort, and love Jeremy put in to making a dream come true.

And Jeremy liked the idea.

He actually even looked into finding someone who could plane the wood for us if we cut down the tree.

But then sickness.

Plans we had made came to a halt.

There we were in the hospital room, with all the things we were talking about that would have to go on without him, we realized that he wasn’t going to make me the table that he had wanted to make for so many years. He looked at me from his hospital bed with a deep sadness in his eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Dee.” And because I couldn’t handle his sadness, and obviously trying to deflect it, I said, “Well, I guess I will have to build it.” And to make him smile, I added, “I will carve a heart on it with JB + DB in it.” His face melted into a sweet smile, and his eyes said so much more than his softly spoken words of, “I would like that.”

And because of his response, I knew I had just made him a promise that I was going to keep.

In the months that followed, I set out to fulfill my promise. I had the tree company come out and take down the oak. I sat at the picnic table, planting seeds for seedlings to put in the garden later, and I watched as its body fell.

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And I cried.

For so many reasons.

The owner of the tree company was kind and offered to take the tree to a kind elderly gentleman, who upon hearing my story and what I wanted, offered to cut the planks of wood. At this point, I realized, I really needed to hire someone to make the table. I knew that Jeremy believed in me, but since he wouldn’t let me help him with the tile in our shower when he renovated the year previous, I was pretty sure he would agree that I should hire someone out to do it. Surely he would forgive me this tweak to my promise.

As I mulled over how I was going to make this happen, I got to work getting the pool set up and finding someone to build the deck. I hired a local handyman, Aaron Watts of Watts Farm and Home Services, who was recommended through several family and friends, to build the deck. He worked many days getting that deck built, and I absolutely love what he created for us and his part in helping me fulfill my promise.

It was during that time, he had posted on social media the work of his brother, Brandon of Revival Timberhaus, who’s craft was building furniture. And in proper social media etiquette, I stalked Brandon’s business page, scrolling through all the pictures of his work. I knew he was the one who was supposed to build the table.

Brandon and I touched base on the phone and after sharing with him our story and what I needed, I could tell that he was as excited about making the table as I was of him building it. He told me that his desire was to build and create pieces with a story and this was what he really wanted to do with his craft. To be a teller of meaningful stories through his work. If I hadn’t known he was the right man for the job before I talked to him, I knew by the time I hung up the phone.

The process took time. The wood needed to be cut. Then brought to the kiln to be dried. Eventually it made its way to Brandon’s workshop, where he got to work designing and building the table.

We spoke on occasion, talking through details, until one day he told me that he was ready for me to come out to work on the heart that I had promised Jeremy. We had decided that I would draw the heart and letters on the table in sharpie and he would go back and carve it. That way it was my handwriting.

The kids and I headed out to the other side of Atlanta where we got our first look at the table. I was nervous about drawing on the table, but I managed to do it without messing it up, while the kids looked on. As I stood there looking at the heart with JB + DB drawn inside, I knew we needed to add three hearts, even though it wasn’t my initial intention. I drew the hearts, and the kids individually took a pencil in their hand and wrote their own initials, then traced over it with a sharpie, taking a moment to etch and solidify in their hearts that their daddy loved them.

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A couple weeks later, with the help of his brother, Brandon brought over the heavy table. As they carried in the pieces for him to assemble the top onto the base, I realized how solid the table was. Rock solid. There was no budging it once it was set in place.

I marveled at how the Brandon had designed a non-symmetrical tree out of its base, adding to the character and uniqueness of its creation.

The lines were not perfect… yet they were perfect.

Once it was set in place and assembled, Brandon started sharing his intentions, thoughts and prayers that went in the making of the piece. He pointed out the imperfections of the wood grain, showing how the tree had grown and adapted to the things that influenced its growth, like worms that burrowed into it’s body, creating holes and discoloration. Or how the wood split in areas due to the drying and curing process. And how he had filled them all in with a dark epoxy, smoothing out the cracks and holes. Not covering them up, not denying that they were there, but rather bringing their presence out. Showing that the tree’s life hadn’t been perfect, that it had faced challenges.

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He pointed to the marks from the sawmill etched across the top, the stain bringing out the story of the cutting and shaping of the wood. Again, not hiding or denying what had happened to it as it was being created and formed into something different. But rather allowing it to be seen and, in the process, bringing so much more beauty and understanding to the its life and story.

As I stood there taking in what he was saying, Brandon compared it to life and how so many times we as humans want perfection in ourselves. To be seen as not having any blemishes. To avoid the shame of being less than. The shame of not being enough.

The shame of missing the mark.

What if we allow the hands of the craftsman to come in and fill in those cracks and holes of our lives? What if he comes in and in the process of soothing and smoothing out the jagged edges and crevices, not camouflaging them, but rather using the healed scars to bring depth and dimension to its construction. To bring beauty… so much beauty… in the telling of its story.

And I thought…

What if in the hands of the craftsman, we have permission not to be perfect?

As I stood there listening to Brandon speak, I felt a peace come over my spirit as the fulfillment of my promise came to a close. And I knew that God’s hand had been in the keeping of this promise all along. Because the things that Brandon was saying, my realization and understanding of how he prayerfully and intentionally approached the creating of this promised table, spoke of the lessons that Jeremy had learned in the last couple years of his life… the lessons that he went after relentlessly.

Lessons that had changed him. Lessons that, as I watched him learn and grow, changed me.

You see… there were two more conversations that I had in the hospital with Jeremy when we knew he was going home on hospice.

One was, “How much of your story do you want me to share with people?” His response was, “Dee, I trust you. I trust you to share what needs to be shared.”

And the second was, “What do you want me to speak for you at your memorial service?”  Without hesitation, he answered, “Tell them I wasn’t perfect.” 

He knew that people didn’t think he was perfect, because who really has no faults? But, I mean…everybody loves Jeremy. His positives heavily outweighed his negatives. But I also knew how he had spent a great deal of energy and effort trying hit the mark of perfection, to be not found wanting.

Don’t get me wrong. He was amazing. I don’t want to take that away from him. He had a beautiful heart and soul. Truly, he did.

However, he knew that I didn’t think he was perfect. You can’t be married for more than seventeen years and still think someone can do no wrong. We knew, when you are married that long, nothing of yourself can be hidden.  Vulnerability and honesty are a must to survive and necessary to grow towards each other. I knew his cracks and blemishes. He couldn’t hide them from me. I couldn’t hide mine from him. Life wouldn’t let us. If anything, our individual blemishes were made more ragged and obvious as we navigated the cutting that comes with commitment to each other. But Jeremy also knew with his heart, not just his head, that nothing, including either of us could come in and soothe and smooth those holes and marks. However, he had learned over the last couple years that God didn’t see them as blemishes, but rather as an opportunity. An opportunity to come in and fill in and make something more beautiful out of what Jeremy saw as lacking.

What he saw as unlovable.

I watched Jeremy go hard after undoing all those lies. The belief that God could find him unlovable. The belief that God could be so far away when he missed the mark that he had to keep running back to Him every time.

Running back.

He finally came to a heart understanding that God NEVER left him even in his missing the mark. That nothing he did or didn’t do could make him more loveable… or make him unlovable to God.

There never had to be a running back… but rather a turning and facing.

Jeremy knew, as his earthly life came to a close that he wasn’t perfect, but he also knew that he didn’t have to be.

Because it isn’t about being perfect, but rather the turning and facing. Allowing God to work in those areas that are in need of Love, the areas that we deem unworthy of Love. By doing so, God is able to come in and bring wholeness with richness and beauty. God fulfilling his promises that “he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” – Philippians 1:6

Just like the table.

Some mornings, I come out of my bedroom and the morning light streams through the front windows and falls across the promised table.  I run my hand across the sawmill marks, feeling the texture of what the blade left behind, feeling the wave of the cutting beneath my palm. I run my fingers over the smoothness of the epoxy that fills the holes. The holes made by insects that threatened to destroy it, or at the least, deform it.

And I feel… I see beauty.

Beauty in the imperfections. Beauty in the story. Beauty in promises fulfilled.

He has sent me… to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor.”

 Isaiah 61:1-3