I Don't Need Switzerland. I Need Somebody to Choose Me.

P.S. — BEFORE YOU READ THIS..

Yesterday's version of Shantrael died again.

So this P.S. has to come at the beginning.

What you're about to read is probably a version of me you've never seen before. There are curse words. There is anger. There are questions. There is shit that isn't pretty, and there are places where I say fuck because fuck is the word that tells the truth.

And before anybody gets uncomfortable with that while simultaneously being comfortable with everything I've had to survive, let me say this:

God created the world.

God created language.

And I refuse to believe that the God who knows every thought before I think it, every word before it reaches my tongue, every tear before it falls, and every bit of anger buried in my chest somehow needs me to clean myself up before I talk to Him.

He already knows.

So if you're a sensitive Christian—or if your relationship with God does not have room for you to come before Him as your whole self: angry, confused, devastated, questioning, pissed off, faithful, doubtful, obedient, exhausted, and still His—please stop reading here.

Because this isn't going to be comfortable Christianity.

This is relationship.

Please know this before you read another word:

God walks with me.

I am not alone.

And I am committed to being obedient to Him—even when obedience requires me to tell the truth about what walking with Him actually looks like.

I cannot stand before people talking about trials and tribulations like I'm walking through a little rainstorm when there have been fucking tsunamis and hurricanes ripping through my life.

I've buried two children.

My own health has been fighting me.

Relationships I thought were permanent are changing, breaking, or disappearing.

And I have watched entire worlds I built collapse so many times that sometimes it feels like I've lived a thousand different lives inside this one.

So no.

I'm not going to package that into something pretty enough for church.

I'm going to call it what it is.

I'm a movie buff, and the closest thing I can give you for where I am right now comes from Avengers.

Doctor Strange looked through millions of possible futures trying to find the one reality where they defeated Thanos.

Millions.

And there was one.

Eventually, Iron Man understood what that meant.

There was one way through.

That's where I am.

I don't know exactly what God has shown me yet. I don't know everything this version of obedience is going to cost me. But I know I am shedding layers every damn day.

God is removing things.

Places.

People.

Versions of me.

Ideas I had about my life.

Ideas I had about other people.

Parts of my identity.

Parts of the world I built around my children.

Sometimes I wake up and another version of Shantrael is gone.

Today's version died again.

And somehow, I'm still here.

Still obeying.

Still listening.

Still walking.

And if my obedience disturbs something in you, you may need to ask yourself why.

Because I believe we are at war.

Spiritual warfare is real, and I don't believe this is a season where any of us gets to hide comfortably behind neutrality.

You don't have to choose my side.

This isn't about teams.

But you do have to choose what is right.

You cannot keep calling yourself Switzerland when somebody you love needs sanctuary.

Know this about Shantrael:

I am light.I am love.And I am God's.

I am leading with Him, and I am being intentional about every step I take.

So please don't mistake the language you're about to read for instability.

Don't mistake anger for brokenness.

Don't mistake boundaries for bitterness.

Don't mistake grief for the absence of God.

And don't mistake a woman finally telling the whole fucking truth for a woman who has lost her way.

This is not a broken woman speaking.

This is a woman who is becoming frighteningly clear.

A woman walking with God while He strips away everything that cannot go where He's taking her.

He's got my back.

He's got my front.

He's got my center.

And right now, that has to be enough.

If all you have for me after reading this is prayer, then pray.

And if we are in agreement, I believe those prayers will reach exactly where they need to go.

If you have something else God has placed on your heart to give, give it.

And if you have nothing left for me at all, I understand that too.

Because everybody isn't meant to go into the next season.

I have spent countless days calling myself a Hope Dealer.

I still am.

But right now?

I'm dealing hope to myself.

And maybe that's the most important person I've ever had to convince that some version of me will survive.

Check your heart posture........

~S.T.

Please don't confuse TRUTH with DISRESPECT.

I have literally lost my voice.

I need to start there because I don't mean that shit poetically.

I mean I cannot fucking talk.

My voice is raspy. The sound won't come out right. I open my mouth and what comes out doesn't even sound like me.

That's how broken I am.

My heart hurts so badly that my fucking voice is gone.

And I don't want to go outside.

I don't.

Because I know myself.

I'll go to the grocery store trying to do some normal shit like buy milk, somebody will look at me on aisle three and I'll start crying.

Right there.

Aisle three.

Basket sitting there.

People walking around me.

Me trying to pull myself together enough to make it to the fucking car.

That's where I am.

So when people are talking to me about grace and perspective and everybody's feelings and understanding both sides—

I don't give a damn about both sides right now.

I can't.

Maybe I will tomorrow.

Maybe next month.

Maybe one day God will sit me down and deal with me about it.

But today?

No.

Today my heart is shattered.

And I'm tired of people trying to hand me somebody else's humanity while I'm still trying to survive what their humanity did to me.

I know they're human.

So am I.

What about me?

I keep playing Jagged Edge's Goodbye.

Over and over.

Maybe because I can't say goodbye yet.

Maybe because I don't know what the hell I'm saying goodbye to.

My marriage?

My best friend?

Fourteen years?

Forty years?

The family I thought we would always be?

The version of me who believed some things were untouchable?

The people I thought would choose me when shit got real?

I don't know.

Maybe all of it.

Because my life is changing so fucking fast that I swear the woman writing this tonight will be dead by tomorrow.

Not physically.

But her.

This version.

Gone.

Just like all the other versions of me I've had to bury without anybody stopping long enough to acknowledge that another part of me died.

I've been burying versions of myself for 37 fucking years.

Since 1988.

Especially Since 2015.

And I'm tired.

August 2 was the 3rd anniversary of Mr. John's death.

And I showed up.

Of course I did.

Because that's what the fuck I do.

I show up.

Even broken.

Even pissed.

Even grieving.

Even when nobody showed up for me the way I needed them to.

I showed up.

I cried and cried and cried.

And I bought three bouquets of flowers.

One for every year Mr. John has been gone.

Three years.

And one was this beautiful red, white, and blue rose under glass because he was a Navy veteran.

Because I remembered.

I always fucking remember.

I remember what matters to people.

I remember dates.

I remember losses.

I remember birthdays.

I remember anniversaries.

I remember what somebody said six months ago that everybody else forgot.

I remember what makes you smile.

I remember what hurts.

I remember what not to say.

I remember who you loved.

I remember who you lost.

And when I love you, I study you.

That's how I love.

So there I was honoring Mr. John days after Jaxon's first birthday in Heaven.

And as far as I know Darryl's mother didn't show up for Jaxon.

Let me say that again because I keep trying to find a softer way to say it and there isn't one.

She didn't show up for Jaxon as I know when I read everything that was left at the Jaxon's resting place.....sooooooo many people we missing.

And I still showed up for Mr. John.

Her husband.

Because he mattered.

Because his life mattered.

Because his death mattered.

Because her grief mattered to me.

Do you understand why that fucks me up?

Because Jaxon mattered too.

My baby mattered too.

My grief mattered too.

And I didn't need anybody to do what I did.

I wasn't standing there counting flowers.

That's not what this is.

This is about the unbearable realization that I have spent my entire fucking life learning people well enough to know how to love them—

and somehow the people who know me best still keep acting like loving me is a guessing game.

It isn't.

I fucking told you.

I told you what I need.

I showed you what showing up means to me.

I modeled it.

I demonstrated it.

I gave examples.

I explained myself when I shouldn't have even had to.

Everybody has a love language.

And when I choose somebody, I learn theirs.

I don't say:

"Well, this is how I love, so take it or leave it."

No.

If words matter to you, I use words.

If presence matters, I show up.

If remembering matters, I remember.

If you need space, I learn how to give you space without making you feel abandoned.

If you need celebration, I'll celebrate the hell out of you.

If your person dies, I remember their fucking name.

I remember the date.

I remember that the third anniversary may hurt differently than the second.

I pay attention.

Because that's what I believe love does.

Love pays attention.

So please stop telling me people love me while completely ignoring the fact that I've spent years telling them how I need to be loved.

I know they love me.

That's what makes this shit hurt worse.

Because apparently somebody can love you and still refuse to learn you.

And I don't know what to do with that anymore.

And everybody wants to be fucking Switzerland.

No.

I don't need Switzerland.

Not right now.

I am not asking anybody to hate Darryl.

I'm not asking anybody to destroy relationships.

I'm not asking anybody to tell me I'm perfect.

I'm not asking anybody to pretend fourteen years didn't have two people inside of them.

I know that.

But can somebody choose me right now?

Just once?

Can somebody say:

"I know there are two sides. But right now, Shantrael is fucking devastated, and I'm going to sit beside her."

Can somebody stop trying to make sure everybody gets equal grace while I'm the one on the floor?

Can somebody stop explaining?

Can somebody stop telling me what somebody probably meant?

Can somebody stop giving me the other person's perspective?

I know how perspective works.

I am a grown-ass woman.

I understand complexity.

What I don't understand is why the people closest to me seem terrified to say:

That hurt you. That was wrong for you. And I'm here.

That's it.

You don't have to convict anybody.

You don't have to pick a permanent team.

You don't have to hate anybody.

Just stop standing in the fucking middle while I'm bleeding on one side.

I don't need Switzerland.

I need sanctuary.

And Darryl...

God.

Fourteen years.

Fourteen fucking years.

Three children.

Two in Heaven.

Do you know how sacred that is?

Do you know what we have survived?

We have lived things together that most couples will never have language for.

And somehow—

after fourteen years,

after Darren,

after Jaxon,

after Nolin,

after hospitals,

after diagnoses,

after funerals,

after watching each other become parents,

after watching each other bury children,

after everything—

you still couldn't choose me.

And that's the sentence I don't know how to survive yet.

Because I'm Jaxon's mama.

That's what I meant when I said it.

I'm Jax's fucking mama.

You know what that means.

You know what it took for me to be that boy's mother.

You know what I gave.

You know what I sacrificed.

You know what I learned.

You know how many times I had to speak because my baby couldn't.

You know how many times I fought.

You know how closely I watched him.

You know how I learned a child who couldn't tell me with words what he needed.

You know what November 22 did to me.

You fucking know.

So how?

How could somebody who knows exactly what that woman has already survived do something that could break her again?

How?

That's what I meant.

Not why was I Jaxon's mama.

God, no.

I would choose that boy every fucking time.

Every life.

Every universe.

Every version of me.

I would choose Jaxon.

I'm asking:

How could you know I am Jaxon's mama and still let something happen that would hurt me like this?

Because there should have been a moment somewhere inside somebody where they thought:

Not her.

She has had enough.

Not this.

Not now.

Not after Jaxon.

But apparently there wasn't.

And that fucking destroys me.

Because this isn't my first loss.

That's what people don't seem to understand.

I'm not walking into this with a whole heart.

There wasn't much heart left to break.

I have been trying to figure out how to live after burying another child.

Another.

Do people hear that word?

Another child.

I buried Darren.

Then I buried Jaxon.

And somehow life looked at me and said:

Here's some more.

More grief.

More disappointment.

More relationships changing.

More people not showing up.

More boundaries.

More goodbyes.

More versions of yourself you're going to have to bury.

And everybody keeps expecting me to process this shit like it's arriving at a normal address.

It isn't.

There is no normal address here anymore.

My mother said something about how I've been different this year.

Yes, Mommy.

I have.

My child died.

What the fuck was supposed to happen to me?

Was I supposed to wake up after November 22 and remain exactly the same woman?

Was I supposed to bury my five-year-old and come home with the same personality?

The same tolerance?

The same patience?

The same priorities?

The same relationships?

The same capacity for bullshit?

No.

Something happened to me.

Something happened inside me.

There is a before.

And there is an after.

And everybody who loved the woman before is going to have to decide whether they're willing to learn the woman after.

Because I cannot keep resurrecting an old version of myself just to make everybody else comfortable.

She is dead.

I loved her.

She was good.

But she's gone.

And that's what scares me.

Because versions of me keep dying.

Fast.

So fast I can't even properly grieve them.

The wife I was.

The daughter I was.

The daughter-in-law I was.

The friend I was.

The caregiver I was.

The woman who could fix everything.

The woman who could always find the lesson.

The woman who could always give grace.

The woman who always had another ounce to pour.

The woman who showed up for everybody because somewhere inside her she believed:

When my turn comes, they'll show up for me.

That woman is learning something she never wanted to learn.

Sometimes they won't.

Sometimes they love you and still won't.

Sometimes they know your language and still won't speak it.

Sometimes they know you're drowning and stand on shore trying to remain fucking neutral.

Sometimes the person who knows the most sacred parts of you still doesn't choose you.

And I don't know what lesson I'm supposed to pull from that yet.

So I'm not going to manufacture one.

Right now I only know this:

I have to have boundaries.

Because if I don't protect me now, what the hell was all that advocacy for?

What did being Jaxon's mama teach me?

I fought for that boy.

I watched.

I listened.

I learned.

I protected.

I noticed things other people missed.

I made sure his needs mattered even when he couldn't use his voice to tell anybody what they were.

And now—

look at me.

I don't have a fucking voice either.

Literally.

I can barely get sound out.

And maybe there is something holy and devastating about that.

Because the woman who spent years being the voice for her children has finally reached a place where she can barely produce her own.

God.

Do You see me?

Because I don't know where else to go.

I really don't.

And yes, I believe in You.

That's almost the problem.

Because You're the only place I know to turn.

And sometimes that feels lonely too.

I know You're here.

But God, sometimes I need somebody with skin on.

I need somebody to sit beside me.

I need somebody to learn my language.

I need somebody to choose me.

I need somebody to stay awake.

Jesus asked His friends to stay awake with Him.

And they couldn't even do that.

I understand that Scripture differently now.

Because sometimes you're not asking people to fix Calvary.

You're not asking them to change the assignment.

You're not even asking them to take away the cup.

You're saying:

Can you please just stay awake while I drink it?

That's all.

Stay awake.

Don't explain it.

Don't theologize it.

Don't tell me why everybody did what they did.

Don't tell me what God is teaching me.

Don't rush me toward forgiveness.

Don't hand me somebody else's grace assignment.

Stay the fuck awake with me.

Because I am tired.

And my heart is shattered.

And my voice is gone.

And I don't know who I'm going to be tomorrow.

Maybe tomorrow I will have more grace.

Maybe I won't.

Maybe tomorrow I will understand something.

Maybe I won't.

Maybe some relationships will heal.

Maybe some won't.

Maybe my marriage will become something I don't recognize.

Maybe I will learn how to co-parent Nolin in a life I never fucking asked for.

Maybe some people will finally learn me.

Maybe some won't.

I cannot solve any of that tonight.

Tonight I am trying to breathe.

That's it.

And maybe that's my prayer.

Not a beautiful one.

Not one for church.

Not one that needs a fucking piano playing underneath it.

Just:

God, I am hurt.

I am so fucking hurt.

And I don't understand why You keep allowing things I love to leave.

I don't understand why I keep having to bury things.

I don't understand why being the person who shows up has not meant somebody would show up for me when I finally couldn't carry myself.

I don't understand why I wasn't the choice.

I don't understand how somebody could know I am Jax's mama and still break my heart.

I don't understand.

And tonight I'm not pretending I do.

So God—

if all I have is this raspy little breath,

take it.

If all I can give You is tears,

take those too.

If all I can pray is why,

then sit with me inside the question.

But please—

don't leave me alone in it.

Because everybody else may need time to decide where they stand.

Everybody else may need nuance.

Everybody else may want Switzerland.

But God,

I need You to choose me tonight.

Not because I'm right about everything.

Not because everybody else is wrong.

Not because I've earned it.

Because I'm Your daughter.

Because I'm Darren's mama.

Because I'm Jax's mama.

Because I'm Nolin's mama.

Because I'm still fucking here.

Barely.

Broken.

Voiceless.

Pissed.

Devastated.

Still loving people I don't know what to do with.

Still listening to Goodbye because I don't know how to say one.

Still breathing.

So meet me here.

Not tomorrow's me.

Not healed me.

Not forgiving me.

Not the woman everybody hopes I'll become after I "get through this."

This me.

The woman sitting here tonight with absolutely nothing left to prove.

Meet her.

Because she's the one who needs You.

And tonight,

she needs sanctuary too.

• Luke 5:16 — "Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed."

• Matthew 14:13 — After hearing of John the Baptist's death, Jesus withdrew to a solitary place.

• Mark 1:35 — Jesus rose early and went to a solitary place to pray.

• Luke 22:39–46 — In Gethsemane, Jesus brought His anguish to the Father.