I first learned of Hope & Healing through a counselor I had been seeing at NWTH.  I realized that in order for me and my children to get thru everyday life that we needed help and the name of Hope & Healing gave me hope that we could be healed as a family.

From the moment we walked in, I felt at home and loved and I knew that we weren’t alone.  I realized through the people I met there, that they were families from all over the Panhandle who were going through a similar situation as mine.  In the 2 months we have been going, I have noticed positive changes in mine and my sons’ lives.  We are learning, as a family, that life does go on and it is natural for us to mourn.  We have realized that it is okay to be happy, for us to smile and laugh, and for us to plan for our future.  I truly believe our changes were because of Roy and all the wonderful counselors at Hope & Healing and all the families we have met on our journey.

I would personally like to thank each and every one of you for welcoming me, Gerardo and Gabriel into your hearts with open arms.  Thank you for all the time you have given my family and to other families in need.  You are truly miracle workers and a blessing from God.

Thank you,
Melissa Guzman

Cody was a larger-than-life kind of guy.  You know the type.  He didn’t just walk into a room – he owned it; he took up all the space and air in it with nothing more than only the sheer force and size of his personality.  He was a poet, prankster, lyricist, artist, redneck, musician, rebel, story teller and lover of a good time and of people.  Cody had a gift for giving of himself and for drawing people close to him, if for no other reason than to see what would happen next.  He was the luminary in our family.  His younger sister idolized him; his friends called him their own brother and son; his Navy chiefs called him “Rock Star”.  When we lost him, his friends from coast to coast, border to border, even overseas, shared with me how Cody had made their worlds, even Iraq, a bearable place to be, with his guitar (that guitar that went everywhere), songs, jokes and stories.  The story I had anticipated to be at its beginning was abruptly ended, shocking, searing, in one stunning phone call from the DPS, and one unbelievable sight of the men in Navy dress blues approaching me.

Today, at 3½ years, life doesn’t feel particularly easier.  It’s just different.  It’s that “new normal” I hear so much about.  The spring sun is a little less bright, the summer sky a little less blue, the autumn color a little less crisp, the bitter winter wind a little more inviting.  Some days, I’m accepting.  Some days, I’m angry.  Some days, I’m content.  Some days, I’m sad.  Some days I’m happy.  Some days, I’m numb and grief-stricken all over again.  Some days, I’m laughing.  Some days I’m all, some, none or other.  I never know what innocuous comment, or song or smell, or particular green of a blade of grass will set my mind and emotions adrift.  I miss his unique “Iloveyabye” at the end of a conversation.  I miss his hugs, a six-foot, warm, hairy, grown-man-boy-smelling blanket, suffocating me in a bear hug.  And I miss his voice, his cocked-eyebrow Cheshire Cat smirk teasing me, “Hey, Mom, can you still BREATHE?”

Cody’s story didn’t really end; it only changed here on earth.  For some time after he died, I agonized over every day that passed, the world living its own life, my son becoming a distant, fading memory for it.  Then one day, no day in particular, I realized that I looked forward to the days passing,  every day bringing me closer to seeing Cody, not farther from seeing him.  And I CAN see him, curling his toes on the edge of heaven, just as he balanced on the edges of cliffs, grinning his Cody grin, calling, gleeful and daring, “Hey, check this out!”, looking out to the distance that I can’t yet see.  Cody lives here on earth, in the hearts and stories and purpose of all who know him and in the swagger and expressions and flirtations of his little boy, Cody Case.

Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV), says, “’For I know the plans I have for you‘, declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”  Interestingly, verse 7 before it advises, “…Seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile.  Pray to the LORD for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.” God is telling ME that I am planted in this city even if for a reason I cannot fathom, and that He will sustain and use me just in the very fact that I AM here.

I arrived at HHP’s Journey group on the recommendation of a friend who knew I had absolutely no interest in sitting in a room of strangers, baring my tortured soul, and who also knew I desperately needed just one person who might understand what I had no words to describe.  About being an Aggie, I have heard, “From the outside looking in, there’s no understanding.  From the inside looking out, there’s no explaining.”  For me, HHP is the place where someone understands with no words, when I have no words to bridge the universe between what I feel and what I’m able to express.

The mission of the HHP is “To promote the healing of grieving children and their families after the death of a sibling, parent, or grandparent. HPP provides these services in a child-friendly center with a warm, home like, supportive environment staffed with skilled professionals and trained volunteer program facilitators.”

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