Tag: love

Talk, Talk, Talk…

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I talk to myself more than I used to. And I don’t just mean in my bedroom before bed at night, having the conversations we used to have and telling him how much I love him and miss him. I mean in the grocery store, at the DMV, in my back yard. Doesn’t matter if other people are there, apparently, because I realized this was occurring while in Walmart when a lady looked at me like I was schizophrenic as I had a discussion with myself about which vegetable would go better with the supper I was planning. Yes, it’s like that.

I’ve decided that it’s safer to leave the house with my granddaughter in tow because at least then people will assume I’m talking to her. And I don’t really even know WHO I’m actually talking to (which may be even more scary.) Is this some leftover habit of talking things through with my husband? I don’t know because we didn’t really always discuss what vegetable to have. I’m excusing myself when I burp at home and, just being honest, I didn’t always do that anymore with him either.

On one hand, I’m home with a toddler most of the day every day and have very little adult interaction overall. Maybe it’s just that I have a quota of words that I need to spend each day (if you know me in person then you already know that’s typically a high number) and I’m just fulfilling the minimum requirement to relieve the pressure of holding it in all the time. I think I drive my boys (autocorrect just changed ‘boys’ to ‘joys’ and that’s true, too) crazy wanting to talk forever when I do see them because I have to fit it all in somewhere.

Loneliness has a way of creeping up on you, too, though. My person isn’t here. When I talk to my mother-in-law (love) we can talk for long periods because the loss is a hole too deep to ever fill but maybe talking eases it some. Maybe talking to air is some strange way of placating the monster of loneliness. I just don’t know. I also haven’t talked to another widow about this (yet) so I don’t know if this is…common. I won’t say “normal” because that’s only a setting on the washing machine. In people, there’s no real “normal” because it’s okay to be whoever you are, but some things are more common.

Ultimately, what I have come to realize is that I’m not directing as much of that loneliness, that random talking anywhere and everywhere, up to God. Why am I talking to an unrecognizable void rather than to the Living God? The one who never leaves. The one who always stays. The one who is omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient: all powerful, everywhere, and knows all. My words should be directed at my power source. Over the past year, when my spirit has not wanted to live in this realm any longer, Abba God came through every single time and reminded me that He is still here and He has a plan; I just need to wait for it to be revealed in a way I am able to understand. Mind you, I do pray, but there is still all this extraneous talking that I apparently feel the need to do to no one in particular. I can definitely make better use of those words.

I don’t even know if this is a “stage” other people go through but, if you’re here with me, I see you! I truly believe that God never leaves us alone. If you can’t feel Him there, someone else is feeling what you do and you just have to find the helpers. The whole beauty from ashes? Sometimes it’s when God uses us to help those who come to a place after we do. We are the map. If you’re in that place where you feel lost, I hope something I say gives you a place on the map to start.

Who is Your Lifesaver in the Flood?

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I’ve written what actually happened to my husband during the last five hours of his life several times. Every time that I wrote it out is saved in a drafts folder. At this point I don’t know if I just keep writing it as some form of “therapy,” as torture in some kind of self-flagellation, or because I actually intend to share it one day. Although, I won’t ever tell you the name of the hospital, the nurses, some of the doctors, because I’m not at liberty to say even though it’s my husband’s story. And it’s my story because I had to watch it all unfold. It’s our story but it’s a part of the middle, not the end. Funny how they, the “powers that be,” have so much more power and control over everything than we do. You know, we the people. They can take their names out of it but it is still 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 of how it all ended in this life. How our love story here got cut short. And then “they” can get off and walk away scot-free. Pun 100% intended.

My life isn’t what I thought it would be now, but I’m trying my best to fulfill some of 𝘰𝘶𝘳 dreams. A lot of what you see about me planting things lately is really about him. I’m enjoying doing it but plants of any kind were really Scott’s forté. I loved to be in the garden with him but he was the one who could make things grow. He was always teaching, telling me how he did this or that, but he might have been a little afraid for me to touch them 😂 and yet he would still encourage me to try but I think that’s because he knew if I killed it he could bring it back. I don’t know how he did it but there were plants I swear were dead and gone but Scott could mysteriously revive them. And it’s not like when your kid’s fish dies and you buy him a new one just so he won’t be sad. He really brought them back. He could grow anything. Just look what he did with me while I had him here. And look what his absence has done.

Our back yard was one of the biggest reasons we bought this home together. It was beautiful when we bought it but we worked, little by little, intending to make it a an increasingly beautiful and peaceful oasis. We spoke often of how it should be a place to go when life overwhelms. It should be a place where our kids and our grandkids love and want to come hang out with us. It should be lovely and relaxing. It should be the outdoor version of 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦.

The boys have helped me take on a heavy duty (strength required) project out there that Scott and I had intended to do for awhile. It’s not quite finished but most of what is left to do is more about tidying up and smoothing things out. Unfortunately that part requires some heavy lifting, too, so we work on it when we all can. They’ve also helped me hang twinkly lights over our pool. They have encouraged me and at least acted excited with me over my fruit trees (because we wanted them all to be able to come pick their own fresh fruit when they wanted.) They have ooo’d and ahhh’d over my rose bushes and other plants that I’m managing to keep alive by the grace of God. They’ve also helped me when random but frustrating home issues have come up. Between them, my boys can professionally work on electrical, heating, air, or refrigeration problems, carpentry, masonry, and removing dents from vehicles. They’re each incredibly skillful and talented in their areas of expertise and have great work ethic. I often tease them that I still just need someone to go to school for plumbing. So far, I’ve had no takers on that one (even though that’s one of the things acting up lately.🤦🏻‍♀️) I don’t know what I’d do without them as I live without my husband.

Our girls, the ones Scott and I fell in love with when our boys did, have been a Godsend in so many ways, too. Scott never got to meet our newest edition, Erin, but he would have adored her just like he did Taylor and Patrice. She is such a sweetheart. I think he would have said something like “Man, Owen, you managed to reel in a nice catch! Good going, man! And it don’t hurt that she’s gorgeous, too. You need to hang on to that one.😉” These girls have really actually been excited with me about my flowers.😂 They have listened when my heart was broken but I didn’t want to burden the boys with my hurt. They have cleaned and helped host the comings and goings of many people when I could barely acknowledge who was here. Most importantly of all, they have loved my sweet boys and have been for them, in many ways, what Scott was for me. A safe place.

And my granddaughter. Well, she lights up a room even when she’s got her face scrunched up like she’s mad. She’s so easy to love and laugh at. She has also gotten me through some of the toughest days. One day I’ll tell her that her middle name should have been Grace because she sure saved me. Many days that it would have been easy to go down a rabbit hole of despair, that baby girl has held me away from the edge.

In the natural, the regular world, there shouldn’t have been any way, financially, for me to stay home with her this year. I was determined to try really hard to do it because I am trying my best to keep any and all promises and commitments that Scott and I made while he was here, and also because I wanted to spend this time with her and to help my kids. But my life is anything but natural since God’s doing it with me. Every time I thought it might not be possible for much longer, He has provided a wholly unexpected way for it to work. And He didn’t just do it for Lillian. He knew how close I’ve lived to the edge of existence at times and He already knew this would have pushed me to the brink. I’d never leave my kids and force them to go through something like I am, but it is desperately miserable to live teetering on that edge, walking a death-defying tightrope every day. And so He also knew what I needed to draw me back to solid ground. You’ll never, ever convince me that He didn’t send Lillian Reese here right when He did because He knew how much we would all need her. I may have said this here, online, before but if you ever saw Lillian any of her uncles, you’d think he was her daddy. They all treasure her like that and she is one blessed little girl to have all of these people who love her as much as our big tribe does.

God has been in the details all this time. Some of them I could see at that moment. Some I haven’t been able to see until looking back from a different perspective. I know that even when I felt alone because Scott is gone, God has still been there holding my head above tidal waves of grief. He has poured peace over me when I couldn’t find it anywhere else. There are certain things that, even now, I should be stressing and panicking about, but the urge to worry frantically over them isn’t there. I know who holds my future, even if it isn’t what I wanted it to be, and I trust that beauty will somehow come from these ashes.

I’m a few days away from the eleven month mark. Not two weeks after that will be the one year mark since we lost my sweet fifteen-year-old nephew and then about two weeks after that one year since Scott was here. I don’t doubt that the water will rise again soon. I also don’t doubt that, in the raging swirls and waves of that flood, I will be lifted out again.

A Break in the Storm Clouds

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Grief is something that attacks not only when you find yourself unaware, but also when you are fully cognizant of the fact that it is coming again. I’ve known for months that my wedding anniversary would be a day that brought deep feelings of loss. So much so that I found it difficult to remember and honor the blessing of that day.

I was blessed beyond measure to have met my husband, to have fallen in love with him and he with me. I was overwhelmingly blessed in the fact that he was such an amazing caregiver, not only to others by way of his profession but to me, as well. He took care of my heart so gently, with such kindness, compassion, and with an immeasurable love. I get so stuck sometimes in the feeling of being cheated by his death that it can be difficult to just be thankful for his presence in my life the years that we had each other, to be grateful that he was ever mine to begin with. Loss covers me so deeply that I tend to ignore the fact that if I never had him with me at all I wouldn’t be grieving now but would have missed out on so much that was worth the unbearable pain I now feel. I would not trade one for the other, not in a million years.

I’ve said it before but I truly believe that there are many who never experience the kind of relationship we had. There are women and men who search their whole lives and never find the beauty of what we were blessed to have. There are many who settle for so much less because they lose the ability to even believe something like it exists, have just given up on ever finding it, or are in so much of a rush to be with someone that they fall into the trap of believing that this is just as good as it gets. I was forty years old when I met him but we crammed a lifetime of amazing adventures, heartfelt moments, life lessons, and very special memories into that small span of time. I still want more, but I am thankful for every moment I had with him.

Because grief comes in crashing waves, though, it’s really hard sometimes not to feel lost and drowning in the undertow. Grief doesn’t come in the kind of waves that soothe you to sleep from the beach; it’s in the kind of waves that cover you in the shadow of a high arch that you already know is going to throw you into the ripping fire coral and broken seashells on the bottom. The kind of waves that hit one after another, sometimes in such quick succession that you aren’t sure if you’ll ever make it to the top to breathe again. In the tumult of those moments, it is almost impossible to reach for the peaceful moments of beautiful memories because the panic that rises within you is all-consuming.

I know the One who calms the wind and the waves. Yesterday morning I reached for him in the absence of my husband and He came quickly with the offer of a leisurely day of spending time with my children and my granddaughter at the zoo. Yesterday I experienced a day of peace. I thought of my husband often, of times we had been at that zoo together, of how his eyes would have lit up with joy over seeing our sweet grandbaby experience seeing all of these things for the first time and of toting her around on his shoulders, but I didn’t spend the day in mourning his absence. My boys are better men because of having known him. My granddaughter will never remember him but is already being taught who he was and how he lived. She will grow up knowing he loved her very much in the short time he knew her. My life is vividly vibrant in so many ways for having loved him, even in the times it seems darkness is all I can see right now some days.

Today, because of the grief-rest I enjoyed yesterday, the waves have slowed down to gently lapping the shore. I’ve been carried back to the beach by the One who walks on water. For today, the storm has calmed despite the fact that in just over a month it will have been a full year since he changed his address to a place prepared for him in Heaven. I know the weather is fickle, but I’ve weathered many storms simply because the God of all creation is intent on protecting me from the cacophony and chaos of loss, even when I am wind-tossed and overwhelmed. Abba God, remind me, in my darkest and stormiest moments, to reach for the rock that is higher than I. Lead me, Lord; I will follow.

Hear my cry, O God,
    listen to my prayer;
from the end of the earth I call to you
    when my heart is faint.
Lead me to the rock
    that is higher than I,
for you have been my refuge,
    a strong tower against the enemy.

Psalm 61:1-3

Whatever Is True…

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Yesterday is hard to explain. If you’ve been following my grief journey then you know two things: 1.) I am a Christian and know God is here for all of it. 2.) I’m very real in my writing about when it doesn’t feel like He is but knowing He hasn’t left me here alone.

Yesterday was our wedding anniversary. If I’m being honest, and I always am in my writing even when it sounds pitiful, I cried more and harder yesterday than I have since the first few weeks he was gone. More than at Thanksgiving or Christmas. More than birthdays. More than all of the everydays that have passed since he was here. Those days all belong to a lot of people. Even birthdays, many people celebrate birthdays with you. This day, it was all ours. It was the day that “til death do us part” was promised. In less than two months it will be one year since “til death do us part” became reality.

It is difficult having an anniversary without the one who created that special day with you through a shared covenant with God and each other. We should have been celebrating it together. My memories on Facebook showed posts both he and I had made over the years, declaring how thankful we were to have found each other, how in love we were, how we couldn’t wait to spend more years and years together. It was also filled with photos of prior anniversary activities. The memories yesterday, at least for this year, made me feel more bitter than sweet. I love that we made so many beautiful memories together but am angry and sad and feel cheated that there will be no more. I kept trying to remind myself to think of whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent and praiseworthy. I kept trying to praise and be grateful for the time we did have together. I kept trying, but it was hard to feel it. My mind fills with sorrow for what the rest of my life looks like without him. The loneliness. The lost laughter. The absence of arms wrapped around me when I’m sad, scared, frustrated, or happy, excited, and loved. I’ve made it through a lot of days without him so far, 316 as of yesterday to be exact.

316. My anniversary was 316 days after his forwarding address became Heaven. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life.” John 3:16

It was only this morning that I was pointed to this realization, the 316 days. God watched his son die, just as I had to watch my husband. After Jesus rose again, God took him to Heaven just as He did my husband. Because God willingly made that sacrifice, like I so unwillingly did with my husband, I will have the opportunity to see him again one day and also to spend the rest of my eternity in the presence of Jesus.

I’ll still always, always wish we had longer here together, in this life. I’ll spend the rest of my life not knowing why it ended so soon and in this way. But I’m trying again, today, to be grateful that it is not over. “Til death do us part” only means in this world, not the next. And, for me, my marriage didn’t end at death. People call me a widow but I am married. My husband is just on an extended remote assignment and currently has no way of communicating with family, just like when he was in the deserts of Iraq during Operation Desert Storm. This time, though, he won’t be the one coming home…we will.

The Desert

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When I picture a desert landscape, I see sand – lots and lots of yellow sand – cactus upon cactus, maybe some of them with a few pink flowers on them, and perhaps a mirage. That’s about it. Probably blue, sunny, cloudless skies because deserts are very hot.

The desert has dormant seeds, though, that turn into wildflowers! And not just a few here and there; at certain times of year, parts of the desert are carpeted in wildflowers. Those seeds that lay beneath the sand, unbeknownst to anyone traveling a dusty road through the vast desert land, are waiting for the right opportunity to burst forth and bring beauty to an arid landscape.

My soul has felt like a desert for a while now. Dry. Cracked earth. Spiritual food and water are available but sometimes I don’t know what’s “safe” to eat. Some things people offer as comfort are not comforting at all. I have to turn to The Good Book to know I’m getting real nutrition.

The thing about those wildflowers, from what I read, is that they need very specific conditions to bloom and that is why it doesn’t happen often. They need at least one inch of rain to blossom.

I cannot make it rain more often in the physical desert. In my personal desert, a place most often devoid of happiness and enjoyment, I do know where my help comes from. The problem is holding onto that help long enough to get a whole inch at one time.

In the literal desert, humidity is so low that not enough vapor exists to form rain clouds. In the rain shadow desert of southern California, coastal storms from the Pacific Ocean try to blow in to reach the desert but are blocked by Mount San Jacinto and Mount San Gorgonio. It stays dry on the Eastern side of the mountains.

I find my desert often blocked by mountains built by the enemy. Rain is produced but is sometimes stopped from reaching me due to shouting from the enemy inside my weary head. Weary of fighting for strength and joy and “normalcy.” There is no more normal. People say there will be a “new normal” but I’m learning it will never feel “normal”again. It will just always be different in a way it was never supposed to feel. (You can argue “supposed to” and “it was part of God’s plan” with me but I have an entire discourse to kindly but fervently release upon you should you care to discuss it. God knew my husband would die, yes. He, however, did not cause or plan it. He is only capable of GOOD.)

The goal is to keep trying to create the right conditions for enough rain to meet my desert without being blocked by the mountains. There is an entire ocean of water to evaporate from and bring to my desert but I have to keep chipping away at these mountains. They are called despair, hopelessness, depression, fear, to name a few. Oh, I have a hope. I have complete faith about where my husband is now and that I will join him one day. But the hope has not managed to soak my earthly soul yet, for what the rest of my life will look like here.

If my imagery hasn’t hit you fully yet, God is the ocean, Satan and his gnarly minions are the mountains, I am the desert. And I still have these dormant seeds lying within a parched ground. The Bible tells me that I can say to this mountain to be lifted up and cast into the sea…and it will. I believe it…for me, though, it seems to be moving one pebble at a time.

The fact that the mountain is veeeerrry slow moving causes some degree of a crisis of faith for me sometimes. The enemy tries to tell me “if you’re such a strong Christian, a true believer, and God is who you think He is, why is your mountain so hard to lift, huh? Why am I still here, able to hold onto your rain?” And then I remember, over and over again, that God did not ever say I wouldn’t have trouble in this life; much the opposite, in fact. John 16:33 says “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (emphasis mine)

Jesus had trouble. He had so much that he cried and asked God to change what was happening…but the plan for his future was necessary. It was immovable, unchangable, if God intended to create a path to salvation for all of His children. Jesus wept. Jesus prayed. Jesus still died. Jesus rose again.

“I have told you these things so that, in me, you may have peace…” Yes, in Him I have peace at the very core of my spirit even as battle rages within me. I have the peace that I will see my husband again one day. I have peace that I will not always live in a place where there is worry, loss, despair. That does not change what I feel now, just like it didn’t make even Jesus feel carefree that it would soon be over; he still had to live through what physically hurt more than I can imagine.

I’m not a failed Christian because my flowers aren’t blooming yet in this desert where I now reside. (Neither are you if this post aligns with what you are feeling in your own grief.) It’s my desert; I know where the seeds lay planted. I also know they will only be dormant for a time. I know God is brewing up a rain cloud of epic proportions to pour over me because when the enemy fights the hardest it is because God is about to do something big in the Kingdom. I may be down, but I am not out.

Today I will keep seeking sources of living water. Tired as I am, I will continue to search for that which can make my dormant seeds bloom. I have been planted in this season to one day give testimony to what He does in tremendous loss. He stays. He protects my heart. He fights for me when I have no fight left. He is here. Faith means I don’t have to feel it to know that it is still true.

”Even the wilderness and desert will be glad in those days. The wasteland will rejoice and blossom with spring crocuses. Yes, there will be an abundance of flowers and singing and joy! The deserts will become as green as the mountains of Lebanon, as lovely as Mount Carmel or the plain of Sharon. There the Lord will display his glory, the splendor of our God.“
‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭35‬:‭1‬-‭2‬ ‭NLT‬‬

Rescue Me

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I’ve been pretty sick this week – cough that sounds like a garbage disposal with a fork stuck in it, voice that sounds like a 90-year-old who smoked filterless Marlboros for 80 of them, and a trash can full of used tissues – and yet still, somehow, I’ve been on a temporary upswing. Last week I had diverticulitis and every day of that I felt as if my head was being held underwater (emotionally) because it is hard being sick alone when your spouse was a dedicated caregiver. Mine was a nurse so, even when I said I was okay, he tended to anything I needed and was extremely compassionate. Now, although I’ve lived through being sick alone before I met him, I really, really miss him being with me when I feel bad.

After getting over the diverticulitis and almost immediately being struck down with some viral nonsense, this week of sickness I’ve somehow managed to be on an emotional upswing. I got it in my head that I needed to do some simplifying of my life, purging things from my house that we never used, tidying up, organizing. It was like “spring cleaning” came early and I was on a rampage to rid this house of extraneous things (none of them things that were specifically his.) And it felt good to be “putting my life back in order.”

If you read my previous chapter then you know that I already anticipated a downswing. I’m here to tell you that when the crash comes, it hits like a head-on Mack truck. This afternoon my brain is telling me that none of this cleaning up even matters. It would matter if he were here, but he is not. He would have appreciated all of this reorganizing and spiffing up of things. He would have enjoyed it just like I have been liking the new feel of it. But he can’t. And the fact that I am “enjoying” it on my own is the opposite of numbing. At times today it has felt like walking through my home when, instead of hard wood flooring and carpet, there is grass filled with sand spurs throughout the whole house. It makes you gasp and then fear taking another step.

There is more I want to do, in various rooms of the house and even outside, to feel like I have accomplished what I have set out to do. It takes little jobs here and there because I often tire or lose the will to finish. Before I sit down to work on my novel again, I feel like I need this in order to achieve clarity of thought, and yet I don’t know whether that is just a pipe dream…a way of working to force something that cannot be forced. I’m a problem solver, by nature, and I haven’t yet discovered an effective way to fix this. I’m doing all of the things I can think of and yet I still see no way “out.” I’m going to hate the way this ended for as long as I live. I’m going to know it never should have been this way. I think I’m always going to want to go back.

I’m thankful to know that both God and my husband are ahead of me and not just behind. God is still here, in the ethereal way that He exists in every breath that I breathe. My husband, well, in a way he is part of every breath, as well, because I can’t breathe without wishing he was standing beside me, laying next to me, holding my hand, touching my face. It’s strange how someone I knew as a physical presence in the world, someone I could touch and laugh with and fall in love with and go on adventures with, could be less present than the God who always stays. Scott’s memories are always with me, the memory of him…but I don’t feel him here. And yet God, whom I have never had the honor of laying eyes on or whose skin I have never touched, Him I can feel. There are still times I can almost feel God as a physical presence wrapped around me and His peace envelopes me like warm water.

Today, as I struggle with another deep dive off the face of the cliff that is grief, the one I climb over and over but inevitably fall from again and again, God is here. He never lets me hit the rocky crags of stone that are at the bottom of the cliff face. He never lets me drown in the tossing and churning waves at the bottom. I fall and I fear the crash. And the fear, the panic of the idea of falling so far, so deeply into the chasm that I cannot climb again, feels like a crash in itself. And it’s not only the fear of hitting the bottom, of drowning in the salty waves. It’s the fear of trying to find the energy to get back up. I dread the climb because it’s exhausting to get up every day, reaching for a higher point than I’ve ever reached in this journey, and knowing that, at any moment, I could slip again. Knowing that, at some point, I will fall again and have to start over yet again. I’m only eight months in and I’m weary of the workout…with forever to go.

I do find that, most days, I don’t seem to fall as far down as I used to fall. I also find that I don’t lay there at that landing for as long before I can stand up, determined to try again. I’m noticing that I’m developing some muscle memory for how to ascend and that some days I remember where the footholds are without having to look as hard for them. The times when it feels like I’m completely starting over are a bit farther between. Today, I’m choosing to be grateful for that.

When I go to bed tonight, I’m going to tell God, again, that I trust Him. I’m going to tell Him that I know that He sees the path I need to take and ask Him to keep directing my steps. I’ve often prayed that He not let me fall back down again but I’m learning that every time He catches me sooner, I trust Him more to do it the next time. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make the fall less scary while I’m in the freefall…but it does make the idea of falling less frightening. I guess it’s like parachuting. There is trepidation but as you check your harness over and over, seeing that everything is safely as it should be, you learn each time you ready yourself to jump that you will be safe when you reach the ground, more and more so each jump that you do, indeed, land safely. And yet as you take that first step off the floor of the plane into open air and gravity, there must still be at least a few moments of terror and adrenaline before the chute actually opens. I’ve landed safely enough times to know I will survive this somehow, but that doesn’t stop the sudden panic when gravity pulls me down at breakneck speed.

Writing typically calms me and so, now, I am on level, if lower, ground. I don’t think I’ll try climbing tonight. I think I’ll go to bed resting, trusting Jesus to keep me safely in the hammock of His arms, and wake tomorrow to try again. I’ll wake, have coffee, and begin one of the projects I have planned for organizing my home and see if I can get a foothold again. Thank you, Father, for rescuing me…again.

For Auld Lang Syne

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I’m sitting here, expecting to hear fireworks any time now, and doing what people do on New Year’s Eve – thinking back over what the year has brought…and, more acutely, what it has taken away.

When the clock strikes midnight tonight, people will raise a glass, kiss, and then burst into the lyrics of the song “Auld Lang Syne” as they watch the ball drop in Times Square. Oh, what I’d give to have even one more chance, but better yet a lifetime, of this with my husband.

Roughly translated, the phrase means “old long since,” or, more understandably in English, “for old time’s sake.”

The U.S. Embassy in Italy maybe explained it best in a blog post: “The lyrics of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ pose the question: How do we best remember the memories, friends and experiences of this year and the years before? The answer, the songwriter tells us, is to ‘share a cup of kindness yet’ as we journey into the new year.”

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And the days of auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet
For the sake of auld lang syne

And surely you will buy your cup
And surely I’ll buy mine!
We’ll take a cup of kindness yet
For the sake of auld lang syne

We two have paddled in the stream
From morning sun till night
The seas between us Lord and swell
Since the days of auld lang syne”

From the original Scottish, it does not mean to question whether old acquaintances should be forgotten and never again brought to mind. My interpretation (or translation) of the intention of the song is to say “let’s drink a cup of kindness for the sake of those people we cherish, for old time’s sake.”

Because, for me, they are not and will never be forgotten, although I often fear the loss of the minutiae. I fight a daily battle to continue on, and yet to also hold onto every tiny detail I can possibly remember.

If you are making new memories with someone you love tonight, recognize in that moment that that’s exactly what you’re doing; you’re creating a memory to look back upon. Relish it. Cherish it. Protect it. More than anything, take a moment to be grateful for it.

I will not be making new memories tonight, but I will be cherishing and offering up gratitude for the ones I was able to make with Scott and with sweet Judah. Time is a thief and the devil is a liar. I will not let that steal my joy or my gratitude for the time I was able to love them. ♥️

The Power of Retreat

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You can’t always be “all in.” Sometimes you have to back off.

I wanted to be all in at Thanksgiving. I wanted to be able to do that for my family. I wanted to for my son’s high school graduation earlier this year. I wanted to for my son’s birthday. I wanted to for every day that I’ve kept my granddaughter while her parents were at work or in school.

But I couldn’t always. I can’t at all times. I try and I try but sometimes I have to retreat from the joy everyone else is feeling just to hang on to my sanity. And isn’t joy what we all want? I do. I do want to feel the ethereal lightness and boisterous festivity of joy, but I can’t seem to experience the wonder of it.

I am thankful for the bright, twinkling lights, dressed up as humans I know and love, that have poured over me in my darkness. Their job is not easy, their burden not light because of me, but they keep trying to show me the way out of this blindness as my white, red-tipped cane shows everyone around me how handicapped I am by grief – tapping, tapping, tapping against everything to see if it is safe to venture out. It doesn’t feel safe; it just feels as if thick strands of itchy wool are woven tightly around me, wrapped again and again, preventing my exit from this cocoon I live inside now. Pinpricks of light show through but they are like stars on a moonless night. They’re beautiful while not providing reliable vision.

These layers and layers of woven sadness make it difficult for others to understand me at times. My voice is muffled through the layers I struggle to fight my way out off. I can be difficult to reach some days when my head gets caught up in the headache-inducing strands when it feels as if my struggle to escape only tangles me up even more and buries me deeper. Some days it feels more like quicksand than fabric that I could cut my way out of, if only I had a proper tool.

Therefore, sometimes it feels safer to retreat. Safer for them and for me, as I succumb to the call of tears. Some days I have to take a step back. I have to take a step away from everyone else’s happiness and laughter just to breathe. As I curl in on myself, I wonder if retreat is the answer, why their joy cannot seep in through the dense fabric of my grief. Shouldn’t it loosen in the presence of liquid happiness that permeates every string with its exquisite, refreshing splash? But grief is like wool, uncomfortably scratchy while it swells at the touch of moisture then contracts as it dries, causing shrinking of the overall garment. It is swollen and tighter as their laughter seems so easy to come by, and then tighter still after everyone leaves and I was unable to fully experience the sunshine that is each of them.

Holidays bring gaiety and exultation. They also escort memories from the prison of dark recesses within the mind into the open ballrooms of regalement, dancing to entertain. Not everyone likes ballroom dancing. For me, it is an acquired taste. I find the dancers beautiful and am envious of their talent to captivate others, but know I am ill-fitted to participate, my steps too heavy and uncoordinated. Still, I do not hate watching them now; I am just overwhelmingly aware that they will continue to perform the same routines over and over again, times infinity, because no new acts will be introduced, at least not for the dance I am longing to join. They’ll do this same dance, replay these exact same memories again and again, because the choreographer of this one is no longer a part of this troupe. He has moved onto a dancer’s version of the philharmonic, a place from whence there is nowhere more prestigious to aspire to elevate. He is in Heaven and we are still here, trying to learn dances that will never be as enticing to perform.

I linger, like a wallflower, at the edges of the ballroom, smiling and nodding dutifully toward those who peek over to be sure I am pleased with the party-like atmosphere. I am pleased. I’m grateful that they do not feel the depth of pain that I seem to have succumbed to, at times. I enjoy their merriment even as I feel ill-equipped to join in.

We used to have a Christmas games celebration. Many photos and especially videos document the chaotic joy and laughter of these get togethers. We would attempt ridiculous tasks like blowing ping-pong balls from one water-filled cup to the next, the winner being able to make it to the last one without the ball plinking to the table and floor. We’d shake even more ping-pong balls from an empty Kleenex box strapped to the waist, with only the movement of one’s hips to rattle them free. Carryied oranges between our knees in a relay race to drop it into a small bathroom-sized trash can then return for the next person to do the same. And collected lifesavers from a paper plate with only a toothpick between our teeth. Those were days of joy and merriment. I don’t think I can host such a soiré this year because, while the memories are not painful, the fact that it will never be the same elicits indescribable despair. And yet I’m sure he would want us to continue our tradition.

Everyone keeps saying “He wouldn’t want you to be sad.” And I understand the sentiment behind it. They’re right; he wouldn’t want that for me. Yet I also know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if the situation were reversed, while I would never want him to be sad, he would anyway. It is the prescribed order of things. It is a destination preordained.

I’m trying to retreat less and less these days. I am attempting to learn to join in again. I know that this life is precious and I don’t want to miss any of the important parts. And it’s all important, isn’t it? Every day here is a day I should be bringing joy to someone else. Every day I should be creating opportunities for memories that they can hold dear one day, as I hold mine. It takes the strength of Samson some days. I feel as if I cannot break the pillars of the temple of my own doom, demolishing it entirely, as he did. Samson’s strength ultimately set him free to the hereafter. I just need mine to set me free here until it is my time to go there. I push mightily against the stone colonnade, some days feeling the complete sapping of my strength overtake my ability to bring the walls down.

Fortunately, my strength is not my own. It is replenished time and time again, each time I remember to ask. God’s favor still immerses my life in glory; I just need to have my blindness healed so I can keep seeing it. The ice cream has fallen from my cone, melting immediately in the gritty sand, and now I can’t stand the idea of its sweetness. But the beach is still sunny, the ocean still cool, the waves still a melody, the spring-fresh smell of fresh-cut grass still lingering.

Someday I will take a deep breath and enjoy the serenity of it all, even with no ice cream.

I Just Didn’t Know…but a few things I do know…

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As I closed my eyes to sleep the night before we woke up to leave for your common surgery, I didn’t know it was the last night I would sleep in bed beside you. I would lay in bed next to you…but only after you were gone.

As I opened my eyes that morning, I didn’t know it was the last time I would wake to roll over and touch your arm, see your face, hear you breathing beside me.

As we drove to the hospital that morning, I didn’t know it was the last time we would just chat and be relaxed in each other’s company. I didn’t know I was telling you not to worry, it was all going to be fine, we’d be driving home the next day together and you’d be feeling much better already…when we really wouldn’t. I didn’t even know I wasn’t telling the truth.

When we sat in the waiting room, awaiting someone to speak your name to call you to pre-op, I didn’t know it would be the last hours that would be somewhat “normal” together. I didn’t know we were living on desperately borrowed time. When your parents came to sit with us, to wait with me through your surgery, I didn’t know it would be the last time we were all together…until it was at the funeral home.

When they called from post-op to tell us that the surgery went splendidly well and you were doing well in recovery, I didn’t know…they didn’t know… that they were horribly wrong. As they kept me sitting in the waiting room because they were too busy for visitors in post-op and said I’d see you when you got to a room, I didn’t know that those hours that ticked by as I anxiously waited to see you were part of the last day of your life, save for but less than an hour of the next.

When I saw you smile at me as you came into your hospital room when they wheeled you in and said that you already had less pain, I had no idea how short-lived our relief would be…so very short. I didn’t know that the next hours would be filled with fear, then with the most devastating loss of my life.

When you stopped breathing, I didn’t know yet that they wouldn’t save you. I didn’t know that was the last time I would lay eyes on you…alive.

When they came to tell me you were gone. The absolute forever kind of gone, I knew instantly…every fiber of my being, every inch of my body contorted in pain, knew that life would never, ever be the same. I knew I hadn’t done enough. I knew I should have somehow done more. I knew I’d never forgive myself for failing you.

As I left the hospital, I knew where you were and yet I did not know how to leave your body there alone. I didn’t want to leave your body in that building because then it was real. It was real. It was real. And I could never turn back.

I can’t believe it’s real. I cannot believe it is real. How can it be real when I just didn’t know? I just want to go back to when I just didn’t know.

When I first met you, I didn’t know you would change how I felt about myself. I didn’t know you would make life so much better. I didn’t know you would make me a better person. I didn’t know that I would soon trust you with my whole heart. But I did already know, instantly somehow, that you owned my heart and that God alone had sent you to save me, even from myself. I already knew, in a crazy and unexpected way, that you were finally The One. You had finally come for me. I just didn’t know it would be for such an unbearably short time. I didn’t know.

As I sit here now, I don’t know how to navigate this life without you. It’s been six months and I still don’t know. I’m walking through minutes, hours, days, months, as if in a trance because even though I know you’re gone, I still don’t know. I really feel like I don’t know.

What I do know is that you are not in pain. I know that grief, the definition of grief for me, is the presence of all of the love I want to give to only you but cannot. It is love unrequited. It is love no longer reciprocated. It is painful, to my very core. But I know you are without pain. I know you are experiencing the greatest days imaginable. I know that you will greet me when I arrive and we will still share a love incomparable to all others.

What I do know is that our love has not dissolved. What I do know is that I am still holding onto it until I see you again. What I do know is that, although you are not here to share in it, I love you still. I always will. What I do know is that we were, and we are, soulmates. What I do know is that this is forever, not just for here. I know you are still mine and I will always be yours.

The Clockmaker

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Famine shows itself in many figurative forms. You can be starved of many things besides food.

And “fair” is just the place where you buy cotton candy.

Life is not fair and, because of that, I’m starving. I’m not hungry, no. But I am starving for the life I had with my husband. Call it metaphor or an analogy but I’m going to staunchly maintain that it fits. This feeling goes beyond “missing him;” it’s just bigger, broader, more all-encompassing, more saturating than just “missing him.” This condition is deadly without intervention, exactly like starving.

Let me put it another way.

I keep reading that grief is the price you pay for love. I guess someone feels like that makes it all better. Grief is also proportionate to intensity of love. My sister and I LOVED our Granny and our stepdad VERY much and were oh-so-sad when they left. But my sister’s grief over her son and my grief over my husband is bigger. Your husband and your children are essential pieces to every part of your life. They are an integral and necessary cog in the clockwork of everything you do or plan to do in life. Take one of those cogs away and, well, let’s just say duct tape won’t fix it. You have to rebuild the entire inside of the clock to work in a different fashion if it is ever to keep time again. You have to painstakingly find a new place for every single cog and figure out how to make it a part of the working timepiece, how to make all of them turn and work together. It’s exhausting and it takes forever.

My cogs, springs, screws, other random pieces are scattered about all around me. Every time I try to fit two of them together, the teeth on the cogs don’t match up. It feels as if I will never find a way to make all of the wheels turn properly again. Typically, if this happens to your clock, you return it to where you bought it. I don’t want to do that. I LOVED this clock when it was working properly, when all the pieces were as they should be. I don’t want to go back and trade this clock for a different one. I just want this one to work again. The problem is, they no longer make the missing piece. So now I have to find a way to put it back together without it. To do that I’m going to need an expert clockmaker.

Since God is the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, He knows everything there is to know about time and about how to keep clocks running. The thing is, I’m scared to turn it over to Him. My clock is already broken and seems to be beyond repair. What if I send it off and it just gets lost? What if I give it to Him and find out that it truly is broken beyond repair and there is nothing anyone can do about making it tick again? What if, just like my engagement ring that was too big when I got it, I just don’t want to let go of it long enough for it to be fixed for me? I want to hold on to all of my own pieces that I do have left because I don’t want anything to happen to the ones that are left.

But then I’ll still just be sitting here with a broken clock. What good is a clock that doesn’t keep time? It becomes just a bauble, a knock knack. It just sits there and never does anything ever again. That’s not really what I want for my clock. I want it to work again because I’ll feel better if it does.

And yet I feel guilty for even trying to get the clock working without that essential piece. Maybe it shouldn’t ever work again. Maybe it was meant to only be functional when that specific piece was in place. Maybe that one cog was so important that it will always keep the time wrong, too slow or too fast or in the wrong time zone, if it is ever repaired to work again.

The Clockmaker. I have to give it to the Clockmaker. I’ve got to make a decision to send it off to Him, give it up in order to get it back in working order.

Uggghhhh, but I still just can’t.

I’ll keep trying. I’ll get a box to send it in, pay the postage, and just keep trying to send it out.

One of these days, I’ll be able to step close enough to the mailbox to put it in. One of these days, it will work again.