Pardon Me

I’ve been in jail. In prison. I put myself there. Even though nearly everyone around me told me I wasn’t guilty and I was judged innocent by a jury of my peers, I confessed to the crime and locked myself up, determined to punish myself for the rest of my life for something I didn’t do but thought I could have prevented. I believed it was my fault. Every time someone offered me a Get Out Of Jail Free card, I threw it in the trash. I needed someone to blame and the only one I could think of was me.

This may be the most personal blog I’ve written to date. Many have told me that by reading my perspective they have been helped with their own grief. Pain, my counselor often says, is the commonality of our humanity. No matter how different each of us is, it is our suffering that shows how alike we are. We connect there. Not everyone wants to read how deeply grief has affected me, though. I respect that. It is their right to stop reading my thoughts. The journey through mourning is profoundly personal and unique. Perhaps they won’t spend as much time in the slog of grief as I have when their turn comes. For me, writing about this pain is one of the few tools I have for disarming it.

After all, I was left here. I have to survive and keep living.

I blamed myself for Rob’s death. It’s a common reaction under the circumstances. Call it survivor’s guilt perhaps. Some say we have a need to blame someone for tragedies like this. I’ve tried to blame the hospital. The doctors and even the nurses. The firefighters who blew off our symptoms when they were called to our address. The nurse practitioner who examined us the day before we were taken by ambulance to the hospital—she sent us home and promised to call us the next day to see how we were. We never heard from her.

I focused blame on a country, a world, in uproar over a mysterious virus and the politically played life and death games that restricted lifesaving medicines from availability. I’ve blamed God for ignoring the prayers of hundreds of people who sincerely believed He would heal my husband. But He didn’t. Rob’s body was not healed when he was taken to heaven. God knows what we’re asking for when we pray for healing. He doesn’t play games with our prayers. He knew exactly what we were asking for and He said no. He’s God. He can do that.

So, I asked Him to explain and there was silence. In a void of answers, I filled in the blanks. At our core, we are all storytellers. The story must have an ending. A meaning. It can’t just be an event without closure. Rob and I got covid, we got sick the same day from an unknown source. When we finally were diagnosed by actual physicians, we both had double pneumonia and were admitted to the same hospital on the same day with the same symptoms. After nine days, I got well enough to be released. After five weeks, Rob went to be with Jesus instead of coming home to me.

The pain of that is excruciating. Again and again, I’ve gone over what happened. We lived in the mountains, hardly exposed to anyone. We were not convinced about the efficacy of masks, especially the way they are handled by nearly everyone. Rob wore them more than I did. We were forced to social distance by lockdowns and peer pressure. We both used hand sanitizers even though we know they kill helpful bacteria when we do. We did what we could according to what we both believed after doing our own research, and for a year we avoided the virus.

Until we didn’t. And when it found us, I assumed that it was my fault. We should have been more careful, I thought, just like everyone said. Ironically, if Rob had caught the flu, unable to overcome it, there would have been less guilt for me to deal with. But catching covid is different. There’s an unspoken shame about it, revealed by the questions asked of us by nearly everyone, including hospital nurses, “Where do you think you got it? Did you always wear a mask? Did you social distance?” If you don’t get one hundred on that little quiz, suddenly it’s obvious that, not only didn’t you study for this important test, you blew it so badly you’ll wear a scarlet “C” on your forehead forever.

I’ve re-read the text messages Rob and I wrote to each other until he couldn’t handle his phone anymore. “I wish we’d gone to the doctor sooner,” I wrote to him that first night. He never blamed me or himself. He didn’t live like that, controlled by guilt. I was the one who told him it was time for us to see a doctor and face the dreaded covid test. Still, neither of us believed we had covid. I’ve faced some criticism for that, but covid didn’t wipe out all the other viruses and bacteria that plague humanity. The onset for us was the same as any other cold. Until we both had trouble breathing, we believed the adage that you’ll get better in two weeks or fourteen days if you see a doctor because it had always been true before. When, after five days, we got worse, we saw a doctor.

Blaming myself has been a one-man tennis match where I lob accusations at myself, then run around the net and return the serve in self-defense. If you haven’t picked up on that at this stage of my story, you probably don’t play tennis. I don’t either, unless the point of the game is guilt and condemnation, and then I’m a pro. It’s a heavy burden to carry the guilt for my beloved’s illness and death. He was more active than me. He’d survived many serious threats to his health and come out on top. He was more fit than me. He was more positive than me. He was luckier than anyone else I know. He should have been the one to survive. I shouldn’t have made it.

We’re not designed to carry burdens like that. I know Rob wouldn’t want me to, either.

The problem with needing an ending to this story is that I don’t know why I lived and Rob didn’t. I don’t know why neither of us suspected covid. We have many friends our age with their own health challenges who also came down with that virus and lived through it, several of them without even seeing a doctor. Why did it take down Rob? Even the doctors were puzzled. But the bigger question is this: would he have made it if . . .?

“If” is the worst word in the English language. I don’t think I even need to tell you all the sentences in my life right now that begin with “if.”

When I couldn’t exactly pinpoint who was to blame for Rob’s death, the only logical person is the one who knew him best, loved him most, was there when the first sniffle showed up, and didn’t nag him to go see a doctor until five days after it was too late. I saw it all. I was sick, too, but since I survived that’s now a moot point. I didn’t do everything I should have to ward off the possibility of a pandemic virus taking out my darling. And everyone who knew and loved him, too, has paid the price for what I didn’t do.

See how easy it is to put a spin on that tennis ball and lose the match?

This morning, facing another day of sorrow as I do every day, I rearranged some books on a shelf and flipped open a book my counselor recommended but which I haven’t yet read, Finding Meaning by David Kessler. It fell open to a chapter entitled “Why” which, coincidentally, is also the title of my life right now. The page I began reading was subtitled, “Playing God.” Avoiding survivor’s guilt and regret over the “if’s” is the topic.

“To begin to heal, you must give the power back to God,” he writes, acknowledging the need to release your anger because God can handle it. Once some of that anger is released, you’ll start to understand that “if your loved one died, and you didn’t, it was not supposed to be you. . . because if it was supposed to be you, it would have been.”

The real question then is not why Rob died, but why am I here, and what meaning can I find now in the life I’ve been asked to live?

Kessler is a solitaire player. So am I, both of us on apps. I didn’t know when you lose at a game of solitaire, you can hit a button to “replay this game.” I should have known. I’ve asked God for that button a million times in the last six months of my life. But Kessler said that even though the option lets him examine the cards for hints about moves that might have given him a better result, sometimes he discovers that “given the hand I’d been dealt, even if I played every move exactly right, I would still lose.” Then he got the message on his phone, “No useful moves could have been played.”

I bolded that last line because that’s the way it looked to me when I read it and how it felt in my soul when I understood it.

Given the hand I was dealt. We were dealt. We did the best we knew to do with the knowledge that we had and the experience we’d gained from all the other hands we’d been dealt in life. But this time, even if we’d played every move exactly right, we still would have lost Rob.

I don’t understand that. My soul begs for a different outcome. I remember, in God’s defense, all the times He heard our prayers for healing—which were really only a temporary reprieve—and we survived many dangerous scenarios. Rob’s heart surgery, his strokes and TIAs, all the risks he faced as a firefighter, that massive blood clot in his leg, years of side effects from blood thinners, my melanomas and other skin cancers, endometrial cancer that cost me all my hormones and three years of my life in recovery. All the events we were protected from that I don’t even know about.

But when it came to this hand, this last hand we were dealt together, no useful moves could have been played.

I’m walking out of jail today. I’ll have to do some work to retrain my brain to resist the condemning thoughts that have kept me imprisoned all these months, but I know the truth now. I’ll keep re-reading it and reminding myself of it.

God doesn’t want me in jail. Nor does Rob or anyone else who knows and loves me. I still have to walk through this Valley of the Shadow of Death, a journey I didn’t ask for and am not enjoying, but God is with me. His rod and His staff, they comfort me.

And, just for the record, I’m giving up tennis. I’m terrible at it anyway.

With thanks to Dave Schumaker for permission to use the photo seen above. The original can be viewed at the following link:

Get out of jail free card | I figure that Gizmodo's Jason Ch… | Flickr

Spa Day

It’s safe to say that the pandemic is over. Petsmart no longer offers curbside pickup for pups. I could have really used that this week when the temperatures blew off the top of our thermometers. 121 degrees isn’t safe for man or beast. Even Petsmart thought so.

“Hi, I’m calling to set up curbside pickup – the service you offered in my confirmation email? How does that work?”

“Oh, we don’t offer that anymore. No, it’s too hot outside. It’ll hurt the feet of the dogs to walk them into our store.”

Silence. Click.

I.Am.So.Slow. It wasn’t until I saw the screen on my phone go dead that logic spoke up. So I drove Brody to his afternoon spa day appointment, walked him across the melting asphalt—ran him, in truth—and leapt into the air-conditioned building. When we reached the grooming salon, a friendly woman greeted us.

“This is Brody,” I said. She smiled at us and waited. “So, you don’t offer curbside pickup anymore?” I asked, hoping a lazy teenager had given me misinformation. It wasn’t just that I was being lazy, too, even though I’ll admit that was part of it. The other part was the instinct to survive. Petsmart is the size of Costco and the salon is located on the far east side, almost to the New Mexico border. The last time I ventured into the building, I tripped over my 70-pound horse and fell face first at the feet of twelve strangers in the checkout line. I’ve spent the last three months coming up with a plan to insure that never happens again.

“No, we don’t do curbside anymore. It’s too hot outside. It’s not good for the animals,” the groomer explained.

I stared at her cherubic face. Even she missed the logic. I decided to point it out.

“You realize that meant I had to walk him across the hot asphalt, in the heat, to bring him inside. He still had to cross the Valley of Lava to get here.”

“It’s store policy,” she smiled.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” I pointed out.

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed.

Well, at least she was honest. But I was determined not to give an encore of the slapstick performance I’d given the last time I walked Brody out of the store. Since customer service had gone back to pre-pandemic normal, I knew I’d have to find help somewhere else. I needed a dog walker who was lighter on her feet than me.

My thirteen-year-old granddaughter.

“Sure,” Allie said when I asked her to come with me to pick up my freshly pedicured pup. I found out I could pay the bill online, so all we needed to do was put Brody’s collar and lead back on so Allie could dance him down the aisles to the front door. Which is what it looks like when a giant white dog has to smell every nook and cranny along the way. But Allie is strong and persuasive and soon we reached the front door. The safety zone. The edge of freedom.

Right across from the cash registers where thousands of other dogs have come and gone in broad daylight.

What’s a dog to do? He had to go, too. And he did.

Lifting one hind leg, he peed all over the automatic door’s frame, baptizing both inside and outside the walkway with half a gallon of Brody’s Special Reserve.

I assumed this is the sort of thing that happens all the time, even noticing evidence of a more disgusting donation left by another dog a few feet away. I could have walked out. We were practically on the other side of anonymity. But I’m a good citizen and didn’t want anyone to slip and fall in the doorway and sue Petsmart for not keeping their floors clean. I could have sworn I’ve seen store employees with less tenure mopping up accidents like this one. It’s their job.

I left Brody in Allie’s care and headed to the cashier to point out the mess so they could page someone to clean it up. I was sure they’d be grateful for my thoughtfulness while I braced myself for re-entry into the furnace outside.

The cashier pointed to something behind me. “There are paper towels over there and disinfectant spray,” she said before I could even tell her what happened. Everyone in the checkout line had seen Brody’s behavior and now watched in pity as I knelt on the floor and cleaned up his pee. It looks like Petsmart has discontinued their outside pickup as well as their inside pickup. There was a certain déjà vu feeling that came over me as I re-connected with the same floor I’d come face to face with three months earlier.

I am tired of being humbled by a dog inside Petsmart.

I don’t know if I’m going to take Brody to back anymore to get his nails clipped and his fur washed. I heard there are mobile groomers who come right to your door no matter what the temperature is outside and thank you for the privilege of cleaning him up no matter how inappropriate he behaves in public. I also heard they charge a lot of money to drive their petmobiles onto your driveway so you don’t have to walk your dog across melting asphalt or fall on your face when it’s time to pay them or make you clean up dog pee.

The pandemic may be over but free enterprise is still alive and well. And worth every single penny. 

Everyday Warrior

She was a warrior.

An everyday soldier. A lover of God and country. Preserver of the heritage passed down to her by the bloodied hands of dying heroes. A descendant of veterans of earlier wars, she felt a strong responsibility to do whatever she could to honor their sacrifice and preserve their gift.

“Speak up,” the choir sang. “Stand up,” the righteous declared. “Show up,” her own heart commanded. So she spoke and wrote and stood and showed up on the front lines of the worst threat to freedom she’d ever encountered.

There had been many in her lifetime.

She witnessed the birth of the drug culture. Lived through the divisive Vietnam War, its violence televised in black and white every night of her childhood. She watched as students promoted free love, civil rights marches led to the death of Martin Luther King Jr., campus violence took the lives of students, and two Kennedy brothers were assassinated, their murders televised repeatedly for weeks afterwards.

1973 saw the legalization of abortion. The Vietnam War ended officially the following year but not before more than 58,000 American soldiers came home in body bags. In late 1979, in a move that shocked Americans and held their attention for over a year, their embassy in Iran was seized and its delegates held hostage for 444 days—a timeline counted down every night at the close of the evening news.

In 2001, terrorists attacked America on her home soil, taking the lives of nearly 3,000 people. It forever changed the way people the world over experience travel and eroded individual freedoms in the name of “safety.” Subsequent wars in the Middle East cost more American lives as politicians did what politicians do and sent soldiers overseas to ensure their own re-elections.

She’d lived through a lot. Observed history as it was made in real time. Watched the first landing on the moon. And the last. Witnessed the end of some wars and the beginning of others. Raising a family in the middle of unending chaos, shielding tender hearts while they grew into adults capable of protecting their own lives and interests, she was an everyday warrior. In that arena, her sacrifices were valuable.

She and her husband supported education, but when it crossed the line of trust, they picked up the torch and taught their children themselves. Remaining involved with their church, their neighbors, and their community, they were watchmen. Speaking up even when their opinions were unpopular, they remained true to themselves and their consciences.

All in unseen preparation for the ugliest conflict ever to come their way. This one, the most confusing of all, proved the most costly. They did what they always did, the two of them. Educated themselves on the issues. Listened with a discerning ear for truth as well as lies. Wrote letters. Made phone calls. Followed their convictions. Prepared for the worst while hoping for the best. It was a life and death battle. All the freedom preserved for them, inherited by them, entrusted to them, was on the line.

She heard the call to arms. They both did. Side by side, they stood their ground in defense, watching an advancing enemy rush the perimeters of poorly guarded boundaries. Suddenly, they felt alone in the foray, armed with the equivalent of water pistols while evil disguised as good led with lies and attacked its own citizens.

And when the dust settled, when the all clear was announced, she remained, alone. Wounded beyond belief, she survived while her husband became a casualty of a mishandled pandemic. This time the fight cost her everything. Her health, her home, her security, her future, and especially her heart as she watched her beloved succumb to his injuries.

They lost the fight of a lifetime.

Like fallen soldiers, they were both taken out. Traumatized, she glances occasionally from the sidelines trying to determine if the cause is still worth the fight. Did she stand on the wrong side of the conflict, or is any side of a conflict the wrong side? Is there anything to be gained from analyzing what happened or should she chalk it up to experience, living out her days in endless recovery?

A wounded warrior, sidelined by the betrayal of truth. And the evil tide flows unhindered over the unseen carnage like nothing happened, convinced that the ends justify their means, exactly as evil always believes.

She stood for her convictions, losing everything when she lost him. The price she paid in a doomed battle was too high. Tallying up all she invested against what it cost to hold her ground and live her truth, she stared, disillusioned, at the bottom line of ancestral responsibility and came to this one, final conclusion.

It wasn’t worth it.

With thanks to Mark Bonica for his service, talent, and generosity in allowing me to borrow the photograph seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link:

retirement | I signed out on retirement leave from the Army … | Flickr

Paradox

I need to see his face again. The one I miss so much that I fear it will fade away when I’m not looking. I scroll past the apps on my phone searching out his photo where it hides in the background. There he stands, in the snow, next to our dog, smiling. That jawline I’ve always loved. The sexy glasses he always wore. The confidence he always exuded. And I begin to cry. Remorse settles in. Again.

“I wish I’d loved you better, Baby,” I weep. “I wish I’d never wasted a moment of time with you. I wish I could touch your face again. Hidden by your first-ever beard the last time I saw you, how I wish they’d given you the dignity of shaving your face like you always did. And cut your hair in the hospital room. I wish they’d treated you like the human being you were. I wish I’d sent them this photo to put over your bed so they’d better know the handsome man who lay there.”

But it’s too late for wishes. It’s still too late. Always too late. I am always late.

I pull the last Kleenex out of the box next to me and send it to its final resting place five seconds later. Kleenex. I alone am keeping them in business. Talk about a temporary life—pull one out, blow my nose, wad it up and throw it out. I go get a fresh box and toss the empty one in the trash. Disposable. What a word. Everything in life is temporary—even life.

I’ve been thinking a lot about time, as though it were something tangible. We set appointments using time and, if we’re very good at punctuality, we’ll nail that sucker on the head, showing up “right on time,” just before the second and minute hands cooperate and we’re on to the next moment. Congratulations. You were on time and now it's over.

We fill our rooms with clocks that never rest. We note the movement of shadows on the ground and observe how reliable the sun is, separating day after day from night after night. But outside the walls of this dimension there is no time. Time was invented by God, though I don’t know why. All it does is hold us captive to the things we long for but cannot have.

Like making time stand still.

Has it ever occurred to you that there’s no such thing as tomorrow? There’s no such thing as the present? There’s really only the past, and all it does is define our experiences in the remembering. When tomorrow finally arrives, it will be renamed “today,” which is really only a series of disappearing “now’s.” A local seafood restaurant banks on that every day, confidently boasting on their painted storefront, “Free Crab Tomorrow.” They know tomorrow is only a word. And the present is gone even faster than the brief second it takes to type its name. Go ahead. Try to hang on to this “present” for longer than a second. Poof. See? Already gone.

It’s almost as though time doesn’t really exist.

Time is mysterious to me. In all the years Rob and I had together, forty-seven since we first met, had I been told there’d be so many I’d have thought our last chapter was eons away. In truth, believing the end of our togetherness was way out of sight was the only way I could risk losing him. Losing us. It was a long way off, so far away that I convinced myself it would never happen.

But I was wrong. Time slips through our fingers. Melts in our hands. Evaporates while the sun shines and even when the storms appear. Until now.

For suddenly, time has slowed. Three days out it will have been four months since Rob left us. From the outside, that sounds surprisingly fast. From the inside, that’s the equivalent of one hundred- and seventeen-days times 24 hours. Two thousand, eight hundred eight hours of missing him. And every time a new day has the audacity to show up in my room, I waken to the knowledge that Rob isn’t here anymore. And never will be again.

Except I don’t believe it. Yet. It’s my brain’s way of trying to protect me from the harsh reality of loss. How strange. I can sit here and even write about it, but all the while my body and soul, keepers of the truth about this transient life, are withholding evidence. Despite all the crumpled Kleenex in the cans scattered around this room, I have yet to fully recognize my beloved’s death. Taking in that simple truth all at once would overwhelm me.

So, I will weep. I will remember. I will look for him in the moments when I forget he’s gone. I’ll listen to his voicemails, scroll through his photos, re-read his emails. The one thing left to me in the emptiness left by Rob’s presence is this paradox:

The man I’ve loved for forty-seven years is no longer here, while standing in his place, with no intention of ever leaving, is something that defines our experiences but has never really existed.

Time.

With many thanks to Pinksamurai Fairlady for permission to use the above graphic. The original can be viewed by following this link:

Wickenshire Wonderland | by Lara Nguya Broken but noisy :) S… | Flickr

Through The Sea

I look for him everywhere. This morning I dreamt the clock turned back and he was beside me for a few stolen days. We were driving to Florida together, for his funeral, him in the driver seat like always, me trying not to cry, hanging on for dear life to a few gifted moments with him, holding his hand, hearing his voice. 

It’s a blessing and a heartbreak to dream about Rob.

This morning a man’s voice filtering through the insulated walls of my room sounded just like Rob’s when he stood outside talking to neighbors. “Yeah?” was the short remark, but the familiar echoes of it reverberated in my aching soul.

How many ways are there to say how much I miss my husband?

Spirit to spirit we can still communicate sometimes. That’s new information for me, never needed before now. Our spirits never die, so it makes sense. But it’s unexpected when it happens. Sometimes I simply sense his presence, other times, like when I was watching the kids on the zipline last week, I know in my heart what he’s speaking to me.

Hearing God’s voice is as vague an experience as listening to Rob’s.

Right now, while my attention is easily demolished by loss and memories, it’s hard to “be still and know.” When I try to sit quietly, I become agitated and get up, looking for something to do. Some way of distracting myself from the pain. But pain follows you, like a needy dog, demanding your attention until it has its say and you meet its need.

Last night I gave in to the pain, letting my grief vent for a long time until, exhausted, I sat down on the sofa and waited. “I’ll try again,” I told my Creator. “I’ll sit here and stay put for as long as I can.” I closed my eyes, trying to breathe through a nose swollen from crying, letting my heart rate slow in the quiet space. My counselor has suggested that I lean into God’s love, asking Him to make His love known to me. I didn’t voice that last night. I just waited, trying not to become impatient, unsure if I was on hold with God or if I’d soon hear a prompt to leave Him a message.

It feels that way sometimes.

I decided I wasn’t moving. If God wanted to tell me something, this was His chance. His silence has made me question His love for me, even causing me to wonder if His attention span is as short as mine. Does He even know how much I’m suffering, alone in this room surrounded by pictures of Rob and me, his career on the wall where I hung his helmet, and only the sound of my own weeping? Why doesn’t He say something? Make Himself known. How can He ignore one for whom He died?

How long will I be stuck in the quicksand of grief?

I sat there. Spent from my tears and questions. Waiting. “Put up your feet,” I sensed Him say after several minutes. Well, that’s not very spiritual. If I did that, I might fall asleep and miss whatever He might say next. “Put up your feet,” I was reminded. Fine, I sighed. I pushed the button beside me and did as I was told. I was more comfortable, I had to admit. Relaxing a little more, my eyes remained shut and I waited. Listening.

There’s a place where I’ve always met God in prayer where I enter deeply into His rest. It hasn’t happened in a long time, my life has been so wound up and traumatized for the last year and a half. Between all the craziness of 2020, living at four addresses in the last six months—which has also caused a lot of my mail to implode in frustration—and losing Rob, sitting still until I sink into that peaceful, encapsulating rest in God’s presence has been an impossibility.

But I found it last night. Sitting here alone in this quiet room with my feet up. Waiting. Disconnected from my environment by the sheer act of closing my eyes and putting my feet up, I felt for a while as though I were floating. No pressure on my body or heart, it was as though I was being carried gently. And I knew I was. I sank into God’s rest and heard Him again. “I know you feel abandoned. But My arms are around you. You couldn’t imagine how much worse it would feel if I wasn’t carrying you through this. I am here when you can’t see Me. I will not, I will not, I will not, under any circumstance, relax My hold on you or let you down. Assuredly not.” The verse I’ve put on my refrigerator ran through my mind. Hebrews 13:5.

After a while, finally understanding a tiny bit that God refuses to leave me alone no matter what the enemy of my soul tries to tell me, I opened my eyes, put both feet on the floor, and came to the table to read for a while. In her book about grieving, Tish Harrison Warren, an Anglican priest who suffered huge losses in one particularly bad year, wrote that the Psalms are full of lament, a synonym for complaint.

“Psalms of lament—both communal and individual—are the most common type of psalm in the Psalter. They voice disappointment, anger, sadness, pain, deep confusion, and loss. If our gathered worship expresses only unadulterated trust, confidence, victory, and renewal, we are learning to be less honest with God than the Scriptures themselves are. . . Lament is an expression of sorrow. To learn to lament is to learn to weep. But it is more than that. In the lament psalms, the psalmist holds God to God’s own promises.” She cites Psalm 44 as one example before continuing.

“It is better to come to God with sharp words than to remain distant from Him, never voicing our doubts and disappointments. Better to rage at the Creator than to smolder in polite devotion. God did not smite the psalmist. Through the Psalms, He dares us to speak to Him bluntly.” (Prayer In The Night, Tish Harrison Warren)

Christians, she wrote, have for centuries prayed the Psalms because they express the depth of our humanity, from extreme joy to extreme sadness and everything in between, and lead our broken hearts back to the One Who loves us more deeply than the pain we experience.

So, I opened the Bible that has left me feeling confused for the last five months, ever since my world exploded into a billion shards of glass. A bookmarked page led me to Psalm 77. I read it, praying it aloud, sobbing while my vision blurred the words on the pages at times. And when I got to the end, I was stunned. The verse was marked in my Bible, but I'd forgotten.

“Your way in delivering Your people was through the sea, and Your paths through the great waters, yet Your footsteps were not traceable, but were obliterated.”

He has been with me all this time, but He doesn’t even leave a footprint. Or a fingerprint. Or an autograph. He carries me every second even though I didn’t realize it. His intangible presence is present, nevertheless. He doesn’t forget His promises. He doesn’t become angry when I rail at Him over the unfairness of what has happened to me. He does not abandon me when I lament or question, holding Him to His promises and speaking bluntly to Him.

God’s not afraid of my honesty. And honesty is not a sin.

I miss Rob’s voice. I miss his touch. His face. The familiarity of his presence. Everything that was once my normal. Nothing is normal now. The quiet of his absence is so difficult to endure and I often feel alone in my situation. I guess that’s what’s normal about grief, feeling that way.

Jesus felt that way, too, more than once. But on one famous occasion, in a voice so loud everyone around him stopped and took notice, He accused His Father. “My God, My God, Why? Why have You forsaken Me?” Even though His Father had not forsaken Him. It was simply how Jesus felt in that moment. “For God was in Christ Jesus, reconciling the world unto Himself, not counting men’s sins against them.” 2 Corinthians 5:19

The “why?” of my life now haunts me, but I’m in good company. And at the end of that chapter in Psalms 77, David reminds his lonely self and all the lonely people who, like me, are comforted by his honesty,

“You led Your people like a flock . . .”.

God is here. I’m not forsaken either.

It is just my grief. 

Order Up!

Sometimes a little comic relief shows up when you least expect it. Right on time.

Rob would have loved this story. He was there when it happened, but like so many things lately, we never got to talk about it. Or chuckle over it together. But we will. Someday. I’d bet my last laugh on it.

Katy and I spent a sleepless night after that call from the doctor. We all did. It came down to this—we knew we had to let Rob go. And that meant a four-hour drive up to Show Low the next day, back to the hospital where everything went wrong. I still needed oxygen at that elevation, we both arrived wearing N-95 masks, and after gowning up and putting on gloves, we immediately we went to Rob’s room to tell him how much we loved him and say goodbye for now.

It was the hardest thing we’ve ever done.

Lee was on the phone the entire time while we sat at Rob’s bedside, listening to us talk to his dad, a witness to the long silences, praying over the phone for his father, sending his love. For several hours, in person and by phone, we all sat with Rob in that hospital room. Our family. Waiting. Listening. Watching. And weeping.

We’d never done anything like this before. And with the mantra Katy and I adopted ever since she brought me home from that same hospital four weeks earlier, we reminded each other that even though “we don’t know what we’re doing,” we just keep doing it anyway.

Rubbing our necks and changing positions in the chairs where we sat on each side of Rob’s bed, our attention turned in the direction of a hospital employee who suddenly appeared. Neither a doctor or a nurse, the man leaned in through the door he held open, brushed aside our curiosity, and got right to the point.

“Would you like a chaplain to come in and pray with you?” he asked.

I never turn down prayer.

Katy and I nodded, and the man quickly disappeared. A few minutes later, a second man arrived.

“Are you looking for someone to pray with you?” he inquired.

“Sure,” I said, a little confused. “Are you the chaplain?”

“No, but I can get you one. What kind would you like?”

What kind would I like? Katy and I exchanged glances while we thought about the strange question. I don’t know, I wanted to answer. Do you have any with whipped cream and a cherry on top? I never knew you could order a special variety of chaplain. No one had even offered us a menu to peruse. Then again, COVID had done away with actual menus. Maybe I should have scanned a code when we came in the hospital, so I’d have been better prepared with an answer. The man looked a little impatient.

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” I finally told him.

“Well, what denomination are you?”

Now, there’s a tricky question. Almost trickier than suggesting I could order a chaplain with a side of fries. I haven’t really claimed a religious denomination since churches started hiding their affiliation behind the catchy names on their signs outside.

Katy rescued me from my moral dilemma. “Non-denominational,” she interjected.

The man appeared relieved. “Fine. I’ll get you one of those,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

This place could stand to brush up on their communication skills, I thought. “I’ll get you one of those.” I pictured an assembly line of Build-A-Bear chaplains right down the hall. Cute, dressed in exciting colors, and pre-loaded with fun. I wasn’t far off.

The door flew open and a firecracker in a clerical collar burst into the room.

“Hi!” she announced loudly. “I’m the chaplain!” Short and spunky, I expected her to jump into the air and click her heels together, ready to wish us a “top o’ the mornin’!” It wasn’t out of the question, even though she appeared to be about eighty, but I’ll admit I was jealous. I haven’t had energy like hers since I was twelve.

Taking in the scene, she straightened her uniform and got right down to business. She crossed the room in a quick stride, took her place at the head of the bed, pressed one hand down hard on Rob’s chest, and leaned in close to his face. Katy and I reacted to the assault by scooting to the edge of our chairs, ready to tackle the tiny chaplain, but the woman was on a mission and never hesitated. Or noticed.

“ROBERT!” she yelled, as though Rob was deaf. “I HAVE WONDERFUL NEWS FOR YOU! DID YOU KNOW THAT JESUS CHRIST LIVED A PERFECT LIFE, DIED FOR YOUR SINS, AND WANTS TO TAKE YOU TO HEAVEN WITH HIM TODAY?”

My eyes glued to Rob’s monitors, I watched his heart rate begin to rise in direct proportion to his agitated blood pressure and respirations. I knew how sensitive his body had been for weeks to even slight noise. What he was experiencing now was on the scale of an F-4 tornado. I’m not a doctor but even I knew this had to stop. Prayer shouldn’t hurt.

“He’s a believer!” I said quickly to the kind of chaplain we’d ordered. “He loves Jesus!”

She broke out in a big smile, and I breathed half a sigh of relief before she started in again, her volume now set to supersonic.

“ROBERT! THAT’S WONDERFUL NEWS!”

If Rob wasn’t deaf before, her evangelistic approach was about to do him in now. I always thought Jesus restored the five senses, not injured them.

“WHY DON’T I PRAY FOR YOU, ROBERT?” she yelled again, jolting me off the edge of my seat.

I was already praying for Rob—that the wind-up munchkin would wind down ASAP. Kicking myself for inviting her in, I wished I’d realized that Katy and Lee and I had the prayer angle covered for hours. God heard us just fine and we weren’t even yelling. Thankfully, she ended the monologue before Rob’s rising vitals short-circuited the monitors over his bed. I heard a satisfied “Amen” from the energizer bunny before she turned with a smile toward Katy and me.

“And can I do anything else for you while I’m here?” she asked. Yup. Please go away. Out loud I said, “No, thank you, you’ve done enough.”

Missing my sarcasm, the non-denominational kind of chaplain looked pleased with herself and shook our hands. Then she escaped through the door where I couldn’t press charges. Katy and I sank back in our chairs, exhausted, looking at each other wide-eyed. I watched in relief as Rob’s heartrate returned to normal, his blood pressure stabilized, and his respirations slowed. I checked mine, too, and turned up the oxygen on my tank. Then I looked at my shell-shocked daughter.

“What was that?”

Worn out, we rolled our eyes, both of us swallowing our laughter.

“What kind would you like?” the man had asked.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, they say. With a sigh of relief in the now peaceful room, I told my daughter—out of an abundance of newly gained wisdom—the lesson I’d just learned.

“We should’ve ordered a Catholic.”

With many thanks to Steve Snodgrass for permission to use the great photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following the link below:

Menu | Bodacious BBQ | Steve Snodgrass | Flickr

With This Ring

My love. I look at your wedding ring on my hand dozens of times every day, remembering how it looked when you wore it. The turquoise stones, set by a jeweler who made that ring just for you, are still beautiful. I look for it in every photo I have of you, memorizing that ring on your finger. Sometimes it aches to look at it on my hand. Such a part of you. All I have left of you. Most of the time it fits a little too loosely and I worry that I’ll lose it. As easily as I lost you.

Was there anything I could have done differently to keep you? I’ve asked myself that a million times plus one and never come up with anything. Can I stop the wind from blowing? The moon from shining? The stars from twinkling? Was I the reason you lived as long as you did, because there was some kind of magic in my hands that I somehow lost last February?

It’s a mirage, the idea that we have control like that. Control over anything. How many times did I kiss you goodbye in the morning, never letting myself worry that I wouldn’t hug you again that evening? How many fires did you walk into and walk out of again? How often did you avoid a collision on the freeway, a fall from a ladder, a hunting accident? We don’t know, do we? Did I have any control of your safety all those times? None.

I just thought this separation was way down the road for us. I joked that we’d need another forty years together to figure each other out. Fully adjust to co-existing in retirement. Learn to adapt to growing older. Frailer. Grumpier. Sleepier. And all the rest of the dwarfs—ier.

I took it for granted. I took you for granted. I thought you’d always be here, with me, with the grandbabies, with our kids, and our friends. I thought we’d both dodged enough bullets we’d earned the right to be bulletproof. Maybe I let my guard down? Maybe that’s ridiculous. I know the truth is that your death was a senseless thing that I keep trying to make sense of, even if it means I blame myself.

There was so much stacked against us. So many fails. Neither of us saw this coming. That nurse who saw us on Tuesday and sent us home. The firefighters who responded to our house the next morning and said the hospital would probably send us home, too. But they didn’t. The way everyone thought I was sicker than you were, but here I am, and you’re not . . . here. The way the doctor shook his head, trying to figure out why the virus took your life. Even he came up with nothing.

We don’t know. That’s about all we do know. And not knowing is hard to live with. Was there something we could have done differently? And, as many have pointed out to me, what difference would it make now if I figured that out? I know it wouldn’t bring you back. From what I hear about where you are right now, you wouldn’t even want to. It’s better for you in every way except one—I can’t be with you. That’s part of the pain of grief, too. Life has asked me to live this new existence without you, this life I didn’t ask for. And every day there are reminders, all day long, of what I once had with you by my side.

I bought a new Tahoe last week and now I’m its sole driver. I stop at a grocery store and remember the way you always parked me in the shade when we were together. Stopping for gas, I'm the only one here to fill my tank in the Arizona summer heat. I watch couples holding hands and long for the way you always opened my door first when we got in the car, your hand at my back, quietly guiding me with your love. “Always kiss me goodnight,” you said, reminding me of the plaque on your nightstand. The one I gave away when I cleared out the house because I can’t look at it anymore. Your corny jokes. Your stoic look when I made corny jokes. The tender way you looked at me and the times others saw it, but I missed it. I miss it now. I miss it so much.

I always knew this day would come. That chances were I’d outlive you. Women often do. I just really gambled on it happening a long way down this road we journeyed together. You know I never was any good at gambling.

Tomorrow Marc is bringing the state flag to me that flew over headquarters the day you died. They took it down in honor of you and your service to Chandler Fire Department. Tomorrow they’ll give it to me. I didn’t know that was a tradition there. There’s a lot I didn’t know until now. There’s a lot I wish I still didn’t know.

Life just keeps asking me to do hard things. And I keep doing them because I have so little choice. So little control. And because I love you. And because I don’t know any other way to get through each day except to do what I have to do. I’m just trying to survive here, Baby. Wearing your ring. Accepting your flag. Remembering your love. Your smile. The incredible man I was lucky to stand next to for most of my life.

Wishing with all my heart that I never wasted one minute taking you for granted. We just never know what a risk life is until it’s too late. I’m sure regret is a waste of time. I can’t think of much in life that you regretted, though. You always had the courage to face life as it came. I can think of plenty of risks you took, willing to give it a chance even if there were no guarantees.

There aren’t any guarantees, though, are there? Life is full of uncertainty. Questions without answers. Pain without comfort. Sorrow without you. I just know marrying you was the smartest decision I ever made, even though the promise I made, the contract we kept, included that little reminder, "til death do us part."

I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. You were the best thing that ever happened to me.

 

 

 

Mistaken Identity

There’s a little problem happening in my life right now. It's a bit of mistaken identity. Just in case any of you were wondering, let me clear this up. I do not, nor have I ever, owned or lived in a house on Edgemont Avenue. Not here. Not there. Not anywhere. Additionally, I do not want to sell a house I do not own on Edgemont Avenue.

Phew. I feel better just having said that.

And one more thing. Never in my life has my name ever been “John.” I’ve been called many other things, like Ella and Evla and Beulah and once, when a barista couldn’t read the handwriting on my Starbucks cup she yelled out, “Mike.” In that case, I did pick up the cup because it was my peppermint mocha. Still, even at a Starbucks in all the years I’ve ordered that drink, I have never been called “John” or given anyone reason to do so.

But for more than a year, word on the street is if you call or text my cell phone number, you can call me John and ask if I’d be interested in selling my home on Edgemont.

Hear me.  I don’t even know where Edgemont Avenue is located. Also, I don't know who John is.

I’ve been polite most of the time, texting back that I don’t own that house. When that didn’t stop the calls, I blocked the incoming numbers after I responded. I’ve blocked them without responding. I’ve explained that my name is not John. When I was texted today (for at least the thirtieth time,) I told the texter that he had the wrong number. He wrote back that he probably did, but did I know anyone who might live on Edgemont who wants to sell their home, because he really wants to live there.

“Seriously?!!!” I wrote back. And then blocked the number. Again.

A few weeks ago, after a phone call with someone else who wants me to sell them my non-existent home, I was laughing with my son-in-law, Dan, and the grandkids about it. Their advice was to pretend that I am the owner the next time someone calls, and string them along.

“Tell them about the rattlesnakes under the bathroom sink!” eight-year-old Will suggested.

“And the crocodile in the swimming pool,” his ten-year-old sister added.

So, when the next wannabe tenant abused my phone number the following week, what was I supposed to do? I told him my son-in-law is my realtor and handed the phone to Dan. He looked at me askance—yes, that’s a word—askance, but when I told him someone was interested in the house on Edgemont, the fun began. He put it on speaker phone, and we all listened in, trying to choke back the giggles.

“Yes, we might be interested in parting with it,” Dan began, mischief playing in his eyes. “How many bedrooms does it have? Seven, the last I counted. But we’re still trying to finish up three more in the basement. Yes, it has a basement, and a sub-basement, too, but the sub-basement has a serious plumbing leak and is full of water at the moment.”

The caller seemed fine with that and asked if there were any other problems that needed immediate attention.

“There are a few, now that you mention it,” Dan went on. “We tried to get the mold problem in the kitchen under control, but with all the bats in the attic nesting in the rafters above the ceiling, it’s been hard to get much done.”

The caller’s voice wavered a fraction, but he continued the pursuit.

“No, I wouldn’t say we’ve had it inspected recently,” Dan volunteered. “We don’t even know what happened to the last inspector. He was there one minute and the next thing we knew, there was a splash in the murky backyard pool, and we never saw him again.”

That one did us all in. The kids and I exploded with laughter and Dan hung up. And blocked the caller, just in case he finally figured it out and tried to call back with unflattering comments about our lousy salesmanship.

I don’t know how to stop these pseudo-realtors from dialing and texting my phone number. No matter how many numbers I block, it seems each one spawns five more. It’s like a bad fungus has invaded my phone.

Tonight, telling my son about it, I decided to look up the mysterious property on Edgemont, just in case I actually do own it and stand to make a million if I can find it in my heart to part with it. I can’t remember the house number, and no one bothers to mention it to me anymore, but how many houses on Edgemont could there possibly be that are for sale?

Eighty-one.

Holy Guacamole. I had no idea I was so filthy rich. I also had no idea which one to look at, since they’re spread out all over the entire north and west side of the Phoenix Metro area. I thought Dan had looked one up once and found it listed for sale in Scottsdale, so tonight I clicked on the link for a Scottsdale variety while my son, Lee, and I were talking.

“You gotta see this,” I told him. “I’m gonna send you the link so you can show Jessica. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna call it creepy.”

The rooms in the house were designed in a cold, modern style with lots of sharp edges and marble and, strangely, purple and red backlighting filled nearly every room. Nice photos. Weird house. Lee began to laugh as he opened the link.

“There’s a pole in the living room!” he exclaimed. “What kind of site did you send me to?”

“I own a house equipped for pole dancers?” I asked, shocked and appalled.

“There’s lighting under the beds, too. And an entire room full of bunkbeds. I’m starting to get a weird vibe about this house, Mom,” he added.

“Me, too,” I said, staring at the photos. “Do you think all the calls I've been getting are some kind of elaborate sting operation from a bunch of cops?”

“Good thing you don’t own that house,” Lee said.

“I’ve tried to sell it ten times, but these dumb realtors never stop asking questions about the bats and moldy crocodiles,” I told him.

I think I’m gonna have to get out of the real estate industry. Take up some other kind of hobby that’s a little more tame, like maybe raising armadillos or something. I don’t want to be associated with any more houses in Scottsdale that cater to pole dancers and lovers of fancy lighting in the bedrooms.

Not as long as there’s a name like “John” connected with my cell phone number.

Zipline

Dan strung a zipline for the kiddos today from the oleanders at the edge of their property all the way to the corner of the barn. Will and Jules and Allie and eventually Dan and Katy all took a seat and hung onto the handles for dear life while they screamed across the backyard, hair blowing wildly, until they bounced to a stop at the other side. They vacillated between huge grins and huge eyes while their bodies hurtled through the air, suspended on a thin, metal cable secured from trees to the roof. 

It looked like every kid and grownup kid’s dream.

“Farm life is great, isn’t it?” I commented to Katy while she and I stood at the edge of the jungle gym spotting the other zipliners in case they came too close to a wooden platform there. Katy agreed with a smile.

I wished Rob had been there to enjoy it with me. He and Dan had planned to run a zipline in the backyard of our Heber house between the enormous pine trees spaced out there in the woods. Just another re-alignment life handed us all. I couldn’t help but think of how much he’d have gotten a kick out of all the fun our grandkids were having.

“Are you watching this?” I questioned in my heart, while my frustration at all the layers of loss shaded my thought. Surely, through that thin veil he could see what the kiddos were doing. I could picture the big smile on his face and hear his laughter in concert with theirs.

“I’m right here beside you, Babe,” came the immediate reply to my spirit.

It took my breath away, even more than the zipline was doing to the kids flying past me. I knew he was there, watching them, watching me laugh as they rushed by. The answer was clear, distinct. Comforting. Surprising. My eyes swam and I choked back the evidence, putting on a big smile as Will soared past.

I guess it might sound crazy to believe Rob’s spirit communed with mine outside here tonight. It so easily could have just been my brokenhearted imagination dreaming up what he’d have said to me if he stood beside me in the flesh. But I know of no reason why he couldn’t see what the rest of the neighborhood could only hear as the kids hooted and yelled in delight. We’re surrounded by a cloud of witnesses, the Bible says. What makes me think they only fill that heavenly amphitheater when something more spiritual is happening, like a battle against temptation or a revival, and not just kids being happy and a grieving wife watching?

Sometimes the things that break my heart are all about what Rob is missing since he left us in February. The hilarious Dare Devil videos my son’s three kiddos are posting on YouTube. The piano concerts here, comic strips his grandkids draw, the puppet shows, his dog romping under the trees, our son and his wife leading their church back to normalcy while their hearts are still hurting, the way our daughter and son-in-law are supporting me and each other. And me, surviving here with my heart in pieces, but still, surviving.

We’re doing it. Getting up every morning. Facing the day, whether with tears or a smile or both, but facing each new one as they come. Holding each other. Moving forward whether we feel like it or not. “Crushing it,” my daughter said to someone who wanted to know how her mother is doing. Even while our hearts are broken, we’re all crushing it.

So, when I throw out the desire heavenward that Rob can watch while life hands us the gift of a delightful moment in this time of heartache, it’s a miracle of hope to believe that he can. And does. It’s just that believing my spirit can still commune with his sometimes feels as precarious as putting your faith in a narrow, metal cable while you’re hurled across space, your heart in your throat, trusting you’ll survive the flight.

“I’m right here beside you, Babe.”

Maybe he’s not missing it after all.

Maybe it’s just that we’re missing him.

With thanks to My Photo Journeys for permission to use the beautiful photo above. The original can be viewed at the following link: Zipline at sunset | My Photo Journeys | Flickr

Hero

I sold our Tahoe this week, Baby. Somehow, I think you know that. I keep moving forward, trying to build this new life for myself that aches to have you still a part of it. I have no choice. I know what I have to do—I just hate doing it without you.

Now I'm driving a silver 2020 Tahoe. Kate came along as moral support when I made the decision. I’ll be safe now when I’m driving across the desert. And to Florida next month to say good-bye to you along with your family and ours. I can barely even think of that. The worst trip I’ve ever had to make and this time I’ll be doing it without you beside me.

Katy and I rushed to clean out the old truck the other night, shoving everything inside a couple of insulated freezer bags from Costco that were in the back end. All the random odds and ends that always wind up crammed inside a vehicle you’ve driven nearly 300,000 miles. I didn’t know the salesman would let me take the new Tahoe home the same day. I was unprepared. Kind of the story of my life this year.

Last night, while I talked with Lee, I sorted through it all, tossing outdated receipts and duplicate umbrellas. I had three of those. Three umbrellas when we get less than seven inches of rain here in the desert. Either I’m ignorant or hopelessly optimistic. It feels more like the former at the moment. Optimism is tough for me right now. Lee and I were busy talking and laughing over the random experiences of the day when I pulled your leather gloves out of that Costco bag. I caressed them the way I did your hand that last night in the hospital. And then I stopped laughing.

Two pair of your sunglasses appeared next. I knew these things were there, hidden deep inside the old console. I couldn’t bring myself to part with them. I still can’t. I tried to laugh about the shades you were always losing track of. I told Lee how I filled your Christmas stocking one year with enough sunglasses to keep your eyes protected for at least two years, and how you lost every one of them by the middle of March. You were always misplacing your sunglasses. I’m not misplacing these. They’re in my drawer now alongside that photo of you kissing me by the lake. Treasures.

Lee and I both got choked up as I told him all the things I was pulling out that were part of our road trips and day to day driving places together. We loved traveling together, didn’t we? Finally, when I’d sorted through it all, I took a deep breath and told him that was harder than when I had to clean out our bedroom in Heber. All the little things represented a million memories that burst into my vision, stealing my breath, filling my eyes with tears. We’ll never travel together again.

This is grief. Every day, new pieces of a life I'm forced to file away float to the surface of this new existence like the debris field of the Titanic. I gather them up, save what I can, weep over the rest. Every day I unearth another piece of truth, not because I want to but because making decisions like buying my first vehicle without you shoves it right in my face. I can’t take it in all at once, the knowledge that you’re gone forever. I can write it here. Stare at the words. Check the spelling. But grasping it’s full implication all at once would kill me.

So, debris field it is.

I’m alone at the house at the moment. I went in to play the piano you bought for me fifteen years ago. Another treasure you left for me. We’re making plans to build a casita here at Dan and Katy’s for me to live. The little house is designed around the baby grand. You’d be so proud of Katy’s kiddos’ ability at the piano, baby. I can’t come close to playing as well as the girls do. But I pulled out one of their books just now and the page opened to a song that always made me think of you. Remember how I always told you you’re my hero? That when I grow up, I want to be just like you? My knight in shining armor, KINSA, I called you. I sat at the piano and played that piece, sorrow embellishing every note as I did. Soon, that sensitive dog of ours was at my side, licking my hands where the tears were falling. He always knows. 

God, how I miss you.

I’m glad for your gloves and your sunglasses and your wedding ring and anything that makes you seem even a tiny bit close. All the little things that show up and make me cry that were a part of you and that life we shared that's gone. With every single fiber of my being, I miss you. You were always confident about my love for you. It's one of the things I admired about you, your confidence. In life. In Christ. And even in death. You knew who you were. You reminded me of who I am. You loved me like Jesus.

My KINSA. I'm going to keep moving forward, trying to make you proud. I know, if the tables were turned, you'd be doing the same. You taught me so much, Baby.

You’re still my hero.

It might have appeared to go unnoticed
But I’ve got it all here in my heart
I want you to know I know the truth
I would be nothing without you

. . . You were the one with all the strength.

Did you ever know that you’re my hero?
And everything I would like to be.
I could fly higher than an eagle
'Cause you were the wind beneath my wings.

Thank God for you
You were the wind beneath my wings.