Holding On

“I still cry every day,” I told her, nearly four years down the road she’s just begun. Any morning the sun coaxes my eyes to open and I don’t immediately soak my pillow feels like a gift. A reminder of normalcy, whatever that used to be. 

It’s just another day on my own when he was supposed to be here, kissing me good morning. Difficult to face. But I have to get up. Nature calls. A few minutes later, I return to my side of the bed, which is whatever side I want now. My back hurts and I reach for the massage gun because he’s not here to rub sore muscles for me. He’s not here to grab my hand and pull me to my feet, wrap his arms around me and tell me, “It ain’t nothin’ but a thang.”

Empathy might not have been his strong suit.

The thought brings a smile and the tears stop. I do some stretches, let out a big sigh, and glance at the picture window across the room, knowing that opening the blinds will let in sunshine’s serotonin. I depend on it now, more than a pluviophile like myself would have believed. But first, I have to will myself to walk across the room to the window.

It takes more inner strength than I’d have ever thought possible.

Every morning begins this way. Tears that have woven stories into my dreams spill out in the daylight. He’s nearly always in my dreams in some fashion. Rarely the main character, just part of the story, taken for granted the way we often do in marriage. There’s no reason to feel bad about that. No reason to count down the days of matrimony in fear. Head in the sand, I just assumed we’d grow very old together and not just a little bit old before we said goodbye. I feel lucky, a little tiny bit. Many widows I’ve met never dream of their husbands.

Feet on the floor. “You can do it,” I tell myself. “Just stand up.” It sounds so easy. Nothing is easy anymore. Finding my way in the dark isn’t easy or desirable. What little girl does a ballerina spin and announces, “When I grow up, I want to be a widow!” It’s dark humor but it does what I need it to do. He taught me about laughing at the dark.

One more sigh. Another anemic surge of determination. Face the day. You can do this. Get moving and things will get better. I'd lay down and stay in bed but that’s not who I am. It wouldn’t help. I just need a little extra . . . hope.

Across the room on a bookshelf in the corner is framed word art my granddaughter created for me three years ago. It’s on a specific shelf for this specific reason: it lies exactly in my line of sight when I sit on the side of the bed each day and wonder how on earth I’ve survived this long. I forget it’s there every morning during this monotonous routine, but the genius of the shelf where I placed it proves itself every single time.

Every time the tears start up again. Every time I miss the smell of his coffee in the other room. Every time I wonder where I find the strength to face another day without him to talk with, explore the world with, laugh and fight and make up with. Every.Day. My eyes land, like muscle memory, on that framed reminder that waits on the bookshelf for me.

I will not

I will not

I will not,

In any degree, LEAVE YOU HELPLESS.

Nor forsake you NOR let you down,

Nor relax my hold on you!

ASSUREDLY NOT!

            ~Hebrews 13:5

 

This is the secret of survival for me. This is the fountain of strength I draw from when I see how weak and broken I am. It’s not The Universe that has my back, lovely and remarkable as it is. A thing cannot love me. A Person can love me. A Person can hold me in the dark when I can’t see a thing. When I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing here anymore.

My granddaughter’s artistic pen highlighted those three repeated words in differing scripts for emphasis, the same reason God spoke them that way.

I will not

I will not

I will not

He will not leave me helpless.

He will not let me down.

He will not relax His hold on me no matter how much I blame Him or accuse Him or beat my hands against His chest.

He will not. He loves me that much. Unconditionally.

Allie attached a smaller note that I tucked into the corner of the frame, another favorite reminder to me. “You’ve got this,” she added. I love that phrase and have gained courage many times reading it.

But the truth that keeps me upright, moving forward down this road I never wanted to travel is that God’s got me. And he made it as clear as possible that He’s not letting me go.

On my feet at last, I walk to the window and open the blinds.

Hello, sunshine.