Going Solo

I remember how the mike always shook in my hand. I was a musician, church pianist, choir member, but the only time I felt nervous was when I sang alone. Performing before an audience is different than practicing at home in your kitchen. Especially when it’s Mother’s Day and the lyrics are prophetic.

There are watercolor ponies on my refrigerator door . . . a reminder to us all of how time flies.

The pleasure of watching the children growing is mixed with a bitter cup of knowing

The watercolor ponies will one day ride away.

Wayne Watson’s words still bring tears to my eyes. We were deep in the piles of laundry his song spoke of when I sang the special music that morning. I tried to maintain my composure and hit the notes like my heart wasn’t breaking, but it wasn’t easy reminding a congregation and myself that we are only gifted with our children for a little while.

From the moment they were born, I knew we’d have to let them go live their lives one day, let them follow their dreams, fight their battles, face their heartaches, win their victories. We would watch from the sidelines, holding our breath, praying for them, weeping with them, and celebrating.

But still, we would be sidelined.

Baby, what will we do, when it comes back to me and you? They look a little less like little ones every day.

We were as prepared as possible. We gave the kids a good send off, cut the apron strings, celebrated their freedom (and ours), and looked forward to the next chapter. I thought we were great cheerleaders. I was relieved we were still friends, both with each other and with our grown children and their families. We did it. And when it finally came back to just Rob and me, we kept going.

We still had each other.

But.

There’s always a but.

I don’t remember any songs asking what I’d do when “it comes back” to just me. When my mate for life loses his life. Maybe there’s one out there, but I’ve never heard of it. I’ve never seen a book on marriage, either, giving ten ways to prepare for grief and loss. How depressing. The thought of going solo was so far in the future, there was no reason to think about it.

And now here I am.

Today it’s been four years since Rob took his last breath. Four years since I had to learn how to breathe again. How to keep living without him in my world. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long since he held me in his arms, laughed until he went red in the face, snuggled with his grandbabies, kissed my lips, and told me that he loves me. Four years ago was the last time his children heard his voice and knew they could reach out to him any time they wanted to. Four years ago today he walked into the presence of Jesus and I learned I can’t compete with that.

Left alone on the stage, the echoes of the final verse rang in my ears. “Baby, what will I do when it comes back to me without you?” I knew the poetic answers. I read plenty of them on Hallmark cards. But as the congregation filed out the door of the church, leaving those cards and sentiments to yellow, they returned to their lives while the soloist returned to an empty house.

There’s so much you learn when all the watercolor ponies ride away.

I miss him. I miss him so much words are useless. I’ve hit every level of grief known to man and dozens of others you only discover when you’re face down in a mud puddle made of your own tears. I’ve blamed God. I’ve blamed myself. I’ve blamed doctors and politicians and even Rob. I’ve wished I could enjoy alcohol and, instead, have been forced to settle for overdosing on chocolate. I’ve tried to drive away from the heartache, managing only to put 75,000 miles on my new truck while wearing out two batteries and a set of Michelins. I wore out my dog with my grief until he abandoned me and joined Rob in heaven.

This is hard.

This is really hard.

I’ve been quite public about it, leaving a few people to wonder if I’ve lost either my mind or my faith in Christ. Maybe some in the audience think it’s better not to hold onto the mike if you can’t perform well. But I didn’t write this song. I was just asked to sing it.

So, what is the answer to that long ago question? Surprisingly, Wayne Watson never gave one. And what of my question? What do you do when it comes back to you without the man you love? After all this time, the only thought I have is this. I think you have to learn to sing your own song.

From becoming a bride to being a widow, Jesus has been with me the entire time. Even when I beat my hands against his chest, he held on to me. Even when I called him The God I’m Not Talking To, he never stopped listening to me. Never let me go. Never let me down.

I don’t know why I had to lose Rob when we all love him so much. But if anyone knows what it is to lose and keep losing, it’s God. If anyone knows what it’s like to love and keep loving, it’s Him. He would not give up on me.

I am not the woman I once was. Half of me died four years ago today. But the woman I am becoming is less afraid to stand alone on a stage. And the woman I used to be has learned what it is like to be carried through fire. I thought I would disintegrate if I ever lost Rob, my beloved. And sure enough, I did. But I also survived.

When it came back to just me, Jesus was there.

Really, that’s all I know.