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.

Criminal Intent

I don’t know. I’m beginning to think she’s possessed. Or maybe she has a drinking problem. They bragged to me about her ‘thoughtful intelligence,’  but I’m not buying it. I’ve spent a lot of time watching her work and she is neither thoughtful nor intelligent. At best I’d describe her as an idiot savant and, at worst, simply an idiot.

Yesterday I gave these clear instructions: “Go.”

I removed every obstacle in her way.

I closed doors to areas where she didn’t have the proper clearances.

It was such an easy job, even I could have done it. It could not have been a more straight-forward assignment, but in her defense, I suppose that makes me a slow learner.

Leaving her to her work, I disappeared into my office to write in peace and relative quiet. And then I got hungry. I wandered into the kitchen and glanced around the great room, relieved at the nice job she was doing. Until I looked down and there, at my feet, lay a turd. I mean, it looked like a turd. If I owned a dog. Which I don’t. All I own is an iRobot.

I’d be better off with a dog.

Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore. With a wave of dread, I looked beyond the sofa and there, lying crushed beneath the small table where she’s normally on display, lay my prayer plant. Gutted. Her earthen insides spilled out across the floor from one end to the other in a scene so macabre, its only saving grace was the way the grisly image was confined to being black and pearlite white.

“Oh, no,” I gasped, racing to her side. “What has she done to you?”

I didn’t even have to ask. I knew who was behind this.

Gingerly, I lifted the desecrated shrub from where she’d fallen and assessed the damage. Her leaves were still green. That had to be good. She must still be getting oxygen. Nothing appeared to be broken. She wasn’t leaking any fluid. Still, her potting soil was spread across the LVP flooring all the way to the laundry room, tire tracks telling the entire tragic story. My Calathea Rattlesnake Prayer Plant had been brutalized, and I knew exactly who the culprit was.

From the other side of the room a happy hum floated through the air, and I swear I heard a satisfied little burp.

Roomba. The criminal.

This time I had undisputable evidence. Prayer plants don’t jump off tables to their deaths without some kind of nefarious help. It wouldn’t be spiritual. I could picture the whole incident in my mind. Roomba bashing again and again into the hairpin legs of the little wooden table, relentless, vicious, jealous of the care I occasionally give to an innocent potted plant.

Oh, the humanity.

“Murderer!” I yelled across the great room as Roomba scurried away. “El Diablo!” I followed up, as she bounced off the legs of my piano. “El stupido!” I shouted at the mechanical vacuum who only speaks Spanish. I hurried to the kitchen sink for a damp sponge to clean up the dirty mess as Roomba raced across the room to add insult to injury.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I snarled, my voice falling to levels my children would have recognized as terrifyingly subhuman. It always worked on them, but they have souls. All Roomba has are computer chips and attitude. I grabbed at her handle just before she plowed into the wounded foliage again, aiming her in the opposite direction. She swirled around and took another swipe at the sainted victim of her malevolence. “Cannibal!” I screamed in horror, lunging at her off switch just in the nick of time.

Out of breath, I sank down on my sofa and surveyed the damage. This was war. And I was outnumbered.

I don’t know why I put up with her except that I don’t want to do the vacuuming myself. She’s inept. And she needs ESL training. I mean, if you live and work in this country, you should also speak the language. I need a translator whenever she sucks up one of my drapes and screams at me in her native tongue from across the house. I don’t know what she’s yelling about—I never took high school Spanish. I studied French.

I’m in over my head here. I’ve talked to other Roomba owners and I think, in general, it’s obvious we need to form a support group. One man told me his iRobot walked right off the job without explanation, drove into its micro-garage and never worked again. No coaxing or plea agreements could get it to come out. There’s another story gone viral about a Roomba that intentionally ran over a pile of fresh dog poo and, the next morning, the poor owner woke up to what he could only describe as a poopocalypse.

I’ve heard enough. I’ve seen enough. I don’t need any more evidence or dire warnings. I’m not going to be held hostage to a rotund robot who is an obvious terrorist any longer. I hate to do it but the jig is up. My plants have given me an ultimatum—it’s them or her.

It’s not even a contest. I bought a basic iRobot model who came with glowing reviews written by residents of Mexico praising her fondness for animal fur. Maybe she’s been yelling at me the whole time because I don’t have any dog hair around for her to eat. Something got lost in translation and I think it was the word for “houseplant.”

It doesn’t matter anymore. Roomba has been outed by my surviving potted plants, three to one, and they want her gone. They even have a message for her. They're tired of being depotted. Time for her to be deported. 

Hasta la vista, baby.

The Best Christmas Present Ever

It was either a spectacular joke or potentially a gift that my precious Kentucky grandbabies pooled together with hard-earned cash to send to their YaYa for Christmas. Either way, I was in quite a pickle when the time came to thank them for the necklace I’d just unwrapped. It was not made of macaroni. Or pipecleaners. Nor was it last year’s dried out Play-Doh formed in childish delight into something once resembling a heart. 

I took a picture of the two-pound monstrosity and sent it to my daughter. “Look what Lee and Jess sent me in their Christmas box,” I texted. “I don’t know what to think. What do I tell them when we Facetime later this morning?”

Her carefully worded answer was classic.

“Well,” she wrote, taking her time before texting back, “you could try something like, “It’s really sparkly!” Her own grandmother would be proud.

“How very Mam-ish of you,” I replied.

My mother-in-law, who we call “Mam,” turned 91 last month. While she’s been accused of having lost her filter, she clearly has not lost her mind or her health. Every time I hear what a good checkup she’s just had at the doctor’s office, I remind her that I’ve made her the beneficiary of my will. She loves that.

The truth is, she does know how to be tactful. For example, whenever she’s in the presence of a beaming young mother holding her not-yet-attractive newborn, Mam knows just the right thing to say. “My, what a healthy looking baby!” she gushes. It works every time.

My daughter’s carefully worded appreciation was clearly genetic. On her father’s side.

I looked all over the back of the cardboard holding this lime green work of art, but there were no Christmas messages or explanations. Not even any directions or health warnings about whatever questionable content the Chinese jewelry was made of. I can’t begin to tell you how confused I was by the gift I held. Semi-circular and connected nose to tail with heavy links of faux-gold, I was the proud owner of a bold statement piece certain to set off metal detectors if I dared wearing it through airport security. For once, I wouldn’t mind relinquishing a prized possession into the hands of the TSA. After all, they asked for it.

My computer screen lit up. It was time. I had to tread carefully. With my scrambled intuition on high alert, I pasted a delighted look on my face and answered the Christmas call from my son. He was alone in his office. Laughing. It didn’t take long to sort out the truth while the rest of his family remained in the other room, unaware.

“Hold on,” I told him, feeling my shoulders relax as I exhaled. “I’ll go put it on.”

I came back with the giant salamander hanging heavily across my ample bosom. The fake rhinestones covering its body were blinding, its fiery red eyes glowed demonic.

"Hang on a sec," my son sputtered, nearly asphyxiated by his own howls of laughter. I drummed my fingers on the desk and waited while he gathered his composure. There’s nothing better than being the butt of a good joke. I’ve heard.

At last, he spit out the story of his wife’s discovery of the priceless piece on Temu and how she couldn’t stop laughing over the computer image.

“Who can we give it to?” she giggled, clicking the “Purchase” button on her smart phone. “I know! Your mom!” she shrieked. “And we won’t include any explanation!”

I’d been set up.

Whatever happened next, she had it coming.

Lee shielded the screen on his laptop while he carried it into the dining room and called the family to gather around for our Christmas phone call. I sat demurely in front of the camera on my computer, saying nothing, wearing that hideous costume jewelry around my neck and trying to keep my back straight under its weight. Good thing I’ve been going to Pilates for two years. A strong core is key.

The grandchildren gathered, distracted by the gifts I’d sent still waiting to be opened on their end of the continent, oblivious of my attire. Jessica was the last to join the party, settling in with her famous smile and good nature, acting like nothing untoward was happening on the screen in front of her . . . until . . .

Her eyes bugged out and she buried her face in her hands in hysterics.

It worked. She was ashamed of herself.

“Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, wiping tears from her eyes. “That’s the funniest thing I ever saw!”

It didn’t work. She was unrepentant.

Her Southern accent kicked in like she was channeling Paula Deene, and the story of her proud purchase spilled out all over their dining room table. She knew what she’d done. She knew who to target. She knew the moment I saw it I’d be paralyzed somewhere between guilt and humiliation—guilt about hating it and humiliation if I had to wear it in public and pretend I loved it just like I’ve done with every macaroni necklace I’ve ever owned.

It was the best Christmas present she’d ever given herself. It reminded me of the fairy tale about the princess who had to prove she was royal by sleeping on a tower of mattresses that, unknown to her, concealed a princess-brutalizing green pea beneath them all. Another classic set up. Only in my case, a woman who is a survivor of Southern ancestors, no matter how much I try to break free from my people pleasing roots, all it takes is a tacky gift from relatives and suddenly I’m lying again about how much I love it. Western born, I am still a Southern girl deep down.

Bless my little pea-pickin’ heart.

When the call and the laughter ended, I took a screen shot of myself wearing the heavy Asian idol and sent it to my daughter with this short message:

“It was a joke.”

She wrote back with the same sense of relief I felt at not being forced to Mam-ify the whole thing.

“Thank God,” she texted.

So now it sits here on my desk, wrapping my little stuffed elephant in its gaudy embrace. I’d feel sorry for him but the look of betrayal in his eyes makes me laugh.

I don’t know what he’s got to complain about. At least it’s not made of macaroni.

Peek-A-Boo

The neighbors have a new dog.  A mid-sized brindle who loves to chase the chickens all around the pasture, rounding them up like runaway peas on a toddler’s plate. She’s having a ball. Them, not so much. They seem confused by the interloper in their backyard. After all, they were there first. By all rights, they should be chasing the dog, but they haven’t figured that out yet.

I’ve watched this track and field phenomena play out most afternoons since the pup, Sadie, arrived, and I have some thoughts about it. And, just to be clear, I am not stalking my neighbors. It’s just that my desk faces a window that looks out at their pasture. I’m a curious onlooker. A city girl who always wanted to be a farmer. It’s been educational. For example, from everything I can see from my padded office chair, I’ve learned that I’m way too lazy to follow my country girl dreams.

The first time I noticed Sadie living out her cattle dog instincts, I thought she escaped the backyard and had gone rogue in the family’s pasture. Standing on my tippy toes at the dining room window—still not stalking, just concerned—I watched with alarm to see if she was sorting through the feathered herd in search of just the right snack. I’ve heard of family dogs going dark like that. One minute they’re scarfing up Kibble ‘n Bits, and the next they’ve got soggy feathers in their teeth. Eeww.

But this happy herder didn’t plan on any takedowns. Whether the chickens outran her or she simply respects social distancing rules, no animals were harmed in the making of this production.  I think she just gets her kicks watching the troops run away while she barks orders at them like a Marine corporal at bootcamp.

I don’t know but I’ve been told

Chickens think that dogs are trolls

I don’t know but it’s been said

Happy dogs are chicken fed

Which, of course, is just good-natured heckling between farm animals. I know this because I never once saw a feather fly during the relays across the street while I was definitely not stalking anyone from my office or dining room windows.

It’s just good clean fun going on over there. But it really made me wonder about the motivation of chickens. I haven’t actually counted the flock, but a random guess puts it at roughly eleven, give or take. Because you can’t be that accurate without binoculars which, of course, would be ridiculous and certainly proof of stalking.

Let’s just round that number up. There are, perhaps, a dozen full grown chickens in the pasture across the street and only one Sadie. That means the chickens outnumber the cattle dog twelve to one. Why haven’t they unionized? Why are they letting one furry individual bully them like that, scattering them across the pasture like a bowling alley strike? After all, there’s strength in numbers. All they have to do is link wings and take a stand. Like a wall of bowling pins.

Oh. Sadie would probably love that.

I’ve spent a lot of time observing farm animals in the three years since I arrived at the Brady Rehabilitation Ranch, much of it from the other side of my house which backs up to my daughter’s pasture. And I’ve come to this conclusion: animals are much like people but with better instincts. They know their place in the world, and they don’t demand a different position in life than the one they were assigned at birth. Once a chicken, always a chicken. Once a pig, always a pig. Once a sheep, always . . . you get my drift. And when a new resident shows up in the pasture, first there is confrontation and then there is acceptance.

Life could be so much simpler for humans if we learned from our feathered friends. Just let chickens be chicken and let dogs rule the roost. So to speak.

Well, I never claimed to be a philosopher. I’m just a writer surrounded by other people’s pastures trying to make sense out of life. I’m honestly astonished at the variety of animals which can inhabit a quarter acre piece of land without killing one another. They tolerate each other’s differences, find their pecking order, run away when they don’t feel like fighting, and manage to find enough to eat without turning on each other.

Like I said, people could learn a lot from chickens. You don’t even need to use binoculars. Which I definitely don't have.

With gratitude to Howard J for permission to use the hysterical caricature seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: InkTober Day 5: Binoculars | That’s a northern peekaboo bird… | Flickr

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.

Story Line

Every photo. 

Every single one is there on purpose, chosen from a collection ten times larger than the montage I created. I laid them all out on my counter and waited to see which ones spoke to me, setting aside the silent ones, reserving those who held hands with each other and with my heart. I framed them, let them tell me where they belong on that enormous wall in my living room, and stood back in solemn satisfaction.

It's a gallery wall. A story wall. It tells the story of us, where we began, the places we explored, where we went for the last dream, where it all ended. It comforts me to see it there. It also makes me cry to see all the stars we reached for together, knowing that the final one was only within reach for him.

I’m alone in the audience now, gazing on the story wall, without him.

There are pieces of him, of our life, scattered throughout my house in places where I’m usually the only one to see them. He never saw this house, though he’s the reason I was able to build it. He never lived here with me, but it holds so many things that once were among his treasures. He didn’t choose the granite or the flooring or the exposed beams crisscrossing the ceiling, but they were all selected with him in mind, checked off the wish list he gave me when he didn’t know I was listening.

Behind the drywall in every room lies a symbol of us that I first carved on a tree in the mountains after he died. I hand drew it on every window ledge in this house with a black Sharpie pen. It’s a simplistic, lopsided heart with each of our first initials etched on either side—an R to the left, an E to the right. Rob Loves Eula. Three words that sum up who we were. Who I was. I carved it into the wet cement of the driveway I poured outside. And a photo of that tree from our final home hangs among this collection here, my first home without him. So I would remember that he was here once. That we were together once.

That’s important. When someone so valuable goes missing, silence replaces presence and in time makes you wonder if they were ever here.

The day we poured the foundation, my grandchildren, my daughter, my son-in-law, all of us stood here where I was invited to build a home on their land, dropping love messages written on rocks into a trench which would soon be filled with cement. Love messages to Rob, our Chief, husband, father, grandfather. A few weeks later, inside the new build, my daughter added her own words of comfort using the same Sharpie pen. Above the front door, inscribed on the bare wood of the header, she wrote these words from her favorite quote, “All shall be well . . .”

And all manner of things shall be well. She wanted me to know that they will, reminding me of that on the kitchen window framing with three more words, “You are loved.”

This house, built to my specs, was built for Rob.

There were a few surprises, some bittersweet. The ceiling beams, milled from Douglas Fir, my favorite tree in the forest, came from Nutrioso, Arizona, where we spent our honeymoon nearly fifty years ago. Stretching above me, across the ceiling of my great room, they’ve become a reminder that I am held even when I feel completely lost and alone. The rustic little coffee table placed in front of my sofa was made by an artistic woodsman in Heber. I remember where it sat in the cabin Rob and I owned for a short time there. When I see it, I see him and our mountain dream. The old fire hydrant given to him years ago is planted in the ground at the edge of my patio. In every home where we lived for the last thirty plus years, that symbol of his career has come with us.

So I cannot escape the fact that Robert Lee McLeod III made his mark on this planet, on my life, on the hearts of our children and grands, and on every person who knew him and some who didn’t. Even though his voice can only be heard in fragments on my iPhone. Even though his smile and that jawline I fell in love with can only be seen in photos like those on my gallery wall. Even though I can’t nuzzle his neck and breathe in his fragrance anymore, I remember.

Tears fall when I do. Often when I look at that giant story wall that represents our life.

I could tell myself another story and stop crying over this one. I guess that would plug the hole in my heart where pain leaks out sometimes. For a minute. Perhaps I could shift the narrative, declare my independence, and go off in search of a new adventure that celebrates a new chapter in my story.

But I don’t want to. It isn’t honest to change the facts. The wall tells the story of us. There is a risk in loving people. There is danger in giving your whole heart away to another heart made of flesh and blood. The truth we all want to avoid seeing is that people we love will someday die. It’s a hard pill to swallow. It takes great courage and even a fair amount of naivete to do it. Till death do us part seems a lifetime away—until it isn’t.

I could have held back. He could have as well. We could have kept our distance somehow despite our vows and tried to preserve the heart between the R and the E. That way it wouldn’t have ripped in two the day he died.

But that’s not love.

And this isn’t the end of our story—it’s only a chapter break.

My daughter, Katy, connected those dots for me as she stood on a chair in my half-built house penning a few words written by a woman who lived seven hundred years ago. A writer, a lover of God, a mystic, Julian of Norwich was a widow who knew that there is much more to each of our stories than what we see with our own eyes. Even if some of it is displayed on a gallery wall.

 

“All shall be well

All shall be well

And all manner of things shall be well.”

Spamalot

I lost a follower this year. It happens. I myself stopped following another writer just last month. But it was the reason the person listed for leaving that confused me. My posts are “too spammy.” I might have been offended except I didn’t know what that meant. I found out it’s slang for “annoying.”

Yeah. I get that. And still I’m not offended. I’m astonished by those who stick around and put up with my transparency. With every article I post here, I have writer’s regret for days afterward. I guess it goes with the territory. Anxiety about my raw honesty hovers above my head until I beat the doubt away with, “I gotta be me!” As a magnet on my refrigerator reminds me, “Be yourself – no one does it better.”

I’ve tried to be other people, but I’m a lousy clone. The chameleon life is fake. I’ve also tried to be invisible, but humans aren’t built to be ignored. The world needs you and me, just the way we are. It’s not always easy, but it's more natural to simply be who I am. There's a risk to that, though. If I speak up, the only response might be my own voice echoing back to me across a lonely canyon. Exposure means I might be misunderstood, questioned, ignored.

Or, even worse, viewed as spammy.

After my husband died, I turned to this trusted space to do what I always do with my feelings. Not knowing whether anyone would read my thoughts or turn away in horror, processing the confusion and pain here was itself a witness to what I’ve experienced. There was a chance that revelation might seem self-serving or repetitive, but there is health in telling the truth about your life including your suffering, weaknesses, and longings.

“We have to allow ourselves to speak aloud the suffering our culture says should stay private,” writes K.J. Ramsey, in her book, “This Too Shall Last.” Suffering requires a witness, but that in itself calls for courage from both the sufferer and the audience.

You already know how hard it is to watch helplessly while someone you love is in pain, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change it and nothing you can say that will fix it. It's a visceral reminder that we’re not immune to the very same thing. What a difficult pill to swallow. Sometimes it’s easier to click our red heels together and run away.

Allowing someone else to know who I am can feel scary and vulnerable, like going out in public without any makeup. “This is the real me,” my barren face proclaims. “Judge me if you need to.” I guess that only applies if you’re as addicted to mascara as I am. And if you’re a guy, all it may take is a glimpse of your own emotion to feel unsafe. Exposed. It's embarrassing to be viewed as weak. Others may feel uncomfortable around us. Our culture’s message is the same across the board—we’re supposed to be strong, resilient, overcoming. Emotions are evidence that we’re not in control, and Control.Is.Everything.

Until you discover you have never been the one in control.

That’s the point where opportunity reveals itself. The point where the realization that you are human can connect you to others, giving them permission to be human as well. “We have to allow ourselves to speak aloud the suffering our culture says should stay private,” Ramsey says.

But why do we need to witness the suffering of others?  What does our silent presence do for a broken heart? Or for us? When we dare to expose our grief, we may discover the power of being heard. “Being heard rewires your brain,” Ramsey writes. And Henri Nouwen adds, “One very important way to befriend our sorrow is to take it out of its isolation and share it with someone who can receive it.”

Befriend my sorrow. Grief is not the enemy I first thought it was. It honors the connection Rob and I built over a lifetime loving each other.

I didn’t know until I found myself in the dark hole of loss that the only way out is to tell myself the truth about my pain in the presence of someone else who can listen. That’s it. The challenge of grief is time. My brain has to rewire itself to be able to function in a world where my loved one no longer lives. It’s a really slow process. Even today, nearly four years since I lost Rob, the thought crossed my mind that it was almost time to start cooking dinner for the two of us. But there’s only one of us. Every time an instinct like that comes up and stabs me in the heart with its brutal reminder, my brain makes another tiny adjustment. Rob isn’t coming home for dinner anymore. Talk about time consuming. This adjustment feels like watching a glacier melt.

But I have to talk about this. Process it all. Keep reminding myself in tiny increments that this is my life now. I can’t take it all in at once. That’s how our brains are designed. Rewiring them is a long process. If I avoid painful feelings, according to Psychology Today, I don’t give my brain the opportunity to learn to manage them.

It’s a really lousy new hobby.

What the human heart needs is a witness to the trauma that’s been experienced. No advice, please, unless asked for of course. No cheerleading. No shovel donations to bury the truth. It’s tempting to try to distract people who are in pain by changing the subject. It’s incredibly difficult to just show up, willing to sit in silence, and weep with those who weep. Incredibly difficult.

But there is no substitute for a witness. Someone who validates that what a broken heart is experiencing is truly awful. It’s a paradox of compassion. Even now, when I find myself on the witness stand in the middle of someone else’s tragedy, I often fear that if I commiserate with them that they will never recover their life and will remain as they are, stuck in their sorrow.

But the opposite is what happens when we dare to simply listen. Witnessing the devastation helps clear away the debris. Even if it scares us. Reminds us. Makes us feel helpless. Brings us to tears.

Even when it’s too spammy. 

 

 

 

Henri J. M. Nouwen, “Here and Now: Living in the Spirit” 

How Grief Changes the Brain | Psychology Today

With many thanks to Kristin for the super spammy photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: Spam | kristin | Flickr

Happy Birthday, Darlin'

 

It’s your birthday today. Your seventy-first. When we met, you were twenty. I was sixteen. Back then seventy-one sounded old, but it isn’t. Sixty-seven isn’t old either, but that was the last birthday I got to share with you.

You should still be here, Baby.

Lee texted me today to ask how I am. I’m sad this year, missing you so much, all amplified on this special day that I’ll bet you don’t even think about now that you’re in heaven. There’s no time there. Whenever I show up at last, whether in five years or another twenty-five, I’m confident it will seem to you as if I was right behind you when you walked through those celestial gates. No time lost.

Not from my perspective, though. Not right now. Time is the enemy here because it keeps me from being with you.

I don’t usually write letters to you on our special days. They make me cry even more than I already am. I don’t plan anything on those dates except sharing a toast with our kids and my sister every February 19. We pour shots of your favorite whiskey, Talisker from the Isle of Skye, the land of your ancestors. I don’t even like whiskey, but I take a sip anyway on that date, surrounded in person and on zoom by our family. I try to act casual when I do it, but you know me. It goes down hard and I come up coughing. It always made you laugh. 

I miss your laughter.

I talked to Laura recently about this unique kind of loneliness I experience in your absence. It’s a loneliness no one can fill because no one else is you. I talk to people, spending time with them. I hug our kids and grands and friends and others in the family. But then I come home alone and you’re nowhere to be found. You’re not here to share small talk with. To listen to me whine and worry. You’re not here to laugh at my fears and bring me back to reality. Laura said I can call her up anytime and she’ll laugh at me on your behalf. Which made us both laugh, thinking of your famous smirk and how it always snapped me out of my melancholy.

I miss your smirk.

This is the fourth birthday you’ve spent with Jesus instead of blowing out candles here with us. It surprises people when I tell them how long you’ve been gone, but I’ve felt every second of it. I don’t even want to do the math on that one. By the time I did the calculations I’d already have them wrong. Time keeps ticking away, doesn’t it?

I’ve read lots of suggestions on how to honor you in your absence on days like this. Things like making your favorite meal and setting a place for you at the table while I eat. Sounds awful, doesn’t it? And kind of creepy. But I can’t help remembering how much you enjoyed my homemade salsa. How you bragged about the pies I learned to make simply because I found out you prefer pie over cake. I almost bought a pumpkin muffin at Starbucks today because you loved those fall flavors, but it was as if you reassured me while I sat in the drive thru that you’d still feel honored if I bought something I enjoy instead of eating something I don’t simply to celebrate you. We always liked going through Starbucks together, so I ordered my chocolate frou-frou drink and toasted you as if you were sitting beside me in our truck.

Maybe you were.

And now I’m sitting in my office, the one you’ve never seen, near a photo of you in your fire helmet. It sits on top of a bookshelf, beside the helmet itself. It means more to me than the two flags I was given after your memorials. I know the flags honored your military and fire service, but since they didn’t give them to you but rather to me, they’re too much a reminder that you had to die for me to receive them. I think that’s wrong. You earned them. They should have given them to you while you were alive. They're no substitute for you anyway. But your fire helmet? I saw you wear that. It reminds me that you were here.

Sometimes I need to be reminded that you were really here.

I talk to a lot of widows these days. Some of them in person, others by email or online. We all have different stories of loss and life. We’re scattered all over the world in differing cultures and countries. But when we talk about living without our husbands, a life we never wanted and did not choose, we speak the same language and share the same experiences. Grief, it turns out, levels the ground beneath our feet. And all of us feel as if we are floating away from the life we once lived, alone on a piece of ice that broke away from the mainland.

You were my home, my mainland.

Days like today are reminders of what I’ve lost. I know what I had. I’m grateful to have been loved by you, treasured and cherished by you. Gratitude isn’t the problem. It’s also not the solution. Honoring you is something I do every day of my life as I continue to love you with all my heart and miss you as if I’d lost my own heart.

Which is exactly what happened.

Robin gave me a card recently. It’s astonishing. She bought one for herself that she keeps on her dresser. It reminds her to pray for me, she said. Robin is the Minister of Cards, and she picks out some that are amazing and sends them to me often. In this one, a young woman in a denim skirt sits on a rocky outcropping, staring off across a vast valley painted in velvety greens with blue-gray peaks in the background. She looks like a young version of me. We both recognized it. But I never posed for that photo except maybe from a distance, in my soul, where only you and God and Robin can see.

I think the girl in the picture is waiting, watching, looking for someone.

The way I wait for you.

Today is your seventy-first birthday, Baby. I hope they celebrated you like crazy in heaven. I hope you played golf with your dad and hunted gators with your brother, Rick, and let Randy win at Monopoly. You know how mad he gets when he loses.

And I hope you really were sitting beside me in the truck when I drove through Starbucks today, knowing how much I love you and miss you. I hope you feel honored and celebrated by your family and me as Lee and Katy and all our family remember you in our own special ways. You were our whole world.

Happy birthday, Darlin’.

Fall

So let them fall ~ let them fall

After all you’ve lost and all that has been stolen from you

Don’t let them take your tears, too.

Don’t listen when they tell you to hide them, the evidence of your love.

Water is life

Tears are truth.

 

Have you never heard of the Dead Sea?

It has no outlet.

Landlocked, it clutches its salty waters to itself, unable to let them flow.

Toxic.

Harsh.

Nothing flourishes in the deceptive beauty of its cobalt blue embrace.

It is a dead sea.

 

Tears are meant to flow just as rain is meant to fall.

It’s all movement

Release

Life

Love

So let them fall ~ let your tears fall

It doesn’t mean you’re falling, too.

With thanks to David Reid for permission to use his beautiful photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: Waterfall | david reid | Flickr