Our Love Story, Part 2: The Courtship

Our first few dates, in the month of September, were mostly dining out. I discovered that he appreciated good food and good wine, and I learned to appreciate both, as well as good service. He taught me how to taste and appreciate good wine, and how to pair it with food; he taught me to be unafraid of trying new dishes; he taught me that the best "pairing" for both good food and good wine is good company. 

I spent many late-night post-date hours talking to my roommate about how things were moving along and how right it all felt. At the time, she had also begun dating the man she would end up marrying, so it was a lovely time of both of us looking forward to the future with men we had come to love unconditionally. And even better, the two men enjoyed each other's company, so we were becoming a foursome as well as two pairs. 

He and I knew very early on that we had something special. We decided to try a restaurant that neither of us had been to before, a fondue place called "The Melting Pot." It featured a multi-course menu of salad, cheese fondue, entree fondue, and dessert fondue, and had a seating option called "Lovers' Lane," which featured small tables for two where the diners are seated next to each other and share a "cooking style," the flavor combination in which all the food is cooked. They also had an excellent wine menu (although terribly cheap wine glasses, which gave us a giggle, since we felt like we were drinking nice wine out of hotel water glasses). 

We were there the first time we told each other, "I love you." It was the first time I had told anyone other than my parents that I loved them. It was a pretty big deal. The Melting Pot would later become our go-to restaurant for both my birthday and often our wedding anniversary (spoiler!). It always held very special memories for us. 

In early October, my roommate and I hosted a party, and a mutual friend asked me how the online dating was going. "I think I've met The One," I told her. She immediately turned to my roommate and asked, "Does she say this every time?" My roommate, slightly stunned, replied, "She's NEVER said that before!" I knew. We all knew. 

The next step in our relationship was a surprise trip to New York City for my 39th birthday in November. He wrote up a whole schedule of "39 hours celebrating your 39th!" We went to see a Broadway show; we met his brother and sister-in-law, who lived just outside NYC; we went to a lovely French restaurant; we had drinks and watched cabaret acts at Don't Tell Mama; and we visited Tiffany's, where we drank champagne and tried on engagement rings. 

November also meant it was rehearsal time for Christmas shows. For the past decade, he had performed in the annual Christmas show put on by the regional theater he had mentioned in his profile. I was somewhat intimidated to audition for the group, but he had told me, "If I do the show and you don't, I won't see you for almost two months. So if you don't do it, I won't do it." I couldn't be responsible for him missing the show, so I took a deep breath and auditioned. It turned out to be the beginning of a wonderful part of my life and the birth of friendships that would carry my through the decades ahead. He informed (not asked!) the director that we would need to be paired in all the couples numbers, which was fortunately not a problem because we were both the tallest in our sections, so it was a natural pairing. As I settled in to the women's dressing room, it was clear that he was well-liked among the cast, as I was gently challenged as to how our relationship was growing, and I felt that I was clearly being evaluated, but also that I had met with general approval. 

We had touched on the idea of marriage during our NYC trip, but we had further discussions about how our marriage would work before we made it official. We agreed that I would be a stay-at-home mom while our children were small; we discussed how we would handle finances, parenting, church, education, housekeeping, extended families. We were both old enough and experienced enough to know what we wanted and what questions we needed to ask, and we both were giving the right answers. We were ready. 

But there was one more thing: we needed to meet each others' families. And more importantly, I need to get his daughter's approval. He told me straight out that he wouldn't even ask me to marry him until he'd gotten her blessing. So I went to a concert and met his parents, and he had dinner at my mom's house and met my mom and sister. The lighting fixture in my mom's dining room began flickering, and when he not only offered to fix it but was tall enough to fix it without needing a ladder, my mom was as smitten as I was. And at Christmas, when his daughter came to visit, we spent some time together, then he took her to a daddy-daughter dinner and asked for her blessing. He told me later that her response was, "Dad, if she makes you happy and you love her, I love her." He came home and told me, following it up with, "So, is it driving you crazy knowing that your ring is somewhere in this house?" It hadn't been, but it was now!

 

Our Love Story, Part 1: The First Date

I am what you might call a late bloomer. Like, a LATE late bloomer. By the time I graduated from college, I'd been on a grand total of TWO dates, one of which was in 7th grade (a bowling date during which I scored a 27, ouch) and the other of which was a "Pick a Date for Your Roommate" during which my poor roommate despaired of ever finding anyone willing to go out with me (shout-out to Tedd, on whom I had a horribly embarrassing crush, and who was a complete trooper despite being totally uninterested in me).

Over the course of the next 15 years or so, I went out on a blind date or two, and even had a (very) short-lived long distance "relationship" that lasted a month or two. But never any kind of serious relationship. It wasn't until I turned 38 and got an invitation for my 20-year high school reunion that I stopped and realized that if I was ever going to have a husband and kids, I'd better get moving. That particular ship may not have actually sailed, but it had pulled in the gangplank and was tooting the horn. If I wanted a man (and biological children) in my life, I was going to have to do something about it, and SOON.

At the time, I was living with a roommate who was a little older and had done a significant amount of online dating, so with her encouragement, I decided to join match.com. I made a deal with myself: no matter how it went, I committed myself to a year of really working at the "dating game." I approached it like searching for a job: I spent time doing my homework by looking to see what (who) was out there, I continually tweaked my own resume (profile) to make sure it reflected who I really was, I thought seriously about what I was looking for, and after every date, I updated things to improve my chances. 

I chatted with a lot of guys, and I met a few in person. One of the most important things I learned was that just because someone is nice and you enjoy their company, doesn't mean they're right for you. Another important lesson was that - again, like job searching - you need to be evaluating them and not just trying to get them to choose you. I dated a couple of guys for a few months, and they were lovely but they just weren't quite what I was looking for - and I wasn't quite what they were looking for. 

But then. There was a guy I had noticed who looked very nice, who had a teenage daughter that he obviously adored and who was involved with community theatre. But before I had a chance to connect with him, someone else asked me out and I ended up dating him for a few months. So when that guy broke it off with me, I looked back at theatre guy and decided he was worth checking out. 

We spent a few weeks exchanging emails and decided we'd like to meet in person. Before we did, we agreed to exchange our real names, not just our cute profile names (mine was "Oolie," his was "Hphil"). We didn't admit it to each other at the time, but that exchange nearly ended things right there. His real name was Herb. Herb?! Total nerd name. My real name was Sandy. Sandy?! Same as his mom - AND his ex-wife. But we both decided we could get past it, so we planned our first date. 

We did have one quick phone call before we met in person. He called me from his car while he was bringing one of his cats to the vet, so I got to enjoy his deep baritone voice accompanied by offended caterwauling from the back seat. There were a lot of giggles during that call, a few of them due to the cat, but mostly because we were both delighted that we enjoyed each other as much on the phone as in emails. So we scheduled a casual date. 

Now, I'm not dumb, and I know that meeting with a strange man can lead to trouble, so I planned ahead. First of all, I channeled my inner Sherlock Holmes and deduced that between his mention of the city of Waltham and the term "regional theatre" as opposed to "community theatre," he must have worked with the (then) Reagle Players. I immediately emailed a couple of friends who I knew had done shows with Reagle, saying something like, "I've been talking to this guy, he seems really nice, but I'd love it if someone could confirm that he's not secretly a psychopath." One of my friends immediately got back to me with a glowing review: "I've been to a cast party at his house, it's lovely, HE's lovely, I've met his mom and his niece and nephew and sister and they're ALL lovely. You should totally go out with him." (To this day she takes credit for bringing us together, and it is well deserved.)

But beyond that, I had an escape plan for the actual date. Any time I met a new guy, I always told my roommate exactly where and when I was going, and we sometimes planned a mid-date phone call so I could have an out if necessary. In this case, we had agreed to meet for a drink in the afternoon, before I was due to crew a performance of a show called Dearly Beloved at a nearby theater. She would call a little while into the date, and if I needed to bail, I would simply say, "Oh, there's a disaster at the theater and they need my help NOW? Sorry, gotta run!" and then I could get outta Dodge with minimal questions. 

So I pulled into the parking lot of Joe's American Bar and Grill in Woburn and sunk down in my seat, stealthily scoping out the other cars to see if he was there yet. Pretty soon, a classy green Mercedes sedan pulled into the lot and a cute blonde wearing a polo shirt and khakis, with a pair of sunglasses perched jauntily on his forehead, strolled confidently inside. Always a good sign when a) he drives a decent - or at least clean and well-maintained - car, and b) he looks like his profile pictures. So I waited a few minutes and then followed him inside, where he was sitting at the bar, having just ordered a cocktail. (I had no idea at the time that his standard "Tanqueray martini, very dry, up with a twist, shaken hard" would become such an integral part of my life.) He immediately stood up and greeted me with a handshake that turned into a quick hug. I was not a big drinker at the time, having grown up in a teetotaling household, but I knew to order my favorite: a Cosmopolitan. What I didn't know was how to answer when the bartender asked what kind of vodka I wanted. No one had ever asked me that before! I'd never even heard the term "house vodka," and I didn't buy vodka by the bottle so I had no idea what brands were obnoxiously pricy or embarrassingly cheap. The bartender seemed to recognize my deer-in-the-headlights expression and began listing off brands: Grey Goose, Absolut, Skyy, Stoli - Stoli! I recognized that one, and hoping it was reasonably middle-of-the-road, opted for that, hoping Herb hadn't noticed my discomfort. (Spoiler alert: He had, and would revel in telling that story to everyone we met for the next 18 years.) 

Fortunately, once we got over that initial hiccup, the date went swimmingly. In addition to our shared love of musical theatre, we discovered we were both French horn players, and even that I played in a group with - and was friends with - his cousin, and that he had been to a number of concerts that I had performed in. We also discovered that we had a number of friends in common, and were amazed that we'd never met before, although we determined that we must have been in the same room on multiple occasions. When my "escape phone call" came through, I blurted something like, "Yeah, everything's good? They don't need me early? Great, see you later," and hung up to continue hanging on his every word. 

When at last it came time that I really did need to leave for the theater, he asked hopefully, "Are there still tickets available? Can I come see the show?" I was thrilled to share that there were, so he followed me to the theater. In the lobby, he went to the ticket window and I opened my mouth to explain that I needed to help set the stage, and that I couldn't come out during intermission because there was a major set change, and that I needed to help strike for a while after the curtain fell, but before I could say a word, he told me, "I know you have stuff to do. I'll wait for you after the show - but take your time. I know the crew has a lot to do." I floated into the green room thinking, "He gets it!" I remember leaning back against the door as a few friends crowded around, asking how it was. I smiled and said, "I like him. I REALLY like him!" and then we all squealed like Beatles fans. 

After the show, the cast and crew planned to go out to a local Chili's, so of course I invited him, not sure if he'd accept. He looked at me and said simply, "It's Saturday night, I just went to see a show, of COURSE I want to go out with the cast!" He and I ended up splitting the corner of a large table, with my roommate on one side of him and her boyfriend (also a dear friend of mine) on the other side of me. They both fired a series of questions at him, determining whether they thought he was worthy of dating me or not. He took it all in good humor, his eyes frequently twinkling at me as he answered their probing questions, directing many of the answers more at me than at them. I was, in a word, smitten. We parted that night with another hug and a promise to get together again soon. 

And soon meant soon. He called me the next day, asking me out on a "real date," this time for dinner at the "Gourmet Room" of a nearby restaurant. I was impressed by how swanky it was (little did I know that this would turn out to be the lower tier of swankiness of our future restaurant adventures). We spent the evening making up stories about the other diners we could see - a group of lawyers vying for partnership positions, a dysfunctional family reunion, a bunch of tipsy college alumni - and introducing me to good wine and how to enjoy it. We had our first kiss in the parking lot, and I knew this was going to be a good one. 

To be continued...

It's Nothing, and It's Everything

This morning started well. I woke up in the early morning hours and heard my beloved owls hooting in the backyard. I fell back to sleep for a few more hours, so I had gotten a decent night's sleep. It was a lovely morning, sunny and cool. I got up, patted the cat sleeping in my bathroom sink, got my coffee, filled my birdfeeders, watched my backyard bunny hopping around. It was a good morning. 

And then I started to cry. 

I don't know why. I hadn't had a sudden memory or thought, I hadn't suddenly remembered some task I didn't know how to do, or some new bureaucratic snag to add to my to-do list. I just, completely out of the blue, felt so very sad and empty and overwhelmed and lonely. 

Sometimes grief works that way. Sometimes there's something specific that sets you off, but sometimes it's really nothing. Or maybe it's really everything. 

I've been looking forward to school starting next week, giving the kids a schedule, a structure, a routine, things to do all day instead of just hanging around at loose ends. I've been counting the days since my husband's death, waiting for his final death certificate to arrive so I can start dealing with all the red tape, making calls, filling out forms, scheduling appointments. 45 days passed. 60 days passed. I was supposed to have gotten it in "45 to 60 days." I'm worried that the "deadline" has passed and I'm still waiting. I'm looking ahead to the change of weather, knowing there will be a whole new round of things to do around the house to prepare for the cold weather: close the pool, turn off the outside spigots and irrigation system, arrange for snowplowing services, make sure the furnace is working. 

It's a lot. It's...everything. It's not just one thing that sets me off, it's the weight of everything.  

I keep using the phrase "eating the elephant" to explain how I'm trying to deal with things. You know, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time." Do just one task, solve just one problem, do just one thing. But every now and then, you feel so full that you're sick to your stomach, and then you look up, and there's still an awful lot of elephant there. 

I wish I had some lovely resolution to close with, some words of wisdom to explain that now I'm okay and things are fine and everything is just ducky. 

But I'm not okay, things aren't fine, and everything is definitely not ducky. I'm still sad and empty and overwhelmed and lonely. I'm still terrified of how much elephant I have left to deal with. I'm still frustrated and furious at the bureaucracy I have to untangle. I'm still worried about how I'll deal with everything. Yes, I have lots of help and support, but it still falls on me, and it sucks. 

This feeling will pass at some point, I'm sure, or at least it will lessen. But right now, it totally sucks. And I hate it. 

But I'm going to let myself wallow for now, because it's okay to do that. Wallowing is cathartic. Wallowing for a moment will eventually make me feel better. The need to wallow will pass. It's nothing. But right now, it's also everything. 

This Was Just a Moment in the Woods

Much to my husband's chagrin, I have always been a fan of Stephen Sondheim musicals. (He was...not.) I often find Sondheim's lyrics to be particularly moving and heartfelt. Some of my favorite lyrics are from the song "Any Moment/Moments in the Woods" from the musical Into the Woods. Here are some of my favorite passages:

Days are made of moments, all are worth exploring
Many kinds of moments, none is worth ignoring
All we have are moments, memories for storing

This was just a moment in the woods - Our moment
Shimmering and lovely and sad
Leave the moment, just be glad for the moment that we had
Every moment is a moment when you're in the woods...

Must it all be either less or more, either plain or grand?
Is it always "or"? Is it never "and"?

Just remembering you've had an "and" when you're back to "or"
Makes the "or" mean more than it did before

Life is, indeed, made of moments, some good and some bad. Grieving highlights those moments, emphasizing them, heightening them, and often flipping back and forth between good and bad with a speed that literally knocks the breath out of you. 

Yesterday I went shopping at Costco. This may sound like a routine, everyday event, and in some ways it is. Except that my husband and I frequently used Costco runs as an opportunity to spend some couple time together, like a daytime date. When he had a midday gap in his schedule, we'd take advantage of being able to shop during the quieter weekdays. In the car, we'd chat about his job, the kids, whatever was going on in our lives. We'd talk through vacation plans, catch up on news of extended family, review our weekly calendar. When we got there, he would grab a cart from the parking lot and "ride" it by jumping on the back and letting it careen, full-tilt, through the lot, often pretending to be out of control, flailing his arms and screaming comically to make me laugh. 

I'm at the point where that memory was able to make me smile, despite a little bittersweetness. It was a good moment. 

But then I got to the bakery section, and I saw that one of the employees was a long-time acquaintance. I didn't know if he'd heard about my husband's passing, and I couldn't bear to have him ask about him and have to tell him the bad news. I took the coward's way out and skipped that section. It was a bad moment. 

I bought a bag of birdseed - a 35-pound bag of birdseed. I never used to have to lift the heavy items; my job was to steady the cart while my husband did the heavy lifting. As I struggled to get the giant bag under the cart without the cart rolling away, I had another moment. Another bad moment. 

I was able to stay composed all the way until I got to the checkout, when I noticed the cashier in the next lane over. This particular employee bears a striking resemblance to actor JK Simmons, known for Broadway, television, films, voiceover work, and commercials, most notably commercials for Farmers Insurance. Whenever we saw him, we'd nudge each other and quietly sing the Farmers Insurance jingle: "We are Farmers, bum ba-dum bum, bum bum bum," and then we'd giggle. So without even thinking, I started to sing the jingle. And realized I was singing it alone. And that he would never be here to sing it with me again. 

I barely made it to the parking lot before I burst into tears. It was a bad moment. A very bad moment. 

But then I thought about the lyrics, "just be glad for the moment that we had," and "just remembering you've had an 'and' when you're back to 'or' makes the 'or' mean more than it did before." I tried to focus on not the loss, but the love. I tried to embrace the joyful memories of spending time together, of enjoying and celebrating even the mundane moments in life like shopping at Costco. 

What a gift it was to be a part of such a special "and." He and I, together, were the best "and" I could ever hope for or imagine. I had the gift of nearly 18 years of being part of the most wonderful "and." That is something to be celebrated. It was a time filled with so many good moments. 

Enough good moments, in fact, to carry me through the bad ones. "All we have are moments, memories for storing." I have stored many good moments in my memories, moments I can call on to remind me of the joy I had as an "and." 

The bad moments only exist because the good moments did. I couldn't miss our Costco trips if we'd never made them. I wouldn't miss having cocktails on the porch if we hadn't spent so many lovely evenings enjoying them together. 

I wouldn't feel a pang looking at our beautiful pool if it didn't evoke the joyous memories of designing it together and spending so many evenings relaxing next to it together. 

I wouldn't get a pang looking at his Scout hat if I hadn't seen him wearing it on so many trips with both of our kids, picturing his proud, beaming face under it. 

When I think ahead to my children's weddings and realize he won't be there to give away our daughter or pass on some fatherly advice to our son (bad moment), I can remember how joyful and proud he was to be part of his older daughter's wedding (incredibly good moment). 

When I have a bad moment, I will be glad for all the good moments that we had. And eventually, the "sad" will be outweighed by the "shimmering and lovely." But for now, there is still a lot of sad. 

And that's okay. Because it's still only a moment. And moments pass. 

Just be glad for the moment that we had.

The Owls are My Sign

Many people believe that seeing a cardinal is a sign that you are being visited by a loved one who has died. For me, cardinals are much too common in my yard for them to feel like a special sign. But I do have some avian visitors who have come to feel like a connection with my late husband: owls. 

Although I've never actually seen an owl at my house, I have heard them with varying frequency in the five years we've lived here. I'm enough of a "bird nerd" that I keep records of the different types of birds that I hear and see, so I can get a sense of their patterns and seasons, and the first time I heard an owl here was in spring of 2022, not quite two years after we moved in. It was a barred owl, the kind that hoots, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for yoooouuuu???" We often heard barred owls at our previous house, so it was a fun, familiar sound. We also frequently heard them when we went camping, and it was not uncommon for my husband or I to wake each other up in the middle of the night on a camping trip or even a night at home and whisper excitedly, "Listen! The owls!"

In the summer of 2022, we heard a screech owl here for the first time. When I was growing up, the Boston Museum of Science had a screech owl aptly named Spooky, and that's where I first learned the sound of their eerie call: a haunting, falling, trilled "HOOOooooooo." Again, I was delighted to get a visit from this charming little owl. 

In the spring of 2023, we got our first visit from a great horned owl. Their hoot pattern is harder to describe in words, but once you've heard the rich, "Hoot hoooo, hoot hoot" or "Hoot hoo-hoooo, hoo hoo" pattern, you're likely to recognize it again. Another interesting thing I've noticed about the great horned owls that doesn't seem to be true of other types of owls, in my experience, is the variety of their voices, with some deeper and others much higher. It is a lot easier to recognize pairs of great horneds "chatting" back and forth than with other owls because the individuals have such distinct voices. 

Once we discovered that the owls occasionally called in our yard, we always tried to keep the windows in our bedroom open at night so we wouldn't miss a sound. There was something special about lying awake together in the dark, holding our breath and listening intently for them, giggling with delight when we heard them, often even grabbing each other's hand with excitement when we heard them. 

Over the past two months since his death, I have spent a lot of time lying awake in the dark. Maybe that's why I've been hearing the owls more frequently over the past couple of weeks. But every time I hear them, it makes me think of him. For just a moment, I imagine that he's lying next to me in the dark, silently holding his breath so we don't miss a single quiet hoot. I hear the higher-voiced owl, perhaps the female, calling out a questioning, "Hoot, hoo-hoo, hoo hoo?" and the deeper male voice responding with a reassuring, "Hoot hooo, hoot hoot," coming from a bit further away. 

I like to think that he's close by, even though I can't see him, reassuring me when I question my ability to manage as a single mom, to take care of the house and the kids, to unravel all the red tape that comes with the death of a spouse. An owl feels like an appropriate symbol for him, with his deep voice, quiet wisdom, and unruffled calmness. As the weather grows cooler, I suspect that I'll hear the owls less and less, but I hope that as time goes by, I'll need his reassurance less and less, as I find my way and slowly master each new task and check each bureaucratic item off my "to do" list. 

But for now, I'll keep listening for my owls.

A Reflection on Women and Compassion

My church has a women's social group called "Girls Gather" in which women of all ages (from young kids all the way up to senior citizens) come together every couple of months for a fun outing or a learning experience or some kind of gathering that allows us to spend time together getting to know each other outside of church. We've done everything from a paint night to learning to make pie crust to a bowling night to a knitting/crocheting/crafting day. But in the summer, we try to gather for a pool and snacks party, and this afternoon I hosted that gathering at my house.

We had put this date on the calendar months ago, before my husband passed away, so of course the organizers asked if I still wanted to host, reassuring me that there were other people willing and able to host. But I wanted to host as a thank you to all the women of the church who had been so supportive to me and my family over the past few months. 

Part of the gathering is always a brief devotional intended to provide spiritual encouragement and/or growth, and to explore what it means to be a godly woman. I asked to share the devotional this month, and the words below are based on what I shared. 

When I was thinking about what I wanted to focus on in my devotional, I thought about the idea of compassion, and I used the parable of the sheep and the goats from Matthew 25 as a "jumping-off" point. Here is an excerpt of the parable, from Matthew 25:34-40. 

"Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’"

This parable is all about practical help. But it is a particularly compassionate kind of practical help. “I was sick and you looked after me.” “I was in prison and you came to visit me.” Not “I was sick and you healed me,” or even “I was sick and you sent for the doctor.” Not “I was in prison and you baked me a cake with a file in it,” or “I was in prison and you hired an attorney to file an appeal on my behalf.” The sick person isn’t being healed, and the person in prison isn’t being freed. They’re still sick and in prison, but they’re not alone. This practical help has a sense of compassion, of emotional healing, and of personal connections. To me, this feels like a very female kind of practicality.

In my experience, men are generally practical in a very problem-solving way. When you tell a man you have a problem, he wants to fix it so there isn’t a problem any more. When you tell a woman you have a problem, she wants to fix it so you won’t be hurt by it any more. It’s a subtle difference, but it’s a very important one.

Over the past two months, the women of my church have shown me and my family, over and over again, the kind of feminine compassion that is spoken of in this parable.

When they saw that I wasn’t hungry but I needed to eat, they fed me. When they saw that I wasn’t hungry but that my children needed to eat, they fed us. When they saw that my heart was sick, they came to visit me, or sent me a text, or gave me a call, or invited me for coffee, or brought me cocktails. Or they brought me their children. Or some flowers. Or simply a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on. When I was a stranger that they didn’t really know but they knew was hurting, they not only brought me dinner but they stayed and talked. And more importantly, they stayed and listened.

I don’t know what the actual origin is of the expression “Being the hands and feet of Jesus”, but the women of my church have been it to me and my family. They didn’t just pray for us and wait for God to meet our spiritual needs, they reached out to meet our physical and emotional needs. Don’t get me wrong: the prayer of a righteous woman is powerful and effective and we could feel every one. But the most “Christian” thing that anyone in my church did was to look at us, really look at us, and think, “What do they need right now?” And they did it. They didn’t do it to solve the problem; it was not a problem they could solve. They did it because they loved us the way that Jesus loves us, with hearts full of compassion and a desire to take away our pain.   

This experience has been the ultimate in sisterhood. I have many wonderful men around me who are helping me so much. One of my brothers-in-law catered the reception at the funeral; my other brother-in-law fixed my broken screen door and wonky kitchen cabinets. One of our Scout leader friends brought over a whole troop of BSA Scouts to weed my overgrown front island. My dear, long-time friend, the man who gave me away at my wedding, has talked me through multiple computer issues. They’ve fixed stuff. But it has been the women in my life, the women in my church, who have helped to to fix ME; to heal my heart. All of their practical help has come with a heart connection. Not just offering prayers, but asking what they can pray for. Not just bringing dinner, but asking if I’d like a visit as well. Not just inviting me for coffee, but spending time getting to know me, honestly wanting to know how I’m doing.

If men and women are made in the image of God, I think we’re the ones who got God’s compassion. Matthew 9:36 says, “When Jesus saw the crowd, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” Micah 7:19: “You will again have compassion on us; you will tread our sins underfoot and hurl all our iniquities into the depths of the sea.” Isaiah 30:18a: “Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; therefore he will rise up to show you compassion.” We are the children of a compassionate God.

The Bible is full of exhortations for us to show compassion to one another: Ephesians 4:32a, “Be kind and compassionate to one another”; Colossians 3:12a: “Put on then, as God's chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts;” 1 Peter 3:8: “Be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble.” 1 John 3:17: “If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person?” Romans 12:15: “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”

With the exception of Jesus, most of the people in the Bible who are noted for their compassion are women. In Acts 9, we meet Dorcas, also called Tabitha, who “did many good things and many acts of kindness,” and who made clothing for widows, who all mourned when she died. In the book of Joshua, Rahab was called out for her kindness and compassion to the two spies sent by Joshua. Ruth, in the story of Ruth and Naomi, showed compassion for her mother-in-law, refusing to leave her alone in her grief over her two sons, even though it probably would have been easier for Ruth to return to her father’s house. In the book of Acts, a wealthy woman named Lydia opened her home to Paul and his fellow missionaries, offering them hospitality, kindness, and compassion. In Romans 16, Paul commends a woman named Phoebe for “helping many people,” in other words, for showing compassion.

Compassion is a gift that I think women have been given in a very special way. And women having compassion for other women is an even more special and unique connection. So I want to thank every one of the women who reached out to me for the compassion they have shown me and my family over the past months, but I also want to challenge them to continue to find ways to show compassion to others, especially to other women who are lost without Christ.

I would like to close with a prayer written by a pastor named Rich Bitterman. 

Dear Heavenly Father,

I come before you with a heart full of gratitude and love, knowing that you are the God of compassion, comfort, and refuge. Your word reminds me of your unwavering love and care for your children. I am reassured that when I cry out to you, you hear me. Your promise to deliver me from all my troubles fills me with hope and trust. Lord, in my moments of distress, when my spirit is crushed and my heart is broken, I feel your presence drawing near. Thank you for being close to the brokenhearted and for saving those who are crushed in spirit. Your love is my strength. I praise you for being the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort. During my trials, you provide me with reassurance. You comfort me in all my troubles, and I am grateful for the peace and strength I find in you. May I, in turn, be a source of comfort to others, sharing the comfort I have received from you with those who are in need. You are my refuge and strength. You are ever-present, always ready to help me in times of trouble. Lord, thank you for being my safe haven, my source of strength, and my constant support. In you, I find peace and security. Heavenly Father, I entrust my life to you, knowing that you are my refuge, my comfort, and my deliverer. May your love and grace guide me in all my days, and may I always seek to be a vessel of your comfort and compassion to those around me.

In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.

The Fairies Don't Live Here Any More

The more time that goes by since my husband's death, the more I have become aware of all the small things he did that I never even had to think about. For example, I never thought about getting the oil changed in my car; whenever the display reached "15% oil life," a new Valvoline sticker would magically appear on my windshield and the display was back to "100% oil life." The Car Maintenance Fairies had apparently paid a visit. 

The Car Maintenance Fairies were always busy, handling tasks like filling the gas tank, renewing the inspection sticker, paying the excise tax, detailing the interior, having the car washed. I never had to ask about it, or even think about it, it just happened. But yesterday my car's dashboard flashed "KEY BATTERY LOW" every time I got in the car. In the past, the Car Maintenance Fairies would have taken care of it without my even having to say a word.

But the fairies don't live here any more.  

Now it's my responsibility to notice when something needs doing, to figure out how to do it, and then to actually do it. 

The Bill Paying Fairies don't live here any more. 

The Take Out the Trash Fairies don't live here any more. 

The Pool Maintenance Fairies don't live here any more. 

Neither do the Modem-Resetting Fairies, the Grill Master Fairies, the Furnace Maintenance Fairies, the Contractor Coordinating Fairies, the Vacation Planning Fairies, the Money Making Fairies, the Social Life Coordination Fairies, the Remote Battery Changing Fairies, the Christmas Light Hanging Fairies, the Irrigation Management Fairies, the Spam Detection Fairies, the IT Assistant Fairies, and any of a dozen other Fairies. 

I don't think I was really aware of quite how many fairies lived in my house. 

I mean, I knew my husband did a lot, and I was grateful for everything he did for me. But as Joni Mitchell sang, "...you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." Even when you think you do. 

I miss the fairies. 

Done is Better than Perfect

When I began working as a seamstress and costumer for a high school fine and performing arts  department, with limited hours and an even more limited budget, I quickly adopted the mantra, "Done is better than perfect." Stage costumes are rarely seen up close, so when you need to crank out 100+ matching pieces, you learn to take shortcuts, leave bits unfinished, and ignore minor mistakes rather than redo them. It's better for everyone to have a decent costume than it is for half the cast to have a fantastic costume and half the cast to have nothing. 

I have definite perfectionist tendencies, so this was a concept that was difficult for me at first. I wanted each student to have a beautiful costume that they loved. And let's be honest, I wanted people to know that I was talented. But what was most important was not any one actor or my own ego, but the cast as a whole. The big picture was best served by getting it done, not getting it perfect. 

I am having to remind myself of this concept lately. There is a lot I need to get done. Like, A LOT a lot. I can't do it all perfectly. And ninety-nine percent of the time, it doesn't matter if I do it perfectly or not. The neighbors will not picket my house if my lawn is not mowed in perfect parallel lines. My guests will not recoil in horror if I forgot to dust the side table or there's a smudge on the bathroom mirror or there's an unwashed dish in the sink. My kids will not rebel if I feed them burgers instead of the promised pizza because I forgot to make the dough. The lawn is mowed, the house is reasonably clean, and the children are fed. That's the important part.

It's hard to admit that I can't to it all perfectly. There may be times when I can't even do it all poorly. But I need to remember to give myself the same grace that others have given me, the same grace I would give to others in my situation. 

Once again, I am so grateful to friends and family who have stepped in to fill the gaps when I fall short. People who have fed my family, weeded my garden, fixed my screen door, given me technical advice, taken over my volunteer responsibilities, offered rides and coffee dates and prayers and shoulders to cry on. Words cannot express my appreciation for your help in getting it done. 

And done is better than perfect.  

Sometimes God Isn't Subtle

This week, while my kids were away at Scout camp, I spent every morning as "Scout Sandy the Storyteller" at my church's Vacation Bible School. 

Our theme was "True North," an Alaskan outdoors setting with the overall mantra of "We Can Trust Jesus." Each day focused on a different Bible story illustrating that when we think/feel/need X, we can... [everybody shouts] TRUST JESUS!

On Monday, I taught the story of Jesus' baptism by John (Matthew 3). We learned that when John baptized Jesus, he clearly heard God Himself announce, "This is my son, with whom I am well pleased." And yet, when John was persecuted and thrown in prison, he sent friends to ask Jesus, "Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?" John wondered. He doubted. Jesus sent the men back to John, pointing out His miracles and proclamation of the good news of salvation, reassuring John that even when he wondered, he could...TRUST JESUS!

On Tuesday, I taught Jesus' parable of the lost sheep (Luke 15), where a good shepherd leaves his 99 sheep to find a single one who is lost. We pretended to be sheep, wandering away from the shepherd and being lost and afraid in the dark, surrounded by dangers like marauding animals, sharp thorns, and rocky cliffs, until the Good Shepherd came and led us back to safety. We learned that when we feel alone, we can...TRUST JESUS! 

On Wednesday, I taught the story of the Roman centurion whose servant was sick (Matthew 8), and he was frustrated that he was powerless to make him well. But he trusted Jesus so completely that when Jesus offered to come to his house and heal his servant, the centurion told Him, "Just say the word, and my servant will be healed." And he was! It taught us that when we feel powerless, we can...TRUST JESUS!

On Thursday, I taught the story of Jesus' death and resurrection (Matthew 28). We imagined how the disciples must have felt when Jesus died, like it was the end of something wonderful, and how they must have lost hope in Jesus. But we learned how Jesus' death was part of God's plan to defeat sin and allow us to be forgiven, and that His resurrection brought hope back to the disciples. It taught us that when we need hope, we can...TRUST JESUS.

And on Friday, I taught the story of the Great Commission (Matthew 28), when Jesus gave the disciples one last command before He returned to heaven, telling them to "...go and make disciples of all nations." We talked about how impossible that must have felt, without knowing foreign languages or having a fast and easy way to travel. But I also taught the story of Pentecost (Acts 2), when Jesus sent the disciples the Holy Spirit to help them fulfill the job they could never have done alone. It taught us that when we need help, we can...TRUST JESUS. 

Every day this week, I have needed that reminder. When I cried all the way to the church that first morning, I wondered how I would ever make it through the week. But I trusted Jesus. And I made it through. When I went to bed that night in an empty house and got up in an empty house on Tuesday morning, I felt totally alone. But I trusted Jesus. And I got to church with friends who loved me and hugged me and gave me a giant cinnamon roll and I didn't feel so alone anymore. Then on Wednesday, I checked my mailbox hoping to find some documents that would let me move forward with the bureaucratic red tape with a looming deadline and they weren't there, and I felt completely powerless. But I trusted Jesus. And after I got home that afternoon I tried filling out the forms anyway and everything seemed to go through and it was like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. On Thursday morning I made the mistake of closing my husband's email with the intent of restarting it to get rid of some weird bugs it was having, and I realized I didn't have to password to reopen it, and I had a complete panic attack and lost hope that I would ever be able to recover it. But I trusted Jesus. And a dear friend helped me troubleshoot and figure out how to fix it. This morning, I looked at my "to do" list and felt overwhelmed at how much I need to do in the very near future, and all I could think was, "Help." But I trusted Jesus. And now as I look at the same list, I can see some things that need to be crossed off, not because I did them, but because I let other people help me. 

I didn't even know how much I needed to be reminded to TRUST JESUS this week. But God knew. When we don't even know what we need, we can TRUST JESUS. Because He does. And sometimes, he's not very subtle about it. 

Do, Don't Stew

My kids are both at Scout camp all week this week, which means that I am alone in a very empty house all week. Not all day, though; this week is also Vacation Bible School at my church, which means I am there from 8am until sometime after noon every day. But the rest of the afternoons and evenings, I am alone. 

I need to keep busy. 

If I don't have something to do, I tend to just sit and let my mind wander. Which means I think about all the things I need to do; all the scary, complicated, involved life details that I need to deal with, the stuff that I'm not good at. In short, I stew.

Stewing is bad. Stewing leads to fretting, and fretting leads to panicking. So it's better for me to keep busy. Instead of stewing, I need to be doing. 

I still have a lot of red tape to deal with that I can't even start until I get my husband's final death certificate, but there are a lot of small projects that I can start or even finish that give me a lot of satisfaction. 

Honestly, I have a tendency to avoid tasks I don't want to do by doing less important tasks. And that isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes I'll force myself to do one hard task, then I reward myself by doing something easy but satisfying. If I call the bank, then I'll mow the back lawn. If I fill out that form, I'll start repainting the porch railing. If I make that dreaded phone call, I'll spend an hour researching how to clean the hot tub. 

Doing things (not just anything, but certain things) makes me feel better. Doing things makes me feel in control. Doing things makes me feel like I'm making progress. Doing things makes me forget how much I miss the person who used to do those things for me. Doing things helps me forget, if only for a moment. 

I appreciate all the help that I've been offered. And sometimes, I'm glad to accept it. It would have taken me literally weeks to do all the weeding and cleanup of my front garden that the Scouts did for me last week. I would have spent hours trying to figure out how to fix the screen door that my brother-in-law repaired in 15 minutes. I've already spent several hours trying to open my husband's Outlook account, which will probably take a techie friend 5 minutes to solve. But when I can do something, I need to do it. I need to prove to myself that I am capable, that I am competent, that I CAN DO THIS. 

When I can do it, I need to do it. Even if it takes me 20 times as long as someone else. Even if it makes me cry and scream and feel frustrated and stupid. ESPECIALLY if it makes me cry and scream and feel frustrated and stupid. If I can finally do it, even after that, I get a feeling of accomplishment that gives me the sense that I really can do this. 

Because sometimes....I don't think I can. Sometimes...I'm afraid that I'll fail. That I'll let my kids down. That they'll miss out on something and it's all my fault. Widowhood is the ultimate imposter syndrome. I wasn't supposed to do this job by myself. I'm not qualified to do this job by myself. I'm terrible at doing this job by myself. 

And yet. 

And yet, I will do it. Because I have to do it. And if I keep doing things, even the unimportant things, even the second-tier things, I'm making progress. Eventually, I'll feel able to do the big, scary things. Because I keep doing, not stewing. 

Every job completed, however small, means progress. Every success, however minor, gets me closer to the goal. The goal of independence. The goal of facing life solo. 

I don't want it to be the goal. But it is. I can't change that. I can only conquer it. 

And I will. By doing, not stewing. 

 

When Grief Smacks You in the Face

The funny thing about grief is the way it sneaks up on you. You think that you're starting to manage it, that your emotions are on an even keel, that you're prepared for the difficult moments, but then some unexpected tiny detail smacks you in the face, and POW! The grief is back in full force. 

It might be a whiff of his sweaty shirt that didn't make it into the laundry yet. 

It might be drinking his favorite cocktail and suddenly being transported back to the taste of gin on his lips when he kissed you.

It might be finding a forgotten wedding photo. 

It might be going to a restaurant you haven't been to in a while and the waitress asks about him. 

It be getting a haircut at a salon instead of at Supercuts and remembering how excited he was when you finally treated yourself a little. 

It might be driving your kids to Scout camp by yourself instead of with him. 

It might be scanning your texts to find some important bit of information and instead finding a flirty text exchange with him.

It might be your car needing an oil change and realizing you have to do it yourself this time.  

It might be putting on a dress that he bought for you. 

It might be putting on a dress and realizing that he always zipped it up for you because you can't reach the last bit by yourself. 

It might be struggling to open a jar and not being able to knock in his office door and say, "Oh, strong husband, I need you..."

It might be seeing an ad for a singing group you both love playing at a nearby venue and realizing that it wouldn't be fun to go to without him. 

It might be rolling over in bed and realizing the other side is empty. 

It might be cooking to the music of Michael Buble and not having a dance partner and a sous chef. 

It might be getting your own coffee in the morning instead of having him bring it to you in bed. 

It might be coming across a silly meme and starting to forward it to him before you remember. 

It might be having to make a decision and wanting to run it by someone but no-one is there. 

It might be watching the final episode of a show you were binge-watching together. 

It might be seeing your children be mature and brave and kind and wise and wonderful and wanting to share that parental pride. 

It might be mastering a skill you never thought you would and thinking how proud (but not surprised) he would be. 

It might be any one of a thousand things that you'd done as a team for the past couple of decades and now you're doing it alone. 

It might be nothing at all, except that suddenly you are struck by the deepest pain and sense of loss that you can possibly imagine, and you don't know how you can possibly go on, and yet you do, because you have to. Because your children need you. Because he would want you to. Because quitting is not an option. 

Emotions are complicated. They change constantly, they grow and shrink and rise and fall. There is love, there is guilt, there is pain, there is anger, there is hope, there is emptiness. They are all there all at once, and they are painful and overwhelming and deep and comforting and agonizing. They are cathartic and they are cleansing and they are hurtful and they are powerful. And they are confusing. 

I keep thinking of a scene from the television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, an episode called "The Body." When Buffy's mom dies unexpectedly (from natural causes, a rarity on the show), each character deals with it differently. But one of the characters, a former immortal demon who has become human, gives a heart-wrenching speech as she struggles to understand the concept of death. 

Here is some of what she says: "I don't understand how this all happens, how we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she's - there's just a body. And I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead any more. It's stupid....And no one will explain to me why." 

And that's the really painful part: not knowing why. Why did God choose to end his life now? Why do cruel, hateful people live long lives but the life of someone wonderful and generous and kind and loving and giving, someone who makes the world a better place just by being in it, is cut short? I don't understand. No one will explain to me why. 

The only way I can cope by relying on my faith. I am comforted by Isaiah 57:1-2, which says (emphasis mine), "The righteous man perishes, and no one lays it to heart; devout men are taken away, while no one understands. For the righteous man is taken away from calamity; he enters into peace; they rest in their beds who walk in their uprightness." 

No one understands death. But we have to accept it, because it is part of life. Every life. This is not the first death I've had to deal with, and it will likely not be the last. But it is the hardest. And the most incomprehensible. And the path of grief I travel will be the most tangled, the most laden with unexpected blows and emotional regressions and dead ends and u-turns and detours. And grief will continue to smack me in the face. But I will go on. Because I don't need to understand, I simply need to trust. 

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight." (Proverbs 3:5-6)

When "We" Becomes "Me"

Lately I find myself constantly having to correct myself. "He is" becomes "he was," "he does" becomes "he did," "he always" becomes "he used to," "our" becomes "my," "party of four" becomes "party of three." I start to set the table with four place settings and I have to take one away. I get out four dinner rolls and I have to put one back. I start to check the box for "married" and have to erase it and check the box for "widowed," or worse, "single." "We" has become "me."

I'm not ready to be a "me" again. I liked being a "we." I liked the shared enjoyment and responsibilities of "our" house, "our" pool, "our" cars, "our" travel plans, "our" social events. I liked being a parent to "our" kids, not just "my" kids. I liked being part of a team when making decisions, of having a built-in sanity check, an automatic second opinion. I need a yang to my yin. 

The thing is, my husband and I were very complementary in a lot of ways. He was friendly and outgoing, sometimes to the point of being overbearing, and I am shy and introverted, sometimes to the point of being reclusive. He pushed me into the world of people, and I reined him in when he got pushy. I built up funds by scrimping and saving what little I made; he built them up by spending a lot but earning more. Between the two of us, we struck a healthier financial balance than either one of us did alone. He tended to act without thinking things through, and I leaned toward overthinking everything. The pair of us planning together led to wiser decisions than working individually. "We" had more spontaneity than "me" but more thoughtfulness than "he." I learned to manage technology (somewhat) because of him. He learned to appreciate wildlife (somewhat) because of me. He barked at the kids when they needed it and I hugged them when they needed it. When I barked it was serious and when he hugged it was special. We balanced each other out.  

But now I've lost that balance. No wonder I feel like I'm careening through life without much control right now. I don't have that stabilizing influence. Like a boat without a keel, there's nothing to keep me upright when the wind blows or the waves strike. 

The good thing is that I know I've absorbed so much of his influence over the years that in some ways he's still beside me. "What would he do?" is a question I can sometimes answer, although it's a lot harder to follow through on without him here. It's not automatic or instinctual, like it was with him, but it's there. And thinking about it helps to keep him with me. My "me" has taken on some of our "we." 

I can't do it alone. But I'm never really alone, because he will always be in my heart. So maybe my part of "us" can do it, even when "I" can't. Because "we" has become a part of "me." Like it says in the song "For Good" from Wicked:

So much of me is made of what I learned from you.
You'll be with me like a handprint on my heart.

His handprint will always be there. 

I Have Confidence

You've all seen the film version of The Sound of Music, right? Well, if you've also seen the stage version, you'll know there are some significant differences between the two. Among those differences are songs that were cut or added. Two of the songs that were cut for the film, "How Can Love Survive?" and "There's No Way to Stop It" were sung by Max and Elsa. Although these cuts lose some of the character development for both characters, with an original run time of three hours, the film was simply too long to include everything in the original score. A song that was cut but replaced with another was "An Ordinary Couple," sung by Maria and Captain von Trapp in the stage show, which looks forward to their life together, which was replaced with "Something Good," also sung by Maria and the Captain, but which looks back on what in their lives led them to this point. A subtle switch, but one which works well. But the added song which makes the most difference, in my humble opinion, is "I Have Confidence," sung by Maria as she leaves the abbey and heads for the von Trapp house. 

One of the reasons that the song works so well in the film, in a way it could never have done on stage, is its wonderful visual and lyrical parallels between the changing scenery and Maria's changing attitude. As she travels from the abbey to the city to the von Trapp mansion, Maria's physical and emotional bearing changes. When she leaves her beloved abbey, she is unsure of herself, even frightened, with slumped shoulders and slow steps. As she nears the less familiar city, she talks herself into having courage, her hesitant steps becoming faster and surer, her chin held higher. As she approaches the never-before-seen, imposing von Trapp mansion, she pauses to steel herself, uttering in a small voice the simple prayer, "Oh, help," in front of the gates before squaring her shoulders and pushing open the heavy gate to the unfamiliar and intimidating surroundings, her internal resolve eminently clear.  She is obviously choosing to have confidence. [Fun fact: In one take, Andrews stumbled as she marched toward the mansion, and the director found it charmingly Maria-like and opted to use that take in the film.]

Confidence is something that some people have naturally. I am not one of those people. I would argue that one of my greatest character failings is a complete lack of confidence in myself. I don't know why this is; I was raised in a healthy family that praised my accomplishments and encouraged me when I struggled. I did well in school and achieved a reasonable measure of success in most things I tried. And yet, I always had a feeling that it wasn't good enough. Lack of confidence is a large part of my social anxiety: I don't have confidence that I'll know the answers, that I'll read the social cues, that I'll do or say or wear the right thing. 

But as a now-single parent, I have no choice but to have confidence. Fortunately, confidence is not only  naturally-occurring, it can be chosen. In the same way that Maria talked herself into having confidence, I can do the same. 

When you think about it, Maria was suddenly thrown into a situation that she was in no way qualified to manage. She had never been a governess; she had no formal training in teaching or child psychology; having grown up in an abbey, she had no idea how to behave in a wealthy, upper class household. Of course she felt overwhelmed and out of her league. She had no reason to have confidence. But she chose to. Look at the lyrics:

What will this day be like? I wonder. What will my future be? I wonder.

It could be so exciting to be out in the world, to be free!

My heart should be wildly rejoicing. Oh, what's the matter with me?

"What's the matter with me?" is a question I ask myself on a regular basis. "I should be able to do this. What's the matter with me?" "Normal adults are not bothered by that. What's the matter with me?" "This shouldn't be so hard. What's the matter with me?" I get you, Maria. I totally get you. 

I've always longed for adventure, to do the things I've never dared.

Now here I'm facing adventure. Then why am I so scared?

A captain with seven children. What's so fearsome about that?

Girl, I only have two and I'm terrified. 

Oh, I must stop these doubts, all these worries. If I don't, I just know I'll turn back!

Turning back isn't a choice I have. There is no "back." I have to find a way to stop these doubts and worries, because I can't turn back. I HAVE to choose confidence, because it's the only option. 

I must dream of the things I am seeking. I am seeking the courage I lack.

The courage to serve them with reliance, face my mistakes without defiance,

Show them I'm worthy, and while I show them I'll show me!

That's really what it comes down to: I rarely need to prove myself to other people, I mainly need to prove myself to myself. I need to show ME. 

So let them bring on all their problems. I'll do better than my best.

I have confidence they'll put me to the test!

But I'll make them see I have confidence in me.

Somehow I will impress them. I will be firm, but kind.

And all those children - heaven bless them -

They will look up to me and mind me!

I don't know about doing better than my best - I don't actually have access to "my best" at this point in time - but I'll do the best I can. I'm fortunate that my children do seem to look up to me and mind me (for the most part, anyway). 

With each step I am more certain everything will turn out fine.

I have confidence the world can all be mine!

They'll have to agree I have confidence in me.

I keep talking about "eating the elephant" and "taking baby steps." Everything I do accomplish gives me an added confidence that I can do this, I can manage our lives, I can keep going. And I can show my children that they can do the same. I can be an example of choosing confidence. 

I have confidence in sunshine. I have confidence in rain,

I have confidence that spring will come again!

Besides, which you see I have confidence in me!

I look to my many widowed friends and acquaintances to give me confidence that spring will come again. Now is my winter, when all looks bleak and cold, when it feels like the sun will never return, the birds will never sing again, the flowers will never peek their green shoots up through the ground. And yet, I know that spring is coming. It may be long months away, there may be storms between now and then, I may find myself digging out from under a proverbial snowbank now and then, but spring WILL come. 

Strength doesn't lie in numbers, strength doesn't lie in wealth.

Strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers.

When you wake up, wake up! It's healthy!

I'm not so much with the peaceful slumbers these days, but I can certainly take the advice "When you wake up, wake up!" I can choose to get out of bed in the morning, even when I'd rather stay huddled under the blankets and ignore the world around me. I can get up and do something, even if it's scary, even if it's small, even if it's only one of the seemingly hundreds of things that needs doing. It's the healthy thing to do. And it builds confidence.  

All I trust I leave my heart to, all I trust becomes my own!

I have confidence in confidence alone.

Besides, which you see I have confidence in me!

Maria doesn't state it here, but the phrase "All I trust I leave my heart to," coming from a devout young woman who grew up in a nunnery and plans to become a nun, has a lot of implications that I can identify with. As a Christian, "all I trust" is God Himself. Psalm 56:3 says, "When I am afraid, I will trust in You." That is how I can choose to have confidence. I don't have to have "confidence in me," I can have confidence in Christ in me. Psalm 71:5 says, "For you have been my hope, Sovereign Lord, my confidence since my youth." 2 Corinthians 3:4-5 says, "Such confidence we have through Christ before God. Not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything for ourselves, but our competence comes from God." Phew, not only do I not have to come up with confidence in myself, I don't even have to be the source of my own competence. Which is good, because I've been feeling very incompetent lately. Instead, I will choose to trust in the Lord. Proverbs 3:5-6 says, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight."

I can use some straightening of the tangled paths I see ahead of me. So I choose to trust, and I choose to have confidence. 

"I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me." - Philippians 4:13

Even have confidence in myself. 

Milestones, Yardstones, Millimeterstones

There are some milestones of grief and widowhood that I'm sure I will reach eventually. The first day I get through without crying, without thinking of Herb, without discovering something around the house I don't know how to manage. The settlement of his estate. Completing a tax return. Selling the car. Getting a job. Teaching my son to drive. 

But every one of these is still weeks, months, or even years away. So I need to set my sights on something closer, something smaller, something I can achieve in the nearer future. Let's call it a "yardstone". Mastering the pool is an example of what I would consider a yardstone. Buying a lawn mower and figuring out how to use it was a yardstone. Looking ahead, I would say that upcoming yardstones might be taking his name off our bank accounts, applying for COBRA coverage. taking down the lights along the eaves, transferring our mortgage, getting all the utilities in my name. A little more doable, but still somewhat significant. Which means also a little intimidating.

Right now, what is making me feel like I'm making progress is more like "millimeterstones." Cooking a meal from scratch. Getting through church needing only one Kleenex instead of 5 or 6. Cleaning the bathrooms. Going to the grocery store. Some days, just getting out of bed or taking a shower or throwing in a load of laundry is an accomplishment worthy of being called a millimeterstone. 

One of the most unexpected struggles of grief is simply exhaustion, both physical and emotional. My mind is constantly racing, running a daily mental marathon. That's exhausting. My body is constantly physically tense. That's exhausting. Making all the needed phone calls sends a rush of adrenaline to my anxious heart. That's exhausting. I struggle to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. That's exhausting. I'm constantly trying to keep a list of short- and long-term tasks and prioritize them appropriately. That's exhausting. I'm concerned about my kids and making sure they're okay and getting all the support they need. That's exhausting. I'm trying to manage the day-to-day schedule of three people and making sure they get to wherever they need to be at the appropriate time. That's exhausting. When I look at my to-do list, it seems to be endless. That's exhausting. 

The best solution for that exhaustion is looking for a way to feel like I am making progress, however slowly. And right now, I'm measuring that progress in millimeterstones. At some point, I'll move up to yardstones, probably scattered in among the millimeterstones. At some even further point, I'll start to hit an occasional milestone or two. But that's all quite some time away. So for now, I'll be satisfied with hitting a single millimeter stone a day. Maybe two or even three on a good day. 

Eventually those little millimeters will add up to a yard. And the yard will add up to a mile. And the miles will add up to relief, and wholeness, and peace. But until then, I'll keep working to achieve those millimeterstones.

Like posting a blog entry. 

*Millimeterstone Achieved*

Don't Make Me Say It

One of the worst parts of losing a spouse is having to say the words, over and over, "He died." Or at least, "He passed," or "He's gone," or whatever euphemism you choose. But you have to say it. Out loud. A lot. 

The first, and worst, is when you first find out yourself. You have to make calls to let everyone else know. In my case, his daughter, his sister, my sister, his best friend, my pastor, my cousin, a couple of close friends. Maybe it's helpful to have to say it out loud, to let it become real in your mind. But it's like being caught in a nightmare, an echo chamber of your own voice repeating the nightmare. 

And then, when you start the work of untangling his affairs, you have to say it over and over again, but this time to strangers who may or may not be sympathetic: his employer, the kids' schools, the life insurance company, the car insurance company, the DMV, the bank, your financial planner, the credit card companies, social security, the electric company, the propane company, the irrigation company, the housecleaners, the landscaper, the pool company, the plumber, the electrician, an attorney, his doctor, your doctor, the kids' doctors... It feels endless. 

But worse than that, it feels real. It feels final. It feels. 

If feels like a dagger, not just in your heart, but in your soul. 

It is, for the time being, the definition of who you are. Most phone calls or conversations with strangers begin by identifying yourself: Hi, it's me. Hi, I'm your customer. Hi, this is MyName. But now, your whole identify is wrapped up in your loss: Hi, I've lost a spouse. Hi, I'm a widow. Hi, my husband is gone. Hi, I'm calling because the person I loved more than life itself isn't here any more. Is it any wonder that I dread making phone calls, or that most of my phone calls begin with me in tears and choked up? 

On several occasions of late, I've felt the need to reassure friends that I truly don't cry all the time. But I do often cry when I'm talking to people, because I do have to say the words. It's like I can push the pain to the side for a little while, I can compartmentalize the grief while I'm managing some task, but when I have to put it into words, all the pain and grief come bubbling back to the surface. 

So if you see me and I'm not up for talking, please understand that sometimes talking is hard. Sometimes it's too much. Because even when I don't have to say the words, they're always there as subtext. I say, "I'm doing okay," but I mean, "I'm doing okay even though my husband is dead." I say, "I need to close this account," but I mean, "I have to deal with this alone now because I'm a widow." I say, "I could use some help with this," but I mean, "My husband isn't here to do this any more." I say, "I need to update this information," but I mean, "The person you have on file is gone, and he's not coming back." 

Please don't make me say it. 

Finding the Islands

The days and weeks (and, let's face it, the months and probably the years) following the loss of a spouse are like being caught in a storm at sea: everything is swirling around you, and you're caught in an eddy that keeps pulling you in opposite directions while somehow keeping you from making any progress. It's overwhelming, it's terrifying, and it's exhausting. The only way to survive is to find a moment to rest, to catch your breath, to look around you and make a plan. And the only way to do that is to find an island, something solid to grab onto for a moment to steady yourself. 

Different people find different islands. One of my islands is writing out my thoughts and feelings, putting them down in black and white so I can understand them - and more importantly, manage them. For other people, therapy might serve a similar purpose. Identifying your feelings can be an island. 

Another island for me is quiet. I am often doing work with my hands that doesn't take much conscious thought (cleaning, sewing, cooking), so I usually have music or a podcast or an audiobook or a TV show running in the background. Between that and having two teenagers around the house for the summer, chatting with friends, bickering with each other, or talking back to video games, silence is a rarity in my house. But the hour or two when I'm awake but before the kids get up, the world is quiet except for the birds chirping and the occasional barking of a dog, crowing of a rooster, or rumble of a passing truck. It becomes an island of peace before I am swept back into the maelstrom of life. 

One of my less healthy islands is comfort food. A butter pecan iced coffee from Dunk's, a piece of buttered toast, a cookie, a bowl of creamy mashed potatoes, ice cream with hot fudge sauce, a good cup of coffee, a favorite cocktail. As Ina Garten says, "You can be miserable before you eat a cookie and you can be miserable after you eat a cookie, but you can't be miserable while you're eating a cookie." This is true of a lot of foods. Immersing yourself in the very physical act of eating something enjoyable brings a very physical pleasure that overrides any emotional pain you are experiencing, if only for a few moments. That's an island. 

Hugging my kids, or a friend, is an island. 

Snuggling one of my cats is an island. 

Prayer is an island. 

Watching the birds and wildlife in my back yard is an island. 

Pulling weeds in my garden is an island. 

Listening to Chopin is an island. 

Baking a loaf of bread is an island, even though I couldn't bring myself to take off my wedding rings as I usually do when I knead dough. That loaf might have had a little added salt, but even as I cried I was on an island. 

Sometimes the island is the sense of relief I get after I do a task I'm dreading or fearing, like when I got a lesson on pool maintenance that turned out to be less intimidating and complicated than I had feared. 

Happy memories are an island. Looking through photographs and videos, reading reminiscences sent by friends, smells and sights and sounds that remind me of the past have become an island. 

Some islands you just stumble on unexpectedly, like a person on the other end of the phone who gives you compassion and grace when you were expecting hassles and red tape. 

Tears can be an island. I spend a lot of time trying to pull myself together so I can make a phone call, be with my kids, run an errand, deal with daily life. But I need to cry, so I find time to do it. For some reason, the car has become my "crying zone." When I am alone in the car, I let the tears pour down my face. I'm not crying over a specific issue or situation or thought, it's just a release of the built-up tension and anxiety and fear of the unknown. The relief I experience from letting myself go is very much an island.

Another way of looking at it is that anything that brings a moment of joy, however small, is an island. I recently saw this poster on Facebook, and I find it to be completely true: Micro joys are how we survive macro grief. 

There is no joy great enough to counteract the load of grief on my heart right now. But the small joys help to chip away at it, to give me a moment, if not exactly of forgetting, of balancing the grief. When I feel like I'm teetering on the precipice of falling back into the storm, every tiny moment of joy tugs me back from the brink. I'm still on the edge, my footing is still not secure, but at least I'm not falling. At least I can catch my breath before fighting the next fight. 

I just need to keep finding the islands. 

It is the Worst of Clubs, It is the Best of Clubs

Shortly after Herb passed away, an acquaintance who had been widowed a number of years earlier gave me a hug and told me, "It's the shittiest club ever, but we're here for each other." That was my welcome to the (not-so-wonderful) world of widowhood. 

I'm not big on joining groups of strangers, especially at the most emotionally vulnerable period of my life, so I don't think I'll be signing up for "Parents Without Partners" or a grief support group or a formal widows' organization, but being a part of this quiet network has been reassuring. There are a number of women in my life that I knew had been widowed, but I have since been approached by a number of others that I had no idea had been through what I'm going through. Even without being ready yet to talk about it extensively, it is reassuring just seeing other women who have been through this ordeal and come out on the other side, if not exactly unscathed or unscarred, at least surviving and even thriving. 

It give me hope.

It gives me resources.

It gives me solidarity. 

It gives me a lifeline. 

As incredible as the support has been from family and friends, there's something special about support from someone who's been where you are, someone who gets it. No one goes through exactly the same grief journey, but there are commonalities that go beyond words. A hug from someone who can sympathize is wonderful, but a hug from someone who can empathize goes beyond words, beyond silence. It says, "Courage, sister." It says, "I have been where you are." It says, "I'm okay and you will be, too." It says, "I'll be here when you're ready." It says, "It's okay that you don't know what you need." It says, "It's okay to be not okay." It says, "You are not alone."

It is the shittiest club ever, but it is a sisterhood. 

Courage, sister.