The merry month of May...

Grief is a curious thing.

There seems no particular rhyme or reason

to its appearance at any given moment.

What makes it manifest itself and wreak havoc

on your emotions?

It is completely unpredictable.

 

It may predictably show up on special dates.

    Or it may not.

It may predictably show up for special events.

    Or it may not.

It more likely jumps at you from behind a completely ordinary moment.

 

And how it manifests itself is just as big a mystery.

Maybe it will make you cry.

    Or maybe not.

Maybe it will make you want to eat everything in sight.

    Or it might make you unable to swallow a bite.

 Maybe it will make you sleep a lot.

    Or maybe you will not be able to sleep at all.

You could have dreams.

    Or nightmares.

And it could manifest itself in completely unpredictable ways.

 

For example, earlier this week,

our daughter had a "blindside" grief moment

when her daughter, who really doesn't remember her papa,

flew a plane for the first time.

Her daddy should have been there

and our daughter caught herself 

looking around to see where he was.

The intensity of her grief was overwhelming.

 

For me, the month of May is filled with reminders of losses:

    my first mother-in-love died on May first - just over three months after my Al;

        my grandmother passed away on May 14th;

            my first father-in-love on May 16th;

                my son was still-born on May 17th.

And May 25th, the day my beloved was diagnosed with cancer,

    the 26th the day we knew it was terminal in the short term.

There are others, but these are the major days

where the sense of loss builds in intensity culminating in today.

 

And, for me, May means fear.

I am fearful my children will die.

    One of them is traveling out of the country right now...oy vay!

I am fearful my grandchildren will fall ill.

I am fearful my siblings will be diagnosed with a dread disease.

And, since my remarriage,

    I spend a lot of time listening to my husband's heart beat.

I become clingy and possessive, 

    not wanting him out of my sight for even a moment.

It's not much fun.

 

I spend a lot of time in prayer and in God's Word

    during the month of May,

        more than usual.

I beg and plead;

    I promise and bargain;

         and I do a lot of releasing and "not my will but Thine"-ing.

This year has been worse with my Lanny Love.

For no good reason,

    other than grief is, quite simply,

        its own creature with its own ways. 

Strangely, while I still feel the weight of that hard "D-day" in May

    thirteen years later,

        I did not feel sorrow this year.

I miss him, my Al!

I spent a while at the cemetery yesterday 

    where his only earthly presence 

        now lies in anticipation of the coming resurrection.

 But I did not feel sorrow as I sat with him,

    only gratitude for the days we had.

Still, it was a day when my emotions were close to the surface

    and I cried easily.

 

This year, my sorrow was for what has not yet happened.

This year, my sorrow was for the loss of people not yet gone.

I laid in bed next to my beloved Lanny last night

    and wept after he had fallen asleep,

        prayed for his continued good health, sharp mind, and Godly spirit,

and for my own trust in the God who controls all things.

 

This morning I was reading a passage of Scripture in I Samuel

    and was reminded again that, ultimately,

        God is in control! 

Nothing comes to us that has not first passed by Him!

And as I read 1 Thessalonians 4,

    as I often do on these days,

        I was reminded again that 

"...we do not grieve like people who have no hope..."

But we do grieve.

There is a hole left in our earthly lives when someone dies,

    that can never be filled this side of eternity.

That spot is simply empty for the rest of our days.

And it hurts,

    sometimes a whole-big-whopping-lot.

That same chapter in 1 Thessalonians also says

"God Himself has taught you to love one another."

Love is of God, commanded by Him,

    and it survives the grave! (Song of Songs 8)

And where love is present

    and the person is absent,

        there is a hole

            that fills with grief in that person's absence.

 

But it should NOT fill with fear!!!

That is my struggle this year in the merry month of May.

I'll be glad when May is done..........

 

 

 

Scars

My scars hurt today.

Grief is not something that ever disappears.

It is always there.

 

It isn't always painful,

the open gash heals,

a scar forms,

but the scar is always there,

always visible if you look at it.

Sometimes it is painless.

Sometimes it is an itch or an ache.

Sometimes it flat out hurts.

 

There are different kinds of grief,

but the in the end,

there is always a scar.

 

The month of May put a lot of scars on my heart.

Today is one of the two most painful May scars.

Today it hurts.

 

And that's okay.

 

 

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

~~ Psalm 34:18 ~~

 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

~~  Matthew 4:4 ~~ 

Twelve

The day has come.

And nearly gone.

I have gone through twelve years.

Sometimes, I just survived.

Mostly I have lived.

As he wanted.

It has not always been easy.

It still isn't sometimes.

The last few weeks stand as a good example of sometimes.

But it has been worth the work,

    surviving grief

        and learning to live again.

In our last coherent conversation,

he gave me instructions for "after".

It is best summed up in this statement,

"I don't want you to die of grief!"

He opened doors for me to be happy again.

That's the kind of man he was!

I've thought about what to say on this twelfth anniversary.

Did I want to talk about the challenges of this January?

Did I want to talk about the healing that has happened over the years?

Did I simply want to talk about him and what kind of man he was?

I still am not sure what I want to say.

So I will just say that years bring about change,

    whether or not one has lost a spouse,

        whether or not one has remarried.

In twelve years, change simply happens,

    for everyone!

This year is no exception.

I have thought often the last few days about how I announced

that he had finally gone home.

I gave it a lot of thought ahead of time.

The words still stick with me today.

"The battle is over, 

the war has been won, 

the angels are rejoicing over another victor come home, 

and Al is kneeling at the feet of Jesus."

Al is kneeling at the feet of Jesus.

That says it all!

 

 

I don't want to remember...and I don't want to forget

I am less than a week from completing my twelfth year of widowhood.

This coming Tuesday, 4:59 pm,

I will cross into the thirteenth year.

 

This twelfth January has pretty much followed the pattern

of the previous eleven I think.

I think about "it" and him more, much, much more. 

    The "discipline" of putting it out of my mind is difficult to impossible.

        I don't sleep well.

            My dreams are strange and convoluted, 

                few are pleasant,

                    but few are actual nightmares.

                        Just mostly strange.

Pretty standard stuff for January these days.

 

Every year during the month of January,

I take a Facebook sabbatical.

I want to avoid the written out memories.

And every year, the closer I come to the 28th,

the more I want to look.

This year is a little different.

Oh, I still want to look.

And, to be honest, I have been.

But this year, I am reading my journal entries from that time in preparation for my book

    so all the events, 

        all the raw emotions, 

            all of the process of Walking Al Home are very present and real.

 

I tried, back then, to post little on my FB page about Al's cancer.

FB was my escape from cancer and I wanted to keep it that way,

so I mostly used CaringBridge to keep people updated

and to process my own thoughts, feelings, and experiences.

CaringBridge was my therapist then much as all of you are now.

I recall that decision more and more with every "peek" at the memories.

This may be my last January grief sabbatical.

As I am reading in my journal,

I am surprised at the number of times I say,

"I forgot about that!" or "I don't remember that!"

I find that I am both relieved and sad at the realization that

    time - and probably age to some degree - has done what time does.

        It has softened most of the memories -

            and completely erased a few.

 

I have not forgotten his suffering,

    but I have forgotten, no longer feel the intensity of it.

Seeing it written...

I have not forgotten my grief at what was coming,

    but I have forgotten, no longer feel the intensity of it.

Seeing it written...

I have not forgotten every single "event" of those days,

    every single heartache,

        every single kindness,

but I have forgotten some of them.

And, once again, I find myself in that strange state of longing -

    I long to forget...

        I long to remember every detail...

 

One of the things I have discovered in the reading of those entries,

and I am pleased,

is that I seem to have remembered most of the lessons

I promised myself I wouldn't forget.

That July of cancer, I wrote:

I find that I am enjoying simple things more these days. Lying in bed listening to my husband snore has become a pleasure not an irritation. Listening to him pray for me and our children when he wakes in the night rather than asking him to pray more quietly. Cutting his toenails. Picking up after him. Cooking for him. I wish I had sought this perspective BC [before cancer].

I have continued to enjoy simple things,

    have continued to find myself less irritated by small inconveniences 

        and signs of life,

            have continued to enjoy service to those I love,

                particularly to my Lanny Love,

                    rather than resenting it or finding it a burden.

As I read on, I read the following in an August entry:

Al and I were very young when we became "us" rather than "him" and "her". When I look back, it's hard to remember life before Al. As I think forward to a future without him, it is unfathomable. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that whether he is here on earth or in Heaven "getting things ready for me" as he says, he will always be part of me. Time and distance will not erase him from my memory, I will see him every day in our girls and grandchildren, I will see him in our home, I will see him in my dreams. I will always love him, always cherish the memories. He will always be a part of me!

"He will always be a part of me!"

This is a great and mighty truth!!!

 As this twelfth year comes to a close and I prepare to enter the thirteenth,

    this brings me comfort.

It allows me to be grateful for the effects of passing time,

    the softening of the feelings of grief and anguish associated with the memories,

        and even the forgetfulness that I have discovered is more prevalent than I realized. 

At the same time, I am grateful that

    it also allows me to live in the new life that was born that dark January.

For while I have forgotten some of the specifics of those days,

    while the intensity of the emotions has softened,

        while I no longer remember some of the more distant names and faces,

            I have not forgotten him!

 

                I have not forgotten him............ 

 

 

 

It's time...

God said several years ago,

"Do this which I ask of you."

I've looked at it.

I've printed the original.

I've begun re-typing it -

            several times...

I've written several versions of the forward.

I've even worked with an interested publisher's editor.

But I haven't done it.

I still feel the spiritual urging to do it. 

I no longer have an interested publisher or editor.

I have several files associated with it.

But it's just been too hard.

 

I cry when I try.

But it's time.

So this month, I am reading it,

my journal entries from that time.

I will shed tears, undoubtedly.

But I will clean that wound, expose it to the air,

and I will begin writing that book

from those entries

of Al's and my journey through cancer and grief.

 

Why today?

Because today is the day that was his first full day

as an in-patient in the hospice facility.

Following a scary and dangerous-to-me night,

our girls and hospice nurse convinced me

that moving him was no longer an option,

it was a necessity for both his sake and mine.

And so the night before,

            at about 7PM,

he left, for the last time, the house where I took him to die

and the transport vehicle took him to the place where he would die

            sixteen days later.

Avoiding the "memories"

hasn't made me forget that -

or any of it.

Why today?

Because I have, in the past,

against my editors wishes and instructions,

given copies of the raw book, still in journal form,

to recently widowed friends who were helped by it.

 

Because my cousin was recently widowed and is struggling -

and the book God has directed me to write isn't there for him.

 

Because another cousin is facing widowhood very soon,

and it isn't there for him.

 

Because it wasn't there for my dearest female friend

when her husband died not quite two years ago.

 

Why today?

Because I am struggling in this 12th January

and think back to that first one

and wish I had realized I wasn't alone

in my thoughts and feelings.

 

Why today?

Because I have been reminded this month

that writing is, for me, a healing balm.

 

Why today?

Because God said so. 

Firmly.

I dreamed of Madison

I never met Madison.

She died several years before I entered her arena,

long before I ever heard her name.

I have met her mother and one sister,

and perhaps the rest of the family as well,

though I don't recall it,

but I never came to know them well.

I am Facebook friends with her sister and father,

but I'm not sure that should we pass in the mall

they would recognize me nor I them.

Yet, early this morning,

I vividly dreamed of Madison.

During his illness,

one of the things that most bothered my Al

was that our then three-year-old granddaughter

would probably not really remember him.

Nearly 12 years later, I now know, despite insisting otherwise,

he was not wrong.

And now it bothers me.

Another thing that bothers me these days

is the knowledge that our great-grandsons 

will never meet him this side of Heaven.

 

It also bothers me that Lanny's Judy will never meet her grandchildren.

 

All three of these things bother me a LOT recently.

 

I suppose it's the time of year

coupled with the fact that our great-grands are so fun 

toddling 

    and crawling 

        and learning to talk 

             and stacking blocks 

                and.... 

 

And the fact that as a grandmother,

I know what pleasure my grandchildren bring me

and as a parent, I know how sad it made me that 

my mother did not see my children grow up,

that the one who met her has no actual memories of her

coupled with the fact that it bothers my Lanny Love and bonus children

causes me angst.

But early this morning,

I dreamed vividly of Madison

    whom I never met.

We conversed about things she would have been interested in.

    We did things that she would have enjoyed doing.

        We laughed a lot!

            We talked about my new, very short, curly haircut

            and how similar it is to hers

            but not nearly as cute on me.

The dream was extremely vivid.

And, I think, pretty accurate to Madison's personality.

Madison, whom I never met,

yet know because of the vivid, loving posts

of her sister and father.

I do not remember Madison,

but I know her.

 

Thanks for the clarity, young friend! 

 

 

An interesting aside.

After I had mostly completed this post,

I discovered that today is the 13th anniversary

of the end of Madison's earthly life.

I suppose somewhere in the back of my mind,

I probably knew this,

but it was way in the back of my mind.

I love God's timing and use of His children,

even after they have left this world.

 

Stalling

I am stalling right now.

I am a SAD sufferer.

Even before my
Al's death,

January through March were difficult for me.

Shorter days and the resulting lack of sunshine

negatively affects me.

Over the years, I have learned coping tools

like increased vitamin D,

    increased time in God's Word,

        increased exercise (this one is the most likely to be pushed to the side),

            and surrounding myself with people and things that bring me pleasure.

For example, I have carried on my mother's tradition

of early setup and late break down of Christmas decor.

The sparkle and twinkle and magic makes me smile.

So they always go up on or before Thanksgiving weekend

and never come down until after Epiphany (January 6).

So last week on January 7,

we unplugged the outside lights and the inside window lights,

and I dismantled and took down the living room tree 

that stands in the front window and is visible from the street.

I switched out the Christmas dishes for the regular dishes.

And that's where I stopped.

For the last several days,

my to-do list has included taking down some piece of Christmas decor.

I have a LOT of Christmas decor

including eight indoor trees.)

So far, I've been doing an excellent job of stalling.

So thank you for being a part of my procrastination -

and just another few moments of magical smiles.

The twelfth January

It is January,

the month I became a widow.

Today is January 6.

A significant day in my journey to widowhood.

But not a sad one.

 

That January 6 day was difficult.

It was filled with pain and hallucinations.

But it ended with God's brilliant light and deep, deep love surrounding us.

Today is a day I celebrate.

 

Perhaps some January 6

I will tell the story of that day,

22 days before his death,

but not yet.

It was a precious, intimate moment in time

between my Al, my God, and me.

 

This is the twelfth January since my Al went home

and it is odd.

I told my sister yesterday that

this year, it is constantly on my mind,

that time of his increasing illness and approaching death.

It's a return to that time of constant awareness that he is gone.

But it is not the hard grief of that first January after his death,

or even the strange pre-widowed dread/grief of watching him die that January.

It is just constantly there.

I find myself having trouble concentrating,

like grief-fog but without the anguished pain and tears.

I am having trouble sleeping soundly

and am, therefore, sleeping more.

It's an odd time.

 

And yet, in the midst of my odd grief awareness,

I am happier and more content that at any other time in my life.

My Lanny Love and I grow more in-love daily.

My life is filled with God's favor and blessing.

Life is good!

That is what remarriage from widowhood is like!

Really, I suppose, I pray, 

what widowhood is like, remarried or not.

We never forget.

    We never stop loving.

        We never stop missing.

And yet, life moves forward.

We learn to live.

    We learn who we are in this new, unwelcome life.

        We learn to smile, even when it's forced.

Then one day we realize,

life is good once again!

It's different, but it's good!

The forced learning is over

and natural living and the same learning we all experience in life

has replaced the confusion of those first early days, weeks, years.

If you haven't reached that place yet,

it's okay, you will.

It doesn't come easily.

It takes "intentionality" and practice and following God's leading,

but you will eventually reach it!

Just keep putting one foot in front of the other

and moving forward!

Home

I never cease to be amazed at how everything

ties back to that division in time,

before my Al's death/after my Al's death.

That one event is the defining moment of my life.

Maybe my salvation should be.

Maybe marrying either time should be.

Maybe having children should be.

And all of those things are defining moments,

but the one that has divided my life into a BC/AD existence,

the thing that rocked my world off its axis

spinning me in the opposite direction and upside down,

that most defining of moments,

that one thing that changed everything,

that gave me a "before" and an "after",

that one thing was Al's death.

 

I have had a lot of change in my life.

By the time I was 12,

I had lived in five states and

about 10 different towns/cities.

Our lives were in a constant state of flux.

So while I won't claim to have enjoyed change,

I was accustomed to it.

I fairly quickly accepted new circumstances,

usually before the change actually took place,

and, as much as was in my power to do so,

made the very best out of my current reality.

 

The first few years of my marriage to my Al

were pretty similar.

We moved from apartment to apartment,

then house to house.

We moved from city to city a couple times.

Change was always on the horizon.

That was my life and I was used to it.

Eventually we settled down and stayed put

for nearly 20 years.

 

From the time I was 14 going forward,

there were always two constants.

My God and my Al.

Neither one of them appeared to be going anywhere.

My parents and grandparents passed away.

God and my Al were still there.

Our children, as they should, grew up and left home.

God and my Al stayed put.

Friends came and went,

cities and churches changed,

jobs were accepted and left,

God and my Al...yep. 

Still there.

 

Until my Al wasn't.

And change became my enemy.

 

Just over three years ago

my Lanny Love and I closed on Mount Newton Love Nest.

The first eleven months we were married,

we lived in "his" home.

For the next nearly five years, in Newton Love Nest our,

I assumed,

last home on earth.

I loved that house!!!

It suited me. 

It suited us!

Though we had already been married nearly a year when we moved into it,

It was where he and I became us.

After nearly five years,

several things pushed us to make the decision to sell.

I thought I was ready.

I wasn't.

 

I love Mount Newton!

The property and water system were what we bought.

They just happened to have a house attached to them. 

A house that was sound.

A house that I disliked.

Intensely. 

 

We modified, choosing everything to suit our tastes,

heavy on the "my" in "our".

And when it was done and we moved in...

I hated it.

The day we closed on the other house

I cried at the closing.

Sobbed.

 

I didn't understand it.

Others didn't understand it.

It's a lovely home.

It's in a lovely area.

It's just what we needed.

But it wasn't home.

And I think I might have been pretty determined

not to let it become home.

For two years I was pretty determined.

And pretty successful!

 

Then around this time last year

I said to myself,

 

"Self, this is ridiculous!!!

Why are you so unhappy with this house???

It's a cute house!

It's a nice house!

Why don't you like this house???"

 

I couldn't come up with a single reason

other than it different

and it wasn't the other house.

 

So I began working at loving it.

And guess what?

Today, I really like and enjoy our home!

 

How did I make the change?

Well, I stopped looking back at the house I lost.

I stopped saying "No other house will ever be as good!"

I stopped comparing this house to that one...

...and focusing on the negative differences inthis house.

I began creating in this house

what I missed in that house - 

namely nooks and crannies,

little hide-aways and reading corners and unique features.

 

I allowed myself to like it!!!

 

It hit me on the third anniversary of closing on Mount Newton Love Nest

while I was noticing the date.

This transition has, in many ways,

mimicked the transition from married

    to widowed

        to remarried.

Right down to the timeline.

For two years I sorrowed over the house I lost,

stubbornly refusing to see see anything but the loss.

For two years, I sorrowed intensely over my Al.

When I knew I could not live in anguish for the rest of my life,

I began "painting walls" in the dating world

(far earlier than I should have I now realize)

comparing everyone to my Al and dismissing them out of hand,

or, twice, choosing men who, in my heart of hearts,

I knew were not for me from the get-go.

I have wondered recently if that was why I chose them,

distractions that would not, could not, possibly be for me.....

 

Then came the time of "still" mourning and listening to God,

a time where I changed nothing,

not so much as moving a stick of furniture.

I began to see the potential.

I began to notice life was for living,

not for comparing,

not for "fine...whatever" changes,

not for desperation "fixes" that fixed nothing.

And when that time was completed,

God opened the door to my Lanny Love.

He is perfect for me.

He is all I prayed for,

    hoped for,

        dreamed of...

and then God made him even better than that!

Recently, a dear friend and I

(she is in her second year of widowhood)

were discussing before and after and expectations.

Life is not the same after.

It never will be the same.

I am not the same.

Never will I be that person again.

And neither will "the same" be the case for her.

Or for any of us.

This house is not the one I shared with Al

It is not the one I lived in alone.

It is not the one my Lanny Love shared with me for a bit.

It is not the one I thought would be my last.

But this house has become more than a house this past year.

It has become "home".

Change is hard!

This widowhood thing is the hardest,

especially at this time of year!

It takes time, but like this house is now home,

widows and widowers will come to "be" again.

The drifting will end!

You will find yourself!

Feel the grief!

Process the change!

And when it's time,

let yourself find "home"!

And remember, it's okay to still love the other life,

to still miss it and "him" or "her".

Allowing yourself to live, to accept what is,

to actually embrace and come to love it,

is good and honoring to the one you lost!

May God lead each of you "home"!

"What does love even look like?"

"What does love even look like?"

I was recently asked this question 

by a frustrated friend.

We talked about it for a while

and finally summarized that

while their are some commonalities,

love looks different for each person

and the most successful love stories

are those where the "look" is most similar

for those involved.

Yesterday, I was not feeling well.

Ginger ale and saltines were the order of the day.

These are not things we keep in our gluten-free,

mostly sugar-free home 

so my sweet hubby ran to the store.

This is not a quick trip for the most part.

We live six miles outside of town.

So it takes some thoughtful effort to make a "quick" trip,

some sacrifice if one is doing something else and didn't plan to get out.

He came home with saltines, ginger ale (my favorite brand of both)

and roses.

So here's a picture of what love looks like for me.

It looks like thoughtfulness, effort, sacrifice, "knowing", and caring.....

Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.

                                    ~~ Romans 12:10 ~~