1. Prepare Now For Grief

• Be intentional about grieving
  If I do not leave sufficient time during the day to rest and to grieve, my night will be wracked with tears, body spasms, and nightmares about things I cannot control.
   

• Thank God I've been journaling for many years
  Rereading my journals from the eight years Shelby was ill has helped me find and process and validate the feelings I was too busy to feel in the moment. It validates that what I thought was happening was, in fact, happening. It helps now to go back to my former self and soothe her and assure her that she is perceiving rightly.
   

• The work you are not doing in your relationship now will catch up with you then
  In all the grief books I've read so far, the one left behind struggles mightily with anger over unresolved issues, regret over words neither spoken nor taken back, and with guilt over how the relationship was mishandled. I am so very thankful that I am not having to deal with that on top of my sadness over missing Shelby. There was nothing unresolved between us. In our final goodbye to each other he expressed exactly how I was feeling when he said, "I was the luckiest man alive when you walked in the door."
   

• The work you are not doing on yourself will catch up with you then
  In all the grief books I've read so far, the one left behind struggles to find their identity. They had repressed themselves in service to the other or to the children or to their job, etc. And now, suddenly, there is a vacuum where they themselves should be. I am so very thankful that Shelby encouraged me and supported me 100% in every crazy endeavor as I put the pieces of myself back together after my divorce. He let me be fully me, however that might manifest--as a CPA, a bank executive, a mom, a wife, a sister, a friend, and a pastor. As a result, I know who I am. I myself am a whole person without him. Yes, there is a huge, aching, gap where he was, but that gap is not my identity--it is simply the love that has nowhere to go.

There is more, but it can wait. I am resting now.

2. Unexpected Grief

Today it has been 10 weeks since Shelby's death. I went to the store for a few things I need while on retreat and realized that the items in my cart would be a good "care basket" for any new widow--cozy socks, a tumbler for water, a hot/cold pack, a journal, some clear nail polish, and some herbal tea.
 

• The reality of where I am in the process show up in unexpected ways
  Like the cart today at Walmart. Or as sudden, startling impulses towards suicide that cross my mind out of the blue. They are never serious and I have no intention of acting on them, but the thought crosses my mind that the butcher block of knives is within reach in the kitchen or that only a slight shift of the wheel would drive me into the concrete pylon I'm speeding towards.
       It shows up when I read in a book on grief, "Do whatever it takes to survive," and I burst into tears because that is exactly what I am doing and it feels like struggling not to drown. These fleeting moments happen when I am feeling perfectly fine and going about life slowly and gently, but they give me a glimpse into the deep work going on in my subconscious. I pay close attention to these moments. They are telling me not to rush my grief.
   

• The God you know is the one that shows up (or doesn't)
  So many people's stories of grief are of feeling as if God is utterly absent. How could God let this terrible thing happen? Who is God if my loved one could die like this? C.S.Lewis wrote of this in "A Grief Observed." And yet my own experience is much more like Madeline L'Engle describes in her preface to Lewis's book. She says, "I have never felt more closely the strength of God's presence than I did during the months of my husband's dying and after his death."
       What a relief that was to read, for God has been so present throughout it all, even as he has been present throughout my entire life. I had begun to think I must be deceiving myself. But after reading her words I realized that many people have been painted a false picture of God--one that is transactional in nature, if you are good you will be blessed, etc. That particular "god" does not show up in the tough times. Faith is shaken as the person, knowing in their core that God is real, has to figure out the difference between what they thought was God and what and who God truly is.
       I have been so thankful to be steeped already in the knowledge that we are being groomed for the tough times. That pain and death and unspeakable horrors do come, but that God is always, always there with us in it, holding us, comforting us, and taking action even in the pain.
   

• I can grieve the gap in my heart, my soul, and my life that I am experiencing, but I cannot yearn for the past
  Those are two completely different things. One is in the present and allows me to face forward. The other is an unhealthy dwelling in the past. I can enjoy my warm memories, but I must not yearn for the past to return.
   

• I miss his touch
  This is universal problem for widows. I remember sobbing when the young owner of the local fishing shop chased me down as I left the shop after dropping off Shelby's fishing gear. He hugged me around the shoulders and held me close as, raising his other hand in the air, he prayed a long, loud evangelical prayer of comfort and blessing and peace over me right there in the middle of the sidewalk. It was not the prayer that made me sob (though it was a lovely prayer and I appreciated it)--it was the sensation of being held in the strong arms of a man about the same height as my dead husband. It was such a comfort to me.
       I try to compensate with the plentiful hugs from my friends and with my "Sunday Sabbath" facial. I intentionally touch my face gently and receive the touch as part of the necessary intimacy of being human. Be aware that the widows (and singles) in your midst may need to be touched and held.

That is enough for today.

3. Rest

My sister told me this is like a shot to the gut and I should treat myself accordingly. She's not wrong. The things I'm learning about grief are also, surprisingly, about rest.
 

• Don't throw away the gift of rest
  According to Hebrews Ch 3 and 4, entering God's rest is one of the greatest gifts we have available to us now, here, in this moment. Grief is forcing me into it. I am sleeping nearly ten hours each day and still I feel tired. Grieving is hard work. But it is different than other work. I am aware I no longer awake in the iron grip of "things that must be done today." This is a work of great stillness. A work of listening.
   

• Daily rhythms of the Spirit
  For decades now I have understood the value of a Daily Office, a term meaning set times for intentional prayer, meditation, and centering. Ever since committing to that, my life has been anchored by these times even if it has not always allowed for the “set times”part. I am adept at centering myself. I find my center easily. What I am learning now is that prayer and centering are not enough. I must center and release. Big difference. It is in the releasing that rest comes.
   

• Loving my body
  Now more than ever it is crucial that I not despise my body. It is struggling mightily along with my soul to stay well and whole. I can feel the drag towards illness. I understand now why those left behind often die in the first year. In my Sunday Sabbath facial I try to catch and reject moments when I despise the furrows and disfigurements of my skin. I intentionally touch the lumps and discolored places and remind myself that this is the face of the Beloved. This is surprisingly hard to do. There is an intimacy about the face that seems to be directly connected to my husband. This change is hard. There is much weeping during my Sunday Sabbath facials.
   

• Letting Go
  The leaves are drifting down from the trees. Their fall is often sudden, heavier than I expect. They do not flutter gently to the ground, but fall so quickly I almost cannot trace them with my sight. Did the tree let them go or did they release themselves? Grief is like this. The Lord says: You are my beloved. And I respond: How can I let go? I do not want to let go. The Lord waits. He has Time. This leaf will fall. Faster, perhaps, than I wish.

I spent an hour today in the beautiful Mildred B. Cooper Memorial Chapel pictured.

4. Clasped Weft

There is a weaving technique called "clasped weft" where you stop the weft thread partway across, form a small loop, and loop the new thread into it, then continue with the new thread. It is different than what you do at a break or when running out of thread. It is a design element specifically used for sudden changes in color.
 

• I am not living a different life, it is the same one lived differently
  There have been many such "clasped wefts" in my life. I spent years fighting the first one, trying to change it, agonizing over every part I played in it, and feeling completely lost and bulldozed by it.
       I have learned that there are things in this world—in my own life—that I cannot change. The only thing I can change is how I engage with the new season while not throwing away the old, even as I move farther and farther away from the moment of the clasped weft.
   

• I've helped others do this before. I can draw on that experience.
  Three years ago I helped my faith community navigate the departure of their founding pastor of 17 years. We looked back at our entire history--who we were, where we'd been, and how we'd changed. It wasn't until the end of six months of intentionally and carefully doing this work that we came together on retreat to choose whether to quit, combine, or continue.
       That process is exactly what I am doing now. Those choices look strangely applicable to a new widow. I am learning much from looking back at the years of Shelby's illness from a birds-eye view. I know that I choose not to lay down and die. I know that I choose not to remarry. I choose to continue this new design alone under the Master Weaver's hand.
       You are all part of the whole fabric of my life--the warp threads that run straight through. You were there before the clasped weft. You are here now. You matter to me.
   

• The things I spent the most time working on in the past gave the least amount of return
  What a shock. You could lift out whole chunks of my life's work and neither you nor I would really be the poorer for it. It was good I was there and did all the work. I did help those organizations. But the things that grew me and filled me were seminary, doing pastoral care, teaching Bible classes, being a mom/wife/grandma, and being creative.
       It was in the small things that come naturally to me that I made the most difference in people's lives and where my own heart was warmed and nurtured. This helps me understand that it is truly okay to release all the organizational work and to lean into resting and quietly bearing fruit in this final season of my life.
   

* Image credit: Art Weaving Demo -Clasped Weft and Inclusions, YouTube

5. The Surface Is Thin

I'm doing better, but the surface is thin.

• Life has a shadow load. Grief made me aware of it.
  At home if we want to reduce electrical load we think of turning the AC down or running appliances less, but we rarely consider the shadow load from all the electronics that are on standby--not really "on" but pulling electricity to stay "aware" for instant use. This time away has relieved me of both the overt loads and the shadow loads I carry.
       So when I needed to move BnBs because Hurricane Helene changed my plans, this helped me understand why I awoke on “moving day” with an indefinable sense of angst. I realized it was because there were things that had to be done in the day. It wasn't the load of the things themselves (packing up, driving, checking in at the new place)--it was the shadow load of holding them in my mind, girding myself up to do them, trying not to forget any of them. Grief has made me aware of how much shadow load I normally bear. Shadow loads are useless.
   

• I am a thin sheet of ice. A vehicle without shock absorbers.
  This was much more apparent in the early days, but even in Week 8 when I went on a crafting retreat with my gal pals, my reaction to adversity was to double over and wail. Thank goodness for the prepared love of friends who surrounded me. They didn't blink an eye when I lost it over a series of mental errors due to "grief brain" and then pretty much collapsed in their arms weeping violently. They simply held me and comforted me and reassured me until the storm passed.
       Now, in Week 11, I don't have those storms as often. I can handle small amounts of adversity. But it doesn't take much to overwhelm me. My sister tells me that my natural shock absorbers will eventually return. I am thankful for the hope that I will become solid again.
   

• Lifting my eyes to the horizon
  I'm slowly able to contemplate a new horizon without Shelby. In reading my journals I came across a talk by my friend Gareth Higgins in 2022. He was paraphrasing Jean Paul Lederach in “The Moral Imagination: The Art and Soul of Building Peace” when he said, "When in crisis, start living in the possible outcome you want."
       Gareth was speaking of the peace process in Northern Ireland, but I've heard that same thought given as advice to couples struggling in their marriage. It is a prophetic act. It's the same thing we tell our teens--you become who you hang out with. It is one of those things that is True, so it applies in many contexts, including widowhood. And because it is True, it has Counterfeits such as the Prosperity Gospel and "fake it till you make it," among others.
       This Truth is not calling us to be fake. It is calling us to make a choice. I choose to live in the Truth of a new life and trust God for the promise that this is the way forward. It does not matter that my heart is not in it. It does not matter that I weep. It does not matter that my interest is sporadic at best. What matters is that I lift up my eyes and envision a new life and then take one tiny step after another.

6. Reboot

As I was walking into McDonald's yesterday a nearby transformer blew up--loud bang and smoke--scaring everyone. All the electronics in the restaurant went down and slowly booted back up over the next 20 minutes.

Reboot
When I awoke this morning my brain was worrying over an important Google sheet I'd accidentally deleted at some point this year. I've looked for it in past months to no avail, but it still worried me. I'd checked the "trash." I'd checked to see if I'd emailed it to myself, which I often do with important files. I'd checked to see if I'd downloaded a copy at year end. Nada. Zilch. Gone.
     But this morning it occurred to me that when I created the file for 2024 I'd started by copying over the file for 2023 and then modifying it. I climbed out of bed and booted up my laptop. Sure enough, the "version history" for this year's file contained that initial version--2023 in all its glory.
     I made a copy, put the file back where it belonged, and heaved a big sigh of relief. Then realized that waking up with a solution to an intractable problem is typical for my brain. MY BRAIN IS REBOOTING!

Praise God and hallelujah! And does God have a sense of humor or what? That poor McDonald's.

     
One of the most surprising parts of grief has been the loss of my brain. It's like it went bye-bye. I have had all the low-level functioning and the ability to interact with the world, but no ability to problem solve or think hard or deeply at all.

     Even though I know this is normal in times of trauma, it has been so distressing for me. I know the only way through is to rest...a lot. And thus one of the main reasons for this extended trip alone.

But I am SO GLAD to feel my brain return, even if it turns out to come and go for awhile or only operates at partial capacity. It is like a big empty place has finally filled back up again. It is a sign that I am finding my way back home to myself.

7. Grief Has A Soundtrack

• The playlists stop
  During the first weeks/month of shock and trauma, my soul could not tolerate my normal playlists and radio stations. I even posted about how colors became intolerable. I needed grays and earth tones in my surroundings. And, it turns out, I needed music that was barely there. No words. No soaring notes.
   

• There is a playlist for the journey
  I noticed that slowly I was able to add back some classical music. Disney...nope. Mamma Mia (my go-to housecleaning music)...nope. Easy listening elevator music...nope. When I tried my normal stations and playlists I'd have to shut them down after a few moments. I felt bereft of music. Normally I am surrounded by music all the time.
       Then on the road trip I noticed I was able to tolerate Disney. Go figure. Maybe the music part of my soul was booting up from a child-self place. But I could only tolerate it while driving. Not when I was at my destination.
       Then on the trip back, after my three weeks of healing and solitude, I was able to play all my music. What a relief!
   

• Movies/TV were the last to return
  Since I've come home I've been able to go back to watching my favorite sorts of shows in the evening--baseball, BritBox detective shows, PBS period pieces.
       This weekend, my friend Janet accompanied me to my first live theater performance without Shelby--Penfold Theatre's "I'm Proud of You" about Mr. Rogers. And while there we made plans to attend their Christmas radio show performance of "Your Old-Fasioned Die Hard Holiday Radiocast" at the Driskill Hotel--a sort of "Die Hard" meets "Prairie Home Companion" spoof. Their radio show performances are always a highlight of the Christmas season for me. They are staged as radio shows with voice actors and on one side of the stage is the person doing all the sound effects. It is so much fun to watch.
       So in preparation for that, last night after an emotional day of packing up Shelby's beloved kitchen stuff--special pots and pans and spices--I sat down and watched "Die Hard" for the first time in my life.
       It was exactly what the doctor ordered. For one thing, you can't beat Alan Rickman, period. And Bruce Willis was the perfect foil. So many great plot twists. The violence was so over the top as to approach the comical so it did not draw on my emotional reserves (I have none yet). It was, in a word, cathartic. Afterwards I caught myself humming "Let It Snow" and I totally understand why it is a cult classic Christmas show. I felt cleaned out. Lightly scoured and light-hearted.
       And then, an hour later, I had a sudden bout of weeping and wailing and intense grief. I think the two were connected. It was as if the movie had cleared another grief bramble from the path.

If you read this far, you must love me. I know I am grieving out loud, but it has helped me to have you to talk to. Thank you for being so gracious and kind to me. Your presence and your words are part of what holds me as I wander, a stranger in a strange land.

8. The Two Rails

A friend once told me that she is afraid that when her husband dies she will not mourn him enough. I had that exact same fear as Shelby's health declined. I knew exactly what she meant.

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In seminary Rabbi Neil Blumofe asked our class if a wedding procession and a funeral procession meet at a crossroads, which one goes first? There was some discussion, but I knew already--the wedding goes first. Life always, always has precedence over death.

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The same applies to a widow. Her life takes precedence over her beloved's death. Shelby talked to me about that before he died, telling me he wanted me to know that I must go on living. I must not make his death the central, defining moment of the rest of my life.

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And as I have experienced his death I have learned that I need not have worried about whether I would mourn him enough. I find myself mourning him with every cell in my body.

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But the question remains. It's just a different question than I realized. The question in a widow's soul is actually whether I will show enough *outward signs* of my inner mourning so as not to disrespect him or seem callous or be in danger of forgetting him.

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I've been reflecting on this, so when my friend spoke such deep and vulnerable words my heart overflowed with understanding. It is not a small question. I responded that my experience has been like two rails of a single railroad track (my life). On one rail is my deep, primordial sense of loss and grief and my *experience* of Shelby (as opposed to my memories of Shelby). On the other rail is my daily life, the new season of living, the changes that must happen.

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My soul must rest fully on both rails. What has been so helpful for me is to realize that the Grief Rail is largely subconscious, and the New Life Rail is largely conscious.

That is so freeing! As my subconscious works on the grief or as it experiences Shelby--either the trauma of his dying or the yearning for his presence--it sends up bubbles to my conscious soul. I suddenly weep, or I forget things, or I get lost, or I look for something and find it in a place I've already looked twice!

I've learned to recognize these bubbles as signs that my subconscious soul is still hard at work at the grieving process. I take them as indicators I need to remain cloistered and need to give myself continued rest and care.

And at the same time these bubbles free me to continue to fully lean into my New Life experiences. They free me to clear out his belongings, redecorate the master bedroom, and change holiday traditions. I don't need to keep his stuff or his furniture or mementos as a shrine to him to prove that I am grieving enough. I know that I am grieving enough.

I assured my friend that when the time comes, her soul will know how to grieve. She will not need to prove it to herself or to others as long as she learns to see these grief bubbles for what they are--evidence of the deep work of the Spirit in the wounded soul, a work that is finding a place for every memory and every experience to live on within me.

9. Grief On The Rebound (Part 1)

This one is embarrassing to talk about, but it's important I think. I've mentioned before that one of the things a new widow needs the most is human touch--not in those initial moments of shock, but in the later weeks. In the first three months after Shelby's death I craved his touch. His hands were so gentle and beautifully formed. When I would do my "Sunday Sabbath facial" I would weep as I imagined/remembered him touching my face.

But in this past month or so I've noticed a shift. It must be a universal one because it comes with a choice between a healthy way to proceed and an unhealthy way. Most major life choices have a good-looking counterfeit and a less easy but far better choice. I've learned to pay attention when that combination pops up.

Let's start with the unhealthy choice. I've heard it said that those who have been the most happily married tend to jump into new romantic relationships the quickest. Makes sense. But I've seen the same thing happen after divorce/break-up. There's an almost overwhelming urge to replace the relationship, the physical presence, and the attention. I can tell I'm in this relational Red Zone.

I think some people sublimate this urge by getting a pet. (Do NOT under any circumstances get me a pet!) Or they have an intense yearning to be part of something productive, to be recognized for their self-worth. For me, the urge is more towards human companionship. I can tell I am at risk of being seduced by the IDEA of being part of a couple.

And I know that is a bad choice for me. When I think it through there are a whole lot of reasons I do NOT want to be part of a couple again. And I'm pretty sure I'll feel that way forever. But the feelings! It's like being a teenager wrestling with hormones. It's a ridiculously persistent urge. This is where I could so easily get tangled up in a situation I would deeply regret. And as it does with teenage hormones, I expect this urge to subside as I move through bereavement.

I am learning that I need to stop reaching for the emotional balm. I need to stop wanting to resurrect what I have had in the past and can no longer have. I can't have Shelby anymore, and a "Shelby-substitute" is not fair to anyone.

So what about the healthy way? What is my alternative? (These are my thoughts--I'm not necessarily saying this is best for anyone else.)

I have realized that by thinking of the widowed part of my life as a new season I am allowing myself to pass from one garden into another. The fruit of the trees in this new garden is quite different. Strange to the taste. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

And I am finding that my Lord walks in this garden with me. The Lord has always walked with me throughout my life, but this is different somehow. This has a more romantic feel to it. The Song of Solomon is sung between us. The caresses of my face are no longer Shelby, but are those of my Savior.

That sounds so sappy and weird and old-fashioned. It's embarrassing to express in words, but it is as if I have stepped into a new universe and I'm learning how to love and receive love in all new ways. I feel very shaky about it all. Scared a little.

But I recognize this touch. I recognize this voice. And I know that God is enough if I can let go of Shelby. And so, trembling and unsure, I wait to discover what it means for the Lord to be the Lover of My Soul.

9. Grief On The Rebound (Part 2)

So...there's been a lot of response privately to my last post on Things I've Learned About Grief. You've expressed concern for me, and my post seemed to strike a chord of resonance with others, so I thought I'd add some more thoughts for context.

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As you picked up on, the post was about the physical hunger for my spouse. In our culture we rarely talk about sex and sexuality in any real way. Our talk about it tends to do violence to our sexuality, as does our media and our actions.

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I get lots of hugs and human touch from friends and family, for which I am very grateful. But here I am speaking to the deeper vulnerability and yearning for “whole person” connection that exists within us all, regardless of how we express it. I know that marriage is the "norm" in our culture, but I think that being single may be our true calling, the way we are created.

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Jesus said that in heaven we are neither married nor given in marriage. That means that in heaven we are all single. Or perhaps, God has another, even better, design. Perhaps we are all in such close relationship with him and with each other that marriage becomes a poor shadow of the reality God intends for us.

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Jesus also taught us (repeatedly) that whatever God has for us in heaven we can have now. We need only ask and God will give it gladly. So I feel safe in venturing into this new garden where my closest romantic relationship is with my Savior. I think that's where we're all headed. I think we can have it now.

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The book "The Gift: Poems by Hafiz" as translated by Daniel Ladinsky* has lived on my bedside table for some years now. The beginning of one of the poems expresses what my spirit is hearing in this season of my life.

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"Let thought become the beautiful Woman.

Cultivate your mind and heart to that depth

That it can give you everything

A warm body can.

Why just keep making love with God's child--Form

When the Friend Himself is standing

Before us

So open-armed?

My dear,

Let prayer become your beautiful Lover..."

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* Hafiz and Daniel Ladinsky, The Gift: Poems by Hafiz, the Great Sufi Master (Penguin, 1999), "Let Thought Become Your Beautiful Lover," p110.

10. Emerging

I can feel the sand beneath my feet. I can see the shoreline. I can smell land.

I’ve been able to move the wastebasket away from my bedside. I don’t cry myself to sleep anymore. In fact, tears are becoming rare.

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My need for creativity is returning. My usual, quirky, energetic personality has surfaced without a constant undertow of sadness and sorrow. And in a sudden moment of insight this past week I realized that my need to dance has returned.

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Shelby and I met dancing, and dancing was a huge part of our lives for the first half of our marriage. In these last 8 years, though, we were unable to dance except briefly at special events like our son's wedding. I didn't realize how much my soul has missed it.

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So with the encouragement of my children, I went to a ballroom dance class last night. It was a challenge on a lot of levels, but I'll be going back when classes begin again in January. It feels right, and I feel sure the Lord has a dance partner out there for me somewhere.

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I figure I only have another 15 or 20 years left in life and that's if my health holds! I don't intend to waste a single breath. God did not give me this life for mourning, but for living abundantly and with great joy.

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The artwork here, by Andrei Rublev, is part of a larger work depicting Abraham being visited by three angels. But over the past 600 years the artwork has been reinterpreted as a parable of the Holy Trinity. It is said that the tiny rectangle in the front used to have a mirror so that we could see ourselves being invited into the "perichoresis" -- the dancing interaction of the Trinity.

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It's doubtful this was the artist's intent, but the myth is persistent because it strikes a chord of Truth in our souls. We instinctively know that we are invited to dance with God. And God is beckoning me.

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They told me last night you should always accept an invitation to dance.

11. Making A Date With Grief

In a few weeks it will have been six months since Shelby died. I was expecting a year or more of anguish, sadness, even agony. I loved Shelby with every fiber of my being; I still do.

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But I've reached a point where I have choices in how grief flows through my life. I've discovered that the stream can be channeled.

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I noticed in the various "grief groups" that show up on my feed that sometimes people pine over their loved ones in a never-ending, even increasing and ongoing wail of bereavement. They are caught in an eddy and cannot see a way out. They reach out to the group asking for help.

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My heart breaks for them. I cannot help them, but they are helping me. I think to myself, "I could see myself doing that. I really could...but, for me, it would be a choice to stay enveloped in the grief 24/7. It would be a choice of where I focus and what I look at each day. Is that what I want for my life?"

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And I began to consider whether grief was something that could be laid down and then picked back up again. I certainly knew that grief could be pushed down and ignored to the detriment of your health. I definitely didn't want to do that! It is vital to have enough time to lean into your grief and to express your grief fully. But does it have to be given attention the moment it demands it?

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So I began experimenting with making a date with grief.

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I set aside Sundays as my day of grief. On Sunday, I promised myself, I will cocoon myself and cry and weep and mourn. On Sunday I will do my Sabbath facial and remember his touch. On Sunday I will rest, and in the extended quiet I will let the thoughts and feelings bubble up to the surface, welcomed without fear.

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And it's working!

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During the week when tears come or a yearning for him overwhelms me, I pause. Now that I am out and about more, doing the daily things of life, I'm not always in a place where I can give the grief my full attention. So I weep a tear or two, giving a nod to the presence and importance of the grief. Then I dry my eyes and carry on, carefully placing that gift of grief on my Sunday calendar to be unwrapped and held close.

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And lo and behold, that gift is there waiting for me on Sunday. In the gentle space, private and alone with only God, I can enter into the bereavement I feel when I cannot dance in Shelby's arms or the panic I feel when faced with freezing temperatures and a sense that I don't know what, exactly, to do about the pipes, or any other of the triggers that hit me during the week. I can lean into my sadness and my yearning.

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This shift makes it possible to live life. It makes it possible to enter fully into the beautiful moments and to laugh with abandonment in the daily joys of my life. It lets me accept invitations, knowing that my grief will not disable me.

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[Update: To clarify, I’m not suggesting grief only comes upon me on Sundays. It does overwhelm me at other times. What I’m saying is that I must make sure to make an intentional space for it and, when I do that, I find that it CAN usually be channeled to that time. Not always, of course, but if I’ve got the right balance I find I can “have a life” without being held captive by grief. I hope that makes sense.]

It has been so helpful to understand that I do not have to attend to my grief in the very moment it arises, but I can channel it knowing that on Sunday my Shepherd will lead me beside those still waters and restore my soul.

12. Here I Raise My Ebenezer

Yes, it's Christmas time, but I'm not talking about Ebenezer Scrooge. Long ago, the nation of Israel (called Hebrews back then) had a huge battle with their arch-nemesis, the Philistines. But the Hebrews failed to consult God first. Oops.

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The Philistines routed them. Repeatedly. Fast forward. The Hebrews learn their lesson. This time they listen to their prophet Samuel and throw out all their good luck charms and humble themselves before God. God shows up in a big way, and the Hebrews defeat the Philistines.

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And after it is all over, Samuel sets up a large stone ("eben" in Hebrew) and calls it the Stone of Help ("ezer") and says, "Look at this and know how far the Lord has brought you!"*

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That is how I feel. I have switched my wedding ring from my left hand to my right hand. My wedding ring is now my Eben-ha-Ezer, a reminder of how far the Lord has brought me.

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Nothing about this journey is easy. But I am alive and at peace. Looking forward to the road ahead, determined to trust, and not to fear.

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Case in point: I feared the Christmas season approaching, but it did not make me melancholy at all. It had the opposite effect. I love everything about Christmas--the lights, the trees, the music, the worship, the shows, the gatherings, the gifts, and, of course, the memories. It cheered me up immensely.

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Shelby and I have always consulted on what gifts to give each other. It was not unusual for one of us to say, "I really want this ____" and the other to say, "Can I give that to you for Christmas?" So I decided I'd let Shelby keep on giving me a special gift at Christmas and on my birthday each year. He gave me a portable electric spinning wheel on this first Christmas, and I love it.

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There was nothing to fear in Christmas this year. Fear is such a waste. I should have known better.

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I understand better how our bodies and our souls and our minds work together to heal each other. When one falters, the other pours Love in. And you, my dear ones, have carried me when my body, soul, and mind have been shredded. And God has carried me. God is so very present all the time, in every moment, in every day.

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I also continue to learn to let God love me and heal me. The Song of Solomon keeps showing up in unexpected contexts. Before my morning walk: "Come, my beloved! Let’s go out into the field...Let’s go early to...see whether the vine has budded...There I will give you my love...At our doors are all kinds of precious fruits, new and old, which I have stored up for you, my beloved."**

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Many people have said that these posts are helpful. That makes my heart happy. But don't make my journey into a measuring stick. Each one of us processes grief differently. We bring different baggage to the journey. We have different support structures, and sometimes none at all. Lean into your own journey.

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Mine has been the simplest of journeys. I was well prepared and well-grounded in my identity and in my relationship with God. There was nothing hidden or complicated or unresolved in my relationship with Shelby. I have been well cared for by my family (who live close by), by my therapist, and by you—my friends.

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My experience with grief will follow the same arc as yours, but along different paths and different timelines.

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My prayer is that by grasping the bare outlines of my trauma, my grief, and my healing, you will be able to recognize the terrain should you find yourself dropped into this wilderness.

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And no matter where you find yourself in this journey may you always remember that the arc of grief bends towards joy.

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Love,

Gayle

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* 1 Sam 4 and 1 Sam 7 if you want to look the stories up.

** Song of Solomon 7:11-13, World English Bible, Public Domain