Driving

 The older generation followed husband/wife traditional roles that have gone by the wayside.  And why not.  Husbands turn out the most savory meals.  Wives pop hoods and change oil.  Husbands chase toddlers.  Wives earn substantial wages.

 

In our married life, when the two of us traveled together, Bill drove.  Though I occasionally offered, he assumed the driver’s seat almost every single drive.  Around the town, whether for his errand or mine, he drove.  He tended to drive from the passenger seat on those handful of times when I had to drive — doctor’s orders — after which I was glad to hand back the wheel.

 

Now I drive.  Everywhere.

 

After Bill left me, just as before, I automatically walked to the passenger side.  Whoops.  That’s not going to work.  I’ve had to train myself to head to the pilot seat.  In some ways, I’ve given myself driver’s lessons.  What is this button?  Consult the handbook.  I still don’t know how to set the brights.  I’ve had to relearn how to drive highways, which included a stop by the patrolman.  Lesson learned.  Won’t do that again.

 

It feels very strange to take the wheel time after time.  I don’t like it.  I reside in a new town and have had to navigate new intersections, merging lanes, roundabouts, crosswalks, on-ramps.  It’s not that I haven’t been here many times.  I have.  I didn’t drive then.  I didn’t pay attention.  I didn’t need to.

 

Needless to say trips from here to there take twice as long.  Inevitable U-turns take me to the next light and sometimes around the barn.  The Map app has become a permanent passenger.  I’m restricted to daytime out-and-abouts for now.  Other travelers let me know, clearly, how they feel about my driving.  My littlebears are very forgiving, plus they tell me where to turn.

 

I miss my chauffeur.  I miss taking care of other business, or shopping, or simply singing while riding.  This driving thing… it requires my full concentration.  Hopefully soon my knuckles relax and I can enjoy the comfortable back of my seat.  Until then, Jesus, please get me there.

Remember

I told him I would.  I told him I would keep his memory alive, that I would keep him with us.  It meant so much to him as we talked about this in his final days.  He didn’t want to be forgotten.  I didn’t want anyone to forget.

 

But I’m not exactly sure how to do that now. 

 

In the first days, we talked about Bill often.  We told the stories he told, imitated him, laughed at his quirkies, and reminded each other of his velcro attachment to us.  I said prayers like he said them.  I caught the littlebears eating Grandpa’s green MnMs.  In the name of Bill, I asked what was for lunch and dinner.

 

Some time has passed, not much, but even this much has left a bit of Bill behind.  No one mentions his name much.  Remembers him much.  Are they reluctant?  Or does the present carry them into so much future that the past is too much to carry as well?  Have they forgotten?  Please don’t forget Bill so much.

 

Like a book put back on the library shelf, the story was so so good.  What was it about again?

 

As for me, I do my best to talk about our Bill, but not over-talk him so as to lopside conversations or to restrain us from life without him.  Finding perfect moments to spark Billisms, to keep him with us, I grope for balance.

 

I could talk about Bill all afternoon and evening.  And again tomorrow.  I wish family and friends would ask, would recall.  I fancy spending whole hours reminiscing.  I want more of him to be part of us.  I want to do what I said I’d do, to keep his memory alive.  But time will have its way.  It’s OK, Kath.

Hiking

 Yesterday I joined a church hiking group.  I like hiking and really want to get to know the trails around here.  The photos I’ve seen online promise the views won’t disappoint.  What about new friends?  There is no online promise for friends.  I really really want to make some friends around here. 

 

Twelve of us stuffed ourselves in a church van, and except for 3 or 4 of us, no one knew his seatmate.  Like me, folks joined for the something-to-do-on Saturday, exercise, blue sky and fresh air, and company.  The same questions floated from front to back: “Where are you from?” “Have you done this hike before?” During the hour drive, hour hike, and Burger King stops, we learned bits of personal history.  I can tell you that Linda is very much grieving the loss of her husband.  Bill is praying for his wayward daughter.  Andy knows the best restaurants in town.

 

Once home, and dealing with the dustiest — everything, I wondered if any of these “meets” could become a friend.  The likelihood of more time together is slim.  Plus, I’m realizing on a new level, friendship is an investment.  It means effort, sacrifice, commonalities, interest and attraction, and lots and lots of time.  Plus, most friendships kinda just happen without hiking plans.  The more I wondered, the more that discouragement monster roared at me. 

 

I wouldn’t even be thinking about all this if Bill had been with me.  In fact, as I walked that path, I thought mostly about him.  While chatting!  I can’t stop thinking about him!  “I’m doing this for you, Babe.  I know you want my life to go on.  I’m trying.”

 

One sure take-away from yesterday, the love of God filled those peoples’ hearts.  They love Him.  They are pursuing relationship with Him by sharing challenges and victories in Jesus.  God-talk was easy.  I absolutely love being among God’s people because whether or not I hop from doubt to doubt or stand on certainties, His spirit saturates the space.  So I’ll keep meeting and whatevering just in case there is a friend ahead.

Heaven

 In the brief telling of  “Our Story,” I mentioned that the 5 months caring for Bill were beautiful.  How do I even explain?  At the realization that Bill was moving, we shifted into preparation mode.  Like right now.  It’s kinda like when your house sells the day it hits the market.  Oh.  We have to pack.  We have to get ready.  Bill began by laying down some non-negotiables.

 

Our room became a sanctuary. 

 

That meant a few things.  For our remaining time together, we avoided outside news from media and from visitors.  I guess you could say, we lived in a bubble, and for that bubble time, events of the world, our country, our neighborhood stood aside.  If a tidbit tried to sneak in, Bill would gently but firmly trap it.  He fixed his mind on Heaven.

 

That meant TV (usually golf or a show we loved called Drive Through History) without commercials.  He diligently controlled the remote and paused or fast-forwarded through ads.  He fixed his mind on Heaven.

 

That meant worshiping top of the morning, reading through Psalms, prayer, confessing selfishness, and forgiveness.  If interruption broke the routine, we jumped right back in first chance.  Bill drew closer to his Savior and Heaven.

 

That meant speaking to anyone about Jesus.  Charlie, his long-time high school buddy.  The plumber who restored our hot water in winter.  The HVAC man who rescued us from sudden heat in spring.  All the hospice care folks.  Each one heard the gospel and left covered in a prayer for God’s mercy.  He determined to fill up God’s kingdom — Heaven.

 

But the most significant item Bill packed was a brand-new understanding of Heaven itself.  He requested, and we obtained, a copy of Heaven by Randy Alcorn for the bedside table and digitally for both of our phones.  Our evening ritual included reading a portion of this book.  Sometimes a revelation dawned, and we repeated a passage, for clarity.  Sometimes we simply soaked in the implications.  Heaven, according to scripture, cannot be fully comprehended, and so we pondered our new knowledge.  We both grew very excited.  Bill was fully packed.  Fully prepared for Heaven.

 

As it turned out, we finished the book the day before Bill moved.  Since then, I have recommended it and am re-reading it myself.  Someday I will behold this amazing eternal place beside Bill.  I’m preparing for Heaven too.

Delusion

    I think I know that widows get delusional.  I don’t mean we’re crazies holding fast to a false reality.  True reality reminds us of our state minute by minute.  What I mean is this.

 

I often imagine Bill walking through the door, and I tour him through the house he built and ask his approval on my arranging and decorating choices.  I’ll have to catch him up on the new NFL rules and players.  Next time I drive to pick up the littlebears from school, I’ll need to show him the shortcut.  Oh and our kids got a new car because the truck was on its way out.  He’s missed so much.  Life just keeps going, and he’s lost track.

 

I met Nick, our HVAC guy.  He’s been great to me.  I wish you could know our neighbor Rob like I do.  You two could talk the day away.  I had to order new sunglasses.  They’re blue because you like blue on me.  Let me introduce you to my new Bible study lady friends.  Did you know Cliff passed away?  Oh whoops.  You know that much. 

 

The longer the time without Bill, the more he needs to know. 

 

Please forgive this weirdness.  I promise, I am in my right mind.  But this husband, and sharing life with him, is all I’ve known for years and years.  Everyday we caught up.  We informed, expressed opinions, made discoveries.  My mind keeps track of things he would want to know.  I would want to tell him.  The list is starting to get long. 

 

When is he coming home?

 

Of the many bizarre tricks my mind has played on me over the last year, this one is the bizzariest.  I’ll even admit that sometimes I tell him the latest news — out loud.  Then I just giggle.  That was silly.  At least no one heard me. 

 

I do ask Jesus to tell Bill that I love and miss him.  I don’t think that’s so silly.  Jesus knows we miss each other.  I am anything but delusional when I track that news.

More of Our Story

 ALS struck after an out-of-town remodel project had begun, and as I was recovering from unexpected surgery.  It caused a couple with plans to ask, what is going on.  Prayer had been part of our married life together.  Prayer after devotions, prayer walks, prayer to and from church, prayer with friends… prayer.  It’s what we did.  Certainly we prayered this project.  Which meant things should go smoothly.

 

Have you read Proverbs 16:9, “We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps?” It’s really true.

 

Bill and Kath needed help.  Funny thing, we didn’t even pray for help, God provided it before we could think to ask.  (I’ve read about this in Matthew 6:8.) He assigned us Christian contractors who understood our dream.  They brought the Holy Spirit with them onto the property through music and conversation.  And they brought us by phone and Face Time.  We shared cabinet dimensions, lighting design, attic access, and faith across many miles.  We shopped by Internet, they received orders and installed.  They kept us with them.  We kept them with us.

 

On top of this met need, God gave us the generous expertise of our long time friends, Kim and Don.  A successful developer, Don directed the bedroom addition part of the project.  OK.  I’m talking generous.  This couple flew to us from out of state, drove the distance to our project, quickly established godly business relations, directed next steps, and opened the vault to fund it all.  It all!  More than the addition.  Way more.  Then they traveled the distance to us, prayed, encouraged, updated and cried with us.  At this point we were all hopeful Bill and I would be able to move together and celebrate our sight unseen home.

 

“… but the Lord determines our steps.”

 

Slated for a project completion date of June, the race was on.  Well, not really a race.  While the contractors scurried, our track held us to our hospital bed, where not much racing goes on.  Somehow we knew around the middle of March that we would lose.  Bill’s body was obviously failing.  I remember one morning we said aloud to each other words we had kept tucked in… we’re not moving together.

 

In one way it felt relieving to me.  I didn’t know how I could possibly care for Bill and set up home.  But in a more stark way, we felt slammed.  We wouldn’t be realizing our dream.  The dream was crushed.  It just didn’t make sense.

 

“… but the Lord determines our steps.”

 

In his last days, Bill said often to me, “Kath, pack slowly and move.  Be with our kids.  They will love you.  They will help you.  They will walk with you.” So here I am, in this beautiful home that Bill imagined, designed and helped build from a bed.  Like stepping across the threshold of your favorite place on earth, everything reminds me of him.  From the countertop fabrication to the slope of the finish trim.  Our home speaks Bill.

 

Little by little God reveals to me His goodness and grace and love.  I see now that prayer smoothed my way.  I am learning to trust and hold my plans lightly because

“… the Lord determines our steps.”

Guests

 My home is rather central in the Northern California valley.  Seems like there’s always a wedding to attend or a close-by relative to visit, or a monument to check out.  I am home-base for out-of-towners.  Plus, like stretching, sheltering wings, their paths lead them to cover me.  “Let’s stay with Kath.”

 

Not all that long ago I didn’t know how I felt about guests.  Visitors meant preparing, cooking, ensuring someone else’s comfort.

Whoosha!  Wasn’t I the one in need of comfort?  How does a low tank fill a tank?

 

But Bill’s voice, ever speaking his preference in my mind, would say: “Babe, this will be great.  I’ll help you.” He would help.  He was the best host— from pointing out the towel closet to providing a TV remote lesson.  Oh, and touring anyone interested (or not) through the house, corner by corner.  He was the ultimate welcome sign.

 

So, with his prodding, I have begun to paint my own sign.  Even though, this is not my strength, guests, one after one, build my strength.  And I have made a discovery.  My friends don’t mind my failed pizza, my sleepy eyes, or my telling my story— again.
The even bigger discovery is that somehow they comfort me.  They raise the tank level.  What I thought might drain, replenishes instead.

 

My God is amazing.  He is changing my inclinations.  He is strengthening my weakness.  He is bringing me comfort through drop-ins!

The sign is out.  It says I welcome comfort.

Widow

 If I can say I hate something, it’s the word widow.  I thought often about the word when I was caring for Bill.  It sounds ugly, sour, crippled, old… just yucky.  I said it out loud pondering its connotations.  Widows portray rigid bitties in period novels.  Widows spatter pews in old denominational churches.  Widows wear long formless shifts.  Widows shoo children.  I was going to be a widow.  I was going to unwillingly assume a detestable title.  I couldn’t decline it.  I had to accept it.  I am plain not happy about it. 

 

I know that very unfortunate losses happen to young women, beautiful women, kind women.  Sometimes the loss even highlights these features.  Women, in their fragile state, endear others to them in a tender way.  Their fractured lives are humbled, receptive, thankful for support.  So broken and so lovely.  So then why must we tag them with such a displeasing term?  At least that’s what I think. 

 

Until this morning.  As my Bible app read nuggets of truth to me from Proverbs, one stopped me in the middle of my routine.  Proverbs 15:25: “He protects the property of widows.” There’s that yucky word.  In God’s word.  Couched in a blessing.  I need that blessing because I’m caring for property that is beyond my care-ability.  Well, I got to remembering, more is said about this maybe-not-so-ugly word in His word.  God defends widows (Psalm 68:5).  In Deuteronomy 16 we read about God providing for and including widows.  The Bible talks about God’s care and protection for widows.  It rather sounds like honor.  Am I right?  Should I go about my days feeling special in a way?  Does God honor me as a widow?

 

I’m still not fond of the term and the way it sounds.  But I am a widow.  And I will seek and receive all the unique privileges promised to me as one.  As I get used to this idea, I’m counting on the hating part giving way to a welcoming part of being a widow.  I hope that the word widow settles sweetly inside.  I hope I can be a widow worthy of God’s honor.

Spoiled

 I am past the middle of my life.  In all that time, I have never lived alone.  From my childhood family’s system to my roommates’’ routines and personalities, to my husband’s partnership – sharing, communicating, decision-making, preferring, yielding, overlooking… this stuff has shaped who I am.  Until now.  Who am I now?

 

One thing I know, people I grew up with, people I lived with, and especially my husband, spoiled me.  Now, no one else takes the garbage out.  No one else gets the mail, fills the tank, closes the windows, buys the milk, pays the bills, checks the gutters… only me.  I’m being de-spoiled.  I think.  You don’t pay close attention to the small things until you’re the one to take care of the small things.  And you suddenly appreciate the spoilers (like my son Jordan, who has been crowned king spoiler).

 

At first my bum got nipped.  I fell behind.  I didn’t know what to know.  I couldn’t keep up.  I didn’t even know with what to keep up.  It’s time to change the filters?  Oh.  What does the red light on the dashboard mean?  Oh.  When was the expiration date?  Oh.  I owe a penalty fee?  Oh.  What service do you do for our house?  Oh.  We need that?  Oh.  There’s a key for that cabinet?  Oh.  I wonder where it is.

 

And now let me talk about embarrassing didn’t-know-things.  I didn’t know much about our family trust, about our insurance policies, about our financial accounts, about our obligations, about filing tax returns.  Spoiled!  I love being spoiled.

 

I’ve always thought of myself as a responsible person.  But responsibility climbed the ladder.  Learning to live alone means learning responsibility.  For everything.  In a way, I feel smarter.  I should have been learning this side of life when I was much younger.  I should have been less assuming, presuming.  At least I’m learning now.  I’m growing up, finally.

 

My “rathers” prefer you-do-this and I’ll-do-that.  Teamwork trumps aloneness.  But for now, I think I know when it’s time to get the tires aired.

Seen

 My very part time job brought me back to my use-to-be-hometown for the week.  It’s been a headyank!  People welcome me, even light up to see me; they even know my name!  I forgot what a simple but blessed pleasure it is to be known.  I wish I could bring all these long-time friends back with me.  Who wants to move?

 

I learned about one friend’s new self-care goals.  I heard about another’s summer camping adventures.  One gal popped in and out on her way to her son’s wedding.  Of course I jumped on a lunch invite.  Instant joy.  Listening in, joining in, connecting in. 

 

I love the story of Hagar from Genesis 16.  God met her, provided refreshment for her, and called her by name.  Then she gave Him a name:  “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.” This week I have seen the One who sees me.  At least I see Him through these beautiful friends who have met me, refreshed me and called my name.  “Kathy!  You’re back!  How are you?  It’s so good to see you!” I can’t even express the infusion of joy.  Is this what it’s like to take deep draws on a pure oxygen tank?

 

And then to top the blessing, a widow friend shared her story with me.  A couple tissues later, I knew God had landed me another gift.  Connection.  Comfort.  Closeness.  I am seen. 

Talk

 Before COVID years, I remember musing If my car didn’t leave the garage for the whole day.  This busy gal had stuff to do.  Stand aside because I am barreling through, and my car better be ready.  But once in awhile, it all happened right at home.  I could almost hear my car say thank you, I need a day of rest too.

 

That same sense of musing comes over me these days when I realize not a spoken word has been uttered all day.  Whole conversations happen in my mind.  I pray nonstop, in my mind.  I think and plan and direct my day – in my mind.  No phone calls, no doorbells, no words.  I don’t know this world of no-talking.  I get a bit lost in it.

 

A college chaplain, Rueben Welch, said often, “We really do need each other.” Simple enough.  I think the concept becomes complex when needing each other means “need” in the urgent sense.  I don’t mind a solitary day.  I get my run in, my laundry done, some computer work completed, then pour a bowl of cereal for dinner and read the next chapter.  Oooo, but when these days repeat themselves and my voice lies dormant back there in a corner, the need nearly drives me to go knocking on neighbors’ doors.  And I don’t even have anything to sell.

What do I do?  I wake up this raspy voice, walk my hallway and talk, out loud, to Jesus.  I listen to myself.  I try to imagine Him speaking aloud right back at me.  After a half hour of talking with my dearest friend, I’m good to go.  Really.  Sometimes I make a call myself, just to get back in shape.  Sometimes I drive myself to my kids’ house for a read aloud session with my littlebears.  I’m not going to let the quiet swallow me.  I go after talk.

 

At least that’s how I feel today.  Amused. 

Church

 

I have always loved church life.  Except for COVID, the occasional cold and a summer vacation, I’m there.  It was my priority to marry a man who made church his priority.  Together we churched.  You can find Bill and me in many out-of-date church directories.  We smile in all the Olan Mills, blue background, hair-in-place photos.  You know what?  Those smiles were genuine.  We counted ourselves truly blessed to be part of church families.  Church has sustained us.  Bill and Kath and… church.

 That is why I go to church every Sunday.  Nowadays, I don’t know anyone except a son and daughter and a friend’s family.  We take up about half a row.  But I know Jesus.  This is His family around me.  I know we have the most meaningful and important things in common and that they will care for me.  It just feels good. 

 

What doesn’t feel so good is getting ready, greeting the greeters, singing, reading, listening and then not talking about it all — because Bill isn’t here.  In fact, I usually just get through the greeting part before this widow feels the crumble.  This is how my Sunday goes: Take the slower back road to church.  Pray.  Put my sunglasses away and pull my confident smile out.  Choose a seat in the usual place and hope my family finds me.  Begin to hum while those around me launch full sound throttle.  The lyrics start their penetrating work.  Ok.  Breathe.  Fight for control.  Inhale in shakes like opening a window off its track.  Exhale like someone looking down from a high dive.  Lose control.  He’s not here.  He’s not with me.  He won’t ever be with me again.  I’m so so sad.

 

Then the sweet touch of my daughter.  She knows.  The hug from my son.  They rescue me.  My breathing slows, the lurches settle down.  I wad the tissue and fist it for the rest of the service. 

 

Sundays are the hardest.  But I still love church.  I will go be with God’s family even without Bill.  The truth is, someday we will church together again.  Without tears.  It’s a promise.    

Care

 

In the very very early days when Bill and I first arrived home from the hospital, a billow of friends hovered close by either through their small group prayers or by phone, text, even curbside.  I use the word billow because they formed a cloud, a puffy all-covering cloud, shading us from immediate reality and cooling us from pain.  Billow pillow willow.  Our friends and family both propped and draped us with love.

 

Enough cannot be said about support for a couple in shock.  And I have so much to say about it.  Not a gesture or word landed on us without imparting the sincere heart behind it.  We received even shallow or perhaps inappropriate offerings knowing that we were in someone’s thoughts.  That was huge!  Nothing aroused the slightest tweak because people were extending care.  And almost every deed met an exact need.  Care was exactly what we needed. 

 

Here I am, a year later.  The calls are less frequent.  I imagine the prayers are as well.  Life moves on, and there are other unexpected tragedies to attend to.  And, please!  Attend to them.  I know the blessing that accompanies care.  At the same time, though I have walked down the road a bit, I am hurting.  Every now and then, like this very morning, a friend from my wealthy friend-bank calls me.  The conversation includes catching me up on news or sharing faith.  But I know, prompted by my heavenly Father, it is meant to check on me and communicate sweet care.  Wild how I find myself giggling and swallowing the rock-in-my-throat at the same time — a sign that the call meets a need.  Crazy how the calls come, not all at once, but just in time.  God.

 

To all of you who have dropped everything just to share some care, and especially to my family who checks on me daily, thank you so much.  I never knew the truest value of friendship.  I know it now.  I know it down deep.