Track

 I’ve never been one to track.  Not steps, not calories, not BP, not sleep, not weight, not weather, not… nothin!  There is so much to manage already; management becomes more manageable when there’s less to manage.  Things like, birthday calls, friends’ needs, grocery lists, due dates, household budgets… are quite enough manageables for me.

 

But, I love being tracked!  Please track me.  Please know where I am, what I’m doing, how I’m looking, what I need.  Add me to your “Find My” app.  Put me on your speed dial.  Request to share my calendar.  Follow me.  Frequent me.  Find me.  Please.  Track me.

 

Today I programmed a Garmin watch, a generous hand-me-down, to track my health a bit more.  This is so not me.  And I’m not committed.  It’s a let’s-just-see-how-this-goes experiment.  Maybe I should pay closer attention.

 

But I am paying attention to the One who pays attention to me.  To the one who tracks everything I do.  I try to track Him.  Is there a widget on this watch that picks up his GPS location?  Take me to Him.  Let me run, walk, bike, hike right to His very heart.  Then let me rest there.  Let me sleep there.  And save it all.  Let the data show that I am tracking my Lord and He is tracking me.

Sister

 She’s her sister.  She’s her dear friend too.  In the beginning, even before the diagnosis, she was one who stood close.  Committed to walk close.  Through the crumpling news, the tedious bedside care, the temptations to run far far away, she drew her tight.  Though about the same size, the sister doubled wrapped her arms, and triple blanketed her heart, and dabbed streams of tears.  She’s her sister and her dear friend.

 

The sister surprised her recently.  At a lunch stop on the way to the airport, there she was.  With the same arms and heart and tissue.  The same tight draw.  She whispered these words as she nuzzled in: “I’m proud of you, Kath.  Bill would be proud of you, Kath.  We are proud of you.” The sister thinks that she is blessing her with smiles and gifts and comfort.  She doesn’t realize that she is the very presence of Jesus.

 

Lunch was over.  The girls hugged a last time.  The sister went home.  But the presence is fresh and understanding and sustaining.  It will last.  She is so grateful for the gift of her sister.

Go-around

 I’ve been here once before.  This is my second go-around.  Life is on repeat, and I’m on my first repeat.  From last year: I recall the cross country meet field.  I sit in the same section of the women’s Bible study.  I circle round and round the vendors at the Honey Bee festival.  I eat ice cream with littlebears while their parents hunt deer.  I trapes through a pumpkin patch keeping track of possibilities.  I remember.  I’m last yearing it, this year.

 

I ask myself… How ya doing Kath?  Is the earth still trembling underneath your boots?  Is your vision still blurry with every step?  Is your heart still a crumbly mess?  Do you remember your last-year-self?

 

A gentleman asked me recently how the grief process was going for me.  Such a thoughtful ask, but I have no way of knowing.  I have no experience with this part of life.  No reference.  So I said, I’m not sure.  I can say how the job is going or how the Bears are doing.  I know all about jobs and Bears.

 

I am sure of this: go-arounds surround me with familiarity.  Familiar feels stable…er.  Familiar says, you’ve done this.  You can do this again.  Even through trembles, blurs and crumbles.  God was there.  He is here.  Go around again with Him, Kath.  Feel your familiar God around you.

Small

 

“It is hard to be brave,” said Piglet, sniffing slightly, “when you’re only a Very Small Animal.”

 

Very small, 5-foot, 100-pound animals admit it’s hard to be brave.  That’s why they shrink when they’re not introduced to a stranger, why they slink out the back door to escape a crowd, why they poof up their hair and wear tennis shoes with thick soles, why they watch and not play a basketball game, why they pull out step stools after company leaves. 

 

This very small animal diminishes daily.  I’ve never felt smaller.  And I’m as tall as I’ve ever been.  “Why?” said Piglet.  Maybe it’s because there isn’t a Pooh Bear alongside me to say, “It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us.” A Pooh Bear who makes me feel as tall as he, whose hand in mine makes me forget about crowds, whose eyes on me remind him to introduce me, who prefers the flat head, bare foot, small me. 

 

Christopher Robin… He knows, understands, and makes it all better.  He values Pooh Bear and Piglet.  He defends them, rescues them, enjoys them.  I’m so thankful for Christopher Robin, my Savior.  He knows,

 

“I wish Pooh were here.  It’s so much more friendly with two.”

 

The World of Pooh by A.  A.  Milne

Spiders

 I live with spiders.  I used to live with a husband.  Now I live with spiders.  And other critters.  They seem to know that the critter killer moved out, and so they moved in.

 

Everyday I spy a long-legger or two in a corner or two, or I walk through a web or two, or may even feel a crawl on my leg.  Eww!  Do I screech?  Don’t you hear me?

 

This summer I caught a leaping frog across the bedroom floor.  Last night I almost stepped on a lizard.  This is when the screeches elevate to full-on yells.  Then, I walk around the house with a flashlight, check under my bed sheets for… bedbugs?, and scratch my head for no real reason.  I am creeped out!

 

It used to be that the creeped-out-yell would summons the critter killer.  Quickly.  But he is off duty, which means I have been promoted.  I hate this role.  It takes guts, that I don’t have, and don’t even want.

 

I dread the day I see a mouse.  That may be the end of me.  Please pray that a miracle critter killer will show up and do the job and spare my life.  In the name of Jesus, please pray against mice.

 

Until then, and prayerfully never, I live with spiders. 

Spared

I should be dead by now.  I should be next to my Bill in Heaven by now.  (I’m not supposed to wish that, but Bible-believing, husband-loving widows wish that.  It’s true.)

I have had countless near misses on the road including a fender cruncher, I nearly toppled off the top of a 12-foot ladder putting garland on the ledge, and this morning the gas can did this little combustion thing and sprayed gasoline in my face when I tried to fill the lawn mower.  That’s to cite only 3 of on-my-way, but-hold-everything incidents.

Oh-no’s seem much more frequent on this widow walk.  I never realized how many dangers Bill prevented.  William means protector.  Yes. 

 

God spares our lives for reasons.  In my case I know exactly His thinking.  He tells me, “You haven’t seen the other side of this valley.  And the walk from here deepens your trust which makes Me happy.  Plus, it’s a pretty cool, don’t-miss-it view.”

 

OK.  More trust.  I’m getting better at this.  I feel sure I will live through the next mishap, so that I can one day, take in the view He’s so excited about.  I am spared.

Hard

Our amazing sons.

 Widows do hard things.  I do hard things.  This weekend I did a hard hard thing; I crossed a half marathon finish line.  Whoosh!

 

They say I need to make new memories and move life forward.  They say the way to move life forward is to make new memories.  OK.

 

So I packed myself up, flew to Page, Arizona with my Kbear and Littlebears and dear friend.  We met my parents to make a new memory.  Oh… I made a close-to-Heaven memory.  Jeepers!  Absolutely beautiful in every way.  And oh so hard.

 

But there is a hardest hard thing.  While the girls and all the racers are texting woohoos and photos of scenery and triumph, I am not.  I reach for my phone, I pull up the text app, I freeze.  My cheerleader isn’t home anymore.

 

At least I have boys.  Two of them.  Two boys back home who know I’m doing a hard thing.  As I empty the rocks from my shoes, they call.  “How’d you do, mom?  How do you feel?” I empty the rocks from my throat and say, “I feel so thankful that you called.”

 

It’s true, I am grateful for the new memory and for the ones who shared it with me.  I am so grateful for these boys who know the hard, cheer me on, and help me move forward.  They make the hard a little less hard.  Thank you God, for our amazing sons.

 

Physical

 

The wonderful hospice bereavement team continues to send me email meant to help manage grief, suggest helpful activities, and I think just simply remind me that I’m remembered, though I’m pretty sure the messages are automated.  I tell myself I am important to them.

 

Recently, Ginger sent me a list called “A Wholistic Approach to Grief,” author unknown.  The first area addressed Physical Care.  We widows should exercise to help ease the stress, eat small amounts often, reduce caffeine and sugar, drink fluids, limit alcohol, sleep.  Huh.  I could have opened a page from a health text book, read a magazine article, any online health site, a pamphlet at a gym.  Basic health 101.

 

Basic health practice flies out the widow’s back door.  We widows swirl and twirl right around all the basics.  We forget about water.  We eat whatever is on the counter, eat the entire refrigerator, or don’t eat.  We walk/mope around the living room, around and around.  Thus, the refresher course.

 

They don’t even know it, but gals in my life motivate me.  I’m trying to hang with their physical maintenance.  I don’t let them know because it isn’t easy, and I don’t want to let them or me down.  But I try to salad and to water and to no-sugar my days.  I walk, run, sometimes bike.  What I seem to do without trying is… nap.

 

I’ve never been a napper.  Something happened.  My pillow, no, my whole bed became my favorite thing in my house, and I cannot, I mean cannot, resist it.  Don’t even want to.  So I sleep.  Wake up.  Go back to sleep.

 

Maybe I’ll stay awake one of these days.  At least I know, according to a wholistic approach to grief, I’m doing it right.  Yawn.

Half

 

 

Half is missing.  Half of the bed is untouched.  The right side of the dresser is empty.  Shoe shelves are vacant.  There are empty spaces in the refrigerator, bathroom drawers, kitchen table.

 

Should I sleep on the other side rather than wash the sheets?  Should I spread out my clothes rather than stack them?  Should I set one shoe per shelf rather than double depth them?  Does anyone else ask these silly questions?

 

No halves in the office.  The extra stapler, electrical pencils, set square never leave their cubicles.  The remaining tired books seem fastened to their shelves.  It would be cruel to dislodge them.  Organizers set atop the desk, mostly slot-free, but ready.  Only the bookkeeper is missing here, which feels like half. 

 

Same in the garage.  Place for tools, place for ladders, place for the hose and nozzles, place for a few garden tools.  They’re all content to hold their place.  Just missing the tinkerer half.

Half is missing.  Do the halves want to be filled?  Do they want to stay bare?  What’s to be done with the halves.

 

Jesus, fill any missing half with You.

Ezekiel

Ezekiel was a strange dude.  I think this every read.  Today, on my walk, I listened to Ezekiel.  I haven’t changed my mind.  He’s just plain crazy.  But crazy because he is yielded to God’s call no matter the call.  At twenty-nine years old, Ezekiel first yields to… crazy.  He “listened carefully to his (God’s) words.” Then he: ate a scroll, roped himself inside his own home, stretched on his side for about a year and a half staring at a clay map of Jerusalem, wore a wasp of hair in his belt.  Don’t you think that sounds crazy?  I do.  He probably did too.

 

What dawned on me this morning was that, Ezekiel, yielded to every bit of nonsensical crazy.  I imagine he thought, “O… K.  That’s going to mess up my plans, my dreams, my reputation, my family life, but O… K.” But that’s me.  Actually, Ezekiel says he just did it.  Did the call.  Did the crazy.

 

I’ve had trouble doing crazy that’s not even as crazy as Ezekiel’s crazy.  I have such a time yielding to God’s call.  Why can’t I, who has years on Ezekiel, default to God-knows-what-He’s-doing?  Because, “this is what the sovereign Lord says.”

 

Ezekiel yanked my attention this morning.  I am awed at his example of whatever-you-want,-Sovereign-Lord.  No questions asked.  No push back (except for a couple of gulps, Ezekiel 3:14 & 4:12-17).  God admonished Ezekiel to let His words sink deep into his own heart first.  Kath, listen.  Yield.  This is what the Lord requires of you.

 

Ezekiel, “the Lord’s hold on you was strong” (Ezekiel 3:14).  The Lord’s hold on me is strong.  I’ll do what you ask me, Lord.  I’ll do this crazy walk and know that you’re holding me.

Decisions

 Bill decided all our eat-outs. 

Some mornings I lift a lead blanket to get out of bed.  Some evenings I toss leaves to get to sleep.  For me, decisions are like that.  Sometimes I can’t get out from under them, so I toss them.  They are the big stinkers on this walk.

 

This girl is fairly decisive.  She made big decisions for her children based on their bents, for students based on their needs, for staff based on their hopes.  She made forward thinking, planning types of decisions.  She made practical and even risky decisions.  She used to make them all day long with prayer and with her husband.  She didn’t dread them.  She made them.

 

Now she can’t seem to make them. 

 

I didn’t realize how much of marriage makes decisions.  “Babe, should we buy a car now or after we retire?  If we’re going to Colorado in July, should we skip Oregon in June?  How should we arrange the furniture?  Do you think the Lord wants us at the big church with our children or at the small church where we can make friends faster?”

 

This girl is not so decisive.  She thinks for 2 minutes.  She prays for 3 minutes.  She throws up her hands for the rest of the minutes.  She misses the man that would say: “This chair feels great, let’s get it.” Or “No need to haggle that insurance premium.  This agent contractor knows what he’s doing.” She misses her sounding board, her brainstormer, her confidence.  She misses the one who made her feel so sure, even kinda smart.

 

But here’s what happens.  When I throw up my hands, Jesus grabs them, holds them and puts another portion of love in them.  The walk has been loaded with a lot of stinker decisions.  A lot.  Slowly, Jesusfully, this girl is making decisions.

Hide

 

They text and say they’re on their way.  This gives her just enough time to tuck things in a cabinet and hide.  She unlocks the front door and tucks herself in a cabinet, or somewhere they won’t think to look.

 

“Hello… GrammaKath?  Hello?”

 

Silence.  The hunt is on.  Up and down the hall, in and out of rooms.  This time they can’t find her.  So she knocks a few clues on the wall.  They still can’t find her.  She is kinda puzzled; it usually doesn’t take past one circle of the house.  They call, she knocks.  A stretchy 7 or 8 minutes later, they slide the shower door back, and they all squeal.  She is found!

 

Not long ago, they hid with GrammaKath while GranpaBill hunted.  Somehow he seemed to miss the giggles behind the door or the forgotten foot poking from under the bed or the sneeze spray and accompanying cough from… he couldn’t imagine where.  After maybe 30 seconds they had to help him with a few wall knocks or “Marco Polos.” That GranpaBill.  He always needed help.

 

Let the hiding go on as long as hunters will hunt.  Let the memories make more memories.  They still knock on walls.  Are you looking for them GranpaBill?  I think you see them.  I think you’re squealing with them.  I hope so, and I think widowed grammas hope so.  Someday we’ll find each other and squeeeeal!

Fragile

 Just about the time, I think I’m getting stronger— dry eyes for a week, energy enough, a couple of hearty laughs — the smallest thing happens.  The lid on the jar is stuck.  A spider on the ceiling is out of my reach.  I find his work badge.

Or

A piece of mail arrives for Bill.  Someone says his phrase.  His favorite meteorologist jokes about the weather.

Or

The remotes confuse me again.  There’s a puddle under the car.  I meet my neighbor named Bill. 

 

The smallest thing triggers the deepest pain.  What’s the word?  Torrent?  Slammed?  Under?

 

How about fragile. 
In those moments, I realize I’m not so strong, in fact I’m fragile.  I’ve got a ways to go.  I believe I will be strong one day.  I will hear our song and sing along with a steady voice and a heart smile.  But right now I’m rather… fragile.