Eating

 

Listen

to the sound of the metal fork against the ceramic bowl.

to the refrigerator hum

to the inward chewing and quiet slurping

to the tinkling ice in the glass

to the napkin swipe and crumple

to eating.  Alone.

Many are used to it.  Will I?  Ever?

Many prefer it.  How could I.  Ever.

Many choose it.  Never would I.  Ever.

Or sleeping or gardening or lounging or viewing or… any  at-home thing.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.  Just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than yours.  Isaiah 58:8-9

I may not choose it, but I will choose content with it, because this is God’s higher way for me.

Pretend

 Littlebears don’t know how to be sad.  Really sad.  Or long-time sad.

God made littlebears to be happy.  To find fun.  To hunt down the day’s best.  To giggle most of it.

They “think on these things” (Philippians 4:8), like pretend and games and romping and inventions and ice cream.  There is just no space for sad.

Someone they love may leave them.  And they feel sad.  There may be tears.  They will quiet… for a time, but not for long.  Long is too long.  Short is long enough.  It’s time to happy.  Not that they’re choosing happy; they’re littlebears after all.  Littlebears don’t know how to be really sad.

Littlebears make grandmas to be happy.  To pretend: pretend to not notice hiding spots, pretend her home is a royal palace, pretend it’s only 8:00 not 8:30, pretend she’s 30 years younger, pretend ice cream is good-for-you food, pretend the park is her favorite place.                                Pretend she… doesn’t know how to be sad.

The really sad, long-time sad goes away, at least for awhile, when littlebears and grandmas pretend.  The go-away part gets further and further away with each littlebear stay.  Which blesses a grandma who cries and quiets because her someone has left her.

God made littlebears happy for grandmas.  Especially this grandma.  Who hunts down the day’s best with hers.

Would/Could

 

He would quietly escort the littlebear, who was at his side, in his face, long before the sunshine, out the bedroom door, so I could sleep a bit longer.

He would politely decline the window washer, at the door, who was offering a sale, so I could continue reading my book.

He would fry the bacon on the outdoor grill, even in the rain, so I could keep the stove top clean.

He would collect my list, buy, unload, and unpack the groceries on Friday, so I could have a free Saturday.

He would leave me a note every morning, even if running late, so I could feel his love all day.

He would build a fire before I got home, before I asked, so I could cozy up for the whole evening.

He would pause the show and scoop some ice cream, choosing my favorite, so I could keep count of my crochet stitches.

He would call our bosses, schedule the time, book the hotels, load the bikes, so I could begin a weekender before it began.

He would order the takeout, pick it up, set out place mats, and fill the drink glasses, so I could escape the kitchen.

He would read me a prayer and pray his own while holding my hand, so I could sleep well in the comfort of his love.

He would call me to “my step,” at any moment, on any day, so I could feel his embrace, kiss his sweet face, and lay my head on his shoulder.

So thankful he would so that I could.

Column

  Dear Kathy: Fear of memories compounds grief

Awhile back I lost my husband.  He was the love of my life, and I miss him more than I can say.  Though I have suffered intense grief, I am finally able to get through a day without falling apart at every thought of him.  However, I’ve noticed that fear has become an even stronger emotion.  It is so strong, I feel imprisoned.  Chained almost.  Definitely restricted.  Here’s what I mean.

I am so afraid that the intense pain will return, I will be back at square one, if I so much as see a photo of my husband.  Hearing a recording of his voice or watching a video of him, is unthinkable.  There is a box of cards he wrote me over the years.  It is in a dresser drawer.  I love and hate that drawer at the same time.  What can I do?  The pain lurks as if waiting to attack me.  I am ever on guard.

Signed, Grieving Wife

 

Dear Grieving Wife,

Your fear is actually part of a grieving process, and to feel trapped by it is not uncommon.  But there is a way to freedom.  The way there is through the pain, not avoiding it.

A child’s first up on a bike terrifies him.  But he does it, and does it again, and soon he’s FREE to ride.  A businessman fumbles for words as he presents, but then he does it, and does it again, and soon he’s FREE to make his points.  Any fear must be faced for freedom’s sake.  Tried, tried again, until it is conquered or at least managed.

I’m sorry, but you have no options.  Call a friend.  Open the drawer together.  Read a card.  Cry in her arms.  Open another one and cry again.  Take small steps.  Embrace the grief, and freedom will embrace you.  You will be free.

I’ll venture to say, that one day you will even share photos of your husband, watch the video of your camping trip, listen to his goofy messages, and miss him without anxieties, without tears.

Until then, read another card.

Voice

Ooops.  Clogged garbage disposal. 

Lock the doors, turn on the porch light

Shut the windows when you hear lawn mowers

Open the wood stove slowly

Clean anything and everything with gloves

Do not respond to unknown text notifications

Wash the knives and cutting board

Stop completely before shifting gears

Don’t pull the plug by the cord

Moms and dads teach us the basics.  Husbands take it from there.  Just like parents’ automated voices (look both ways, don’t talk to strangers) managed to get us to adulthood, a husband’s voice lives in our minds, adding details to the basics, updating precautions, and just plain teaching what we never learned.

I hear a husband’s voice.  It says, get the widowmakers trimmed, change the filters, do not post your social security number.

It says, I love you, Kath.  Listen and pay attention to what I said, what I did.  These will protect you and get you to Heavenhood.

I often ask, what would Bill do?  And I hear, buy the gas detector, keep big chunks out of the garbage disposal, read the directions.  This husband may not live here, but his voice does.  His voice counsels me, keeps me safe, smarts me up.

I’m thankful for a husband’s voice.  It lives in me.  I’m listening.

Cheerleaders

Cheering Squad

    “Babe, you handled that so well.  You know just how to smooth the waters.”

“Our boys love and respect you.  You are a good father.”

“The car looks brand new.  You take such care of it.”

Cheerleaders cheer.  Ra Ra Ra!  Go husband!  You… fixed the leak!  Lost 10 pounds!  Nailed the presentation!

Sometimes, cheerleaders lose a husband and lose the Ra.  They might feel cheerless, raless.  When purpose evades them.  When identity escapes them.  When service doesn’t need them.  Then what.

Somehow, cheerleaders keep cheering.  Everyone needs encouragement.  Friends.  Bears.  Littlebears.

“You are so thoughtful to let your sister have a turn.  You did that on your own.”

“Wow.  You can really run.  Those new shoes are fast!”

Cheerleaders find Ra when they can’t find purpose.  They can Ra at least.  They can “you-go!” from the sidelines, from the bleachers, from the phone and through prayer.  They can whoop and whirl and whistle.  They can word someone, anyone, to feel wonderful.

Cheerleaders cheer.  That’s something.

Valentine

 Some valentines set long-sights on Valentine’s Day because Valentine’s Day is a love-on-me day.  These are the same valentines that also live for the tournament wins and recognition, the birthday speeches, the piles of Christmas presents and the photo ops.  The ones who can’t come through a doorway quietly.  The same valentines that find the spotlight and stay under it for as long as it spots.

I know a valentine like that.  And to spotlight him, I wore a pin that a dear friend gave me on our first Valentine’s Day.  It says, “I Love Bill.”  Of course everyone already knows that I love Bill, but isn’t it better to broadcast it from the top of my blouse?  Just in case?  And if it hadn’t made it to my blouse quite yet, at 6:30 on Valentine’s Day morning, I would find it scrounged from my jewelry box and atop the dresser where it could more readily make it to my blouse.  As subliminally required, I counted the number of admirings (was it the blouse or the pin, I wasn’t always sure) so that I could later report this delightful data to my valentine, who would glow under the spot.  So many had said his name, thought of him, and knew he was my valentine.  He was delighted!

Dinner, ice cream… ummm… where else can we go before the day is over?  It’s way too dark in a movie theater.  Walmart?  Do we need groceries?  Should we drop in on the Jones’s?  Who else should read the announcement today?

And then… a sigh as I unpinned the pin.  To ease the “it’s-all-over,” I left it on the dresser before tucking it away for another year.  Eventually I closed the lid on the announcement.  Then I set to delight this valentine in everyday ways.  He was, still is, and always will be my valentine.

Just so you know, I love Bill!

 

Thrill

 

“But even as hope seemed to die, it was turned to new strength.  …And he felt through all his limbs a thrill, as if he was turning into some creature of stone and steel that neither despair nor weariness nor endless barren miles could subdue.”

J.R.R.  Tolkien, The Return of the King (The Lord of the Rings #3)

 

Gather up oh my soul.  You are strengthened by the Holy Spirit to walk these miles.  When at the end, not another step is required, you will trade your rebar limbs for fresh ones, trained ones, everlasting ones, redeemed ones.

Until then, feel a thrill.

Superbowl

 A tea

A book club

A church potluck

A quilting bee

A birthday celebration

A Superbowl party

These are events that a widow might attend, not because she likes tea or reads books or… knows the first thing about football, but because they promise people.  Breathing, moving, thinking, talking people.  It could be that old-timers beg her to bring her famous pot of chili, or she can whip quilt squares together and get that thing tied, or… she calls the penalties before the refs do.  She knows stuff.  She knows football.  But none of that really matters.  What matters are promised people.  Welcoming, understanding, be-there family and friends.

That is why, along with other events she adds to her calendar, and probably musters the pluck to attend, she’ll make her chip dip and take herself to the Superbowl party.  She knows the ladies will be in the kitchen, and the diehards will be in the living room.  They will wrap themselves around her.  Involve her.  They’ll catch up, get loud, and be oh so… people.

America thinks that, bets on, consumes pizza while, two best teams beat each other up for a Vince Lombardi trophy.  What the country doesn’t know is that the Superbowl has been on a widow’s calendar for awhile because it promises people.

Coming. 

Rain

 I live at the North Pole.  It rains, but should be snowing.  I know this because my fingers and toes and tip of my nose tell me so.  It’s cooold.

When it rains, my days get a little less busy and a little more sitty.  Reading, editing, crocheting, more reading.  And… daydreaming. 

Daydreaming about use-to-be-days.  About what-it-would-be-like days.  About just-ahead days. 

It used to be that Bill would call me to our loveseat just to listen to the rain.  No other reason.  We listened and listened.  Which led to, I’m sorry about my attitude.  Will you come with me today?  I love you, I’m so glad you’re mine.

What would it be like for us to loveseat together just to listen to the rain today?  No other reason.  Just listen and listen.  Which would lead to, do you like the family room now?  Let’s get you a new grandpa chair.  I love you, I’m so glad you’re here.

Will there be a friend to listen to the rain with me just ahead?  Someone who sits and listens to the sound of rain?  Which might lead to a warm heart-to-heart.

Rain rains sentiment and nostalgia and a few teardrops on me.  I spend some daydreaming moments sitting, wondering and listening. 

It’s cold, but warm here.

Onions

 

1 cup crumbled bacon

1 cup grated cheese

1 cup chopped caramelized onion

Ugh.  Chopped onion.

Smells so good.  Tastes so good.  But ask this girl to chop onions?  Not so good.

Eyes start stinging, knife starts wobbling, confidence starts plummeting before the onion makes it out of the vegetable drawer.  I like onions.  They don’t like me.

“Kath, let me do that,” he never failed to not offer, but rather commanded, while seizing the blade out of my hands.  Believe me, I relinquished it and took off my sandals as I stood on holy ground.  Yes.  Whatever you say.  Please.  Chop the onion.

Now… I chop the onion.  It is scary.  And I’m not getting better at it.  So I do this: as I grip the handle, I situate my feet like a golfer ready to tee off.  I remind myself to respect the properties of a knife which sits on the throne of kitchen utensils.  I think, “Kath, you do not want to go to Urgent Care today.  Your kids are busy.  They can’t help.  Be smart.”  When it’s all over, I nearly faint with relief and promise I will never do that again.

Does anyone else talk to herself about onions?

I wish onions would chop themselves.  Then life would be amazing.  Life was pretty amazing with an onion chopper.  All the benefits of yum without the hazards of yikes.

Onions and me.  Whoosh!

Looks

 “How do I look?”  she asks her mirror.  She asks her dog.  She asks her… nothing.  Out loud.

Not long ago, she asked her husband.  She asked because, you know, now and then, she needed to be told some sweet.  She needed affirmation that she was still, after all the clothes, makeup, diet and exercise didn’t really do their job anymore, she was still somehow pretty.  Her husband would tease her, “You look so your age.”  Which made her giggle at his smirk and know he felt proud of her, even after years.”

Not any one affirms any pretty any more.  It’s kinda sad for her.

So, she trusts that God will insert someone to speak a sweet at the right time and right place.  Until then, she’ll believe her husband’s last reply to “How do I look?”

“You’re beautiful, Babe.”