Insurance

"My husband died; I'm a widow," says the sweet-talking woman who is obviously not grieving or just pretending.  After all it's a commercial.  And we don't want to send the radio audience to the bereavement gutter.  

Well, this radio audience can hardly audience.    

"But I'm grateful we were prepared.  It was fast, affordable and a hundred percent online.  Apply in minutes and get same-day coverage.  I don't know what we would have done without it."  

Not... "I don't know what we'll do without him."

Not... "Insurance can never replace my husband, his love, his presence."

Not... "There is no coverage that can cover a loss of a husband." 

Which, perhaps, are not appropriate life insurance adds.  But is a woman's voice, however thankful but devoid of sorrow, and rather a little-too-I'm-OK, appropriate?

If the audience is like this audience, it turns the radio down.  Or off.  It can't bear to feel the unbearable.  

Life insurance is without saying, a blessing.  Something to purchase.  Something to keep a life from splintering into shards.  Not something to highlight at the expense of an insured-but-no-longer-here husband.  Not for this radio audience. 

Politics

 

Let's talk politics.

Not many want to talk politics.  Or baseball.  Or grief.  We'll talk baseball and grief later. 

Let's talk politics. 

Though I don't know how to talk politics since I've never been the politics-talker.  I've only been the politics-listener.  Sort of.  But now I'm on a mission to stay informed and talk when I need to.  Caught to.   I've asked friends and politics-talkers and the Internet about how to get balanced, makes-sense news.  How do I form views?  Who do I trust?  What is important?

So I practice politics talking with our son.  He listens to me acronym my way to a federal department issue.  He listens to me whatshisname to a debate debrief.  He listens to me Prop 50 or 86 or pick-a-number to new legislation.  I muddle, fumble, jumble my way through a politic talk.

He pauses, searches for words and gently replies, "What?" 

Though I may be in over-my-head mode, I'm also in try-with-dread mode.  To talk politics -- with an understanding son.  And to make proud the former politics-talker. 

 

Tissues

 

Widows need tissues for their issues.

Not the spring grass or common cold or ear plug issues.  Widows need tissues for the wish-yous.

And Squish-yous.

And Kiss-yous.

Many times throughout the day, widows wish for her man's company, for his listening ear, for his perspective, for his... love.  They reach for tissues when the wish-yous aren't reachable.

Many times throughout a week or a month, widows feel squished into expectations, or roles, or emotions, or bravery.  They grab for a tissue when the squish-yous keep grabbing. 

So so many new, bewildering, unyielding, ever-adapting issues confront widows.  We forgive the issues.  They never planned to issue this life.  They never planned to create wishes and cause squishes.  But they do.  And so...

Widows need tissues.

Many times throughout a year, widows receive kiss-yous from family, from cards, from scripture, from memories.  They welcome kiss-yous when they need company or perspective.  They sense kiss-yous when they're affirmed or supported.  They capture kiss-yous, intended and unintended, that say, you are important, even so.  They collect kiss-yous that somehow lighten the issues.  And then quick -- they need tissues again.  

Cribbage

  

 

He wasn't particularly good at games.  Especially new games or thinking games... especially as he got older. 

Early on he could backgammon, hearts, pinochle anyone at the table.  He could poker his face and shoot the moon. 

But later he would only Mexican Train, Bunco, Uno and only in slooooow motion. 

Except for Cribbage.

Run and hide if he proposed a game of cribbage. Or play it for fun, not for competition. Think of it as an exercise, quality time together, a TV alternative.  But do not plan to win.  Just munch the popcorn, choose your cards and prepare to die. 

So today, when she played a friendly game of Cribbage with her Cribbage friend, and won, she did a little victory dance. A dance she made up because it was the first time she'd danced a Cribbage dance or experienced a Cribbage victory. 

And she thought of him, of course, dancing with her.  He's proud, since he taught her.  She did it. She found the 15s, claimed the nobs, reached the finish line first.   She won a Cribbage game.    She won!   

Message

Dear God,

I have a message if you please.  A message for and with whom You tinker in a workshop, eat Mexican food, and play golf these days.  A message for Bill, the one You took to be with You because You love him.

Tell him, I've made a few friends.  Not the raise-a-family-together kind, but the talk-about-Jesus kind.  He will be so happy to know that. 

Tell him my days are full.  Not the scramble-here-to-there kind, but the what-natters-most kind.  He will want to know that. 

Tell him I miss him everyday.  Not the stifling-can't-function kind, but the wish-you-could-experience kind.  He will feel relieved to know that. 

Tell him I'm trying new things.  Not the I've-moved-on-without-you kind, but the refreshing-tickle-my-fancy kind.  He will smile to know that.

Tell him I'm sleeping, moving, and continuing well.  Not the I'm-independent kind, but the I-want-to-honor-you kind.  He will be pleased to know that. 

Dear God, 

I have a message for my husband if you please.  Tell him these things are true because he prepared me for such a time as this.  

Amusementpark

 

Amusement parks turn parents into playful kids, grammas into goofy kids, and kids into kiddie kids.

Amusement parks walk the energy into tired, ramp the noise into screams, forge the vitamins into sugars.

Amusement parks shake the bills from the wallet (or pile them on the card), convince the resolve to weaken, fill backpacks with trinkets.

Amusement parks welcome a gramma to the party, surround a gramma with family, honor a gramma with pictures. 

Amusement parks make memories for grammas who need to make new memories.  Goofy grammas who need kids and laughing and fun and... life!

 

 

Billville

 

There are a few places that should have been named Billville. 

Because Bill either grew up there, went to school there, worked there, or claimed any of those there's.  He left his make-a-difference, his make-a-mark, his make-a-name.  And anyone who visits or passes through Billville thinks of Bill. 

Because he knew the locals’ hangs, the back roads, the family lore.  He knew the best burger, the trusted mechanic, the 6th grade teacher.  He should be the driver so the driver knows the best route.  He should be the decider so the decider knows the best choice.  In Billville, all things naturally defer to Bill. 

Because Bill loved his places, his people, his food.  He loved his streets, his sails, his songs.  Bill lit up Billville and it lit up him. 

Bill’s wife remembers Billvilles and finds them still full of Bill.

Because he’s still in the orchards, the levees, the surf.  He’s still in front of the doughnut case, the ammo counter, the lumber stash.  He still knows him and them and it. 

She can’t seem to arrive in Billville, stay in Billville, leave Billville without thinking and talking and thinking and talking about Bill.  Because Billville is still full of Bill.  And she is still full of Bill. 

Money

I've talked about it before.   Money.   I try not to talk about it or think about it.   But money just wants to talk.  So ok.

Money likes to taunt me at every cash register,  sale email,  online cart,  and every end-of-the-monther.   It whispers, you can't ignore me.  You have to watch numbers.  You must care about me.  

Well rats.  I don't want to watch, balance, earn, stretch, save, give, pay, budget money.   I don't want to talk about it.

It quiets up a bit over weekly grocery totals and spring utility bills.  It's actually completely silent during littlebear ice cream outings. 

But projects!  It nearly shouts.  And gets me all muddled.  It says, "Whateryadoing?"  And then, "Doit!"  And then, "WhatwouldJesusdo?"  And then, "WhatwouldBilldo?"  And then, "Wait."  And then, "Whateryouwaitingfor?"

Just be quiet.  Just go away.  Just stop it.

La la la la la

But money just wants to talk.  

Rats.  

Usual

 

What will you have?

The usual please.

The usual grilled chicken, no onion.  The usual t-shirt, no jewelry.  The usual back road, no freeway.  The usual coffee, no tea.

The usual row and seat on the right.  The usual parking space, toward the back.  The usual radio program, at 10.  The usual family petition in the rocker.  

The usual Monday, the usual people, the usual tasks.  No turns, or unexpecteds, or try-this's.  

I'll have the usual please.  With a side of joy.   Don't overcook the meat.  I had to chew tough meat last time.   I prefer the usuals.  The usuals sound good and go down good...

Usually. 

Restoration

Tim Keller:  "... the resurrection means not just that you get some kind of spiritual consolation for the life that you've lost, but you get the restoration of the life you've lost.  In fact, you get the restoration of the life you never even had but wanted. "

"There's a kind of death in the midst of life that you experience more and more as time goes on, and that is when you lose something in this life, it seems irretrievably lost.  ... and as the years go by, it just crushes you.  

"But listen, not if the resurrection is true.  The resurrection means not just a consolation, but the restoration. 

"If the resurrection of Jesus Christ is true, and you believe in Him, you're not going to miss out on anything.  Because the future is unimaginably wonderful."

"And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love."

Romans 5:5 

Tears.  

Bill, we still have a retirement, and grandchildren and adventures ahead of us.   Not missing it.  Because Jesus restores all things. 

Stuff

 

Stuff.  Collect it.  Pretend to need it.  Hoard it.  

All the while not notice it.  

Because stuff hides in cabinets, closets, attics, garages. 

And then stuff becomes stuffy.  

Stuff steals space from end tables, bathroom drawers and basement floors. 

Husband stuff... moves in and takes over.   Wives know that husbands need their man stuff... gadgets and gizmos in kitchen cabinets. Tinctures and powders in medicine cabinets.  Pens and more pens and more pens in office cabinets.  Hammers and cables and whatchamacallits in garage cabinets.

When husbands clear out, his stuff stays put.   Stuff that wives didn't collect, don't need and didn't hoard.  Or board.  Or stored.  

Since the husband has been gone for awhile, she begins to ponder his stuff, his man stuff, and wonders if she can move in and take over.  Will he mind?   Will he still love me?  Will he be sad?  

The wife isn't sure so she strikes a bargain.  How about if I toss the expired stuff,  store the maybe stuff, and consolidates the main-man-stuff.   How about that?

The wife starts with one single narrow drawer.  She pauses.  Then she sorts through another.  That's all for today.  Eventually, with bolstered courage, she tackles the garage stuff.  Move over she says in her heart.  Then out loud.  Then with gusto.  Move over.  

And now wife stuff has moved in.  Taken over.  She hopes that's OK.  

 

 

Good

 

He's been through bone marrow transplant.  The day is good if he can walk some circles on his back patio.

She's had 2 knee replacements.  The day is good if she can forgo the pain meds til bedtime.  

Her husband left her and their son.  The day is good if she can get dinner, fold the laundry and read him a story .

Their mom unexpectedly passed.  The day is good if two young adult daughters can make a smart decision.

Their kids won't talk to them.  The day is good if they get a two-word text. 

His wife is depressed.   The day is good when she can lift her head and smile. 

 

Her husband died and left her lonely.  But when she thinks of others, every day is very good.