Both/And...

Yeah, I admit it.  I tuned in.

I watched the Royal Wedding.

(I also watched The Barefoot Contessa, The Pioneer Woman, The Preakness Stakes, the  end of the nightly news, and the NASCAR All-Star race that day.  But I digress…)

I conjured up several excuses – I mean I had several good reasons – for watching.  I’m up early anyway, so the time difference wasn’t an issue for me.  As a retired pastor, I had plenty of “professional curiosity” about what the ceremony would be like with the interjection of an American preacher and a gospel choir into the traditional Church of England service.  And, I’m a sucker for love stories.  I had a good one of my own.

But there was also a significant amount of apprehension involved; I was well aware of how emotional and how completely bittersweet this could be for me, precisely because I had – past-tense – a good love story of my own.

We said those very same vows in our marriage ceremony that Harry and Meghan said in theirs.

To have and to hold, from this day forward…

            It was all we ever wanted, and we wanted it to last forever.

For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health…

            Been there.  Done that.  All of it and then some.

 To love and to cherish, until death us do part…

            And we did, and now it has, but…

                        I still love him.

Everything has changed.  And yet, nothing has changed.

He’s no longer physically present with me, but I still love him as much as I ever did.  Which laces all those precious memories with both deep joy and deep, deep sorrow.

That both/and is the hardest one for me to deal with.  All those ‘anniversary events’ – the birthdays, holidays, family milestones and all the rest - are difficult, but our wedding anniversary is hands down the worst because of the timing.  It is not-so-neatly sandwiched between that June day when Bill left our world and joined God’s and the day we committed his body to the earth he so lovingly tended for most of his life.  A train wreck of days, and after watching The Wedding, I’m feeling it already.  

It helps to remember that I’m not the only one on the planet dealing with this.  Those wedding vows that Bill and I and Harry and Meghan (and maybe you) repeated name just a few of them, but life is full of both/ands of every shade and stripe, and all of us face them.  There is both darkness and light in our world; joy and sorrow; good and evil; faith and doubt; strength and weakness; right and wrong; ups and downs; order and chaos, and a host of others.  Some can be (after a certain amount of time) amusing, as in “one of these days, we’ll look back and laugh about this”.  Some, while being sources of frustration or consternation, are fairly benign in the grand scheme of things.  Some of them just make our hearts hurt.

I wish I could offer you a bullet-pointed list with tried-and-true instructions on how to navigate all of life’s both/ands.  I can’t; as I said, I struggle with this too, and the struggle is very, very real.  The landscape shifts from each one of these encounters to the next for me; sometimes the things I do to make my way through them help.  Sometimes nothing does. 

What I can offer you is solidarity, and some things to consider.

Where are you?  Which of life’s both/ands is captivating your heart and mind today?

Whatever that particular thing is, however you’re feeling about it, own it.  Look it in the eye and call it by its real name.  While labels aren’t always helpful (as I mentioned last week) sometimes naming things can de-mystify them just enough to allow us to get a handle on them.

Do the best you can to deal with what’s there in whatever way you can.  Give yourself permission to try anything that sounds even remotely like it *might* help.  The mere attempt may be enough to give you the confidence and strength to continue moving forward.

Most importantly, remember you’re not alone in this.  I’m right there with you, and where two or three are gathered, God, the One who is both Alpha and Omega, beginning and end, is there.

Is the glass half empty or half full?

You’ve probably heard the question.  You may have posed it or answered it.  It’s the social litmus test we use to tag people as either optimists or pessimists and file them accordingly.  For optimists, the glass is perceived as half full; pessimists see it as half empty.

Does it matter?

Some think so.  Labeling and categorizing is one of the ways we human creatures try to make sense out of and navigate our complicated world. “Just answer the question, and we’ll know where to put you”.   Others aren’t so sure.  The labels and categories don’t always fit and if misinterpreted or misapplied, can do more harm than good.  Case in point: me.  I'm a widow, but I'm not just a widow; that's part of who I am, but that one word does not define my entire existence.  And I may be nothing at all like whatever stereotypical image pops into people's heads when they hear that word.

The perception that optimists are positive and pessimists are negative makes this all even trickier to navigate. 

After pondering this with grief as my traveling companion and in light of an amazing and thought-provoking email from a dear friend, I have to say “yes, but…”  

It sounds simple on the surface, but there are a lot of gray areas for me.  I’m becoming less and less sure that being one way is better or worse than the other. My mother was a world-class pessimist.  She could tell you, in excruciating detail, every single thing that was wrong with every single picture on the planet.  I don’t mean that in a critical way, and it doesn’t make her a “bad” person; it’s just who she was.  Given the fact that she was eighteen when the stock market crashed in 1929 and kicked off the Great Depression, there are compelling reasons why she had that world view. And as she would be quick to point out, knowing what can go wrong and where the land mines are can actually help you make wise and appropriate choices, limit damage and discomfort, and determine helpful coping strategies.      

The other thing that gives me pause here is the sheer number of things that affect how we see and approach the world, many of which we can’t control.  We were created as unique individuals; each one of us is “one of a kind”.  There is no one else on the planet exactly like us, so we each experience things in our own way.  There are also multiple external variables besides the particular DNA and personality traits we’re hardwired with that can affect how we perceive things at any given point in time:  our circumstances, our spiritual state, our health, world events, the season, the weather, the attitudes and perceptions of the people around us, how much stress we’re under, just to name a few.  

Grief is one of those external things that adds a layer of complication to everything, and one of the ways it's complicated things for me is that because of my experience, circumstances, and feelings  a lot of the things I *thought* I knew and seemed so sure of are now much grayer areas.  With that as part of my reality, I’ve found that I have to pay even closer attention to what is going on both inside of and in the world around me in order to live authentically and well.

AND - having said all of that, I also have to say this (something I have to keep reminding myself of regularly): we always have the power to choose how we respond to what is happening around and within us, even if we can’t change the circumstances themselves.       

What do you think?  Is the glass half empty or half full?

Does it matter?  Is that a useful construct, or is there another way of looking at it that is more helpful to you?

Wherever you are on that continuum, and regardless of what life hands you today, may your mind gravitate toward and be occupied with “…whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things…”  Philippians 4:8, NIV.

Beauty in brokenness...

As I’ve been arranging (and rearranging!) the shells I brought home from the beach recently, I’ve noticed something.  Most of them are, shall we say, “slightly less than perfect”.  I didn’t go looking for (mostly) broken shells.  I just picked up whatever struck me as beautiful at the time. 

Finding beauty in brokenness?  Is that a thing?  As I thought about it, I realized artists have been doing that for millennia in every medium under the sun from the ancient mosaics in the Middle East to the centuries-old Japanese art of Kintsugi, which is the repair of pottery using lacquer dusted with precious metals – gold, silver or platinum, to the incredible pictures my friend Peggy creates in her studio at Project Art using bits and pieces of heirloom jewelry. 

And it goes farther and deeper than just taking broken things and turning them into stunning new creations.  A variety of adjectives have been used to describe Vincent Van Gogh through the years; broken certainly fits.  Yet in and through that brokenness and perhaps at times even in spite or because of it, his paintings left a trail of beauty that continues to inspire, educate, and bring joy.  Out of the depths of human suffering, writers, musicians and actors routinely birth exquisite poetry and prose, soul-stirring music, and compelling portrayals that raise awareness, promote understanding, and offer insightful social commentary.

But what about those of us who are not thus engaged?  Is there - can we find - beauty in the brokenness of our lives too?  Even though I didn’t always recognize it as such in the moment, when I looked back over the season of my life most marked by brokenness, I discovered that beauty was part of that too.

There is a raw beauty evoked when everything extraneous in one’s life is stripped away and things are reduced to their essence.  That’s what happened when we were handed that terminal diagnosis and extremely short time frame.  Virtually every facet of the life we’d had up to that point unraveled, stopped working, or completely fell apart right in front of us.  Everything was laid bare; what was really important came into crystal clear focus and what was not faded away.   What was left were the things that meant the most, and what was left at that point (albeit for only a very short time), was us.  I hate the circumstances under which it happened but being able to articulate how much we meant to each other was priceless and beautiful beyond description, as were Bill’s words of assurance to us: “Don’t worry about me; I know where I’m going, and I’ll be fine.”

There is beauty in those who roll up their sleeves and, without any fanfare, simply do what needs to be done at the time, particularly when the task is physically and emotionally challenging and less than pleasant.  There is beauty in every act of kindness offered, in every prayer uttered.         

And there is beauty in being able to laugh, even in the face of death.  The bat (mammal, not baseball) that took up residence in the basement and the episode of the Railroad cookies (ask my children about that) provided some much-needed comic relief.  And I had to laugh when Bill told me that I should make sure I had a date for the funeral.  No, he was not joking.  He was trying to tell me, in the only way he could articulate it at the time, that he wanted me to be happy.  (In case you’re wondering, no, I did not bring a date to the funeral.  And no, we didn’t manage to dispense with the bat either.) 

Finding beauty in brokenness.  Might this possibility have been part of what the Psalmist was talking about when he penned these words?  “…weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning…”  and “…You turned my wailing into dancing…”  Psalm 30:5, 11, NIV

What do you think?  As you define those words, is there – can there be – beauty in brokenness?  Have you experienced that yourself?

If so, what form did it take?  Was it rooted in a specific act of kindness?  Did you experience it as a particular feeling such as joy or assurance or peace or love? 

If you could take the brokenness in your life and craft those pieces into a beautiful new creation, what would you make?  What would that look like?

Artwork and photo courtesy of Project Art.  Copyright 2018, all rights reserved.  Used with permission.

Home

The latest online version of Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary defines “home” as   one’s place of residence; the social unit formed by a family living together; a familiar or usual setting; a place of origin; an establishment providing residence and care for people with special needs.  It is all of those things, yet much, much more.  The word “home” evokes warm thoughts for some, painful memories for others, and for still others it is largely a foreign concept.  Our attitudes and perceptions about “home” are shaped by our experiences in the physical places we inhabit, and deeply influenced by the people we share that time and space with.  There are huge emotional and spiritual influences involved as well, as architect Frank Lloyd Wright makes clear by his choice of words regarding houses: “…Every house is a missionary,” he says.  “Space that is transformative changes the people who live there…”  The question is, how does it change them, and into what?  Because while home can be ‘where the heart is’ it can also be where your heart gets broken.

My early memories of “home” are fond ones, but my experience with that word in the recent past has been checkered at best.  As long as Bill was with me, virtually anywhere could (and did) feel like home:  student housing, a sprawling 144-unit urban apartment complex, hotel rooms, a cruise ship cabin, even a partially-plumbed summer cottage on the river.  (You truly haven’t lived until you’ve had a baby in diapers - cloth diapers; we were broke college kids- with an outhouse).  

While not perfect by any means, the majority of those days were happy ones because I was sharing them with the love of my life and best friend.  Now that he’s no longer physically present with me, there’s no place where I feel truly at home – including and especially the farmhouse we shared for most of our nearly forty-two years of marriage.  The last and most vivid memories I have of that living space are of him lying, mostly unresponsive and unable to move or communicate in any meaningful way, in the hospital bed in the corner of the living room.

Ironically, I felt more ‘at home’ at the beach last week than I’ve felt since 2014, and that feeling has stayed with me, even after I returned to the place I now call “home” and settled back into my normal routine.  When I opened the scriptures yesterday I found these words from Zechariah 9:12: “…return to your fortress, O prisoners of hope…”  

It was one of those occasions where the words leaped off the page and grabbed my attention and I'm still trying to figure out what it means.  (Although I have to say, if being a prisoner is involved, I'd much rather be a 'prisoner of hope' than some other things I can think of!)  Now I'm wondering:  is this a continued rippling of that ‘breath of healing and hope’ I mentioned feeling last week?  Did being in a place I love with dear friends transform me spiritually, a la Wright’s quote, even though I had never been to that particular beach before, was staying in someone else’s house, and was only there for a handful of days? 

Whatever it is, I’ll take it, with thanks. 

What or where is “home” for you?  Is it a specific place?  Certain people or things?  A particular feeling or emotional response?  Is it a combination of all of those things?  Or something else entirely?

When or where do you feel least “at home”?  What is the difference for you?

Spiritually speaking, where is “home” for you?  Where is your “sanctuary”?  Your Holy place?

As you ponder all of those things, I’ll leave you with this: “…Lord, you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations.  Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting, you are God…”  Psalm 90:1-2, NIV 

(If you have access to Nan Merrill’s Psalms for Praying, read Psalm 90:1-5 from there; her phrasing of this passage is exquisite.)

By the sea...

I took some time off this week and spend a few days at the beach.  I realize that not everyone may think this is a great thing.  To paraphrase Bob Wiley, (Bill Murray’s character in the movie “What About Bob?”) “…there are two kinds of people in this world: those who like the beach, and those who don’t”.  For some, it’s too hot, too crowded, too breezy, with way too much grit and not nearly enough shade.

I happen to adore it.

The rhythmic sounds of the surf, the way sunlight dances on the water, the kaleidoscope of shells that pave the sand are pure joy to me.  I did write while I was there but working doesn’t feel nearly as much like “work” when I can do it with an ocean view.  At the beach, even laundry can be fabulous (or at least not completely horrible).  And to be at the beach and be in the company of friends was nothing short of heavenly. 

I love to go shelling, and as I walked the beach every day (several times a day, actually, but who’s counting?) I was struck by parallels between what I was doing and where I am in my life by now.  Anne Morrow Lindbergh titled her exquisite volume of reflections Gift from the Sea so I can’t use that, but I experienced much the same thing she described so beautifully.  Each of these could be an entire blog post (or book) on their own, (and I reserve the right to do that later!) so I’m not going into exhaustive detail on each one – but I thought they were worth sharing.

I was reminded that you have to pay attention.  If you’re unprepared, random waves can grab you by the ankle and pull you under.  Life events can do the same if you don’t have a firm foundation.

You also have to focus.  Take your eyes off that shell, and the surf can wash it away.  In addition to being mindful of how you live in general, some things require more intense consideration and involvement to navigate.

You have to be patient.  The best shelling is at low tide, which only happens a couple of times a day, and not always when we human creatures find it “convenient”.  You have to be willing to wait for it.

Things are not always what they seem.  That beautiful swirl that caught your eye can wind up being just a shard from the crown of a conch.  And that misshapen lump in the sand, once you start digging, turns out to be a lightning whelk, intact and perfect.  What may have seemed to be a setback may just be preparation for what is to come.

The most important one for me right now is this one:  you have to be willing to get your hands dirty and your feet wet.  In the physical act of wading out into the water and sifting through the sand I was reminded of the fact that The Divine is ever and always at work and at play in our world with one thing in mind:  a relationship with the creatures God has so artfully formed and breathed life into.  Which means participation by we the creatures is a necessary part of that equation as well.  Life is not a spectator sport; it is a cosmic and mysterious mix of both being and doing.  If we want to live authentic lives, we have to do more than just show up.  We have to do things.

I’ve been dabbling – ‘getting my feet wet’ so to speak – with writing and my experience on the beach this week affirmed for me that I need to keep going with that.  To not just show up, but to participate and engage, as deeply as I can, in that endeavor in all its forms.  After feeling, since Bill’s death, that much of my life has been “on hold”, that realization brought a breath of healing and hope to my heart.  (And I bought quilt fabric too, just for good measure!)

Have I mentioned that I love the beach?

What about you?  What do you need to do today?  Where and with whom do you need to engage deeply?  What things have been “on hold” in your life that you need to address?

Think back over the past week.  Where and what were the gifts you experienced?  What brought you joy, grace, peace, hope, love?

Were you gifted with particular moments of clarity or confirmation?  If so, celebrate that!

If the phone rings...

If the phone rings…

I may not answer. 

My husband would have turned 65 this year, which means I’m now receiving phone calls from Every. Insurance. Company. In. The. Universe.  Telemarketers are not known for their courtesy, (otherwise they wouldn’t call during dinner or wake you up out of a sound sleep), but the ones I’ve talked to lately have taken being rude to new depths.  I know what you’re thinking:  why answer the phone?  Because the majority of these calls come from the area code in which we used to live, and because I don’t have the phone number of every single person I know there either in my head or in my phone, I answered because it *might* be someone I know that I actually want to talk to.  Big mistake!  as Julia Roberts so aptly observed in the movie Pretty Woman.  Big.  HUGE!

They call and ask for him by name (stab in the heart #1).  I explain, politely, that he is “unavailable” (because it still hurts to say out loud that he died.)  They must speak with him before his birthday, they say, (stab in the heart #2), because they have the Best. Medicare. Supplement. Plan. EVER!!!!!  I remind them, politely, that he is unavailable (stab in the heart #3) and ask, politely, to be removed from their calling list.  This is where things get ugly.  “Add your number to the Do Not Call Registry!” they snap.  I tell them, (perhaps not quite so politely), that my numbers – both of them – have been on the Do Not Call Registry for the past five years.  “That’s not true!”  they accuse.  “If you were on the DNC Registry, we wouldn’t be calling.  Just let me speak to William!” (stab in the heart #4). By now, I’m so done with polite.  “He’s dead,” I say, point blank (stab in the heart #5). “He died in 2014,” I add, for good measure (stab in the heart #6).  At which point they hang up on me, without so much as an “I’m sorry.”

I know everyone gets calls like this and they aren’t the end of the world.  I have seen what was, for me, the end of the world and this is not it, but they are still extremely painful and not very good for my blood pressure.  I am angry at them for calling, angry I can’t make them stop, angry at being reminded yet again in such a tactless manner that Bill is gone (as if I could forget), and livid at myself both for answering the phone in the first place and allowing the whole thing to bother me so much.  I thought I was doing better than that.  I certainly wanted to be doing better than that, but…

…that’s just how grief is for me.  It colors the perceptions and mangles the emotions turning what is innocuous (albeit annoying) for others into an emotional land mine for me.  No linear process this, it meanders here and there, doubling back on itself with frustrating irregularity in a seemingly endless string of “gotchas”.  It comes fully furnished with unmarked detours, roadblocks, sinkholes, washed out bridges, and more twists and turns than a theme park roller coaster, and the closest thing it has to a pattern is the one-step-forward-three-steps-back way it unfolds.  Or doesn’t. 

I know in my head that life is too short to waste precious emotional energy on inconsequential things like telemarketers.  Sometimes you just have to disengage and let things go, as the book I saw this week suggested.  I haven’t read it but the title is now burned into my brain.  “They Can’t Drive You Crazy if You Don’t Give Them the Keys.”

I also know that there are many times when that is easier said than done.   

I’m working on it.  In the meantime, if the phone rings and I don’t recognize the name or the number, I won’t answer.  (If you try to reach me and I don’t respond, my apologies.  Leave me a voicemail with an identifier, and I’ll call you back, I promise!)

Who or what is driving you crazy right now?   

Is there a way to either take back the keys or not hand them over in the first place?  Can you just let it go?

If not, what might there be for you to learn either about yourself or the situation?

May you navigate this day with a good grip on your keys, and peace in your heart.

It's always something...

Gilda Radner was right: “It’s Always Something”.  But for me, as I’ve journeyed through the ‘valley of the shadow of death’ I’ve discovered that within every one of those “somethings” there are ‘fine lines’, layers, wheels-within-wheels.

It isn’t just that I lost my husband of 41 years and 361 days.  I also lost my best friend.  The one who loved me unconditionally, always had my back, knew my heart and mind like no other.  Had he, the Supreme Techno-Geek of the Universe been here to help me, my blog and website would have been up and running in thirty minutes, not the eight days and change it took me to do it.  He rejoiced with me (with abandon) when I had things to celebrate, and when life handed me crushing blows, he not only held me as I wept, he wept with me.  He’s the first person I would have turned to in the wake of this kind of heartbreaking loss, but he is the one who is gone. 

It isn’t just that I need to find things with which to fill my days now that I’ve retired and relocated, it’s also about how to make what I do matter.  It was an honor, privilege, and sacred calling to speak words of life and faith into the lives of those I served as pastor. The hospital rooms and care facilities I visited, the weddings, baptisms, and funerals I conducted, the committee meetings, office hours, worship, meals, and conversations we shared were holy ground for me.  No longer having those deep and rich interactions as part of my daily life has been culture shock.  I love doing things “decently and in order”; (I am Presbyterian, after all), but having a perfectly lined up sock drawer and my closet organized by color just doesn’t carry the same weight as personal interactions with real, live human creatures, about things of eternal significance.

Those relationships have, of necessity, been left behind, both by distance and the requirements of my denomination, and yet the imprints they left on my soul did not change or go away.  It’s a strange tension having those experiences and people (especially my husband) still be so much a part of the fabric of my life and yet not be able to physically interact with them.  Yes, I sense Bill’s spirit and will carry him forever in my heart; yes, I have an incredible storehouse of wonderful memories, but memories only go so far, and some days they don’t go nearly far enough.  And no, I can’t just find another pastoral position in my neck of the woods and plug myself in.  With thousands of retired ordained clergy here, there simply isn’t a need for trained lay people to pastor churches like there was in my previous location.    

I am working at building connections here in ‘the new country’, but it takes time to forge relationships that deep.  In the meantime, while it isn’t the same as face to face conversation, creating this blog has provided me with a platform for interacting with those of you who read it that has proved to be very therapeutic.  I’ve been overwhelmingly blessed by the words of encouragement, love and support I’ve received, and I’m most grateful for each one of you. 

Sewing has also been a balm to my soul.  I puzzled over that, until I realized that the process of taking scraps of fabric and stitching them together to make beautiful and useful things mirrors the way my musicians, readers, and I crafted worship services, taking words and music from a multitude of sources and weaving them together in a way that enabled those participating to encounter the Holy.   That creative process has always brought me peace and joy.  If it works with liturgy and song, with needle and thread, I’m daring to believe it will translate into other areas of my life as well, allowing me to take all the ‘somethings’ and those cherished memories of what I left behind and fashion them into an existence that is meaningful, useful, and beautiful as well.

 It’s always something.  What is it for you today?  And what else might there be within that ‘something’?

Have you -by choice or necessity – left things behind?  What was that process like for you?  Did you feel angry?  Sad?  Relieved?  Confused?  Liberated?  Frustrated?  Hopeful?

What helped you move forward?

Where do you find meaning and beauty in your life?

In whatever form is most needed and relevant for you this day, may peace and joy be yours.

What's In A Name?

What is in a name?  For me, a huge amount.  One of my other vices – I mean hobbies– is genealogy, so I’ve always paid extremely close attention to names.  That’s one of the first things I look at when I’m digging up dead relatives (and in some cases, putting them back, when I find out enough to know that I’m not related to them after all).  While I’m sure she was a lovely girl (at least Romeo thought so, anyway…) I don’t subscribe to Juliet’s theory that “…a rose by any other name would smell as sweet…”.  Names can tell you where you come from, who you are, who you are not, and a whole lot more.  

Names became even more important to me when I found myself unexpectedly (and very unhappily) alone in the world after Bill’s death and trying to make my way forward in a new place.  All the usual identifiers were gone; I was no one’s wife, no one’s pastor, no longer a Midwesterner.  It wasn’t that I was experiencing something ‘out of my comfort zone’; I had no ‘comfort zone’. Virtually every detail of my life and every waking moment of my day to day existence was different than it had ever been.  Shortly after my move, when those feelings were freshest and most painful, I saw a post from a dear friend (thanks, Carol M.!) listing some of her favorite Wendell Berry quotes, one of which touched me deeply:

“…If you don’t know where you’re from, you’ll have a hard time saying where you’re going…” 

I had no idea where I was going.  Could looking back at where I was from help me figure it out?  Turning to my genealogy hobby, I dug deeper into whose I was and where I came from, identifying as many of the details as I could about the relationships that bound my life to those who populated the generations before me.  And for me, Berry was right.  Finding out more about where I came from gave me a sense of connectedness I desperately needed at that point in time, and it started me on the path of discerning where I was going.

Far beyond the sense of belonging that finding these family members gave me, their lives were flesh and blood illustrations of the fact that even in the face of great adversity and grief, it is possible to move forward, something I wasn’t convinced of at the time.  My great-great Grandmother Ann (Heywood) Olive was a single mom in 1840s England.  She married my great-great Grandfather in 1850 and had six more children before leaving England, two of whom died in infancy.  Workers in the Lancashire textile mills, their jobs disappeared when the embargo of our southern ports stopped cotton shipments to England during the Civil War. So they headed for America.  If Ann could pack up what was left of her family, endure a month-long ocean voyage on a ship with more than 575 other people (during the first trimester of yet another pregnancy), travel to a country where she knew no one and rebuild her life, then I could put my stuff in a truck and move four states away to where the rest of my family was and survive, too. 

I also discovered that the legacy of faith running through my family lines is far deeper and wider than I ever realized.  Knowing that, even on those days when it felt like God was a million miles away, (and there were some of those), I could look at those names and remind myself that I came from people of faith and that was part of who I am.   When I couldn’t articulate anything else about who I was or where I was going, I could affirm my identity as a child of God, and at that moment, it was enough. 

What’s in your name?  Were you named after an ancestor?  One of your parents’ best friends?  Someone famous?

What images and feelings do the family surnames you carry evoke?

Who is family to you (whether there is any biological or legal connection or not)? Name them and give thanks for all the ways their lives are connected to yours.

While the names, titles, and descriptors humans have placed on you (and the feelings those things evoke) impact your existence, remember that your true identity lies elsewhere.  You are a child of God.

The Blame Game

We’ve been playing it since the dawn of time and by now the Blame Game is in full swing pretty much everywhere on the planet.  For many these days, the first reaction to anything that is perceived to be even slightly less than perfect is to start pointing fingers and firing away.  The more tragic the event, the sharper the rhetoric becomes.  The assumption being that if we can pinpoint how and why this horrible thing happened, lay that at the feet of the responsible party or parties and make them do something about it, then we’ll feel better and everything will be ok. 

I wanted that more than anything when my husband was diagnosed with Grade 4 Multiforme Glioblastoma and died just two and a half months later.  I wanted to know exactly what had caused this so I knew where to dump all my sadness and rage, and who I could force to “fix it”.  This wasn’t supposed to happen, and the idea of making somebody (if I could just figure out who!) “pay” for it was very attractive.  Except it simply wasn’t possible.  There wasn’t enough time to search out all the dots, let alone connect them to document cause and effect.   And while I hate, hate, HATE the fact that none of us (especially me!) saw this coming in time to do something about it, (and yes, I’m shouting! I’m shouting! I’m SHOUTING! just like Tim Curry at the end of the movie Clue), blaming myself did nothing to change the outcome, and it will not bring him back.

I’ve been reliving all that and more as I make my way through the last half of March, which is, for me, a train wreck of those anniversaries no one wants to mark, but you can’t stop thinking about.  It’s complicated enough as it is, but this year I’m walking part of this path during Holy Week, which deepens the pain of all those experiences a thousand-fold.  Not only am I mourning Bill’s suffering and death, in the Scripture readings for this week Jesus is suffering and dying too.  Good Friday?  What’s “good” about it?  Not much from my vantage point.  Except…. Everything.  Without Good Friday, there is no Resurrection, and God knows I need one.

My emotions are all over the map:  a curious mixture of anger, hope, relief, despair, anticipation, disbelief, sadness, joy, and anything and everything in between, much like the feelings Jesus’ disciples and followers experienced in the days between Palm Sunday and Easter.  I never know which one will pop up next, which makes every interaction and conversation – even the ones I have with myself – an adventure.  I’m treading carefully.    It is what it is and I can’t change my circumstances, but I am working at being mindful of my reactions so I don’t make things even worse.  I’m reminding myself to stop; to breathe; to pay attention to what’s swirling inside my heart and mind as well as what is going on around me, and to own whatever is there so I’m engaging life from a place of authenticity.      

I’m also trying to remember that (especially when I’m already on emotional overload), I don’t have to take on everyone over everything.  There are times when it is necessary to confront things head-on as Jesus did the moneychangers in the Temple.  There are also times to play the “not my circus, not my monkeys” card.  Or, as Solomon put it, there is “…a time to be silent and a time to speak…”

Some days are better than others.  I’m accepting those as a gift, and for the days that don’t go so well, I’m hanging onto the words of the prophet Jeremiah, himself no stranger to adversity, suffering, loss, and pain: 

“…the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;   God’s mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning…”

Each day we are afforded a fresh start and another opportunity to treat ourselves and those around us with compassion, grace, mercy, honesty, and integrity; to “…do justice and to love kindness…”

How will you do that today?

How will you be a living, breathing manifestation of Resurrection and New Life in our world, which so desperately needs it?

The Hereafter

My husband was a “fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants” poster child.  He lived on what he lovingly referred to as “the leading edge of progress” and was always looking for the next new thing to try.  We owned a Tandy 2000 computer, and a couple of Alienware models.  In 1999 he spent a week at the Harbor Branch Oceanographic Institute investigating whether aquaculture was a more economically viable option than raising hogs, and that summer we had a tank of hybrid striped bass and crappie in our basement.  In 2011 it was a SANS Institute boot-camp style Internet Security course.  Had NASA or SpaceX called and offered him a spot on the next launch into outer space he would have gone without thinking twice.  Me?  Not so much.  I’m a planner.  I need to know what’s coming so I can devise adequate strategies for dealing with it. 

But in the blink of an eye that went out the window when we heard those two small words “brain tumors”.  Things changed so fast there was barely time to register what was happening, let alone process it.  There was no time to plan, and no way to figure out what to plan for anyway.  My to-do list morphed from the oh-so-familiar tasks that up to that point had defined my life – bookkeeping, meetings, worship planning, writing and preaching sermons - into an endless litany of Things I’ve Never Done Before, Things I’ve Never Done By Myself Before, Things I Don’t Know How To Do, Things I Didn’t Even Know I Needed to Do, and Things There Are No Words For:  If I see a spider now, I have to murder it myself. 

Moving brought a desperately needed change of scenery and proximity to my family, yet even as it settled some questions it gave birth to others.  The mundane details of my life after the move – those constant trips into rooms asking myself what I was here after and where I had squirreled it away - mirrored the larger landscape of my existence.  What was I ‘here after’?  Meaning: what was I going to do with my life now that I wasn’t doing any of the things I used to do?     

That question was so open-ended, so big, so overwhelming, I didn’t even know where to start to try to answer it.  Realizing that I’m not alone in this has been helpful.  Life isn’t static.  Things change.  There are ups and downs, an ebb and flow, (sometimes a blizzard or a hurricane).  Stuff happens and we don’t always get to choose which stuff.  And loss is part of all of those things, for all of us.  We lose loved ones; car keys; basketball games.  We lose jobs; houses; our health.  We lose patience; our tempers; innocence; trust.  We lose our sense of safety and security in the wake of tragic events and natural disasters.  And we have to figure out how to move on.

Going back to that ‘what am I here after?’ question and looking at it specifically in terms of priorities – those things that are most important to me – was valuable and instructive.  I discovered that while the way my daily life embodies them has changed, my most deeply held beliefs, values, and convictions have not.  Faith and family are still at the top of my list, and that’s given me a sense of how to make meaning out of what’s left of my life and contribute to the common good in this new place.  I’m not there yet; it’s still very much a work in progress, but I’ve started inching forward. 

And here’s where I slap on the disclaimer sticker:  Because these experiences and the questions they leave in their wake are so unique and individualized, I realize what is helpful for me may not be for you; feel free to take all this with a box of salt, if necessary.

What about you?  What are you ‘here after’?  Meaning: what are your priorities in life?   What core values and beliefs are at the heart of who you are and what you do?   

What things are most important to you?  What speaks peace to your soul?  What gives you a sense of fulfillment?  Brings you joy?

Is there a way to order your days that will bring more of these things into your daily life?

If, like me, you’re still working on this, (and we are all works in progress), know that wherever you are in sorting this out is okay, and you are not alone. 

Moving On

Whether you’re doing it because you really want to, or because you truly have no choice and know in your heart of hearts that this is the only thing you can do, it is a hard thing.  The process of sorting, packing, schlepping, and unloading all of your stuff is a ton of work at best, and an emotional mine field at worst.  I was reminded of that when I saw my new neighbors move in across the street a few days ago.  With just one glance at the boxes stacked in their garage I was immediately transported back to my own move and how difficult it was to pack up my life and relocate after my husband’s death.

We had already started talking about retirement, downsizing, and moving someplace warm, and had discussed what to do with most of the big-ticket items, but when the time came, I was left to do everything on my own and there were lots of little things I had no clear-cut guidance on.  So I played my own version of “twenty questions”.  Do I love it?  (Do I even like it?)  Do I need it?  (How many casserole dishes does one need, anyway?  I honestly have no idea.)  Do I use it?  Do I use it often enough to justify paying to drag it 1100 miles?  Is it functional, or is it ‘past it’?  (Do I even know what this is?)  Will my kids and/or grandkids want this someday?  Can I let this go, or does it hold too many memories?  If it goes with me, will there be room to store it?  And if it stays, what do I do with it now?  Donate?  (But does anybody really want this thing???)  Pitch?  (But it seems too good to throw away!)  It was an inexact science, practiced inexactly, but when I was finished, knowing that I was taking with me only what I truly needed and wanted was liberating.

And yet even when the worst of it is over – when the unpacking is finally done and the boxes have been recycled - there is the not-so-small matter of having to learn to navigate new territory.  (And doing that in the fog of grief adds an additional layer of disorientation…)  In a new house, in a new place, nothing was where it used to be, and some things weren’t even here anymore.  No.  The coffee cups are not in the cabinet to the right of the sink.  You have a kitchen island now.  There is no cabinet to the right of the sink!  I lost track of how many times I walked into a room to look for something, only to have to ask myself “Did I bring that?  And if I did, where in the world did I put it???”

Several things helped me adjust.  First, (after I wallowed around in frustration for a couple of days), I resolved to try to view the disruption and disorientation as an opportunity, not an obstacle.  If something wasn’t where I expected it to be, I gave myself the grace to keep re-arranging things until they felt “right” to me.  I was intentional about placing cherished possessions that held great meaning – family photos and artwork, the quilt rack my husband made for me, the quilts our grandmothers and great-grandmothers had crafted, my mother’s glassware collection – where I could see them, which gave me a sense of connection and rootedness, even though they were residing in a brand-new space.  And, most importantly, for the first time since 1993, my kids and I (and half of my grandkids) are all in the same place again and I am not alone, an incredible blessing for which I am most grateful.

             Have you moved recently?  On your own?

            If you haven’t moved your whole house, have you otherwise rearranged or relocated some portion of your life?  Emptied a closet?  Shoveled out the basement?  Have you repurposed a room?  Reorganized your office?  Changed jobs?

            What helped you get through the process?

            If you haven’t moved – yet - but know that this is in your future, what have you been thinking and feeling about it?

            As you sort and pack and purge, as you arrange and re-arrange, may courage and stamina and clarity and purpose be yours.  May the Spirit gift you with wisdom to guide your choices, and grant you grace and peace.

In the beginning...

I have always wanted to write.

While I was working and consumed with all those things that are part of keeping life and limb together on a daily basis, I didn’t think I had time to pursue that.  Ironically, (or not), for the last five years of his life, my husband constantly badgered me (in the nicest possible way, of course), about ‘when I was going to quit my day job and write’.  I always reminded him (in the nicest possible way, of course), that we needed my day job to help support his farming habit.  But with his sudden and unexpected death in June of 2014, the landscape of my life changed overnight.  Nothing was the way it used to be.  The day job was no more.  I no longer did hardly any of the things that had previously defined my existence, and even the small handful of things that I did still do had a decidedly different tenor now that I did them all alone.

With that drastic change in reality came the necessity for me to figure out, as I mention on my Home page, who I am now, where I fit in the world and how to rebuild my life now that the life I had no longer exists.  Which is why you’re seeing this blog.  Since writing is something I’ve always dreamed of doing, and I now have the space and time to accommodate that, I’m trying it out. This is brand new territory for me, both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.  I’m hoping it works, but if it doesn’t, I’ve already decided to take a page from my husband’s m. o. and instead of bemoaning the failure, (if that’s what happens…), I’m going to use it as a ‘permission slip’ to try something else.

While I speak from my own unique perspective having lost my spouse and best friend, the things I will be exploring in this space have a universal application at their core.  We all deal with loss of various types; we all reach points in our lives where what we’ve always done is no longer possible and we have to do something else; at times we all experience loneliness and sadness; celebrating small victories and acknowledging and cultivating what brings us joy is important for everyone to do.  Discerning exactly who we are and where we fit in the world is something all of us engage in at some level throughout the span of our lives.   

I did not expect to be traveling this path at this point in my life, but here I am, moving forward one step at a time, one day at a time.  I would cherish your companionship as I journey.

Just wondering:  If you could do anything you wanted right this minute, what would you do? 

Is there something you’ve always wanted to do that you’ve never been able to?

What about that excites you and brings you joy?

Even if you can’t do that “one thing” right now, is there a way to incorporate some of the excitement and joy it generates into your current reality?