by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 Her only son is dead. And she’s a widow. Women in her time and culture, had no means of survival or sustenance outside of a husband or son providing it. She is suddenly plummeted into uncertainty and poverty.
We find Jesus walking with his disciples into the town of Nain, and into the middle of this scene, just as this broken hearted, grief stricken widow and her accompanying mourners carry her son’s body outside the town gate to a burial place.
There is no mention this widow had ever heard of Jesus. She didn’t run to Him as others had, begging for help, pleading for the life of her son. Immersed in the depths of loss and sorrow, she was unaware of His presence.
Grief consumes. It overwhelms everything. At Mike’s memorial service and in the months following, I was mostly unaware of who and what surrounded me.
People rotated in and out of my days, brought things, did things, hugged, spoke words. I barely remember any of it. It’s all a blur, still. A horrid slow motion video with sight, sound and activity taking place on the far edges of my existence. None of it making sense in the permanent absence of the man who, for years, had been my most intimate partner in life. I was the walking dead, a zombie going through the motions of the legalities and responsibilities Mike’s death had suddenly thrust upon me. The entire time my mind repeating like a scratched vinyl record, “He’s dead, he’s gone. How can this be real?” And my heart screaming in refusal to accept what my head already knew. This was it. It’s done. He’s not coming back to us anymore.
There is this me that understands what the widow was feeling. But what I find most stunning about this account is how it completely implodes the long standing belief that it’s our job, my job, to have ‘enough’ or ‘more faith’ so God will notice, show up and do something. How do you have ‘enough faith’ when you can barely breathe? When your heart throbs with aching and your mind is a hurricane of fear, confusion, shock? When you’ve lost all appetite for food, are sleeping only thirty minutes a night for months on end, and are so mentally, emotionaly and physically exhausted the only thing keeping you upright is the adrenaline of grief? How?
“And when the Lord saw her..”
That’s it right there! She didn’t see Him. She was unaware. Blinded by her sorrow. Deaf in her lament. He saw her. “He had compassion on her..” His heart suddenly exploded with mercy and love. He understood the desperation of her circumstance and without needing ANYTHING from her. Without being asked. He dried her tears and touched the stretcher that held her son’s cold body. Everything and everyone stopped as he returned life to this little family.."and Jesus gave him to his mother."
Though I begged and pleaded for it at the moment of Mike’s death, I, of course, didn’t get a resurrection story. At least not in the way I would have preferred. Wouldn’t that have been awesome! But what I find comforting and am coming to understand, is in the midst of pain, confusion, anger, suffering, sorrow, Jesus is always doing resurrection work.
It’s not easy this coming back from the dead, but His compassion, mercy and love does not look away. Never forsakes or abandons.
He Sees.
Notices.
Touches.
Renews.
Resurrects.
Even when I don’t know how to trust. And even when I don’t have ‘enough faith’ to see. It’s Who and What He Is and Does.
2 Timothy 2:13 "..if we are faithless, he remains faithful—for he cannot deny himself."
Luke 7:11-15 Soon afterward he went to a town called Nain, and his disciples and a great crowd went with him. As he drew near to the gate of the town, behold, a man who had died was being carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow, and a considerable crowd from the town was with her. And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her and said to her, “Do not weep.” Then he came up and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, “Young man, I say to you, arise.” And the dead man sat up and began to speak, and Jesus gave him to his mother.
John 11:25 “Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live”
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 It took about three weeks of random days, doing a section at a time, but I finally finished pressure washing the pool deck today.
As I was pulling the weeds that grow between the pavers with pliers, because my arthritis crippled fingers aren’t strong enough to grasp them, I was thinking about how adaptable humans are. How we endure and adjust to life’s difficult twists and turns. The Serenity Prayer has been quoted for a long time: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference.”
I‘ve had to adapt to many difficult challenges through the years and realize of late, that I have always had a problem with the acceptance line of this quote. I‘ve never been good at accepting what I can’t change because I’m not sure I should. To me acceptance means giving up, giving in to a thing and allowing it to rule, and I see little in scripture or history where that has ever been a good idea.
My first son was born with a genetic disability, and while I accept and love HIM for who HE is, I have never fully accepted the imitations disability has placed on him. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done everything possible to help him reach his full potential through the years. Have I adapted to how his disability affects him, me and our family? Yes, and continue to adjust daily. But I have never rejoiced that my son has not been able to live his life the way others do. I have never stopped grieving in the depths of my being that he still needs continual supervision as an adult.
I know in my heart God’s original creation was never meant to be this way, so complete acceptance still alludes me. All the ways I’ve adapted to having a crippling chronic illness, beginning in my mid-twenties, are too many to list here. Pulling weeds with pliers is just one of hundreds. Learning to eat properly to reduce inflammation in my body is another. Acceptance means I would give up. Lay in my bed, drink soda pop and eat donuts, howling in pain, expecting others to do everything for me.
There are times when we need others to do for us, but ‘the wisdom to know the difference’ is part of adjusting to our situation. I can never accept coming home from grocery shopping to find the man I loved for forty three years, dead. Just like that. Gone. No. Never. Because I know physical separation, death in this life, was never God’s intention from the beginning. Death was chosen and since then, we all live with the physical consequences of this choice. So after a lifetime of marriage, I’m at a new level of adaptation. Learning how to be single. How to be alone. How to get things done that are hard for me to do.  So many of the tasks Mike did are now mine and I’m slowly adjusting to all these new responsibilities; knowing when I should and who I can call for help, who I can trust and when I can do a thing myself.
I‘m certain I‘m making mistakes, bumbling along, asking for wisdom, help and endurance to figure it all out but I also understand I have to be patient, even with myself. I’ve been dropped suddenly into new territory, without a map or GPS, and this journey requires a steep learning curve.
As humans we grieve all our losses. Some impact us so deeply, that we never think of them without feeling that sludge hammer of sorrow to the heart and it is a huge misinterpretation of scripture to believe God asks us to deny this reality. What He wants is to be invited into it. To meet us there. To walk with us in and through.
So while I will not blindly accept any of these things that were never His original intention, neither will I pretend they don’t exist. I meet them head on with HIS strength and guidance. I have little of my own. Many days are exhausting and difficult, but I must not, cannot, settle into acceptance. I must keep trying. Keep asking. Keep seeking. Keep enduring.
By Father’s great grace I adjust. Adapt. Pull weeds with pliers and keep going.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
I found this photo today, upside down on an end table in the family room. An old one, judging by how we’re dressed, possibly taken in the late 1980’s or early 90’s.
A snapshot of happier days with Mike’s youngest sister and husband, and me and what used to be my husband. Used to be is the key phrase here, because two years ago my husband died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. And as you can guess, he was in this picture. If you look closely his hand is draped over my right shoulder.
As soon as I flipped this photo over, I saw Mike had been scratched out. And I knew who did it. But I wasn’t sure why. What I do know is Jon is still internalizing the loss of his father, as am I, and though he’s spoken little of it from the beginning until now, this is proof.
I took the photo to Jon, put it down in front of him and very gently asked, “Jon, why did you you scratch your dad out of this picture?” It was a shot in the dark to ask and I really didn’t expect an answer from my mostly nonverbal son.
He glanced at the picture and looked away. “He’s gone,” was the reply. So much sadness in his expression. So much hurt and pain in his eyes. Maybe my disabled son thinks scratching his dad out of a photo somehow makes it all go away. I wish it was that easy. Wish I knew Jon’s thoughts. Wish we could have that conversation. Wish he could open up and pour out everything he’s feeling inside. But he never has. He doesn’t have those words.
So he just makes his father disappear.
In the past we’ve been told by ‘experts’ and believed that grief is on a timeline, it’s not. Two years is nothing compared to the lifetime we had Mike with us. Thirty seven for Jon. Forty three for me. So you will excuse us if it takes us that many years to ‘get over him.’ Please?
Honestly, I doubt we ever will. As much as we would love to scratch the sorrow and pain of loosing him away, we can’t. Mike not being here has impacted us greatly and it’s painfully difficult. Still. We are so aware of his absence, his physical presence missing here, in our daily life.
Time does not erase the memory of him. Or the loss of him. We’re simply learning, with the passage of days, months, years, how to live without him. Maybe time will permit us to be better at that. I hope so, because scraping Mike’s image off every photo we can find, certainly won’t.
In the days ahead, I pray I can find the wisdom to help my son’s heart know this. And mine too.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 It’s been two years. Today.
What I never knew, what you can’t know until you’re here, is the large part of you that dies with your spouse. It can’t be helped. Through the years of togetherness your existence becomes so completely entangled and intertwined, you loose entire pieces of yourself when they’re gone.
Not only do you suffer the loss of a person but also the unique history the two of you created. The glances, the personal jokes, the comfortable silence only you both understood. The way you often knew what the other wanted, liked or thought without even asking. The decisions made together that shaped the path of your life. The parts of your mind, soul and body only your loved one knew. All of the small nuances and intimate sharing that was just the two of you. These all have vanished and nothing or no one else can ever replace them.
I lost so much when I lost him. Ironically one of the last sermons Mike preached was on how to handle loss. One statement he made that has stuck with me is this, “God is the God of all we’ve lost and the God of all we have left”. For seven hundred and thirty days, I‘ve lived in the aftermath of stumbling, faltering attempts to move forward. My heart has been much slower to accept what my brain has known since the evening he left me, Mike is gone from this earth and he’s never coming back. And while the passing of two years has done nothing for the missing of him, I must continue to live.
Discovering who I am without my husband is a daunting task. I still don’t know. But God does. “The LORD says, "I will guide you along the best pathway for your life. I will advise you and watch over you.” Psalm 32:8
He is the God of what is left of me. As year three begins, only He can show me where to go from here. I‘m Hoping. Trusting. Listening.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
Good Morning Father. I’m awake.
Another day, and my first thought as always, is he’s gone.  Still.
His side of the bed unruffled. Comforter flat and wrinkle free. Pillows smooth and in place.
Here I am without him. Again.
I can’t do this widow thing. But You can.
I can’t do this single mom/caregiver of a grown son with disabilities thing. But You can.
I don’t have enough faith. But You do.
I am without hope. But You’re not.
I’m not strong. But You are.
So I will push this blanket back. Put my legs over the side of this bed and my feet on the floor.
I will stand and get ready for whatever this day brings.
I’d rather pull this blanket over my head and stay right here. But You’re with me.
He’s not here. But You are.
Thank You for never abandoning us. You and Your Son have not forsaken me and mine.
You have and are everything I need. I place my trust in You.
We will do this day together. Here we go.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
Mike and I moved many times through the years of our marriage (read about that here). 
Whenever we relocated we left houses and some unnecessary things behind and carried many possessions with us to the next destination.
Such is the nature of life. Change comes and we have to decide what to carry with us and what to leave behind. It’s rarely an all or nothing proposition, but a mix of both.
Since the death of my husband, a little more than year ago, I’ve learned the pervasive thought of modern western culture is to grieve on a linear path of stages for a while, get through it, get over it and finally move on to a happy, contented new life.
Grief is a problem to be ‘fixed’ rather than an experience to be acknowledged. Our culture doesn’t deal well with death, pain, suffering or grief. We personally avoid these at all costs and we often don’t know what to do with those who are experiencing them. Our convenience loving, pleasure seeking, short attention span, hurry-up-and-make-bad-stuff-go-away culture, often and unintentionally places grieving people in a position of pretending to be alright or having to defend their sorrow, eventually forcing them into suffocating silence.
Moving on implies leaving everything behind. To not speak of our dead loved one again, acting as if they never existed, if not ridiculous, is at the very least, unfair and a dishonor to our departed and the love we shared with them. The truth is, our love for a person doesn’t die with them. We never ‘get over’ it, because their life and death are ingrained into our experience and become an integral part of who we are. As long as I breathe, I will carry Mike’s life and death forward into the future I learn to live without him.
Recently someone was brave enough to tell me they had heard about Mike’s death and said, “That must be so difficult.” This was an acknowledgement of the pain. “Tell me about him. What was he like?” This was an honoring of his existence. They didn’t dance around the reality of his life or death and what I was going through. They didn’t assume I didn’t want to talk about it. They didn’t offer cliches or platitudes. And they weren’t afraid of my sadness or tears. They entered into the loss with me.
It was a beautiful thing and something we all need to practice as we enter into one another’s pain and suffering. When we do we are mirroring God’s heart for the broken. He didn’t avoid our pain and suffering or run from it. He put on a suit of skin and entered totally into the experience of humanity. The blessings, fear, joy, sadness, laughter, tears and darkness.
God chose and still chooses to be with us in all of it. He doesn’t pretend to make the hard stuff go away but enters into it with us. He promises to be Emanuel. God With Us!
And moving forward, especially during the sadness of another Christmas season, I can be thankful for this, even when it’s difficult to be thankful for anything else.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 One year ago today my husband and I woke up and went about business as usual with no hint of what the day would bring. By it’s end, Mike was gone, instantly and without warning. Death came calling and the life we had together, the one I had known for so long, suddenly evaporated.
“Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring.” Proverbs 27:1
Honestly, it’s been my worst (and there’s been some tough ones) year ever. It feels like yesterday, still so fresh in my mind and heart. I still can’t believe he’s really gone.
The gnawing sadness and giant void that replaced what Mike’s existence once filled, remains. I wonder if it always will. I miss him constantly. I miss all that was us. This year my faith has been severely tested. The past twelve months have been a season of grasping, clawing, failing, falling, leaning and learning. I’ve taken some steps forward and many more backward.
I’m learning how to make decisions and handle situations on my own and deal with emotions never experienced before. There are still nights of fear and anxiety and days when giving up seems to be a better option than moving forward.
A year ago, I could never have imagined a life without Mike in it. When I think I won’t make it through another day God, who is The More I desperately need, is patiently guiding me on a growing faith journey like none I‘ve walked before.
Today is a day of remembering and sadness. But also a day of thankfulness because I’ve survived. I didn’t know I could at first. Didn’t think I would, especially in those early days when just continuing to breathe seemed impossible.
So I take time today to thank God for being More.
More grace,
More comfort.
More peace,
More strength.
More provision.
More faithfulness.
More mercy.
More love.
More trust.
More of everything I am not, without Him. And More of all there is the possibility of becoming because of Him.
“God has the power to provide you with more than enough of every kind of grace. That way, you will have everything you need always and in everything..” 2 Corinthians 9:8
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 In October 2017, when my husband died, this sudden, life altering earthquake shook me to my core. Everything that was secure, safe and predictable took a seismic shift. I feel as if I‘m clinging to the edge of open ground, trying not to fall into the deep chasm it has created. If I‘m honest, I have no dreams right now and many moments I struggle to have hope. It’s daily survival mode around here. So where do I go from here? I’m still taking care of an adult disabled son who needs me and there are so many complicated layers to this dynamic I’m often at a loss to explain. Jon requires most of my breathing hours. I’ve heard I should have dreams, goals. I should allow God to resurrect them. I should go back to where they died and bring them back to life. But how? Where? When? At this point I can’t even recall any. My life has been spent supporting my husband and taking care of my children. There’s been very little of it that’s been about me and I’m not one bit sorry for it. My youngest son is grown and on his own now and my husband is gone. He’s not coming back. There’s no resurrecting that! As I talked to my Heavenly Dad about it this morning He spoke quietly to my heart. “Daughter, This is not complicated. YOU are MY dream. I AM your goal. Your dream should be to know you are LOVED by ME. Your dream should be to KNOW ME. Every other thing you do, have, want and become will flow from there. Walk with ME through the Valley of the Shadow of Death and Darkness. Don’t struggle so much to figure it out. Trust MY LOVE FOR YOU and let your dream and purpose unfold as we travel this road together.” I‘m not very good at this yet and I ‘m struggling to trust Him in this new, hard place. I have neither the energy or faith to dream but He has all the strength and faith I need. HE is my faith. HE is my source. HE is the wellspring of my life. Dreams that never existed can’t be resurrected BUT could it be, God can create brand new ones after everything inside me has died? For those of us who feel like it’s over and there’s nothing left to resurrect - Yes!! He can make all things new! Even ME. Maybe someday I‘ll dream again. That’s all I got for now and what I’m holding on to. Revelation 21:5 “And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.”
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 It’s Valentines Day. The day for hearts, flowers, chocolates, cards, dinner dates and love. For the first time in my life my Valentine isn’t here. Mike made a big deal of celebration. In all the years of our marriage he never once forgot our anniversary, birthdays, Valentines or other special days. It was important for him to mark milestone events in time. Today he won’t be doing so. Not here. Not with me. I always knew where Mike was. He was religious about calling or texting to let me know if his plans changed or he was running late. He never stood me up or left me hanging. Never! Now I don’t know exactly where he is or what he’s doing. He’s gone to Heaven, a place I know is real, but am yet to see or understand, and all communication between us has abruptly ended. My husband can’t call. He can’t text. He can’t send me a card. Or a kiss. The evening he died I was at the grocery store and because Mike and I shared a love for the beauty of plants and flowers, when I saw these roses, snapped a picture on my iPhone and sent it to him. He never responded. My man, who was obsessive about responding to texts and phone calls immediately, was already gone at this point. That’s what the EMT’s who arrived an hour later, told me. I found my unanswered text on his phone a few days later. It seems the very last thing I did as he died, was send him flowers. So today to honor the memory of the one who would normally bring me flowers, I share these. I hope whatever he’s doing off in Eternity, it is an experience of love far beyond any I could ever give him here. I hope he is seeing flowers far more incredible than any we ever admired together. I pray Jesus reminds him it is an Earth day of celebrating love and hands him a perfect, deep orange rose. “This is from Diane. She wants you to know she will always love you. Happy Valentine’s Day.” .
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 Jon came out of his room and down the hallway toward the office where my friend and I were talking, me in my office chair and she on the opposite side of the desk, in the chair Mike once occupied. Mike and I had often hung out together in this room and many engaging conversations took place from these chairs. Jon’s face lit up, as he peeked through the glass panes of the French door and the large fake fern blocking most of his view. He quickly hurried through the door then stopped, frozen, as heart wrenching disappointment flooded his expression. This son, who rarely talks, clenched his fists, “That’s my dad’s chair! You are not my dad! Get out of his chair!” He yelled, his face grimacing in anger. Surprised by his outburst, my friend stood up, looking from him to me, the ‘What should I do?’ question in her eyes. As I watched this play out, a new wave of deep sorrow flooded through me. I began to cry. I understood, Jon had seen the silhouette of a person in his dad’s chair and for a moment, he believed Mike was there. My friend finally spoke, “I‘m so sorry Jon. I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t sit in this chair anymore if you don’t want me to.” Anger was suddenly replaced by sadness. Jon turned, leaned his head against the filing cabinet and began to cry quiet, trickling tears. I wanted so much to wrap him in a long embrace and cry with him but I knew he would never allow it. Attempting to maintain some composure for this grieving son who desperately needed comfort, I went to him and placed my hand on his shoulder. Barely. Only touching his shirt really, not his skin. “I’m so sorry Honey. I know you thought that was Dad in his chair when you first looked. But remember, he’s not here anymore. I know that makes you sad, angry and disappointed all at the same time because sometimes it does me too. I’m so sorry you have to go through this. I know you miss him.” He wrenched his shoulder back and threw my touch away, anger surging through him again. We faced several more tidal waves of emotion as Jon processed his disappointment. Eventually he quieted and went to the kitchen. Last night, this text came from my other child.  And my heart breaks again. My sons are still reeling from the loss of their father and the empty chair is but a reminder of what an amazing, caring, family man Mike was and how severely he is missed. I wonder at how blessed we were to have Mike in our days and how we’ll learn to move forward without him here. We each had our own way of leaning on him and loving him. His absence is an emptiness, a large sink hole, pulling us in with an unrelenting ache of sadness. I pray for my children in their sorrow. I pray at some point, the weeping of this long night will be replaced with a renewed joy (Psalm 30:5) for all of us. I pray God will fill the emptiness of our hearts with His overwhelming love and goodness. I pray...pray..and pray. From the empty chair. Psalm 147:3 “He heals the broken hearts and binds up their sorrows.“
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 On Christmas Eve of 1974, Mike asked me over to the apartment he and his brother shared. We’d been dating since June of that year. Not long, when I think about it now. I drove to the old house in our home town and climbed the stairs to the third story attic some eager landlord had turned into a makeshift resemblance of a living space. As I remember, It was sparsely furnished, befitting of two young bachelors barely out of high school. In the living room, a Christmas tree, set in front of a floor to ceiling window, was decorated with not enough lights and dime store ornaments. The only other furnishing was a shabby sofa which we leaned against as we sat on the floor, holding hands. That evening Mike reached under that old sofa, pulled out a tiny box with a red bow on top and asked me to marry him. He was eighteen. I was nineteen. I’ve never celebrated a Christmas without him since. Until now. Year after year, Mike was my Christmas tradition. He was the constant in every season; from setting up the tree, then sitting on the couch to watch the kids and I decorate it, or hiding gifts all over the house and warning me not to peek if I found bags and boxes in strange places, to his impatient waiting for the pie to come out of the oven, so he could harass me endlessly to have a piece before Christmas dinner. Forty three Christmas seasons have come and gone and now, so has he, and I have to figure out how to rewrap Christmas in a different package, one that doesn’t continuously assault me with loss, emptiness and tears. I don’t know how to do Christmas without my husband. I don’t even know where to start. I do know that Christmas will never be the same again. One certainty of this season is a confidence in Who it has always been about. I know the Jesus we are celebrating. While everything feels disheveled, broken and uncertain; in the middle of my sorrow, my hope is in The One the prophet Isaiah foretold and Jesus himself proclaimed to be: “ The Spirit of the Lord God is upon Me, because the Lord has anointed Me to preach good tidings to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound; To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God; To comfort all who mourn, to console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; That they may be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.” Isaiah 61:1-3, Luke 4:18-21. No other Christmas season has it ever been as clear as in this one, and never have I been more thankful for Emmanuel who came for me. Emmanuel who is with me. I SO qualify to receive His promise of hope and redemption and He does not disappoint. Jesus is the gift that keeps on giving. In whatever difficult, impossible, unbearable, crushing situation you’re facing this Christmas, you qualify too. Merry CHRISTmas!
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 I’ve learned a lot the last few months about the role best performed by my late husband’s calculator brain rather than my illlogical. creative one. I never wanted to learn or do all this administrative stuff he did so well; things I cared less about under normal circumstances, and especially despise, in the middle of unbearable sorrow. Paperwork. Forms. Systems. Numbers. Rules. Regulations. Institutions. Bureaucracy. Red tape. Makes my eyes cross, my brain turn to mush and my blood pressure rise. I feel like I’m back in Algebra class wondering who decided letters and numbers should go together. And I flunked algebra twice then passed by one point the third time around. In summer school. With tutoring! Apparently I’m a bit smarter than I’ve ever given myself credit for (notice I said ‘a bit’) and Mike might be proud of me. Unfortunately, I’m being forced to learn this stuff because he’s not here to do it anymore. It’s amazing how you can rise to a challenge when not given a choice. Anyway back to what I’ve figured out and what will save you some hassle should you ever (I pray not) be in my shoes. So for what it’s worth: Most financial institutions no longer honor wills. Yep. You read that right. “Wills can be contested,” I’ve been told. So a will is no longer the top dog of the legal document pile. Most banks, especially the larger ones, now have in-house beneficiary forms. If we had known about this and used it, I wouldn’t be retaining a lawyer to access funds from a savings account we forgot to put my name on. Ask your bank if they have this form and by all means name your beneficiary and sign it. If you each have separate accounts and would like your spouse to have access to it immediately upon your death, this form should take care of it. But ask to be sure. (By the way, here’s something I didn’t know; Power of Attorney, is only useful if the person you have it for is still alive. It’s useless once they’re deceased.) Be certain both spouse names are on every single account you have if you want your significant other to have immediate access. It’s better to use the word ‘OR’ between your names whenever possible, rather than ‘AND’. ‘Or’ means either. ‘And’ means both. Even when supplying a death certificate, I’ve had issues depositing an insurance check for hurricane roof repair because Mike couldn’t sign it when it used the word ‘and’. Be certain both names are on car titles joined by the word ‘OR’. I am able to sell either of our cars and easily transfer registration solely to my name because of this little word. ‘Or’ means either one of us can make decisions about the car without the other. If there is someone you want to have immediate access to your car when you’re no longer here, go to DMV and pay the $80.00 (cost where I live. Fees may be different in other counties or states) to add their name (along with that ‘or’ word), otherwise the car will have to go through probate because the owner is unable to sign the title. The same is true of real estate, houses or property. Make sure both names are on everything. Ask, when you open accounts, buy property or perform any legal transaction, what can be done to insure this asset passes to my spouse immediately if I’m deceased. Then take the time to do it. Speaking of cars, be sure you know who your roadside service is. What mechanic, garage or dealer services your cars and whether you still have a valid warranty. I‘ve already had to deal with a car that wouldn’t start. Car maintenance was another task I never thought much about. Mike always took care of it. Unless you plan on hiring it out, be sure you have general knowledge of other maintenance items such as pool pumps, filters, chemicals, and cleaning / Service for Air conditioning and heating systems. AC filters and when and how to change them / House water softening or purifying systems / Know where your whole house water shut off is to avoid a flooded house should a pipe burst or some other indoor water emergency occur. Much bill paying, banking, even investing is now done online. Can’t emphasize enough!!!! How important it is to sit down together and take the time to make a spreadsheet listing ALL accounts with contact info, account numbers, user ID and password. Keep all online access info current by updating passwords as they change. Believe me, this will simplify your transition to single-ness if you’re not the one who takes care of the family finances. Keep a list of reoccurring monthly and/or yearly payments with account numbers, amounts, passwords to online accounts and what bank account or credit card they’re tied to. Also list bills that are still paid by mail. Write down active credit cards by account name and number along with online access information to credit card statements and payment if needed. And don’t forget to update any and all info (especially passwords) if/as it changes. Keep a file cabinet organized and up to date. Organize by categories: Bank accounts, credit cards, life insurance, car insurance, health insurance, real estate, loans, IRA’s, taxes, etc. Go through it once a year (at least) and update or remove old or invalid information from your files. This will make it easier to find everything needed when you’re heart is aching and your brain has turned into sad, unfocused mush. A few side notes; You’ll be asked for your deceased spouse’s social security number often at first, so make sure you have a copy of it available or have it memorized. Also don’t cancel your spouses cell phone account immediately. You might need it to search for important information or the phone number may be tied to some vital accounts, text or email notices you might not know you need at first. No one wants to talk about the possibility of death and couples never want to think about living without each other, but I’m now a certain statistic that it can happen and sometimes without warning. Whatever practical steps can be taken to minimize panic and ease the burden of grief will be worth it, someday, for one of you. Take the time to prepare just in case, with hopes you’ll have a long and wonderful life together.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 He’s gone. Just like that. Suddenly. No suspicion. No warning. No alert. He came home from the office, changed his clothes, cleaned the pool, took the trash to the road. It was a typical day like any other. I left to do some errands and he was fine. When I came home my husband was dead. I wonder what it was like for him to be here alone, those last few minutes, when breath left his body. I wonder if I could have helped him or saved him somehow if I’d been home instead of wheeling a cart up and down store aisles trying to decide what we’d have for dinner next week. He was my partner in life. We depended on each other and I wasn’t there when he most needed me. And there was no way for either of us to know I needed to be. There was no way for us to know our life together was ending that day. There was no time to say goodbye. I don’t know how to process this. It haunts me in the night hours. I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe I never will. It has changed me. Drastically. Do other’s look and see a sadder version of the same Diane? I‘m not the same. Something has shifted. On the inside, I don’t recognize myself. I‘m a totally different me. Time flies away. We live like there’s no tomorrow. We plan as if we’ll be here forever. But we won’t. The day finally comes when its over and we move on to eternity. Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that. James 4:13-15. Love like there’s no tomorrow. Do and say the things that need to be said everyday. Don’t live as if this is all there is. Live with eternity in mind, always, because we never know when we’ll have to say goodbye. Or if we’ll even have that chance.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
I  write this on a flight to Chattanooga, Tennessee, to celebrate my son’s first published book release. He’s hosting a book launch party this weekend. It seems to be a thing authors do now and it’s a rather big deal. David’s father would have been excited to attend this event. My husband should be here next to me. But the seat is as empty as the gapping hole in my heart. We often went places without each other. I’d go and Mike would stay home with Jon or the reverse. Though we didn’t always enjoy our necessary separations, we accepted it as how things had to be. And I always knew he’d be waiting for me when I returned. This flight feels different than any I’ve taken before. I’m surrounded by people, crammed together inside an Allegiant MD80, yet it’s so lonely. As the miles are absorbed beneath me and the land slides away, the one person on this planet, who knew me better than anyone, who made history and a life with me is missing. I could fly all the way around the circle of the earth in this plane, and not find him. My husband won’t be there when I go back home. I’m flying solo now. For those who say “He’s still with you,” or “He’s watching over you, I say “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” There’s no scriptural basis I can find for that. If he is watching me all the time he’s sad at how heartbroken I am without him. There’s not supposed to be any sadness or heartache in Heaven. So I have my doubts. And right now it’s not enough to think he might be watching me from wherever he is. It’s just not enough for me. I can’t see, hear or touch him. I can talk to the air and tell him how proud we are of our kid’s accomplishments but Mike isn’t here with me to share in it. He doesn’t answer. All I get in return is silence. Saying he’s with me doesn’t help. It doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, hearing that he’s watching from somewhere I’m not, makes it worse. Only a reminder Mike’s physical presence is sorely missing from mine. Maybe I’ll be more accepting of such platitudes later. In a year. Or two. Or three. But not now. So Mike, if by some chance you are listening and if you can see, I’ve arrived now and I’m holding a copy of our son’s book in my hands. It’s amazing. So is he. Just like his father. And it’s cold in Chattanooga. You’d be complaining right along with me. Wish we could lay here together under this fluffy, warm comforter and talk about it all. Just want you to know this weekend, you’ll sure be missed at this celebration of what we, and then our son, created.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 I’m asked a lot these days, “How you doing?” I’m not sure if people want the standard answer or the real answer. I’m not even sure I know the answer. Trying to get through another day without my husband is pure agony. I still can’t believe he’s gone or that I’ll never again hear his familiar, “What’s up!” coming through the door at the end of a work day. As a staff pastor and the financial administrator at the church where he ministered and worked, he was somewhere in the building anytime I arrived there. If he wasn’t waiting for me, I could always find him. Trinity Church is and always will be associated with Mike in my heart and mind and it’s difficult for me to be there right now, because he’s not. Five Friday’s have come and gone since the evening he died. Friday was Mike’s day off. Our ‘date day’. Jon’s caregiver would come to the house in the early afternoon and we would leave for the day; go shopping, see a movie, eat out, spend time together. Our date days have ended. I don’t like Friday anymore. I have no ability to categorize any of this right now. It all swirls around in my head and becomes a wrecking ball of pain and sorrow for my heart. I try to fill up my days with tasks clamoring for my attention, those that used to be his and those that have always been mine. Evenings and nights stretch eternal and each morning sunrise is another reminder that I’ll live another day without him. I’m being told by so many I’m not alone. God is with me. I'm aware of this completely. He’s here in the middle of it all. I’ve sensed Him in my deepest sorrow, have not blamed Him for any of it and in some unexplainable way, I trust Him. But I still wear skin. My spirit exists in a physical body and world, one that involves taste, touch, sound and sight. I long for my partner with skin on, a man I could see, hear, touch, whose presence filled up my life and years. When God made the first human he said, “It is not good for man to be alone” (Genesis 2:18). He was right. It’s not. Yes, God is here. I’m not alone. But Mike is not and I’m so lonely. Just another life contradiction I don’t understand.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 I've spent a lot of time home alone with Jon the last fifteen years. But this 'home alone' is entirely new territory. Mike's physical presence missing in this house is tangible. Knowing he will never walk through the door again is haunting. It's just me and Jon now. I have no idea what our future looks like without Mike here. We depended on him greatly. He was fiercely loyal, responsible, a get it done kind of guy you could lean on. It's hard getting up in the morning and going to bed at night without him. The days ahead seem long and dismal. Everyone around me tells me I'm doing good. I don't know what they are seeing. Nothing seems good or right in this. I don't feel 'good'. The initial shock and numbness of Mike's sudden death is wearing off and the reality of doing life alone, without him in it, is settling in heavily. I wear it constantly, like a thick coat in a hot desert place. Yet in my constant sorrow, there is no struggle to trust God. So much I don't understand but I have not once blamed Him for any of it. There's no where else to go but to Him, so why would I push Him away? Why would I turn my back on Him? And knowing Mike is with Him gives me hope. I proclaim as did the disciple Peter, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You alone have the words of eternal life" John 6:68. All the hard places in my life have taught me God can be trusted. This one is the highest level of learning so far. Leaning. Reaching. Longing for my Heavenly Father to fill me up with more of Himself. There's no where else to go. But to Him. So here I am Lord. The sun has risen again and I'm living another day you've given without my husband at my side. I surrender it to you. I surrender me to you. I surrender Jon to you. I have no answers. So much I don't know. But of this I am certain: TODAY we are Yours.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 Most of us have experienced sorrow in our lifetime. I certainly have. A child born with a disability. An illness that stoled my ability to do certain things. My grandmother and my parents when they died. A brother who has struggled with mental illness most of his life. Dreams that haven’t come true. Loss of friendship. Circumstances that took me down paths I never planned on. This current grief has taken me to an entirely new level, like nothing I’ve ever faced before. It is complicated. And messy. And confusing. It takes my breath away. Makes my heart feel like a rock inside my chest and haunts me with thoughts of packing a bag and fleeing to outrun it. It wakes me up in the night, fills me with dread, fear and tidal waves of sobbing I never knew were humanely possible. I never would have suspected anger to be part of grief. This emotion has surprised me the most. It sneaks up on me at the most inopportune moments and is triggered by ridiculous things. Like struggling to open a jar that I would normally hand to Mike and when the lid won’t budge I’m overwhelmed by a sudden urge to throw it across the room. I don’t know how many times in the past few weeks, I’ve said out loud to my missing man, “So where are you when I need you? Sure, you’re prancing around on streets of gold having the time of your life and I’m stuck down here with all this mess! Thanks a lot for leaving me!” I’ve found myself angry for having to do all the things he usually did. Taking the trash to the roadside on Tuesday nights. Dealing with the hurricane roof that needs to be replaced. The endless amounts of paperwork and phone calls and cleaning the pool. Most people hate pool maintenance but Mike liked it. Maybe because It’s mindless work. He used his brain so much overseeing the finances of entire organizations and managing people that cleaning tranquil water had a relaxing effect on him. Almost every night after work, he’d come home, change his clothes and go scoop out the pool. In the hot summer months he’d clean it while he was in it. The disadvantage of having a garden inside your pool screen is the leaf debris that ends up in the pool. Last week after a windy rain, I went to scoop leaves and floating flowers out of the water. The scoop pole is long and awkward, I kept smacking the screen frame and kitchen windows with it and it took me longer than I expected. Debris I just picked up would escape the net and I was getting frustrated. Mike always made it look so easy. I finally finished, slammed the pole back onto the hooks where it hangs and yelled up at the sky, “There! I cleaned the stupid pool! I did YOUR job and it looks nice! Aren’t you proud of me?!” Then I went back in the house and slammed the door. One minute later I was sobbing. It’s so confusing, this grief. While I’ve considered myself to a pretty stable person, the roller coaster I’m on right now surprises me with twists and turns I don’t see coming until I’m in them. I don’t like roller coasters. They fill me with fear and make me sick. I avoid them. But it seems I’ll have to ride this one out for a while. I do know God is in the seat next to me and He’s not surprised by any of it. He know’s I’m flesh. I’m week, flawed and tired and He doesn’t add guilt or condemnation on top of anything I feel right now. And I’ve lived long enough to know feelings are only reactions to stuff we don’t want, like or understand. They are the like mist rising off my pool on a cool Florida morning. Ascending, dissipating and rising again while the water remains, solid and steadfast underneath. I miss my Mike with everything in me and my tipsy, flimsy faith, reaches for the Solid One who undergirds me in all of life. God has been and always will be the constant who provides an anchor point where my faith and reality collide. This roller coaster will come to a stop and eventually I’ll get off and say, “Whew, what a horrible ride. But I made it.” Looking forward to that. A lot. I’m honestly admitting I don’t like where I am right now but when “I walk through valleys as dark as death…the Lord is with me” (Psalm 23:4). He’s with me in the anger, the sorrow, the sobbing, the confusion and even brief moments of joy. He’s bigger than my emotions and greater than my circumstance. He is my God. He weeps with me, loves me and isn’t freaked out by anything I feel or how I react to this new normal I’m adjusting too. I trust Him to carry me through this process and bring me out on the other side because “[my] Maker is [my] husband: the Lord Almighty is His name. He is [my] redeemer. He is called the God of all the earth” Isaiah 54:5.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 David and I brought Mike home in a 3X6 box yesterday. For now he is resting on the top shelf of the closet we shared covered in that silly Panama Jack hat he liked in Seaworld's gift shop. Forty two years of a life together and when it’s done you're handed a box. Talk about putting things in perspective! My son and I sat in the car and cried together, feeling as if we're living the book of Ecclesiastes right now. The things of Earth have become extremely dim and eternity seems very near. Nothing here matters In this moment; not our homes, our cars, food, money, the long, long, long to do list, or even David’s soon to be published book. I admit, I’m saddened the death of his father has stolen David’s excitement for his accomplishment. “Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity. What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun?” Ecclesiastes 1:1. Heaven is near and reminding us of what really matters. Obviously we must continue living and find provision for our journey here, but all of that is far less important than knowing the Father Heart of God and loving people. Whatever time remains for us, we will continue honoring Mike’s legacy by doing just that, until it is our turn to proclaim: “ I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved His appearing,” 2 Timothy 4:7-8. Welcome home, Michael Connis!
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 Mike’s first job was a newspaper route, trudging through snow, dodging rain, walking the streets where he and I lived as neighbors in upstate New York, As a kid, I remember seeing him walk past our house with a loaded newspaper sack over his shoulder, each paper removed quickly from the bag, efficiently folded into a tight missile and hurled from the sidewalk into doorways and onto front steps. He saved the money he made and bought a motorcycle, his first ride, when he was finally old enough to drive. He never stopped working after that. When we were first married money was tight, as it is for most couples starting out. Mike took a second job delivering newspapers but now had me to assist. We’d get up at 3 AM every morning. Yawning and blurry eyed, I asked him “Why so early?” He replied, “I guess people like to read the paper with breakfast.” He taught me how to fold a newspaper into a threefold locked and loaded missile and he’d fire them from the open window of our 1967 Chevy Impala into doorways and and onto front steps. He rarely missed. Every employer Mike worked for through the years, moved him quickly into a management position. They saw the same diligence in him I did. My husband was always a hard worker and wise money manager. I never had to worry there wouldn’t be a roof over head, food on the table, a car to drive, clothes to wear. If there was such a thing as a Proverbs 31 man, he fit the description perfectly. He was a Superman provider. He took care of everyone he loved, mostly at his own neglect. I can’t stop thinking about how he left me several weeks ago. They handed me back his wedding ring and the few items in his pockets and took him away with nothing but the clothes on his back. Every material thing he worked for, our home furnished with craigslist.com bargain treasures, two cars in the driveway, a closet full of clothes, all of it, left behind. He took none of it with him. There are moments in life that create a seismic shift in priorities and this is one of them. While I’m grateful for a home and the things needed to live on this planet, I’m acutely aware of what matters most. Jesus summed it up in Luke 10:27, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and love your neighbor as yourself." In the midst of all his hard work, Mike loved his Heavenly Daddy fiercely and he cared deeply for people. His most recent sermon, preached several months ago, was titled, ‘People Matter,’ and many are now calling, writing or stopping to tell me how he touched their life. Everywhere we lived and everywhere he worked, he made a positive difference. When the last breath leaves your lungs, when all is said and done, the only thing you take with you is the spirit God placed within you and the impact of the people your life has touched. If we are meant to invest in anything between birth and death, it is these. If you don’t have a personal relationship with God, get one. Now! He has waited since eternity to love you. He wants you with Him when you leave here. So did Mike. So do I. And every morning when you greet a new sunrise, be intentional in positively impacting every person who enters your day. Lift a life. Love them right where they are and show them they are valued. Because in the end this is the conclusion of the matter. This is the ONLY thing that counts.
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
 The first two promises Mike and I made to one another weren’t always easy to keep. We laughed, cried, fought, rejoiced, struggled, walked together and at times, far apart through "for better, for worse. In sickness and in health." Many years ago we stood at an altar and repeated, “Until death do us part.” I was a young, starry eyed, romantic, full of warm, fuzzy dreams of how my life would play out with the guy I loved. Those five words, stated so innocently, so glibly have now come full circle. “Until death do us part.” Forty two years later I’m experiencing the final vow. This one I get to keep without Mike by my side. That’s how it usually works. After decades of sloshing through the history of our life, one of us got to go. One got to stay. “Until death do us part.” My covenant promises to Michael Connis ended abruptly a few weeks ago. The last vow has been fulfilled. The stark, harsh reality of it has left me reeling, gasping, longing. But the living of it in between the “I Do” and this parting, I will never regret. The combining of two bodies, souls and spirits is a most wonderful, difficult thing. If you’re still privileged to be living between the first two vows and the last one - BE. ALL. IN. Love ferociously. Struggle determinedly. Give it all ya’ got until the final vow comes calling. In the deep grief of a broken heart and the loneliness of long, sleepless nights there will be a spark of joy in realizing you kept the promises. And it was worth it! Matthew 19:6 "So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate."
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by: diane.connis@gmail.com
We said goodbye to our dear friend, Harold, recently. He left this earth to take up residence in his eternal home. It's hard to say goodbye.  In my saddened state, I've been thinking about death, as we are prone to do when someone we love passes from this earth. Why is it so hard for us? Why does it rattle us to our very core? We all know death comes. Not one of us escape it. Yes, I understand the separation and loss, the vast empty place the removal of someone who was so much a part of us creates. But it seems our struggle with death is even deeper than those things. And it is. Because death was never in God's original plan for us. He originally created man to live forever in a perfect body on a perfect earth. In the deep places of our being, we know we were never meant to taste death or experience it. God told the first man and woman, "Don't eat of that tree, if you do you will die." He offered choice. And they chose to listen to the lie. They ate and the journey of life to death on this earth began (Read Genesis 2:15-3:24). I used to wonder why I should suffer for what the first man and woman did. That was their choice not mine. It's like the school teacher punishing the entire class for the behavior of one child. "Therefore, just as sin entered the world through one man, and death through sin, and in this way death came to all people, because all sinned." Romans 5:12 God hardly seemed fair in dolling out sin curses for generations to come when I never had a chance to decide whether I would take a bite from that fruit or not. If I was in The Garden I would have chosen to do the right thing. But would I? Would any of us? Do we now? How many times have I chosen my will over God's, exalting my selfish desires over His, justifying what looks good to me over His perfect best? I wish I could say never, but the truthful answer is, I've lost count. So God knew man would choose death. He knew it when he created us but did it anyway just as we take the risk of having a child with no guarantee of the outcome. It's done from of a heart of love. We sacrifice for that child to have every advantage, every good choice and our heart breaks if they choose a path leading to their downfall, hurt or destruction. But thank God, we are not left stranded, without hope, "For as by the one man's disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man's obedience the many will be made righteous. so that, as sin reigned in death, grace also might reign through righteousness leading to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord." (Romans 5:19 & 21). God came to our planet, took on a flesh suit and became like us to provide a way back to immortality and perfection. He became one of us to rescue us from eternal death. He made a way of escape from the ravages of sin and death through the sacrifice of His son, Jesus, who was nailed to a tree. For you. For me. Death started and ended with a tree. The choice returns, but the subtle injection of doubt continues through time. "Did God really say?" (Genesis 3:1). Do we believe in Jesus or do we continue to believe the lie, the illusion, the trick that we can be our own god, that we can still eat the fruit of a life apart from Him and suffer no consequences? We all die physically and leave this planet, but believing the truth of who Christ is and what He did for us, assures us that is not the end, only a transition to a new life; the beautiful and glorious life we were always meant to have. We've had to say goodbye to our friend for now, but hope comes in knowing I will see him again when it's my turn to leave here. Maybe instead of goodbye, I should just say, "See ya' later, Harold. Save me a seat on that bench. Underneath The Tree of Life."  1 Corinthians 15:26 " The last enemy to be abolished is death.' John 3:16 "For God so loved the world that He gave his only Son, that whoever believes in Him will not perish, but have everlasting life." photos courtesy of picjumbo.com
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