“He’s in a better place.”

We all say it and it’s not that I don’t believe it. Someone like me, who cut my preschool teeth on the doctrines of the church and has spent my entire life processing through the principles of my Biblical heritage, certainly believes the claims made by Christ himself and others in scripture:

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” John 3:16

 For my Father’s will is that everyone who looks to the Son and believes in him shall have eternal life, and I will raise them up at the last day.” John 6:40

 “For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.“ 1 Corinthians 5:1

 To the believing thief on the cross Jesus said, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke 23:43

 To all of us who believe we return to God when we leave here, to all of us who affirm, “To be absent in the body is to be present with the Lord” (2 Corinthians 5:8), we instinctively know those who die before us are in a better place.

The problem is they’re not HERE with us. Not anymore. Not ever again in this life. And that matters. A lot!

Mike’s absence created a falling domino effect of chaotic change, problems, logistics, emptiness, longing, yearning and loneliness, impossible to describe. A grief so deep and guttural I knew it could rip me apart.

I‘m not one to engage in comparisons of what is worse. Death is hard, for those left behind, regardless of how it comes. Maybe if he had been sick over a span of time, maybe if I had to watch him disintegrate through prolonged suffering I could say this platitude with more acceptance. But the brutal long goodbye was not my experience so I can’t know. We had no goodbyes at all. He was here. He was fine. Then in a moment he was gone.

Yes, undoubtedly he is in a better place. But while Mike is there, I’m not, and the knowing of this does not balance the scale of grief. However it occurs, our person being in a ‘better place’ is still that person gone for the rest of our life. What I do know, is that in the early raw days of his death, hearing this statement wasn’t comforting. At all.

What this statement repeatedly told me is Mike is doing great, he’s fine, but my loss, my pain, the fact that I am most certainly not in a better place without him didn’t matter. What I was suddenly up against, this tornado turn of events, felt unacknowledged and completely negated by reassurance that all was well for him, while everything that was normal and secure for me was spinning out of control.

Of course, there’s no intention of harm when we repeat these catch phrases in someone’s loss. Nothing I say here is meant to criticize only inform. Often we’re so uncomfortable in the stark reality of another’s grief, we feel the need to offer something and these Hallmark card sentiments are all we have.

The truth is there are no words to cheer up the reality of death and for certain nothing can ‘fix’ it. Nothing can begin to fill the void, replace the absence or replenish the emptiness. Nothing but acknowledgement of suffering and personal presence.

At times the overwhelming emotion and personal isolation of grief can also minimize these but with time (lots of it), patience, understanding, listening, hugs, prayer and practical help, we can validate and enter into another’s suffering.

“I’m so sorry, but I‘m here. I‘m with you. As much as I can be. For as long as you need,” is the best offering we can make.

   

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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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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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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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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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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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Job 23:2 “My complaint is bitter again today. I try hard to control my sighing.”

I’ve read the book of Job many times through the years, but reading it with a grieving heart is eye opening. I completely relate to all the raw, brutal emotion, the questioning, flailing and anxiety of humanity displayed there; a cacophony of thoughts and words flowing from a broken heart. Tossing, turning, struggling with answers to a deluge of why questions.

 I admit to finding consolation in the story of Job, since some of his experience is also mine. I am not unlike him. Desperate prayers and pleas erupt from a mind, that is often a tornado of chaotic thoughts. Fear, insecurity and desperation leer in the background of my days. The battle is real.

 In his suffering, Job exhausts himself further, trying to reach God, trying to understand why he has been targeted for such loss and pain. We don’t know how long it took Job to reach the other side of his grief. The story is read in forty two chapters so we assume it’s short, but I doubt that, because grief never is. Could have been months, even years.

What I do know is, though he never seemed to find the answers he was searching for, in the end he found a clearer revelation of God. Job finally tells God, “You asked why I talk so much when I know so little. I have talked about things that are far beyond my understanding. You told me to listen and answer your questions. I heard about you from others but now I have seen you with my own eyes,” Job 42:2-5.

Grief and loss have a way of knocking the props out from under us, forcing us to re-prioritize, re-think, re-evaluate everything we thought we believed. I pray I eventually emerge on the other side of this season with a broader sense of how great God is and how deeply He loves, especially when nothing makes sense.

‘Well, you were a pastor’s wife, you should already know such things,’ some may think. No. Regardless of expectations or ‘titles’, my limited lens on life and it’s purpose will never measure up to God’s panoramic view.

Relationships are in a continuous tension between struggle and growth. God created us for relationship. In the pleasant and hard places, God longs to be up close and personal. He only waits for the invitation that my hurting heart delivers.

I want to be able to say with Job, “In all my days up until this, I had ‘heard about you from others but now I have seen you with my own eyes.’

He can still be trusted. He is still worthy to be known.”

In my struggle, let me SEE you, Lord.

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For years, butter coexisted with the jelly in my refrigerator. Mike made toast, buttered it and used the same knife to spread the jelly, leaving butter globs in the jar.

Our son, David and I commented to him repeatedly, how gross it was to open a jar of jelly and see butter all through it. He would smile and say, “You’re gonna’ butter your bread first anyway so what’s the problem. This way it’s all done for you.”

We could never get Mike to stop and for years it annoyed me. Today should have been our forty-third wedding anniversary. One more special day in my year of ‘without him firsts’. A day filled with longing and tidal waves of sorrow crashing against my heart. I wonder how long it will take for me to stop feeling like I’m still married to him.

I also wonder why I was so irritated about such trivial things such as butter in the jelly jar. As I made Jon a peanut butter sandwich a few days ago, I realized I would give anything to open that jar and see those butter globs all over the jelly again. I desperately miss all the things I loved about Mike and surprisingly, even the things I didn’t.

Everyone we love annoys us in some way. And we annoy them. Socks on the floor, toothpaste tops left off, toilet paper rolls facing the ‘wrong way’, crumbs in the kitchen, a glass left out of the dishwasher, shirts hung crooked on the hanger; these are signs of life, and validation that someone you care about is still here.

 So don’t dwell on the petty, the insignificant, making constant mountains out of anthills. Let it go. Laugh. Love. Serve. Forgive. Believe me when I tell you how much you’ll miss the butter globs in the jelly jar and the one who once put them there.

Ephesians 4:2 (NLT) “Always be humble and gentle. Be patient with each other, making allowance for each other's faults because of your love.” 

Colossians 3:13 (NLT) “Make allowance for each other's faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others.”

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Dear Marriage,

I get it. It’s hard sometimes. 

You start out young, starry eyed, idealistic. You know exactly how you want this love to go forward and what it should look like. Then life gets in the way. The kids come. They grow. You work hard every day, keeping a roof overhead, food on the table. Responsibilities pile up. Another diaper to change. Another meal to make. Another bill to pay. Another illness. Another obstacle.

Health challenges or special needs add extra weight to this marathon. It’s heavy and all-consuming. Money, energy, time and patience often run short. And it seems the love has as well. The expectations are high and no one is meeting them exactly.

You weren’t aware that love was more choice than feeling, keeping it alive was such hard work and the sacrifices would be so huge. This hasn’t turned out the way you envisioned and you’ve forgotten why you did it in the first place. The days are routine. Mundane. Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months and months into years.

Then one day, suddenly, it’s over. One of you is gone. The other chair is empty, the bed lonely. There’s less clothes to fold, no one to talk to and the person you made history with, the one who knew you like no one else, doesn’t come home anymore. The final vow has come to collect and one of you is left to sift through the memories.

As the grief overwhelms and the great aloneness presses in, you realize all of life together was lived, not in the beginning or in this ending, but in the middle. In the mundane and in the routine. In the imperfection. In the stress and the joy. In the days that both dragged and flew by. Then you know without a doubt, you’d go back and do it over again if you had the chance. Love was far from perfect, and was sometimes buried beneath the constant challenge of everyday life, but it was there and it was good.

Remember Jesus, who loved the most and gave His all? He willingly offered the greatest grace. How can you not do the same?

Still somewhere in the middle? Be helpful. Be patient. Be prayerful. Find closeness and joy in the small moments. Persevere all the way to a no-regrets ending.

As you drown in tsunami waves of grief and sob through tears of unrelenting sorrow, a breath of joy will arise from that broken heart, a thankfulness that you didn’t give up on love, even when you couldn’t always see or feel it. You stayed. You endured all the way to the end.

And it was worth choosing. Every time.  

Ecclesiastes 7:8 “The end of a matter is better than its beginning, and patience is better than pride.” Galatians 6:9 “Let is not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

 

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Jon’s birthday was a few weeks ago, May 4th actually, and birthdays have always been a big deal around here. Mike made sure of that. He believed if God took the time to make you and put you here on this ball we call Earth, you mattered. You were valuable, thus birthdays were cause for celebration.

“No one should have to work or go to school on their birthday,” he’d tell me every year, that little scowl line erupting between his eyes over the unfairness of it all. “It’s a holiday. In fact you should have your whole birthday week off!”

 Who could disagree with that? Mike would buy a cake, candles, balloons and ask the birthday person in advance, “What would you like for your birthday? Where do you want to go?” Then he’d make it happen. And he loved it.

I went to the store the day before Jon’s birthday. Bought a cake and candles and made sure he had a few gifts to open. I asked him where he would like to go, what he’d like to do, and made a few suggestions. Before I went to bed that evening I reminded him, “Don’t forget to think about what you want to do tomorrow Jon. It’s your birthday.”

He was standing in the kitchen and turned to look at me. “I don’t care,” he said and my heart broke into a zillion pieces. Again. I went to bed that night, cried into my pillow and cried out to my Heavenly Dad. “Help us please! We are so wounded. Heal us. Bring us to a place of new joy.”

“Hear me, Lord, and have mercy on me. Help me, O Lord.“ Psalm 30:10

Jon never left his room on his birthday and we didn't go out. It was the first time in 38 years he didn’t want to hear the happy birthday song or burn the candles down to the frosting before he blew them out.

Several days later that unopened package of candles was tucked away in a drawer, when I finally cut the cake and gave him a piece with his dinner. Right now, the loss of Jon’s father in his everyday life, turns every special occasion into pain. The events we usually celebrate become mile markers for what is missing. Reminders of what was. This is the nature of grief.

 Choking back tears, I gently replied, “It’s OK Jon. I understand. Maybe your next birthday will be better. Maybe next year both of us will care again. Let’s just keep asking Jesus to help us with that.” Maybe by next year or the one after we will celebrate.

Maybe then we will say, “You have turned my mourning into joyful dancing. You have taken away my clothes of mourning and clothed me with joy, that I might sing praises to you and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever!” Psalm 30:11-12

Please Lord, let it be so.

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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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