“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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Those grieving a loss hear this one often, “But he/she would want you to be happy.”

 So what does this really mean? Don’t grieve for them? Pretend the one human, who for the most years and who gave the most meaning and joy to life, is still here?

 Impossible!

The thing is, no one gets to tell you how to grieve. Not even your deceased person. Not even THEY get to dictate how much you hurt or how much you miss them because they’re gone.

Would Mike want me to be happy? Of course. One of his goals in life was to keep me happy (and I him). But neither of us could ever know how hard it is to be happy without the other.

We don’t know how to minimize the giant hole that just opened up and sucked everything that was normal, safe and stable into it so mourners resort to masquerading happiness because that makes everyone around them back off and feel better.

The fresh, horrid grief of those early days has subsided and I finally experience moments of happiness. Small rays of light in the darkness that is Mike’s absence. But it’s taken this long and still, after all this time, an underlying operating system of continual sadness runs in the background of everyday life.

And that’s the point. We can’t rush people back to cheering up or looking on the bright side. The bright side looks bleak and dim for someone who has suffered such monumental loss. Rebuilding an unwanted life from the ground up takes time.

Trish Harrison Warren, author of Prayer In The Night: For Those Who Work or Watch or Weep, says, “We are taught to minimize grief.”

 Allow grievers the time they need to be in their sorrow, let the trigger tears and heart crushing pain play out. Weep with those who weep, for as long as they weep.

  Eventually we will rejoice with them, because we stayed around long enough to see them discover joy again.

 Only then are we better practiced in comforting the broken hearted.

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So what are grief-isms and why do I think it’s essential to talk/write about this?

 Grief-isms are a term I created to describe the cliched sayings we use when someone experiences a profound death loss. Most of these axioms I found unhelpful, non-comforting and sometimes annoying, especially in the early days and months of my experience.

At first I thought I might be a bit crazy but after talking to many people who have had significant loss, especially of a close relationship - spouse, child, parent, sibling, best friend - attending GriefShare group multiple times and following several internet based widowed, grief and loss groups the past several years, I realize I‘m not alone in this opinion.

First of all, not one of us can fully understand death grief, especially early stage, until it’s experienced. And no one knows how they’ll react in it until it happens to them. I‘ve compared it to someone telling me how to labor and deliver a child to actually doing it. There’s knowledge of what it might be like, then there’s being up to your eyebrows in the middle of it. It’s overwhelmingly intense and painful! And you gals who’ve had a baby or two know exactly what I mean.

It’s extremely important to know how intimacy and closeness drive the level of grief when trying to support someone through a loss. The depth and duration of grief is equal to the intimacy and duration of the relationship you, your friend or family member had with the person who has died. They will grieve harder and longer for a child, spouse or family member, than an acquaintance or non-immediate family member rarely seen.

Also important to understand, is how intense grief effects lessen with time but never totally disappear and anything can trigger a fresh but (probably) shorter response. There is no proper time frame for a person to ‘get over’ a person who has died and ‘move on’. These are also cliched terms that should always be avoided.

All the love, investment and history you have for and with a person doesn’t fade out or shut off once they’re gone. Like I keep saying, There’s No Off Switch! Our people become an intricate part of us and have shaped who and what we are. Forty two years of life with my late husband and four years without him is a no win comparison and I can’t just move on to a happy, slappy brand new life as if he never existed, once the memorial service is over or the headstone is on the grave.

I‘m not here to demoralize or criticize any of us. No one wants grief education. Who in the world volunteers to join the ‘someone I love with all my heart has just died’ club? We don’t like talking or thinking about being without our best people. I get that. Since Mike was a pastor I was exposed to death, funerals, burials and the depths of human sorrow more than most. I realize now I was often just as clueless as anyone, in the face of another’s suffering and said some of these same cliched statements to people in their loss. I openly apologize to you if you were one of these people and hope you can forgive my previous ignorance.

If we all live long enough, we and others around us will likely loose someone dearly loved, so it’s crucial to practice being good comforters, to know how to be with another in their deepest pain.

The purpose of the blog posts that follow is to share my heart around some of these specific grief-isms and why they weren’t helpful. I pray this information will help all of us be better supporters of the grieving when the need arises.  

Coming up next: Grief-ism #1, “He would want you to be happy.”

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We were driving a main street through Portland, Oregon on a winter day in the late 1970’s. This particular road consisted of five wide lanes, two each headed in opposite directions with a central turn lane.

It was a quieter morning than most, less traffic than usual, because Portland, known for it’s damp, gloomy, rainy winters with temperatures hovering in the high thirties to mid-forties, had experienced an overnight thermometer drop low enough to coat the city with a rare inch or so of snowfall; enough to close schools and a host of other businesses and keep people home.

Since Mike and I had recently moved there from upstate New York and were accustomed to far worse winters, we shrugged it off, warmed up the car and headed out. What we forgot to remember was the frozen rain covered surface beneath the snow.

We confidently motored down the slightly hilly street, commenting on how few cars there were around us on a normally busy thoroughfare, joking about the Portland wimps afraid of a little snow, when our car suddenly began to slide out of control. Mike immediately attempted all the skills learned in his years of northeast winter driving, but there was no stopping it. No way to control the free slide we found ourselves in as the car began to pick up speed while spinning in circles across all lanes, heading straight for a power pole on the opposite side of the road.

Suddenly heart pounding, pulse racing, breathtaking helpless fear loomed in the horror of grim possibilities just outside the vehicle and we were immediately panic paralyzed inside our out-of-control yellow Toyota.

Such is the nature of grief. And most severely in the early days and even early years of a death experience. One moment we are riding confidently, securely on the road of life when suddenly a significant loss plunges us into a free fall of heart stopping, breath sucking despair, panic and anxiety. There’s no stopping the flow of turbulent emotions and change that constantly pulse, swirl and crash over us moment by moment, hour by hour and day to day.

Because we are humans who form deep bonds and connections with others - spouses, children, family, friends - we struggle to control the slide and spin a death creates. The sudden absence of a person we intensely intertwined into most of our days, loved fiercely and counted on deeply, looms monumentally ahead. The future without them is grim and our immediate reality has few favorable outcomes.

After a few terrifying moments on that snowy Portland day, our little Toyota finished careening and spinning and came to a halt, facing the wrong direction on the wrong side of the road just inches from the power pole. Mike took a few seconds to catch his breath, thank God we were spared, then gripping the steering wheel with shaky hands, he pulled back out onto the street and drove us home.

I have no words to adequately describe what my late husband’s death has done on the inside of me. Mike took large chunks of me with him when he left. I may look the same on the outside but I am so far removed from the person I was on this same fateful day four years ago. Yet much of my internal careening and spinning has finally begun to subside during this past year and I can sit on the other side of this journey staring down a road of….what….??

For now, I only have gratitude for surviving. I can only thank God for being with me as I land just inches from the thing that almost destroyed me, Maybe now I can catch my breath and with a shaky heart venture back out into this unfamiliar life and see where it goes.

Without Mike, yes. The sadness of this reality will never end.

I constantly miss his presence in our lives. In my life.

But for whatever reasons he is gone and I’m still here.

I have to live.

I GET to live.

Dear Jesus, let this be the year that I figure out how to really live again  

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“For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; but then shall I know, even as also I am known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12

I‘m still sorting through my late husband’s forty years of sermons, thoughts and reflections, written on paper scraps, napkins, post-its, notebooks, stacked in drawers and cabinets.

When I think I‘ve exhausted the collection, I find more. I’m organizing the typed copies into a three ring binder but most I won’t keep. There’s too many, and since Mike’s penmanship was equivalent to a doctor’s handwritten prescription, they aren’t legible without a lot of effort.

This morning, the grief journal I’ve kept since his death, received this entry:

“Now that you’re gone from the limits of time and earth knowledge, into the presence of God, the question running through my mind, as I sort years of your study, interpretation and thought process is, how much of all this is complete truth? How much of it could be misinterpretation? How much of it is just a drop in the ocean of what is yet to be discovered about who God really is? I wish you could tell me what you know now, compared to what you THOUGHT you knew when you were here.”

Humans like certainly. I know I do. It helps us feel ordered, safe, smart, disciplined. Technology has opened up a world of opinion, belief, ideals and thought to sift and categorize. And those of us who read, study and share the Bible, often think we have the corner on figuring out exactly what it means, who God is and what He might want from us.

According to recent statistics, “there are more than 45,000 [Christian] denominations globally. Followers of Jesus span the globe. But the global body of more than 2 billion Christians is separated into thousands of denominations.” ~Feb 27, 2021, livescience.com~

If true, it’s obvious no one holds the market on certainty with so many Jesus followers (me included) united in their belief of his existence - his birth, life, ministry, death and resurrection - but fractured on the finer points of Biblical content and context.

My late husband dedicated his life to discovering who God is and sharing what he believed. There’s nothing wrong with that. But as I slowly reduce the pile of paper he left behind, I’m thinking we see little more than the tip of the iceberg on what remains to be known.

 When the Apostle Paul talks about “the manifold wisdom of God” in Ephesians 3:10, maybe he was thinking the expanse of who God is never ceases to unfold. He is mysteriously and interestingly complex, variegated and multifaceted and if we think we ever have the entirety of His loving greatness decoded, we are deceiving ourselves.

“For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.” Corinthians 13:9-10

What does Mike know that we have yet to discover?

With open hearts and minds we continue to probe the mysteries of God, until our own glass is dark no more.  

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I haven’t had a dream with my late husband in it for almost a year. In the first months after he died I had them regularly, most of them waking me in panic. Last night I had another one.

I was coming out of a building somewhere and as I started walking down the steps, I recognized Mike walking on a sidewalk that was parallel and about seventy five feet in front of me. He had on the bright green golf style shirt he loved and his favorite baseball hat. My heart burst with excitement and my first thought was, “Oh, he didn’t die. He’s still here!”

I started calling to him and picked up my pace, but he didn’t see or hear me. As he reached the end of the sidewalk he was on, he turned right, walking farther away from me. I kept calling his name and started running. Suddenly, to my horror, he collapsed and two men nearby caught and carried him to the grassy area along the sidewalk, laid him face down, shrugged and went on their way. I screamed his name, begging the people around me to help him. Everyone looked the other way and walked on.

I tried running faster and realized I couldn’t close the distance between us because the sidewalk I was on was moving backwards with no way to step off. I startled awake. It took me a minute to realize it was just another one of ‘those’ dreams. The kind that leave me sad and broken all day.

Why am I sharing this intimate and difficult dream here? Because we have a mistaken belief in our ‘get-over-it’ society that in time, the heart and mind forget what has been lost and how we lost it. Time heals all wounds, right? It’s been over three and half years now, since Mike died suddenly, unexpectedly and I returned home to find him lifeless in the yard.

For the most part, humans have an innate ability to adjust over time. We adapt to the void and even the trauma, that absence and loss carries. Strength and a will to live return and eventually, at times, good memories or new circumstances outweigh the sadness carried. But we never forget.

Our love for them doesn’t end, nor does the longing and yearning for their physical presence. Five, ten, twenty years later our heart can remind us that we had an amazing person in our life that is no longer here. And can also remind us that how we lost them was difficult.

Time might heal the wound but it doesn’t take much to rip that scar open. You never know what another is battling so be patient with those who are once again ambushed by loss.

A bit of mercy, compassion and understanding goes a long way to help all who experience the hidden side of lifelong grief.

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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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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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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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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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Two grandfather clocks stood side by side, polished wood grain gleaming in the dim light. They were beautifully ornate without being gaudy.

It was obvious much care had been taken to keep them in good working order. Their pendulums swinging in perfect synchronization created volume louder than normal as they chimed in harmony.

Then suddenly, one stopped ticking, it’s pendulum coming to an abrupt halt, hanging motionless from the clock face. In my dream I panicked. Terror ripping through me in disbelief. The sight and sound of the silent clock, sent waves of shock and sorrow deep into my soul. This couldn’t be happening! It can’t be real! But it was. It is.

God ordained for man and woman to become one in marriage. It doesn’t happen all at once but with the slow steady pattern of learning one another over many years. A rhythm develops, a synchronized ticking of two hearts, minds and souls. At some point you know each other so well, in many ways, you become one another.

When one clock stops, the loss of rhythm, identity and certainty is large. There’s no desire at first to continue keeping time on your own. Time becomes irrelevant, a matter of annoyance. Caught in this moment between the past and the future, you’re now faced with the great challenge of learning how to keep going on alone, resetting the clock to a solitary rhythm.

Ironically time is the healer of this unsettling dilemma, or so I'm told, and though there’s no end to missing the heart that beat with our own, eventually there will be release from this purgatory of in-betweenness. It can neither come fast enough or be hurried. I must be patient, let the process play out. Once again time is the Master and I am subject to it’s whims.

Ecclesiastes 3:11 tells me God has written eternity on the human heart; that there is more than what I feel, more than what I see. Believing there is satisfaction above what this transient world provides, is comforting. I’m thankful for the knowledge that God, who created time, also lives outside of it.

My husband ticks on in eternity away from the time limitations of this earth. He’s already knows what I have yet to experience.

“Brothers and sisters, we want you to know about people who have died so that you won’t mourn like others who don’t have any hope. Since we believe that Jesus died and rose, so we also believe that God will bring with Him those who have died in Jesus,” 1Thessalonians 4:13-14.

The day will come when time no longer holds us in it’s greedy grasp. Such a wonderful hope in the depths of great sorrow. 

“He has made everything appropriate in its time. He has also set eternity in their heart, yet so that man will not find out the work which God has done from the beginning even to the end,” Ecclesiastes 3:11.  

“..and the two shall become one flesh So they are no longer two but one flesh,” Mark 10:8.

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