Marilyn's Musings

For those keeping track, we’re nearing the 9-month mark. Somehow, I thought it would get easier. Let’s just say it’s different. Like all of life, there are good days and not-so-good days. I’m making my way, brave face my new countenance. This new reality continues to seep into my being. Daily, I become more assimilated into widowhood. Just who I am becoming, only God knows.

Planning this year’s Easter service mustered up the melancholy yesterday. Trumpet music filled my mind as I carefully and prayerfully crafted an order of worship. There were tears. I love to imagine him now playing in the company of angels. Meanwhile, our home remains mostly silent. Thine is the glory, in both silence and song.

Some time off will be good for my spirit. Holy rest and mild adventures await!

Here’s your reminder to stop and look around each day. Accept the good. Although you may have far to go, never forget to look back at how far you’ve come. Also, look for the blessings in the present, for we are continually surrounded by God’s grace and goodness.

Peace be yours, friends.

Over the years, we attempted numerous corn mazes. We experienced defeat in three states! Florida, South Carolina, and Wisconsin. You’d think after the first couple of white flag surrender endings that we’d give up. Nope. Not us.

Maps, clues, lookout points, nothing seemed to help us with wayfinding. Heck, half the time I spent finding my kid, who ran ahead of me despite my pleas to stay near. By the time we reunited, I was completely disoriented. That says a lot. Since childhood, I’ve studied maps for fun. Yes, I still keep a road atlas in my car. I consider myself to be better than okay with directions. Hitting wall after wall in a corn maze frustrates me.

Same goes for the grief. You’re going along rather okay, and out of nowhere, BAM! You hit a wall. A wall you didn’t see coming. Disorientation re-enters the chat. Sometimes, you have absolutely no clue what triggers tears, sadness, or memories.

These invisible walls extend well beyond the longing of earliest grief. Built from the secondary losses and an unprocessed accumulation of a lifetime of other griefs, it can get complicated quickly. If you’re not mindful, you may not see the blue skies beyond the walls.

Stay calm. Look to that blue sky. That’s where help comes from. Psalm 121, remember? Look up. The sun is still shining. You may feel isolated and lost in the moment, but all is not lost. There is no shame in asking for help along the way. I made it out of those corn mazes that way!

Keep going, friends.

Although Dennis never leaned liturgical prior to dating a seminarian and ultimately marrying this soon to be pastor at the time, he learned liturgical over the years. He’d question things about the service. I’d explain when and why we do them. I did my best to explain to him that even the non-denom churches he attended followed a pattern of worship. “But they aren’t saying the same prayers and don’t follow lectionaries.” Sigh. I tried. He never did embrace prayers spoken or scripture read in unison. What moved me deeply (knowing I was confessing sin or praying with the whole church) meant little to him, but he did it anyway. Who knew that liturgy was another one of my love languages?

I *think* he understood the concept and meaning behind Ash Wednesday. He definitely asked me every year. I explained it every time I was asked. He attended the worship service most years. I am fairly certain that I imposed ashes on his forehead and spoke the words, “To dust you shall return” maybe ten times over him. He’d wipe them off before we left the church building. See not liturgical.

Drat. I ashed him last year. I said the words. You seldom know when it’s going to be the last time for anything. Now he is dust.

The words take on new meaning for me this year. Grief does that: gives you pause to deeply ponder humanity, frailty, and mortality.

To quote Rumi, “Everything in the universe is within you.” Beloveds, we are dust: stardust, nebulas, galaxies, perfectly created for God’s purposes, led by the Spirit that dwells within.

Blessed Lent, friends.

It’s been a week. Two deaths, five days apart. Two funerals, four days apart. And all the usual things in between. Whew.

As I walk with newly minted widows and their families, I am considering what was helpful and meaningful to me in the earliest grief days. Of course, every individual grieves in their own unique time and way, so don’t consider this a universal or exhaustive list by any means.

Here’s what this particular widow wanted and needed in early grief:

Sleep. My sleep was so erratic or non-existent those first few months.

Reassurance, with or without words, that I was not completely broken or forgotten.

To feel safe. This may look like securing the perimeter of the house with lights and cameras, adding locks, etc. Also, driving at night feels scarier with no one to call should something go wrong. Ask me to text you when I get home after said night driving because the person who cared about my whereabouts is gone.

Patience and understanding from people when grief brain and confusion take hold. They will take hold because grief doesn’t care about your master’s degree.

Appropriate levels of human contact. Do not expect me to do much social stuff, but please extend an invite. See not forgotten.

Every day chores felt insurmountable. How I longed for someone, anyone, to clean my house with no pressure to engage in deep conversation. I also wanted someone to come over and cook dinner in my kitchen, using the food I purchased with good intentions, again with no pressure to engage in deep conversation.

Keep in touch after the funeral through cards, texts, phone calls, etc., with no expectation of a response. A meme at midnight may be just what a sleep-deprived widow needs.

Keep saying their name. Keep sharing stories about them and interesting memories.

That’s all for now. Blessed be the journey.

Today marks 8 months. Tracking the months feels right this first year. I am keenly aware that the second year will be icky, too, because the “firsts” become the “forevers” as the deeper reality of life as a wayfinding widow hits home.

When you share grief stuff on social media, the algorithms feed you more grief. While I relate to many posts and videos that I don’t scroll past, I’m pondering what I uniquely offer to this platform and to the world. Will I write a book someday? Start a podcast? Further my coaching training and become a grief coach? I have a Grief Support Specialist certification. Might I be a grief educator? I think I already am in my own way. I see what you’re up to, God.

Although I appreciate folks suggesting widow Facebook groups, they are not for me. I have a community of widows IRL who I intend to join when the time feels right. Thankfully, they are patient and understanding.

Grief causes one to pause and question just about everything. While I know that my essence remains the same, I also know I am forever changed. Will previous joys like singing ever come back? Who knows. A quote I heard on one of those grief podcasts resonated with me this morning:

“Grief does not give two shits about what our culture thinks of it, much less any arbitrary timeline.” ~ Shelby Forsythia on her “Grief Grower” podcast

The grief will keep on griefing as long as it takes. For now, 8 months it is.

Hubs, I think you would be proud. I am proud of myself. It still sucks that you are not here. I will keep going until we meet again.

I went for my annual physical yesterday.

“Any changes since your last appointment?”

“I’m a widow thanks to a widowmaker.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks. I’ve got to say that my experience with this hospital, doctors, nurses, ICU, and everything in between was exceptional. Thank you all for your compassionate care.”

I forgot his response other than acknowledging that the hospital is great.

I suppose I played the widow card there. At least my weight gain (under control now that I’m coming out of the weeds) got an honorable mention rather than an entire lecture. I’ll call that a widow card win.

All is well. Other than a couple of things to follow up on, doc says it’s all normal aging stuff. I’m good to go. I’m calling this a huge win. I credit allowing myself to grieve and feel all the feelings, family, friends, therapy, a community of care, multivitamins, and a fierce resolve for bringing me this far.

For scorekeeping purposes, I earned:

Being grateful rather than grumpy that I had to drive my freshly washed car behind the plow/salt truck most of the way to the appointment: 10 points

Updating the emergency contact like it was no big deal but it really was: 10 points

Not crying after the appointment because I didn’t have my person to text that it went well: 25 points

Texting my sister with my random medical update instead: 10 points

Points are just for fun and don’t count, of course. The widows will get it.

Take care of your whole beings, friends: body, mind, and spirit.

Last week, I participated in a writing-in-community event. I was skeptical going in, thinking of all the times I teased my son about watching people play games online. Of course, this was a bit different because all participants would be writing at the same time rather than observing someone else.

You know something? Aside from a few interruptions, I enjoyed this dedicated time for writing, knowing others were doing likewise. This seems to be the kind of community I need right now. I want the comfort and safety of being around people without having to interact. I want to be surrounded in my solitude.

Folks, I’m still grieving. It’s only been about 8 months. If I’m making it look easy, please know that it’s not.

“You’re so strong.”

I have no choice.

The last ten days took somewhat of a toll on my spirit, requiring extra showing up and holding heavy space in a variety of situations. I’m so grateful for monthly friend time with Traci. That always refills my reservoir. Friends, near and far, are a blessing.

Many aspects of my emerging, healing self still feel clunky, even things I’ve done for years. Am I doing this right? Did that sermon land or float off into some abyss? Remember your mantra, woman: Love the people. Preach the gospel. Keep going.

As I said in my sermon this morning, if you feel like giving in, giving up, or that your body is giving out, keep going, knowing that God won’t ever let go of you.

We need each other. I pray that you each find a community that surrounds you with the love, support, and understanding that you need right now.

Grief update because the grief is still griefing and folks seem to appreciate hearing an insider’s experience. Folks who don’t get it, scroll on.

Tonight’s random musings:

I spied my 2025 cat calendar today, left on the date of the night when it all began. Maybe I’ll toss it one day. For now, it serves as a dot on my life map: a day frozen in time on a calendar.

I do things with friends and family. I have fun. I smile and laugh. My new reality is taking shape, bit by bit. I won’t call it new normal because I’ll never be the same.

Some days are better than okay.

Some days are really difficult for no obvious reason. I am doing my best to keep showing up for myself and others.

I make room in my spirit to hold that which pastors must hold, temporarily stuffing my grief into some hidden compartment, only to be released like a jack in the box once I return to the safety of my heart’s home.

Cats are no substitute for husband cuddles on a cold night.

While I am familiar with almost every house noise by now (thanks, total silence), I still get anxious when I hear a strange one, especially at night.

The world feels scary right now. I know how to reframe anxious thoughts, but I miss having my person around to tell me everything will be okay.

Apart from the writing retreat this summer, I need more things to look forward to. Short and long term. Vacation? Retirement? Oh yeah, where would I go? What would I do?

As all the grief pros know, your set of friends evolves because of the grief. Accurate. Some friendships drop off and fade away. Other folks show up in unexpected and pleasantly surprising aspects of your life. My long term friends remain a constant source of light.

I’m still here. I’m doing this.

It takes as long as it takes.

Stay safe, friends.

Yes, I’m a pastor who believes what I preach and understands that I am never alone. I also know that as a widow, I go it alone every day.

By the grace of God, I made it through December. When there weren’t tears in my eyes, my heart cried. When my heart wasn’t crying, my spirit yearned. When my spirit wasn’t yearning, I muddled through. Friends shine some light into my life. Family sprinkled in a few days of brightness. Each day brings its own joys and challenges because that’s life.

The calendar flipped with a low-key solo celebration, exactly what I needed. Oddly, that becomes another grief thing: realizing that your loved one won’t see a whole new year on the calendar. The new year also brought a few new anxieties with it: things he used to do that I now have to do. I’ll figure them out. I have no choice. Serenity now!

The grief bursts I thought I was past still come a hauntin’ every now and then. Updating emergency contacts. Again? Who do I list? Which sparks the thought: are all my beneficiaries up to date? I’m pretty sure I did that in the grief haze days. Also, filling out a form and seeing “spouse” with a blank for their name. Am I single? Am I married? There was no widow option. It feels weird to leave it blank. No one tells you these things. I went with putting his name with (deceased). That felt right for this go around.

All of this happens personally when my heart and head spin with the influx of doomscrolling social media and the state of current events. Somehow, I believe my grief is helping me process everything.

My everyday examen: How can I go and make a difference beyond screaming into the void? I won’t change someone’s mind by piling on with a post, comment, or rant. That would be preaching to the choir. I pray every day that God will change hardened hearts, bring hope to the hopeless, embolden all called to public witness, and give me the courage to proclaim the gospel faithfully wherever and however God intends. Loving your neighbor is serious business. May we learn to see eye-to-eye with eyes of compassion rather than looking down on our neighbors and putting ourselves on pedestals when we ought to be on pedi-stools ready to wash our neighbor’s feet.

Going it alone is scary. God be with us all.

(Photo of a cat up to no good.)

The church is quiet. Silent, in fact, other than the hum of a few lights and other background building noises. The worshippers all departed. I don’t have to be to the next thing for a while, so I took a few minutes to just be. Before the decorations come down, I wanted to really take them in. I’m not sure I’ve ever done that. As I did, I found myself praying: for those who donated the ornaments or the funds to purchase them, for the folks who drag these trees out of storage year after year and carefully assemble the pieces, and for those who unpack the precious cargo and delicately handle and hang the various baubles. I remember beloved decorators from years gone by who have since died. I chuckled as I pondered how many opinions regarding the placement of ornaments were likely expressed throughout the years. All the fuss. All the beauty. All the hope.

Hope? Yes. Hope for the church: this congregation and all churches. You see, I discovered a set of Chrismons several years ago, a lovingly preserved reminder of Christmases past. At some point in history, a decision was made to replace the Chrismons with something different. Something new. And the church moved forward. I have no idea if there were debates, discussions, or general cantankerousness around the issue of the ornaments. I don’t need to know that. I only need the reminder that change happens, often one little decision at a time, and that’s perfectly okay.

I examined a number of the ornaments. The peace ornaments captivated me as my heart longs for peace, within and without. Peace in our hearts. Peace in our homes. Peace in our world. I’m so grateful that I spent this time by these trees today, blessed by a glimpse of the Light of the a World. May peace prevail.