Marilyn's Musings

I understand if you’re tired of all the grief posts. As irksome as they are for you to read, they are doubly wearying to live. Scroll on or unfollow if you prefer.

Mid Lent, my immune system decided to tango with a virus for a few weeks, all this during some of the “firsts” on the calendar. Bleh.

Holy Week was hard. On Palm Sunday, an earache and spiky sore throat joined the chat. Really? I amped up the zinc, throat coat tea, and Ricolas. I powered through each day, wondering if it would go away or become a full blown relapse of the crud I thought I was over? I considered placing myself on vocal rest so I could do the two Easter services. Thanks be to God, midway through the Good Friday service, I noticed the earache had finally punched out and left the building. <insert me singing the Ricola jingle here>

Crafting Maundy Thursday and Easter sermons felt like using an etch a sketch: jagged lines and thoughts, veering around the page, requiring coordination my grief brain still lacks when stressed, oh, like Holy Week. By the grace of God, all the pieces fell into place before I shook up the tablet and erased it for the nth time.

As the one year death-versary approaches, I feel a new flavor of grief rising within, an unspoken pressure cooker. Of course, I have plans in place and a support system to ride the waves alongside me. Yet parts of this journey must be made solo: tears cried, prayers uttered, screams into the void, sitting in the silence. In my mind, somehow, I know I can do this because what’s the alternative? That doesn’t mean I like slogging along the path. Carry on, woman. Carry on.

This morning, during Easter sunrise service, I experienced a glimmer of grace and goodness. You know the myth about not being able to sing and cry at the same time? Busted. Then I recalled the quote, “You can complain because roses have thorns, or you can rejoice because thorns have roses.” Not to apply it in a good vibes only way. Instead, it’s knowing the truth that after death comes resurrection. Sure, I choked on a couple of alleluias, but then my heart filled with joy.

As I preached the words I needed to hear today: there is room in the tomb to leave these little bits of ourselves behind as new life emerges, I felt like my new self. A joyful song burst forth from my heart for the first time in 10 months. Christ is risen indeed.

Alleluia. Carry on.

Day 300

With the 10 month mark falling on Easter Sunday, I’m not sure I’ll be able to post that day, so Day 300 it is. Also, this week has been on the griefy side.

Being Holy Week, of course I’m recalling all the Easter Sundays we celebrated together, all the ways you supported me in ministry, and all the hijinks behind the scenes. We’d laugh about how the Easter bunny uses gift bags and forgets to remove price tags because of Holy Week. Sometimes that Easter Bunny would retrieve those gift bags from the closet after church before she collapsed on the couch. Whatever works.

Waking you up for sunrise service was always an adventure, too. But you got up and showed up. Shucks, you always showed up. That’s who you were. I miss your constancy and reliability. Note that I didn’t include predictability. When little miss let’s get there twenty minutes early marries mister don’t worry we’ll be on time, there’s never a dull moment. Hurry up and wait vs. I’m running a little late. I always joked that you’d be late to your own funeral. Turns out, you were twenty minutes early.

I’m getting through these firsts. Nights are still the worst. This Holy Week feels holey as parts of me are gone. I’m grateful to be wholly loved, a firm believer in resurrection, and for all that is to come.

Hope abounds. Take the Easter photos. You’ll be glad you did.

Last week I purchased a bag of jelly beans, for my Easter guests to enjoy, of course. As I decanted the jelly beans from the bag into a more suitable container, I realized something: there were no black ones to be found. Did I purchase a defective bag? Is this some kind of joke? I know they make bags of solely black jelly beans, but the regular bags always include a few. I know folks have strong opinions on that subject, so I’ll go ahead and say it. Black jelly beans are my favorite! Not favorite enough to devour an entire bag of them, but I like to have a few mixed in with the others. Has it come to this? When did this happen? Was there a big announcement from the confectionery company that I missed? And why did it take me so long to notice? Sigh.

When we’re not paying full attention to something, while we’re living blissfully unaware, stuff happens. Sometimes irreversible stuff. Bigger things than jelly beans. Put into Holy Week terms, remember when Jesus asked the disciples to stay awake and pray with him? Stay awake. Pay attention.

Wait, I know this scenario. A number of years ago, early in my ministry, one Sunday, I realized that a dear church member wasn’t attending services. Now it was winter time in Wisconsin, so I said to myself, “Maybe they’re a snowbird or on an extended vacation. I haven’t heard otherwise. How long has it been? Write yourself a note to reach out.” Once I reached out, I received a letter that firmly poked a pastor’s heart. Thanks for noticing my absence. No one else did. No. One. Noticed. No one reached out.

Here’s where we could debate whose responsibility it is to notice when folks don’t attend church. In the years since my encounter, church attendance patterns have further evolved. Regular attendance is no longer every week or even every other week. Once a month? Hit or miss? How do you notice a pattern shift in a moving target?

As a pastor, you often wonder why folks leave the church. Was it something I said or didn’t say? Something I did or didn’t do? Really? Reality check that ego. You don’t have that much influence, lady. People leave faith communities for an infinite number of reasons. God is working on something in them individually while simultaneously at work in the larger faith community.

Folks are disappearing from churches. Not in a sci-fi way. They are finding joy, meaning, purpose, and engaging in community. Just not ours. What do we offer? Stares, glares, and nobody cares? Kindness, hospitality, and good news? Or “hey, you’re sitting in my pew?”

On Easter, a number of folks will attend worship services who haven’t been there for a while. Maybe they attended previously until their confirmation. Maybe they carry memories and wounds of church hurt. Maybe they find community elsewhere. Show them kindness. See them and welcome them for who they are, where they are. Maybe they’ll come back. Maybe not. May they experience Christ either way.

This Holy Week, I pray that my colleagues and I will create safe spaces of welcome for all, stay awake, lead with love, and proclaim the good news confidently and boldly.

Now to find some black jelly beans. Peace, friends.

Death and taxes. That’s where I’ve been spending my down time in recent days. Always a “write the paper as soon as you get the assignment” person, I wanted to get going on the taxing task as soon as possible. But grief. And gathering all the information. I think I have all the information? Frustration that Dennis isn’t here to do them, even if he did so around April 14. Doubting in my abilities, despite prior experience and education. Stop the worrying, woman. Just do the thing. Ugh.

Software acquired. Prior years files located. Documentation neatly organized into a file folder. I’m doing this. Now keep the emotions out of it. Treat it like an assignment back in your bookkeeper era. Begin. Remember: keep your emotions out of it.

Yes, you’re filing on behalf of a deceased person. Just check that box and move on. Making my way through, I figured out how to import data from financial institutions. Until I couldn’t. See filing for a dead person. Get on the phone. I have the physical forms, how do I get the files to make this yucky task even 10% easier? Access denied. You’re still sending him emails that the digital files are available, but no one can get to them? That’s correct, ma’am. Wait, I need to enter all of that information manually? I suppose I’m going back to my data entry era now.

Have your little pity party. Cry a little. Scream a little. Laugh because why not at this point. Take a few breaths and reframe the mess in your head. What a privilege to have this problem at all. Grief seeps into everything.

On the bright side, I am keeping a plant alive.

You’ve probably heard that we make plans and God laughs. Truth! I planned for a difficult grief week last week. I was ready to take part in a few little rituals to make the memories hurt a little less and give some meaning to the whole mess. Little did I know that this stinking virus would take me down. You know those green boogers in the mucinex ads? That’s how I picture this virus, sitting in the corner, pointing and laughing at me and my silly plans.

Remember what you’re always preaching, pastor lady. God gives us what we need. So, I needed to get sick? Perhaps I just needed to get pissed. At the little laughing booger in the corner? Yeah, sure. And some other stuff: my husband is still dead, my creativity keeps crashing, work still feels wonky, and no one wearing tights and a cape is coming to the rescue any time soon. This Lent is the Lentiest.

I wept with Mary, Martha, and Jesus this morning because Sunday is always coming. “Lord, if you had been here…” Woof. I know you’ve been hanging around, God, because you keep me hanging on through it all. Parts of me died with Dennis. Here’s to hoping the rest comes back online, new and improved. It stinks now, but hope abounds. Lazarus, come out.

A sermon supplement of sorts.

In my sermon today I spoke of the phrase “stay safe” that my son and other Gen Z folks whom I admire use when parting ways. I wrestle with its meaning. Am I in danger? Do I need protection? Do I have a safe place, literally and figuratively? The church ought to be a safe space, right?

People attend church for a variety of reasons. Insert yours here. Our mutual connection? The invisible string through it all, the tie that binds. We all need Jesus: to heal our brokenness, to forgive our sins, to nourish, strengthen, and equip us for our individual and collective callings, to offer words of hope and encouragement, and daily grace. According to my life mission statement (which I pray was Spirit inspired), I aim to be a messenger of mercy, a purveyor of peace, a harbinger of hope. I ask God to help and guide me every day. “Help” is a valid prayer.

To stand in the pulpit, before the people, and before God, is done with a fair amount of fear and trembling every week. As it should be, to a degree. The calling to preach the gospel feels like a weighted blanket: a heavy, holy hug. Every week lately I ask myself, “Am I preaching with the boldness needed for our time or I am staying safe?” Being brave and scared are not mutually exclusive, preacher. What can I possibly say with world events going on (which people are clearly divided over) that could offer that word of hope to those clinging to that invisible string with anywhere from a pinky finger to all their might? When we get distracted, which easily occurs amid the chaos of the world, we remove our grasp from the invisible string, making it easy to fall off and turn away altogether. We take our eyes off Jesus. For those still here, This is where we say, “Get behind me, Satan!”

Then I recall that it’s not up to me. God gives the growth. Growth happens in stretching one’s comfort zone, requiring some discomfort, which does not mean sacrificing one’s safety. The best I can do is to continue to point folks to Jesus using the gifts God has graced me with. That feels doable right now.

Now I see “stay safe” as words of blessing. The person saying these parting words loves and cares for me and my welfare. They do not wish harm upon me. Well wishes for well-being.

Stay safe, friends.

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.