Reflections

During a recent every so often phone cleanup, I uninstalled the Empathy app. For those unfamiliar, their website says, “Empathy partners with leading financial institutions and employers to ease logistical and emotional burdens when it matters most.” In my words, it’s a freebie grief task app provided by life insurance companies which has some useful tools for stuff I pretty much figured out on my own. The account on the app stays active for six months beyond initial install and activation.

That ought to be a no brainer, right? I’m way past six months. No use for the app any longer. Yet I hesitated to remove it. Moving forward requires letting go of these little things, too.

Also, who uninstalls empathy? Good question. I’m beginning to wonder if humanity has taken this step. And I’m not referring to an app. What happened to empathy? Did we uninstall it? Or is it simply glitching?

Can we look beyond ourselves? Can we step back from rash judgments and see the bigger picture? Do we consider how our words and actions impact others? Or have hearts hardened so much that empathy has left the building? How do we engage with other humans whose beliefs and opinions differ from our own? Are we striving for love and understanding? Can we set aside our need to be right and win arguments?

I have no answers. I uninstalled the app. I pray that I can retain empathy in my being, even if the world comes completely undone.

See the good. Be the good. Love your neighbors. Every single one of them.

I just got home from the eye doctor. She is wonderful, compassionate, and kind, but I had to tell the story all over again. She noticed our niche marker as she was driving through the cemetery. Plus, I volunteered the information. (The any changes since your last visit question.) Yep. Every time with the emergency contacts.

She recounted Dennis’s quick wit (endless puns) and that he played in the 1st Brigade Band. She showed genuine love and concern for me. She remembered my husband by name and listened like a pro. I left with a slight change in my prescription, good news that I only have the earliest beginnings of cataracts, and a mood boost.

I’ve been praying fervently for a ‘win’ lately. Today felt like one. This combined with another surprise blessing yesterday, things are looking up. May I continue to see and accept the good. Praise be El Roi, our God who sees.

I knew that May would be challenging. Sleep issues. Sadness just beneath the surface. Difficulty concentrating. Drained. All the grief ick. I am okay and will make it through. I am simply naming my reality right now. I am giving myself permission to cry, scream, or whatever else I need because we went through some hellish days last May (Memorial Day week). I made it. He didn’t. I claim that so I can remember well and keep going. Life is for living, so I will not sink in the deep end of grief. I persist and am doing my best to keep my eyes on Jesus.

A recurring theme woven throughout my life is that of finding my voice. Teachers referred to me as shy. Probably daydreaming or overthinking. Actually, I was noticing. Noticing those left out. Noticing those ignored. Being the voice speaking up on their behalf came easily.

In my early 20s, a coworker called me a friend of the friendless, intended to be a diss, meaning that I had no friends. Here was a glimmer of who I am at my core: a friend of the friendless, a woman using her voice to speak up for others. I don’t have many friends by choice, so both interpretations of the phrase ring true.

Eventually, God provided opportunities for me to stand up and speak up for myself. Thanks, CPE. What a gift to find that voice, scary as it can be. Every single time. No one is going to do it for you. Be your own best friend and advocate. Best decision ever.

This grief journey often feels like screaming into the void, trying to find my voice all over again. Folks have fallen off. New folks have come alongside. Unanswered emails or text messages have me asking: is anybody out there? Was I asking or being too much? Grieving folks don’t really know what we need. Thankfully, God does. And God knows, those answers are probably lying in wait in the depths of my spirit.

The author of the book recommendation I posted the other day describes herself as a grief activist. Hmmmm. Kinda fits the noticing and speaking up parts of me, doesn’t it?

11 months today, but I find that I’m thinking about 12 months ago. A year ago, we were living our lives with no indication of what would happen. With busy schedules, we were often two ships passing in the night, but looking forward to all that summer would bring: campground time, band practices and performances, vacation time planned. I look back on our text exchanges from last May: usual banter, a few puns, a number of ETAs. This is where the shoulda, woulda, and couldas come in. If we knew when the bad stuff was gonna happen, would our behavior change? Would there be more “I love yous” and less nitpicking? More hugs and less complaining?

Obviously, we can’t go back and change anything. I can only change how I live and love from here on out. Death does that, gives you a change of perspective. You ask yourself: What is my legacy? How have I shared God’s love, light, and peace today? Am I bearing any fruit on this griefy, dead looking branch?

Things you do differently after a loss blesses you with a life paradigm shift: Tell your people you love them more often. Tell your people what you love and appreciate about them while they are among the living. Those little nitpicky problems don’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. Your heart knows what your spirit needs. Listen to it. Do the thing. Plan the trip. We don’t know how much time we’ve got. Savor every moment, beloveds.

A beloved church member approached me after worship this morning to tell me she was going to the choir concert this afternoon. She asked if I was going. Grief smack. It wasn’t even on my radar. Sigh.

I file choir under secondary losses. While singing and participating once brought me joy, that subroutine hasn’t come back online yet. True, I sing every week during worship, but that seems to be originating from muscle memory, not the heartsong space. I’m still glitching.

After my Sunday afternoon crash, the livestream of today’s performance popped up on my YouTube feed. I clicked to watch. I half expected to cry. I spied many familiar faces. I listened and enjoyed the music. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel any urge to run back and slip right into my section next session. Sigh.

Because I overthink everything, I ask myself why I wouldn’t want to do something that I love. Am I isolating? Grief does make you want to be around people and alone at the same time. Or is this just another part of becoming? It’s a new season.

Over the last year, I’ve thought about returning to the choir a few times. Beyond not wanting to drive at night without a person at home to call if anything goes amiss, I reached the conclusion that it’s just too painful. We always supported each other in our musical endeavors. While choral music wasn’t one of Dennis’s favorite things, he went to every one of my performances that he could. I could always pick him out of the crowd with that silly grin on his face. Then we’d go out for a meal and enjoy time with family members that also attended. Ahhh, the afterglow.

I made it through the “first” festival church services without Dennis in the pews, so I could probably suck it up and push through a choir performance if I had to. You know what? I’ve pushed through enough. Trust me when I tell you that grieving folks are pushing through far more than you realize. I now understand why folks leave jobs, churches, communities, etc. after losing a loved one. The pain is real. You are not the same.

Widow life is not all pain and sorrow. I laugh. I cry. I ponder. I wonder. I spend time with friends and family. I have plans and things I’m looking forward to. Hope abounds. Healing happens. Here’s to all I am becoming.

Grief around 11 months feels like this for me. I’m okay and have my people who love and care for me. Some days are harder than others. My musings from early this morning:

A waking wonder:

Where did everybody go?

Still here. Still there. Living their lives, just like you did, before.

Not exactly carefree lives. Just living their lives.

Some turned up. Some turned against. Some turned away.

Turn. Turn. Turn. What a season.

Determined to live again, beyond the griefiest season ever

Death casts shadows in both directions: foreshadow and aftermath.

Living within and through the shadow of death,

signs of your new life reality emerge as you trudge through this valley,

where despair and depression coexist with gratitude and growth.

Name it: Your person isn’t coming back. No one is coming to rescue you.

The loneliness of the abyss is experienced most deeply in their absence:

A year without kisses.

They’re not here to share daily joys, pains, and perplexations.

The shadow valley courses through the everyday life stuff.

Thankfully, we never walk alone.

Doing?

That is a complete sentence. Dennis used to say it to your face, text it, or leave it as a voicemail. While the origin story remains part mystery, I believe it involved one of his children (then toddler) catching him in the act of late night snacking on some ice cream. It evolved into one of his numerous legendary shticks. We keep a list.

Now nearing the 11 month mark since Dennis’s death, I ask myself that one word question frequently. Doing? How am I doing? What am I doing with all that life is dishing out?

“You’re doing great.” Am I? I’m doing the best that I can. I’m doing my job and getting done. I’m making my way onward, whether that be in strides or at a snail’s pace varies by the hour.

As my sister and I say while lake swimming, I’ve been walking along a muck bottom this whole time. Right around the 10-month mark, something shifted. The muck bottom lost its semi firm squish and became more quicksand like, pulling me under. The waves began to churn as the grief storms returned. My research and experience tell me this is completely normal and expected. I’ve seen the “year two is harder” wisdom of the internet grief gurus. Good to know.

I remain grateful for my people. I will keep asking the question and live into the unknown future with all the hope I can muster.

Doing? I’m doing this. By the grace of God, I persist.

I cannot recall exactly what I was writing. Notes for a sermon outline? Crafting worship service elements? A prayer litany? The ever-looming monthly newsletter article?

Whatever the musings, the spellcheck squiggles caught and highlighted my blunder. The typo was innocent enough. Trusth. Ummmm, okay. Was it trust or truth? Trust the process. The truth will set you free.

There’s an entire sermon in that happy accident. I’m sure of it. I’ll let you know when it shows up.

For now, I’m pondering trust and truth. As my main mentor would always tell me, “Only you know the answer to that question.” The truth lies within: the truth as we know it based on our lived experience, and God’s truth about us, that we are beloved. In a year filled with many questions, I’m learning and leaning into deeper trusth. I wish the same for you, dear ones.