Marilyn's Musings

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.

Happy New Year. Since I mentioned Spotify wrapped a couple of days ago, I’ll share that I had to put one of my top songs into practice this first day of 2026. My 3rd most played song on Spotify in 2025 was “You Can Do This Hard Thing” by Carrie Newcomer. I won’t tell you how many times I listened to it. Just know that it was a lot.

Along with the song, I was presented with the opportunity to add to a collection of prayers I began writing and compiling some time ago, prayers for “re-entries” or times when you return to a familiar place as a changed person. Today, I was called to one of those difficult places.

God wrote one of those re-entry prayers on my heart today as I was called to the hospital this morning. Of course, I went, but it was a hard thing. The hospital is near my home. Distance was not the problem. Grief explosion: it’s the same place where my husband, mid heart attack, looked me in the eyes and asked me if he was dying. That, and fleeing to race a helicopter from there were the last memories I had of the place. I drive by it often, but that doesn’t require going into the building. Today, I had to go in. I did it. I did the hard thing. I showed up for a dear one and was grateful that I did. I cried when I got home. Tears are cleansing.

I am doing my best to keep showing up, grateful that God keeps showing up for me. If you are in a “do hard things” season, know that you are not alone. Remember that on a re-entry, you are just going back to a familiar place, but you are a changed person, who is equipped for this, whether you realize it or not. Peace.

According to the internet, the week between Christmas and New Year’s is called Twixmas (from betwixt), Dead Week, or other nicknames like Chrimbo Limbo, Feral Week, or the Twilight Week. All of these names point to that aimless feeling just before the calendar flip. Do you know that feeling? Are you feeling feral or doing the chrimbo limbo this week? This year it’s hitting different for me, maybe because it feels so similar to the lostness of grief. It feels familiar, but don’t assume that means I could tell you what day of the week it is.

I heard on a podcast today that grief expands one’s capacity to feel. Yep. That’s good news as it applies to all the feelings: good, bad, and ugly. I trust that when my joy makes its full comeback, I will be able to experience it deeply.

Well, here we are on the cusp of a new year. I made it. I’m doing this. Looking back, I’ll probably have no idea how. Heck, I don’t need a retrospective to say that. I can say it now. How am I even doing this? By the grace of God.

Of course, I want to start the new year strong, brave, and fearless. But I am weary of being all that: holding it all together when you’re falling apart. After considerable pondering, I am choosing my word of intention for 2026 to be gentleness. May I be gentle with myself and others. As my favorite poem, Desiderata, says: “Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.”

I’m glad we are here on this journey together. Let’s step gently into 2026.

Photo of the Lego centerpiece built by my grandsons and a cow rock for grandpa’s grave created by my granddaughter. It was so good to be with family today.

I spent today with my son. We listened to some holiday brass as we baked cookies. We watched a couple of Christmas movies. He helped with a couple of household things. I did his laundry and fed him, as moms do.

Hubs came to mind throughout the day because he would always eat the cookies warm, before we could even decorate them, washed down with a glass or two of eggnog. Then he’d sing a little song, “Christmas cookies and holiday hearts…” We agreed that we have no idea where that song came from. We’d never heard it before, which was strange because I’d never describe him as festive. In any case, we sang the line of the song in his memory with smiles and a grunt or two for him not being here. Doggone it. I don’t miss the eggnog coated glasses though. Gross.

The vibe around here is merry melancholy. Here’s my current letterboard message. It’s been a year. Have yourself a Christmas.

As Christmas draws nearer and nearer, the load feels heavier and heavier. It’s not exactly dragging weight like Jacob Marley’s chains. Think: shoveling heavy, wet snow. When your spade first hits the snow, you think, “This isn’t too bad.” It’s lightish, but quickly fills your little shovel to capacity, mysteriously multiplying in weight, requiring you to lift it with all your might, only to toss it into an ever growing discard pile. Just when you thought you’ve cleared the brunt of it, a plow drives by, hemming you in with impossibly dense road snow. December grief feels like that.

It’s just one month. Don’t get your lights all in a tangle, woman. Keep it together. You’ve got to keep showing up. A regular December is challenging enough. This one? Into levels previously unknown.

In between crying out to God for extra grace and courage, I’ve been asking myself repeatedly why this all feels so extra. Of course, I’m missing my person. Duh. That’s part of it. You see, the secondary losses hit like an avalanche this month.

My comfort and joy are playing hide and seek, finding an unbelievably good hiding spot. After all the advent extra services, meetings, visits, planning, and such, the comfort of home always soothed my weary spirit. Home was an oasis for my soul, the place where we spent the bulk of our time doing life together. Not this year. I’ve made every effort to hygge the heck out of my home: candles, cozy throws, holiday music, Hallmark movies, simple holiday decor, etc. It’s festive for sure, but so lonely when your heart is hurting and healing.

Leading up to last night’s Blue Christmas service, I was seriously doubting how I’m going to make it through Christmas services this year. The secondary loss avalanche is real. My creativity is creeping back at a snail’s pace. Cry out to God for grace and courage. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

With God’s help, I did it. I made it through the Blue Christmas service. At the end, I spontaneously asked folks to join hands as we sang Silent Night to close the service. For a few seconds, I closed my eyes and took in the sound of the voices around me. The Spirit held my heart as love poured in. The dawn of redeeming grace. Thanks be to God