Marilyn's Musings

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.

On Saturday, my congregation hosted a women’s event for a number of area churches. The overarching theme and focus of the event was the cross. St. Luke’s cross ministry was lifted up. Ahead of the event, attendees were asked to bring a cross that is meaningful to them and share the story behind it. I thought to myself, “How do you choose?” Then I remembered that the cross chooses us. I immediately knew which one to share.

This is a clinging cross that I gave Dennis early on in our relationship as prayer partners. A dear friend and mentor had given me one like it when I went off to seminary, so I already knew its power and comfort. Cling to the cross. Always.

Not long after Dennis’s death, when I was in the throes of early grief, on a particularly challenging day, I discovered this well-loved cross in his desk drawer. God’s perfect timing. The amount of wear this little cross sustained was jarring. Whether he left it in his pocket with a set of keys or grasped it so tightly in fervent prayer that the finish peeled away, I’ll never know. And it doesn’t matter. In my mind, the cross is part of our lasting connection. When I hold it, I can almost feel his hand in mine: the one that held that cross, the one I imagine now holding onto Jesus’ hand.

Peace, friends.

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.