Marilyn's Musings

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, your husband, who died this year. This will be your last joint return. 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.

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.