Marilyn's Musings

My Facebook bio reads: Broken. Beloved. Brave. I love God. I love people. I love life.

I consider this to be a fair description of myself. As a human, I’m inherently broken. As a child of God, I am beloved. I don’t know precisely how or when I put the brave part in there. It may have been an aspiration or someone’s observation because most days, I’m feeling quite the opposite. And the love parts? That’s God’s calling on my life: love. Full stop. The life-loving part of me seems to be playing hide-and-seek these days. And now that I think about it, I’m putting on a brave face nearly every day.

Someone recently noted that parts of me were starting to get back to my old self. While that may be an interesting observation (brave face, remember?), that old self is not going to happen, at least not the complete self I was before losing my person. Once you experience a significant loss and the grief takes hold, there is no turning back. Your person is gone, leaving a gaping hole in your heart. While I may appear to be the same person on the outside, I am forever changed within. A quote often (falsely?) attributed to Luther reads, “A Christian is never in a state of completion but always in a process of becoming.” (I don’t have the energy to research properly, so you are welcome to fact-check and correctly cite.) Whoever said it first, that quote resonates with me. I am in an intense phase of becoming. A new creation, right? Just what that creation looks like, only God knows.

I find myself hesitant to post these updates as I wonder if they are downers. However, I remain committed to sharing this grief journey. These updates are just how the grief goes: ride the waves as the tears ebb and flow. I suppose that folks can unfriend, unfollow, or scroll along if they choose. Also know that my concerns extend beyond these grief posts: family, staying up-to-date on world and local events, demands of ministry, administrative tasks relating to death, and tending to my body, mind, and spirit, etc. It’s a lot.

Please know that I continue to do and be the okayest that I can every day. Thanks for walking alongside me. Peace.

Since I live for a good 80’s song reference, here’s one for you. When there’s something strange in your neighborhood, who you gonna call? Ghostbusters, of course. No, this isn’t a ghost story, although I could probably share a few unexplained experiences with you another time. This is all about the who you gonna call.

Most folks have emergency contacts indicated in their phones (I won’t call them by their acronym because, you know). But what happens when you’re the one in the middle of a situation and you’ve got to make the phone calls? Who you gonna call at 2 AM when your person is at the hospital in the middle of a major health crisis? It’s 2 AM. Do you dare call? Do you just text? You don’t really have a whole lot of information yourself at this point, not to mention being in power-through-this mode.

These were decisions I had to make when I found myself driving the longest, darkest 20-mile ride of my life, moving at a snail’s pace, praying aloud for no deer, all while simultaneously racing a helicopter to the next place.  Was the answer obvious? Maybe. The sisters. Notify our sisters. They show up. They stay calm. They always know what to do. I can tell you that being the one making the middle of the night call is just about as fun as receiving one. Not to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m bearing bad news.

The next few hours were spent sending texts en masse to family members. I figured that if folks had their do-not-disturb mode on, they’d pick up the information in the morning. If by chance they heard the text come in and picked it up, that was okay, too. After the first round of texts and phone calls, I did my best to keep everyone updated with any breaking news.

Immediate family, extended family, pastor friends, and close friends who are like family were all subscribed to my medical jargon filled text updates, whether they liked it or not. After a few days of this, I noticed a pattern in my texting: I reached out to Dennis’s network, but not my own. While I was completely and lovingly supported by family members, I didn’t seek out my network of people. That makes me little sad to think about it now. Note to self: unpack that in a safe space later.

Now that Dennis is gone, I haven’t mustered up the courage to remove him from my phone’s emergency contact list. Not only does that feel final, but it requires picking a new primary contact. It also makes you think that if you are no longer your person’s emergency contact because they’re gone, are you anyone’s contact? (I never said grief infused thinking was rational) The whole situation is yet another grief pinch. Ouch.

I’m so grateful that I have a network of folks who love and support me, family and friends that I can call on any time of day. You are a gift. I know who I’m gonna call.

I’ve always been drawn to labyrinths. Some of my life’s most significant moments of discernment happened in labyrinths. If you’re not familiar, their winding paths serve as a metaphor for life or one’s spiritual journey. Moving along their path towards the center, you encounter unexpected twists and turns, moving you closer to and then away from the center. Like a labyrinth, sometimes life sends you on an apparent detour, but you keep moving forward towards the center. At times along the journey you may feel lost, but you persist and ultimately reach the center.

The twists and turns of grief are like this, but also different. Grief feels more like a maze: disorienting, confusing, and frustrating. When you least expect it, you hit a wall: for me today’s wall was a flood of tears that came out of nowhere, for no particular reason. Sadness, loneliness, and fatigue constantly loom in the shadows. Another wave can easily overwhelm your broken spirit at any given moment.

Keep going. Keep breathing. Pray. Pray lots. Sweet memories of your person bring some consolation, turning you around from those maze dead ends as you re-orient yourself to your new reality. This is just a detour, you tell yourself. Trust the path, wherever it leads, however long it takes. Peace.

Photo of 3-D printed labyrinth I received from my son for Mother’s Day this year. He gets me.

I’m pondering putting my social media posts relating to my grief journey on this website instead. Consider this putting the idea out there into the world.

Ash Wednesday marks the entrance into Lent. Typically, we’d participate in a worship service filled with time for reflection, repentance, and experience the imposition of ashes.

As a pastor, some of the most powerful ministry moments happen on occasions such as this. Reminding folks that they’re God’s beloved dust, knowing that you may officiate at their funeral, hear their hurts, baptize their babes, or sit with them in silence as they come to terms with life stuff. All of it. And marking a baby with an ashen cross? Whoa. Cuts right to the heart.

Post-imposition, the presider’s eye view reveals the stark sea of ashen foreheads. The ash penetrating the skin of our pastor thumbs, wedged into cuticle space, sticking with us long after the sending hymn. Humanity. Frailty. Finitude. In constant need of God’s grace, love, and mercy. Dust and all.

Why do you ash? What if you can’t get your ash in church or haven’t set foot in a church for much longer than a pandemic? God’s got you.

This year, consider other reminders of your dusty, broken, belovedness. Read Psalm 51 in a different version of the Bible than your usual go to. Spend extended time in prayer, conversing with the Creator. Take a walk. Observe your surroundings. What’s speaking to you?

My reminder today was road salt:

Salt spreaders scatter salt to keep the roads safe and clear.
God is clearing your path and protecting you along the way.

The salt makes a mess of my vehicle.
You are dusty just like that Honda, sister.

The windshield…I can’t see. No amount of washer fluid is going to fix this.
You see through your life experience filters. All will be revealed in God’s way and time. Besides, you have all the fluid you need: the waters into which you were baptized.

And now I’ve got salt all over my coat because I accidentally rubbed against my car.
You are dust, my beloved.
You are the salt of the earth.
You traveled in and exited the vehicle safely.
I called you. I claimed you. I named you beloved.
I’ve got you, now and forever.

Thanks for the reminder, God. Also thanks for car washes and constant care. Now let’s do Lent.