Sorry Charlie

Good grief. I'm sorry Charlie Brown, but is there ever really such a thing? It may be a good thing to grieve over something but, in an of itself, grief is not good. It signifies that something has ended. A life. A relationship. Good health. And grief is no respecter of persons. It rains on the just and the unjust. 

This evening I received a phone call from another friend who is fast becoming a very close friend. (Not so close that her husband has to worry though!) I had put a prayer request out there for my brother who was experiencing some pain and fever that was severe enough for him to go to the hospital. And trips to the hospital are almost as rare for him as they are for me. In other words, he doesn't go just to see what lollipop he can get that day. When my friend called her first question was, "Where are you?" She asked this because I believe she was on her way to the hospital to sit with me again if I would just tell her which one I was at this time. I told her that I was home watching football. Then she wanted to know if everything was okay. I told her that I had a cold but that was about it. Then it became clear that it wasn't my health she was concerned about - at least not my physical health. She was concerned how I was holding up based on the fact that my brother was in the hospital. I assured her that, while he was in pain and running fever, that it was not life threatening. If it had been, then my answer to her previous question would not have included the words "home" and "football."

Yes I have been through a lot. And to have my brother hospitalized with something life threatening would have probably pushed me over this razor's edge I find myself on. But I remain on the edge for now (but still would appreciate prayers for him). 

But even if the rest of my world comes crumbling around me I will always recognize two things. One, my God is in control. And two, it could always be worse. I have no monopoly on grief. If you are grieving the loss of a pet, you are still grieving. If you are grieving the fact that your child has moved away or that your husband left you or that your great aunt twice removed fell off her rascal and broke a hip, you are still grieving. And I have no right to say that my grief is greater than yours. 

It would do us all good to recognize that to each of us, our grief is a very real and large part of our lives and we all have the right to grieve. But we all have an equal right to joy amongst the grief. Maybe not happiness, but at least joy. And if you don't have that joy amongst the grief and the pain then I would love to introduce you to that which gives joy that is sweet as fruit from the vine. Because the fruit of the spirit is love, JOY, PEACE, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self control. And in that spirit you can find good in the grief. 

Hot for teacher

Been to school lately? I have. And I'm not talking about a primary or secondary education. I'm talking about the school of life. Currently I'm enrolled in Grief 201. And I'm learning quite a bit. I'm not quite sure I'm passing but I know I'm not able to withdraw. There have been many chapters I've had to go through. And, depending on what type of grief event you may have experienced yourself, some of the lessons you may have gone through or are going through yourself. Here are some recent lessons I've had to learn:

1. Breathing. This is one of the first lessons we learn. How to breathe again. It may seem natural to most people, and it was once normal to me, but some lessons have to relearned at times. 

2. Developing new routines. Everything you did before that was natural to you gets turned upside down. I no longer call my wife during the day to check in and see how she is doing. I don't check with her before I come home to see if she needs me to pick up anything on my way home. But I haven't learned to not pick up the phone before I realize there is no one home for me. 

3. Learn to fend for myself. Today I actually cooked a meal. Not just dumped contents from a box or a can, but put something together from scratch. I replaced a broken button on two of my dress shirts as well. Some things I've learned are better left to others so I've hired someone to clean my house. But I do at least straighten up after myself. I wash clothes about three times per week and I wash all of my dishes by hand since it would take a month to fill up my dishwasher. 

4. Learn to spend most evenings alone. I'm failing this particular lesson. I try to spend evenings out or with someone for as late as I can so that I'm not in this empty home for too long before going to bed. 

5. Learn to sleep alone. This is a pass/fail lesson. I'm sleeping alone now but I continually wake up and reach across the bed with my arm or foot only to be painfully aware that the other half of the bed is empty. It's honestly difficult to not go look for a tutor for this class! But the hot teacher that taught me how to sleep with another person in the bed with me did such a good job that I can't imagine sleeping next to anyone else. 

6. Learn how to hope, care, and love again. This is the final lesson. This one I'm working on now and I have a number of willing tutors. Don't get me wrong, I will continue to care for others just as I always have. I will continue to hope for a better day each tomorrow I face. And I'll always love. But to hope, care, and love someone like I did before will take some time and probably a miracle or two. 

I know there are many other lessons to be learned that I'm not aware of yet. And I also know that there will be a comprehensive final. Maybe I'll be able to put something together from scratch again. And maybe I will meet with the same success as the casserole I made tonight. If not, then I guess I'll be living off of leftovers for awhile. 

I get by with a little help from my friends

Through the journey of grief there are always those that step out of the shadows and show you what true friendship is like. I recognize that people handle grief differently and writing has been very helpful to me. But sometimes writing is not enough. You can't hold writing. It can't sit next to you and ask you how you're doing. It can't call or text and check on you. It's during those times you need a friend. But friends have lives too. They don't all stay up way too late at night and wait for your blog post. They have responsibilities of their own and, no matter how good a friend they are, they are not thinking about you 24/7. And, even if they do think about you often, they don't always contact you to tell you that. If you are on a journey of grief you can't expect to have someone with you around the clock just to make you feel better. And, if you haven't traveled the road of grief, then no matter how much I write about it, you will never truly understand the journey. 

I found out today that a friend who checks up on me almost every day and who brings her little girls to see me quite often while I'm at work, will be moving in about 6 weeks. When they are gone then my relationship with them will be limited to Skype and visits on rare occasions when they come home. But I know the girls, and their momma, are so ready to see daddy on a much more regular basis. And I'm excited for the place God has them in their life. 

Even though these, and other friends as well, check up on me fairly regularly, they cannot be there during all of my lows (and I'm not sure it would be fair for them to have to be around me when the lows hit). And, as a guy, I'm not good about just calling or texting just anyone and saying that I need help out of a low spot. And, if I did, what good could they really do me? I would only make them feel as helpless as I do. And that isn't fair to them. So, I will do the guy thing and not ask for help. I'll throw the assembly directions way, toss the map, turn of the GPS, and muddle my way through. Because that's what us guys do. 

Most of my blogs are written in an effort to help someone who is also experiencing grief, to know they are not alone and maybe make them feel a little less crazy. And I hope it's working because I really need to know that some good can come from my journey. But I want to close this blog with some suggestions for those that are watching a friend grieve. So here are some steps to follow to help the griever:

1. Pray. Don't just say you will, but honestly pray. Even if it is quick one when they come to mind. 

2. Share your favorite memories of your time with the loved one who was lost. 

3. Pray

4. Call or text them when they are on your mind - regardless of the time. 

5. Go through your pictures and find any you might have of the person who passed and share them with the griever. 

6. Don't be afraid to be around the griever. I know it is uncomfortable to have to look that closely at grief. But perhaps a closer look will make you recognize how precious the gift of life is and be more thankful for the blessings you have received. 

7. Regardless of how long ago the grief event was, remind the griever that you are thinking of them. A note, a text, and email, or a call don't need to take long. 

8. Don't run away. One loss in our lives is enough. Don't let us lose your friendship too. 

9. Be willing to listen to old stories of our loved one since we don't have any new ones.

10. Pray. 

These are just ten of the many things you can do to help your friend in need. And I'm especially not just talking about me. Think of a friend you know that is grieving a loss and try one or two of the above on them. I'm certain they will be grateful and you will be so greatly blessed!

Doctor, doctor, give me the news

Happy Mother's Day to me. No, I know it isn't Mother's Day but today I realized what it must be like to be a mother. I am a little under the weather and had to experience what it was like to be home and not have anyone to wait on me. Nobody to make sure I take my medicine. Nobody to check on me. Nobody to fix me dinner or bring me a snack. Nobody to nurse me back to health. Nobody to play doctor with. Just like a mom. 

When Wanda would get sick I would stay by her side. I would try to get her things and take care of her. But sometimes life would get in the way. I would need to go to work or I would have other obligations and she was left to fend for herself. With her medical background she would usually be able to self-diagnose and self treat so we seldom involved a doctor. But then came the day when she really needed a doctor. And a nurse. And a radiologist. And all those other people I keep getting bills from. And during that time I made sure life didn't get in the way. The ICU nurse was kind enough to let me visit after regular visiting hours so, for the last time, I was able to sleep beside my wife. I believe the nurses could see the writing on the wall and they didn't want to deprive me of that opportunity. 

So today, after church and after visiting with family and friends I found my way home. I took some medicine and I was forced to lie around and do nothing. And that's when it's the toughest. Left alone to our thoughts, those of us battling grief seldom think good thoughts. And having no one there to share the grief only makes it worse. In my case I honestly (and perhaps I'm being too honest in these blog posts?) fight with Angry Me. And Angry Me doesn't want to be good. Angry Me wants to throw things and get in trouble. Perhaps because Angry Me needs to be punished. Or perhaps Angry Me needs to be talked down. Fortunately for everyone, Angry Me was alone and he went away sooner rather than later. 

As the medication kicks in and starts to make me feel fewer symptoms of this cold, I'm reminded that the scripture says that a merry heart does good like a medicine. I believe that scripture to be true. 

The problem is when the nurse goes away and takes that medicine with her. 

The Winner Takes It All

Isn't it amazing how certain events put things in perspective? For instance, I am writing this after watching the hometown team get humiliated by a team that is not that good. I have expectations for my team just as they do. My expectation is that they will win. Every time. From now on. I realize that those expectations are quite lofty, but aren't they the same expectations they put on themselves? 

Several years ago I attended a football game with my daughter. This was time together that we both enjoyed. She was not a great football fan, she was just a daddy fan and she enjoyed spending time with me as I did with her. This particular game also ended in a loss and I took the loss hard. It was a team we should've beaten. But, on the way out of the stadium my daughter took my hand and I realized I had been taking something for granted. Earlier that week a friend had lost her newborn child. As I walked away from the game I couldn't help but hear the Lord tell me, "It's just a game. Look at the hand you are holding. You still have your daughter." And I realized how silly it was for me to get worked up over a game. Up until that very moment my priorities had been misaligned. It all changed for me that day as I walked back to my car with tears in my eyes and my daughter's hand in mine. 

Fast forward a few years and I find myself walking to my truck from the same stadium after a loss. But this time the loss, while not enjoyable, was not devastating. Why? Because I know devastation when I see it. Now I don't get to walk back to the truck with my daughter's hand in mine. Nor do I get a hug from my wife. Instead I walk back with my brother beside me (but not holding my hand because that would just be too weird) and let the loss roll off my back. 

Some things don't go our way. And sometimes there isn't a darn thing we can do about it. My wife was always the neat one. She kept the house virtually spotless. I am no slob, but I also am not as particular as she was. But some things bother me. Like light switches for example. When a switch is up the light is on. When it is down the light is off. But when there is a three-way switch then if both the switches are in the same position then the light is off. If they are in opposite positions the light is on. But when they are both up and the light is off then my universe is off tilt. I don't know why I am this way. (Probably the way I am wired!) for this reason I will go across the room to flip the switch so it's in the correct position according to the status of the light. And when there is a row of switches and I am leaving the room then all the switches must be in the down position. One switch out of sequence throws OCD into overload. But, in my kitchen I have three switches controlling the light. This means that one switch must always be up and the other two down for the light to be off... Perhaps you should read that last line again. ONE OF THE SWITCHES MUST BE UP.  Up means on. Down means off. But, there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I have to learn to live with it. I have to learn that not everything is going to go my way. And I've learned the lesson the hard way. 

I don't get to go home from ball games with my daughter. I don't get to come home to my wife in the evening and get a hug. And you know what, it really hurts. But there isn't a darn thing I can do about it. Life just isn't fair sometimes. And, if you find yourself upset over your team's loss, the fact that your pizza took longer than 30 minutes, or that the store is out of what you went there to get, thank the Lord for the blessings you do have and remember, a late pizza isn't life and death. 

War, uh, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing.

After the loss of a loved one, every day becomes a battle. After the loss of a second  loved one it is all out war. There is a war with grief. A war to keep your sanity. A war to battle depression. A war to keep from distancing yourself from others. A war to think straight. And even a war to go to war. 

With every conflict there are casualties of war we must face. I've lost people I thought were friends who one day tell me to contact them if I need anything and the next day they are nowhere in site. Fortunately for me, I've been blessed with more friends who have easily stepped up and stood in the gap. I chalk it up to the fact that most of us don't know how to deal with someone else's grief so we would rather not face it. And the last thing I want to do is make someone uncomfortable around me. However, there are other ways to handle it if you can't stand to be around someone who is grieving (see my blog post entitled "What Not To Say"). 

Another casualty of war is my brain. As you age you struggle to keep your memory. Some of us are better than others in this regard. When you are in the midst of grief you find that even everyday words and thoughts are difficult to come by.  When our Beth left us Wanda was fond of saying that she took half of our brain with her. This means I've been operating for the last seven years on half a brain (assuming there was a whole one there to begin with). After Wanda's passing I'm not sure if I'm left with half of the half or if it is gone altogether. Case in point: a flight attendant asked me if I wanted something to drink on a recent flight. I was very thirsty and definitely wanted something but I couldn't come up with the words Ginger Ale for anything. And I was afraid to just say, give me that drink that starts with a G or I could've gotten anything from grapefruit juice to Grey Goose. 

I am finding now that another casualty of war is my business. My company is known for customer service and professionalism. It is what sets us apart from our competition. I lost a customer today because I was not there for her. She was referred to me by another customer but whenever she came to see me I was out of the office. She let me know this today and told me that she would not be back because I was never around. And, although I could offer up a very good excuse for my absences, she was absolutely correct. And, if I am not cautious then my story, which is beginning to mirror the story of Job, may fall more in line with that Old Testament story than I would care for it to be. 

If you have been a casualty of war I want to say that I am sorry and there is really no excuse. Life goes on - for most folks. Those of us that are traveling this journey of grief would do good to remember that we can be of little use here on this earth when we focus on our trials more than the blessings God has given us. Thank you for being my blessing, dear friend. I only hope I can return the favor. 

Hit me with your best shot

The ebb and flow of grief still astounds me. I've mentioned before that some days are better than others but I think the reverse is more true. Some days are worse than others. Two days ago I had a day that was somewhat tolerable. If I had not travelled down this road before I would say that it was an indication that I was finally getting better. But I know that is not the case. I have determined that these days are often the calm before the storm. Sometimes the storm happens quickly and other days it drags out interminably. 

I live in a small community. But even with that, and the massive popularity of this blog 😜, there are some people that still do not know of my loss. Yesterday this became painfully obvious. A long time acquaintance called me at my office to ask if I was going to be there for awhile. I told her that I would be and so she rushed over. She had just heard that morning about my most recent loss. She did the right thing by me and simply told me she was sorry and then she gave me a hug and held me for a minute. Less than an hour after she left I got a phone call from a friend that wanted to check on me and let me know of a future event that will be honoring a number of organ donors. This event will include both my wife and my daughter (And will be included in a blog post within the next month). The trifecta occurred mere minutes later when another customer came in (is it any wonder I'm spending less time in the store) and asked me how I was holding up. The look on her face said she knew, but the words that came out of her mouth proved my assumption wrong when she asked if my wife was still driving 100 miles to work each day. I had to tell her what had happened. And, a few minutes later, behind the closed door of my office, the dam broke and I let the grief wash over me. Who knew that emotional pain could be so physically painful as well? Well, actually, I know the answer to that question. Me.  

Like the victim in a dunking booth, you know the submersion is coming suddenly, you just don't know when someone will hit the target. But the target will always be there waiting for the well aimed throw. And the person tossing the baseball will not intentionally throw it to hurt, it just happens. So with a loud clang you find yourself gasping for breath praying you will be able to stand and get your head above water. I pray you find the strength to stand. And I ask for your prayers as well. 

A song for the ages

Relaxing on the porch tonight I quietly listened to the cicadas sing their love songs. Only the male cicada makes this sound in an effort to attract his mate. Every click, every chirp, indicates  a lonely cicada. At times they are quite loud while other times the sound is reduced to only a handful of solo artists in this nature's choir. 

As the evening comes to an end I wonder if my heart makes a similar sound that is only heard by my love. Does she hear the echo in heaven? Is it literally music in her ears? What does it sound like to her? Is it a blues song? Is it a twangy country tune? Does it call to her from across this great expanse? Together, are she and Beth busy with the things of heaven? Too busy to hear my song? Or, does God allow them to sit among the great crowd of witnesses that He has cheering me on? Am I a one man concert for friends and family that have gone before me?

I wonder, does she recall the words that flowed from my pen so many years ago in the poems and songs I wrote for her? Has she forgiven me for not writing as I once did? How many poets and wordsmiths could craft a sonnet of beauty while actually in the presence of that beauty? Why is it that we have to be apart from the very thing that inspires our words for the words to present themselves? Perhaps it is because the beauty that inspires us so captivates as to keep us from thinking clearly. 

Who is it, that while sitting on Santa's lap, asks him for something we already have? I had a love that was so special and sweet. A gift from God above that brought me yet another gift. Now both of those gifts are no longer with me and the words again begin to flow. The song on my heart beats on. The pounding sometimes soft, sometimes loud, but ever thrumming. 

I am a solo artist. My song is there. To be heard in heaven for sure, but, just maybe, to be heard on earth again. That is my song. Do you hear it? Do you sing it too?

He ain't heavy

As I reflect on the last six weeks or so I began to think about the things I've done that have brought me the most joy and that have kept the hounds of grief at bay the most. And, without a doubt, it has been time spent with the children. Oddly enough, kids are the ones who most often say those inappropriate things that make the adults cringe. But when they do I consider it a teachable moment and I never take offense. I've had little ones ask about my wife, about my daughter, and about death. They ask why I wear the extra rings on my fingers (Wanda's wedding bands) or why, as a boy, I'm wearing a necklace (Beth's). I recognize that some people who are grieving may be offended, but I chalk it up to the curiosity of children. 

After Beth passed, a sweet girl met Wanda and I for dinner with her family. She came up to me, gave me a hug, told me she missed Beth, and asked, "Why her die?" Another time,while having dinner with friends, one of their wee ones looked at me and with a smile simply said, "Your wife died." She said it with an innocence that I couldn't help but love. My feelings were not hurt and I told her father that it was fine. I mean, it's not like I had forgotten. It sits on the front of my brain and presses continually on the back of my eyeballs forcing moisture to escape. 

My favorite children to spend time with are, without question, my own nephews and nieces. They miss their cousin and, especially now, miss their Aunt Wanda. They hug and kiss. They hug and cry. And sometimes they just hug. They somehow sense the pain I carry and try to lift a little on their own frail and tiny shoulders. And the amount of grief they can lift is Herculean. 

My next group of children that help assuage some of the pain are the many children that call me Uncle Kevin in my church nursery. I get hugs from most and occasionally one of them needs me to hold him or her for most of the Sunday morning I have them. Or, perhaps, it's me that needs to hold them and they just know it. As a matter of fact, I'm sure that's exactly what it is. 

The last group of children to bless me have no idea of my story. I don't know most of their parents and the parents don't know me as anyone other than Coach Kevin. That group is the boys on the tee ball team I help coach. Most of the time it is like herding cats, but the smiles on their faces when I tell them, as well as the boys on the opposing team, how good a job they've done, get me through an entire evening. Just recently I was asked by one of the mothers if I was going to help coach during the Spring because she really liked the way we (me and the other coaches) handled the kids. I mentioned this to the head coach and he said the bidding starts at $100.

I will gladly pay more than that for the privilege.

Thanks for the memories

I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was an early summer day in 1987. The sun was shining brightly and I was spending the day working the dispatch desk in the automotive center at Sears. I stepped inside to bring a ticket from the garage to the front counter when I saw her. My heart leapt. My chest grew tight. My eyes got misty. My palms got clammy. My Wanda was standing there surprising me with a visit. I wanted nothing more than to take her in my arms squeeze her tight, tell her I love her, and plant a kiss on those soft lips of hers. But alas, I was at work and I had to contain my joy.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. The lights in the room were shining brightly that cold November morning in 1991. A light snow was dusting the window sill of the hospital room. The nurse turned around with my newly born Beth and asked me if I wanted to hold my daughter. My heart leapt. My chest grew tight. My eyes got misty. My palms got clammy. My Beth was in my arms and I planted a kiss on those new lips of hers and told her that I loved her. 

Today, after a long, exhausting, and yet enjoyable trip I pulled into the driveway of my house and pushed the button to raise the garage door. My heart didn't leap. My chest did get tight and my palms clammy. My eyes did more than mist. I wanted nothing more than to take my Wanda in my arms, squeeze her tight, tell her that I love her, and plant a kiss on those soft lips of hers. I wanted to have My Beth jump up to hug me, kiss me on the cheek (she is, after all, forever 15 in my eyes), and tell me that she loves me. But, alas, I can't. And I'm unable to hold the sadness and the grief in. So I let it wash over me and flow out of me in a steady stream of tears. I grab my chest as if to claw the remains of my tattered heart out just to see if it's still there. 

I thank my God for the memories I have and pray they will remain as fresh as the are now (I can still remember what Wanda was wearing that day and, obviously, what Beth was wearing). I thank Him for holding my heart a little longer and I pray that he continue to fill the craters a little more every day. And I look forward to the day I get to see my wife, my daughter, and my savior. I know that my heart will leap again.

Changing your view on grief

The calendar on the wall in the bathroom (yes, we kept one by her sink to jot notes on) remains on June. I haven't had the heart to change it. My niece came over yesterday and saw the write on/wipe off calendar on the refrigerator that was also stuck on June. She pointed to the date and proudly announced that the 16th was the date. But the 16th she pointed to was THE 16th. 

When dealing with grief sometimes we get to broaden our view of life. But other days it pays to narrow it as much as possible. Broadening your view allows you to see the wonderful memories you have built. But if it broadens in one direction, the past, then it must also broaden in the other direction, the future. Remembering the good times in the past will often serve as a reminder that your future will not include any new memories with your lost loved one. So narrowing our view for a little while can help us get through a tough moment. But keeping that focus on just the current day or current moment keeps us from the memories that got us there. So sometimes we have to mix the tears of remembrance with the tears of loneliness. But other times I think it's okay to narrow our focus for a bit. Even if it's narrowing it to a single breath at a time. 

We all need the human touch

Today marked the end of the first 4 months of eternity. It's been 4 months since I've touched the sweet soft skin of my beloved. It's been eternity since I've tasted those lips. Forever since I've brushed the hair from her face and gazed into those uniquely colored eyes with flecks of gold. And the weight of it seems more than I can bear. Last night I turned out the lights and tried to go to sleep. Usually I try to keep myself so busy that I can't stay awake any longer. Then I'll turn out the lights. But last night I decided I could probably nod off within a few minutes if I would just try. Why do we as parents tell our children to go back and try to go to sleep or try to take a nap. The harder you try the more awake you get. Sleep has to catch up with us, we can't catch up with it. That was the case for me. Then, in an effort to get more comfortable I rolled over in bed and, before I knew it, I reached for Wanda. And, I'll admit it, I totally lost it. That ugly cry face, snot bubble inducing, weep that I've become so familiar with of late. I needed so badly to touch and be touched by her. 

The new TV season is upon us and I cannot bear the thought of watching one of "our shows" without her. No more Bones, Castle, or even Amazing Race. During those shows I would lay my head in her lap and she would gentle rub my shoulders or scratch my back and I would make those little noises of contentment she told me she liked to hear. Instead I find myself sitting in the living room with the TV off but still staring at it. The tension in my shoulders, neck, and even my scalp and forehead is tighter than a three year-old's double knotted shoes. 

Several years ago I purchased a wonderful massage chair cushion to help remove the knots of a stressful business day. Over the last few months I've utilized that chair several times. But it does no good. Then, a couple of weeks ago I was getting my hair cut when it was suggested to me by one of the very special girls there that I should try this percussion massager they had. So I sat back down and she slipped the massager around my neck and shoulders and turned it on. I hit the on switch and felt the little drummer inside this apparatus try out a variety of rhythms on me. It was nice and, at times, I thought that the little drummer inside could rival the great Stephen (I call him Spartacus) Taylor in throwing down the beat. But when it was over it was over. Still, it beat nothing and it was kind of nice so I decided to look into buying one for myself. Before I did the beautiful nail tech at this salon told me to borrow theirs for a few days. So I have. And it is nice while its hacking away at my back, but when the five minutes is up then it's back to knotsville! 

What I have decided is that it's not just the massage that I need, it's the human touch. When the shoulders are rubbed by another person (who loves me rather than someone who does it for a paycheck) then the feeling last long after the massage is done. As I have mentioned before, my love language is physical touch. And I feel that love long after the physical touch has ended. Unfortunately, it doesn't last four months. And that feeling is hard to come by again. 

I'm thinking that perhaps I need to return the percussion massager and see if that nail tech or my hair dresser love me enough to rub my shoulders. I wonder what TV shows they like? 

Might As Well Face It...

A friend of mine, a recovered drug addict from the 70's, once told me that the definition of an addict to him was someone who used when they were alone. A recreational user simply used when they were part of a crowd. No party, no real draw to the substance. However, if you use the drug of choice when you were all alone then you were truly addicted to the drug. That being said, I am an addict. 

No, I'm not addicted to drugs (except for the occasional Advil). I'm also not addicted to alcohol, even though (Pastor, please don't read this part) I partake in an adult beverage on occasion - even when I'm alone. ("I love Jesus, but I drink a little.") but I'm not addicted to either of those things. No, I'm addicted to my beloved. I think about her all the time. But I especially think about her when I'm alone. As a matter of fact, one of her favorite songs she would play was "Addicted to Love" by Robert Palmer. (Yes, you're welcome for that ear worm.)

Thoughts of my bride consume me. She was a special woman. The most special in the world. And she knew me better than I know myself. Over the course of our marriage we had discussions about what would happen if one of us passed. She was certain that I would be married again within nine months. I laughed at her and told her it wasn't going to happen. And it's still not on my radar. But, since I have been open and honest with you dear reader, I now understand why she said this. For many men, and probably women as well, grief eventually turns to loneliness. As I think about the guys I know who have been in my position, I know a number of them who remarried within a year after losing their mate. And I'm beginning to understand why. In Genesis God looked at man and said he was not meant to be alone. Each time Wanda looked at me and told me I would be remarried within nine months I took it to mean she needed reassurance that she was the only one for me. Now I am beginning to see it as her recognizing my need to not be alone. I do not do alone well. I don't eat. I don't sleep regularly. I sometimes sit in the quiet with only my thoughts to keep me company.

I had lunch with a good friend today and we talked about being alone. Having been divorced for awhile he told me it took about a year before he was comfortable with being alone. Now he has no real problem with it. His new house is set up for a bachelor's life. He looks forward to being alone with his son as well as being alone when his son is with his mom. It took him time to get there, but he did. I envy him for that. I also envy the time he gets to have when his son is playing in the house. I may never get there. But I'm trying. But sometimes, and, ironically, I'm not alone in this thinking, loneliness in the silence of an empty house is very loud. 

So as I venture through my journey and begin to figure out where to go from here, I thought I would close with a little note I wrote her about a month after telling her goodbye:

It doesn't matter what I do, I'd rather do it with you. 

It doesn't matter who I see, I'd rather be seeing you. 

It doesn't matter where I go, I'd rather be with you.

It doesn't matter what makes me happy, I'd rather be happy with you.

Whatever I do, whatever I see, wherever I go, whenever I'm happy, it would be so much better with you. 

I miss you.

By the way, she would really be ticked at me for posting this picture (the last one I took of her). But if she doesn't like it she is more than welcome to come tell me to stop!

Recalculating

As I write this I am sitting in an airplane some 20,000+ feet above the earth. My flight has been delayed due to bad weather where I am supposed to land to make my connecting flight home. The flight path has changed several times to escape the bad weather delaying my landing. 

My last day in Boise was spent with a wonderful family rekindling a friendship with the mom and meeting the dad and their two boys. Due to my schedule I spent an extra day in beautiful Boise. Thanks to this family I didn't spend it in the throes of loneliness. They shared their Sunday afternoon with me. Yes, some of it was spent in tears, but most of it was spent in laughter and when we departed company (after they prayed over me) I had gained new friends. And two more "nephews."

I almost didn't make contact with my friend. Going through the storms in my life means that rain will fall on me and those around me. And I hate bringing others into the storm with me. But this visit was good for us all, I think. The boys had a good time playing in the park amongst the golden leaves of Fall. Leaves that found themselves in my clothing for hours throughout that day. 

Sometimes storms block us from our destination. Like the storms surrounding Houston this afternoon, storms of life may delay us from where we are meant to be. But, like the airline, we can always find a way to get to our end goal. We just may have to look at a different approach. We must always trust that we will get there regardless of the storms. And sometimes others will help us find our way around the storms. They may even gladly go through them hand in hand with us. When they do, let them. As difficult as it may be, don't deprive them of the blessing they may get by being there for you. 

That's a lesson I'm trying desperately to learn. 

A walk remembered, but almost not taken

Being in meetings for the last couple of days means lack of exercise and lots of food. So, when I've had the chance, I've gone for a walk or at least stepped outside to soak up the sun. This morning my first walk began with a pair of 2yo twins and their mother who was kind enough to bring them to visit. As we began walking we followed the path to a point where it leads under a bridge. As the cars rumbled above, one of the twins was hesitant to go under the bridge. Each noise brought a look of panic until he reached for me. I scooped him up and, no matter how hard his mother and I tried to convince him otherwise, he did not want to go under the bridge.

After lunch later I decided to let the vitamin D wash over me. And, as I stood there alone, the tears began to flow again. One of my friends came up and stood with me and consoled me for a bit. Then we went for a walk. We walked under the bridge and down the path further. The path followed the river and turned into a beautiful walk. The trees were a beautiful variety of fall colors. We encountered families, dogs, joggers, and bike riders as we walked for about a mile. It was very calming. 

At the close of the meetings for the day I came back to my room, changed shoes, and walked in the opposite direction, this time alone. Again the walk was beautiful and I began to focus on the beauty of what I was seeing and less on the beautiful woman I would not be sharing it with. And the walk brought a little peace to my day. 

Then I got to thinking about my early morning walking companion. I would guess that his little mind has forgotten already the walk. He is no longer in a panic from the noise of overhead traffic. But he is also not remembering the beautiful scene beyond the bridge. He didn't get to see the other people, the bikes, or the dogs. This boy did not enjoy these things because of his fear of the unknown. He didn't know what made the sound, he only knew that he did not like it. 

My journey is filled with the unknown. Much of it I fear. I am being forced to cross under the bridge and I don't like the sounds of it. But if I don't cross over, if I don't break through my fears, then I may never see the beauty that could be waiting for me on the other side. And I don't want to miss out on the beauty that may await me. 

What about you? What gives you fear? What keeps you from crossing over and missing out on the beauty that God may have waiting for you? Are you willing to take that chance? I will if you will. 

Through the valley

A trip away from home is not always a trip away from grief. I find myself surrounded by beautiful mountains. This morning the sun rose later than I'm accustomed to back home, bathing the golden leaves of autumn in a beautiful pink hue. The day began as I hugged friends I haven't seen since my grief event occurred almost 4 months ago. Every conversation caused the back of my eyeballs to sting with the saltiness of oncoming tears. But every hug helped push them back to the reservoir they would be released from later. But when they were released in the solitude of my empty hotel room they came in a flood. 

You can't run from grief. It will search the entire earth for you, pushing aside good memories to flood you with the longing that will never be fulfilled. You can put it off for a short period of time but it will find you. And when it does, let it. 

Holding it in does you no good. All we do when we delay grief is allow it to build to something much less manageable. When the dam bursts it will flood your heart bringing with it every emotion you thought you had stored away. 

I am blessed to have such good friends that understand and want to be there for me. And this weekend includes a beautiful young lady who, at 11 years of age, fills my bucket to overflowing. What a great spirit she has to sense the pain and want to be with her new best friend. Everyone in pain deserves a little angel of mercy to help displace the hurt for awhile. 

Yes, I still hurt. Yes, it overwhelms me at times. But, the triage I am receiving during this visit is doing a wonderful job of patching my wounds to get me through to the next day. How I pray, if you are a fellow traveller down this road of grief, that God places people in your path to serve as a salve to your soul when you need it most. 

Wearing grief like a second skin

An upcoming trip had me packing to leave. Getting away is not as good as some may think. Grief troubles follow you and the house never looks more vacant than when you return. However, the packing itself can be a challenge. First of all, I've forgotten something. I know I have. I just won't realize it until I get to my destination. And it will be something important. The missus always double checked for me. And I would always get annoyed that she checked. And even more annoyed that she would find that I hadn't packed a belt, or shoes, or socks. Not having my love here to check on me makes packing that much more difficult. 

She also always made sure things were in their place and the house was locked up tight. We couldn't leave until the towels were washed and dried. If we left the dryer running then we always had to check the exhaust hose on the outside of the house to make sure it wasn't blocked so we didn't come home to ashes. So, in my effort to make sure everything is okay I decided to do something she never did. I've asked someone to house sit for me while I'm gone. I've given her the alarm code and the .357 so the house should be secure!

To keep from being late I also decided to wash all the clothes tonight. And I do mean all the clothes. I'm now going to ask you, dear reader, to do two things. Ask the children to leave the room while you read the next part and try your best to envision someone else you would rather see when you let your imagination go wild. Maybe Brad Pitt. 

There are some activities that you should not do without being fully clothed. For example, anything domestic. Dinner tonight was a can of pineapple slices eaten while standing up at the bar. There are some places you shouldn't place your naked butt, even if you're Brad Pitt. The kitchen barstool is one of those places. In fact, don't place your naked butt anywhere that isn't made of porcelain and you're pretty safe. 

Also, washing clothes is an okay task, as is drying them. However, folding clothes fresh from the dryer should be done cautiously. Especially clothes that have metal snaps, buttons, clasps, or zippers. It is amazing to me how quickly hot metal can brand you. On a good note, I have a very nice Levi logo branded into my skin. On a better note, you will never see the brand!

Sometimes grief can overwhelm you, but sometimes you need a good laugh. Laughter is the best medicine. I hope this break from grief brought you some smiles. And, ladies, if you pictured Brad Pitt being domestic around your house wearing only his wrinkle free suit (who are we kidding, he has wrinkles), shame on you. And men, if your women are picturing Brad Pitt doing laundry while not wearing any and it got them all hot and bothered... You're welcome. 

I've got your nose!

Have you ever played the ,"I've got your nose, game" with a child. Seldom does it work, but yet we continue to try to convince the child that the tip of our thumb is their nose. I believe that when someone or some grief event takes our joy away, that it's still there. Where does God hide your joy? When you are grieving your joy isn't gone forever, it has simply moved to a new location. It is our responsibility to seek that joy out, I think. My joy is seeing happiness on the faces of others. And nowhere else is this manifested more than on the faces of children. 

This last weekend I went to one of my niece's birthday party. She turned two and enjoyed every minute of her party. The smiles on her face and the faces of her cousins made for a good day for me on Saturday. Add that to my Sunday morning spent with the children (especially my lap child for the day who didn't want to let me go) made for a fairly joyful weekend. 

One of the best decisions I have made was to agree to help coach a tee-ball team. Could these kids play ball without me? Of course. Could I make it through my evenings without them? Not nearly as easily. It's no secret that, if you really know me, that I adore children. I can't help but smile in their presence. And the smiles I get in return are so much greater than any I could display. At tonight's ballgame one of the boys ran up to me, hugged me, and said, "I like you." Why would he say that? Is it because I took the team for ice cream the week before? Quite possibly. Is it because I coach them on the finer points of baseball? Highly unlikely? Is it because they see how much I love them and the joy they bring me? I'm almost betting on it. 

While at the birthday party I played with my sweet Ellie and her best friend from daycare. They each slid down the big slide and said enough two year old words (and I speak kid fluently) to tell me how much fun they were having. At one time Ellie's little friend slid down the slide, came over and hugged me, then ran to the slide. She did this three times in a row. Her mom, who had never met me, looked at her little girl playing with this stranger, and I'm sure she was questioning the interaction. But my sweet sister-in-law (whom I've loved since the day she was born) told her that all kids love Uncle Kevin and followed that up later with something about the "baby whisperer." It warmed my heart to say the least. 

If you were thinking that tonight's post was going to be a sad one, then you were slightly mistaken. If you are also thinking I've turned the corner then you are 0 for 2. I know where God has hidden my joy and I'll go to that well as often as I can. Hugs are special. I like hugs. But hugs of unconditional love from a 2 year-old, well those warm the coldest heart. 

He's got my joy!

Visiting hours are over

"Hi! I'm going to the cemetery to sit and look at my wife and daughter's headstones and cry. Would you like to come with me?" Sounds strange doesn't it? Is it no wonder why I have never uttered those words to anyone. The only person I ever asked to go to the cemetery with me was my wife. It was different then. Not now. No, I love my friends too much to ask that of them. 

I am blessed with several friends who have come to town and asked me if they could go out there with me. And, almost without fail, I have gone. And I know that several of my friends and my family have gone on their own. It would also appear that I have Jewish friends that occasionally visited my Beth's site. And, while the stones they place there last longer than any flowers, even they find their way to the ground and are eventually removed by the grounds crew. 

Our little corner of the cemetery has quickly filled up. But my choice of visiting time is still not usually overly crowded so it does afford me some privacy. So today I went. It was so pretty outside. The temperature was perfect. I began to remember that Monday afternoon when my pastor and I walked from the hospital for the last time. I had given the doctors permission to withdraw life support. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping (I imagine). People were laughing, smiling and going on with their lives. Much the same way when my wife and I walked away from that same hospital having made the exact same decision when our daughter passed. 

It's not supposed to be that way. It's supposed to be grey and gloomy. It's supposed to be raining as if heaven itself was weeping. There are supposed to be no other cars moving on the road and people are supposed to be standing around wearing black while protecting themselves from the heavenly tears with oversized ebony umbrellas. People are supposed to have their heads lowered, shoulders slumped with the weight of your grief. But it doesn't work that way. Life goes on. Even my own. There were work demands (it was payroll Monday after all and employees like it when you pay them), and there were life demands (someone has to put gas in the truck after driving back and forth to the hospital the week before).

I may never invite you to join me at the cemetery. I may never want to bring grey to your sunny day. But it doesn't mean that I don't appreciate your thoughts and prayers when I make my visits. And when I take my place beside my family in the future I won't even ask you to go then. But I will appreciate it when you do. 

What's your function?

I believe that we all get there eventually. That point where we believe there is more waiting for us on the other side than there is here. Nations were created with that in mind. Europe got too small so someone decided to sail until they reached land. The earth began to shrink so we reached for the moon and the stars. Even something as comparatively small as leaving our house or city in search of something more. I'm now there. There is nothing I see in this life that holds more value than what awaits me on the other side. Now, I plan to continue to live as long as God intends for me to live. I will not do anything to bring me to the river's crossing faster than the life plan God set in place half a century ago. But I do long for the reward.

Wanda was like that for the last seven years. She wanted so badly to go to our heavenly home and be with our children. I understand. I'm not even too angry that what she had here (me) wasn't enough to keep her here (As if she had a choice). I certainly wish I had been, but I cannot fault her. I love my daughter and I miss her every day. I love my wife and I miss her every day too. Having both of them waiting for me now makes it very difficult not to answer the mythological sirens call. But I won't. No matter how loud or beautiful that call may be. 

It's not wrong to long for the end as long as it doesn't get in the way of your life. I want to do everything I can to make the lives of others better as long as I can. I believe that is the purpose God has given me while I'm here. I believe that should be everyone's purpose. 

During a trip with my mother, my little girl began singing the Schoolhouse Rock hit, "Conjunction Junction." Rather than ask what "conjunction" or "junction" meant, she asked her Gran what "function" meant. Once she found out she basically said that her function was love and praising Jesus. I don't recall exactly what mom said her own answer was, but she did want to change it after she heard her granddaughter's answer. 

So, what's your function? Are you operating at 100%? Are you the best father, the best mother, the best brother or sister you can be? How about your faith? Have you shared like you should share? I know I haven't. I continue to make mistakes. And I know, when I do get to the other side, I still won't be perfect. But I hope I'm still working on it.