Yet for his 60 years on earth, David never owned anything particularly nice and definitely nothing “newer.” We always paid cash for our vehicles and never more than $1500. Yep, you read that right: One thousand, five hundred. In fact, the van I’ve been driving for over four years cost us a whopping $800, and at one time someone slammed into it when it was parked at a garage sale, and their insurance company considered it totaled, paying us $1200 to repair it.

Which we didn’t.

In our 32 years of marriage, we had driven an assortment of older vehicles, including a car that necessitated a good smack with a hammer when it wouldn’t start in a parking lot, and a van I had to duct tape the running board to in order to drive home. One particularly reliable car we affectionately dubbed “rust bucket” for its appearance. David got attached to each of these vehicles, always hesitant to get rid of even the most decrepit.  It speaks volumes of the male who does not obtain his sense of manhood from the car he drives.  David and I shared many an amused glance between us when others talked about their vehicles as though they were idols. We had learned early on in our marriage what was really important in life, and it wasn’t the things that we owned. David’s experience with cancer made that fact all the more apparent. It is the legacy of the people we leave behind that matter, not the material items we manage to accumulate. David has left behind a rich legacy in his eight children and a loving wife who mourns him, not to mention siblings and friends whose lives he had also enriched.

“Don’t make any major decisions or large purchases for at least a year,” I was advised by others after David’s death. I nodded my head at their sage advice even as I scoured Craigslist auto ads two weeks after he passed away.

It was very unlike David to purchase something as expensive as a snow blower for my birthday last November. It was uncharacteristic of him to give me flowers this past Valentine’s Day. But what really surprised me was David’s recent declaration of how he was going to purchase a newer vehicle for me. Never before had he mentioned a specific vehicle or such an intention.  In fact, just as recently as the fall of 2011, he saw no reason to replace either of our vehicles. When I’d broached the subject, my suggestion that we use some of the money from the sale of my mother’s house for a newer vehicle was met with deaf ears. “The van is just fine,” he’d say. Sometime during this past winter (my daughter Katie insists it was shortly before Christmas that he pointed out a vehicle and said, “I’m going to buy one of those for your mother.”) he began saying, “I am going to buy you a Ford ______.”  Now, wouldn’t it have been nice if I’d actually listened to my husband? But frankly, I thought he was just dreaming, though I did wonder why he kept saying I am going to buy you instead of we will buy. Always before vehicle decisions and purchases had been shared between us. I do know he said it often enough that I finally commented, “I don’t even know what that vehicle is,” and when he replied “It’s a smaller SUV,” I told him it didn’t sound very good on gas mileage. “It will be better than the van, and safer for your traveling.”  David had been driving me everywhere; to all my workshops, speaking engagments and meetings.  Why was he suddenly concerned about my travel safety?

I was fairly certain the Ford vehicle he’d been talking about started with the letter “E” and I knew what a Ford Explorer was, so I knew it wasn’t that. After David died, I asked other family members if they remembered what he’d wanted to purchase for me. While they, too, remembered him talking about wanting to buy me something, none of them recalled just what it was, either.  A little research on the Ford website and a few pointed conversations later, I was 89% certain David had been talking about a Ford Escape. 12-year-old Katie regrets she didn’t pay more attention, though she is pretty sure that what he’d pointed out in December looked pretty much like this:

This being the 2004 Ford Escape David bought me last night.

Now, my husband had a life insurance policy through his former employer, one that ended when his job did in July 2010. For the next eighteen months he jumped through hoops and burning rings of fire in order to get that policy reinstated.  David’s life insurance policy was reinstated just 27 days before his death. Had David died on the last day of February, he would have left me a widow with a whole lot of bills, just in burying him. Instead, he would be happy to know that not only was I able to pay off the funeral bill, but he’d left me enough that he could, indeed, buy me a Ford Escape.

As I test drove this vehicle, when I took it to a mechanic to look it over, and as I sat and dickered with a nice young man named Dan, whittling down the price, I felt David there, at my side. I thought about a lot of things during the five hours Katie, Abby and I spent at the car dealer and the mechanic’s. I contemplated how this vehicle purchase would be “no big deal” for the average American. That thought was immediately followed by the realization of just how big a deal it would have been for my David. 60 years old, and he’d never owned a vehicle so new, so nice, and so valuable. “It isn’t fair!” I thought as I drove it to the mechanic who David had trusted. “He should be here!” And yet, even as I thought it, I knew the only reason I could purchase it was through the loss of David.  “It isn’t fair! David should have had nice things!”  It had only been four years since we’d purchased our first home, after 28 years of marriage. The day before his death, David sat in his chair, repeatedly saying, “I am so glad we bought this house. I am so glad to be home. I love our house.”

I reflected on how David would say “You deserve it,” to me so many times, while never feeling the same for himself. I recalled how I’d picked him up from the hospital after eleven days of recovery from his cancer surgery and wheeled him around the Shopko store looking for elastic waist shorts that wouldn’t hurt the area around his feeding tube. He’d allowed me to purchase a pair of $12 gray Iowa Hawkeye shorts, but had balked at the $12 matching tee shirt. I bought it anyway, saddened that he would think he wasn’t worthy of a $24 outfit. I thought about how I’d kissed his arm and his hand, over and over, in the hospital after his heart attack in March.  I couldn’t reach over the bed to kiss his face.  “I love you,” I said that first night after the stent surgery, and his beautiful brown eyes locked with mine when he replied, “Thank you.” “Thank you,” as if my love was a great gift to him, when it was he who had been the gift to me.

“You certainly are composed while you talk about your husband, and what he wanted for you,” the salesman marveled as we waited my turn for the paperwork to be completed. I, too, was amazed at my composure and ability to haggle, even without a supportive spouse. Eight weeks, and I am already able to discuss my marriage and my husband with a nice stranger, I thought.

And then I got in the vehicle with Katie and Abby and drove home, stopping only once on the side of the road to brush away the tears that had started falling, stinging my eyes. This morning I cried all the way to Earlville where I picked up the young girl who will be babysitting my grandchildren today.

And now, I can’t stop crying.

Eight weeks without David, and a Ford Escape in my driveway.

It’s not about the things, is it? I’d trade that nice vehicle in an instant, drive a duct-taped, rusty “beater” for the remainder of my life, for just one more hug from David.

“Dear Lord, I thank you for your blessings; most notably the blessing of a husband who truly cared about me and wanted me to have nice things. I thank you for the timely gift of a life insurance policy that would pay for the burial of my beloved spouse, and allow for a purchase of a vehicle that will give me a sense of peace as I travel down this path you have set before me. I ask that you continue to bless our family as we navigate this journey through the land of grief, and continue to show us ways we can honor you and the memory of a husband and father like David.”

Every time I start to think about the morning I discovered my beloved husband dead in his chair, I replace that memory with the look on his face the night before. I hated leaving him the weekend he came home from the hospital, but I had two couponing workshops scheduled for Saturday and another one that Monday evening. When I came home from the Monday evening workshop I practically glided through the front door, I was so happy. David sat in his chair, just beaming.

“Did it go well? It looks like it did,” he said, and I walked over and leaned down to give him a big hug. David loved seeing me utilizing my talents and enjoying my work. Whenever I’d worry that he was feeling left out of all my activities he assured me he reveled in watching me, and I believe that now. “He was so proud of you,” family and friends informed me after his death.  Which of course makes it all the more bittersweet and lonely in continuing these activities without my biggest supporter at my side.

I got a taste of what it may have been like for David watching me soar last night when I called my son-in-law Ben on the phone to ask if Abby was done playing. His reply was so boisterously cheerful, I couldn’t help but smile. It struck me that I hadn’t heard true happiness in his voice since David’s death. Not only is Ben the father of a seriously ill child, he lost his best friend when David died. I was thrilled to hear something akin to joy in my dear son’s voice. I realized then what David must have felt like as he watched me enjoying my passions. What my sisters and friends likely search for in me. If they truly love me, they want to see a return of some of that joy I exhibited before the loss of my spouse.

I’ve been reading a lot of books about grieving, books I’ve picked up specifically because I felt I needed some help navigating the labyrinth of grief. It’s what I do besides write; I read and research. I did the same thing after David’s cancer diagnosis. I read every book about cancer that I could get my hands on, bypassing any of those that included the death of the cancer patient. I avoided those like the plague. Instead, over the next few months, I wrote the very book about caregiving, love, and cancer that I wished I had found upon David’s diagnosis.

Occasionally, just as God sends us the right person at the right time, he will also send a special book our way, one we didn’t even realize we needed. For me, it was Knowing God, Knowing Myself by Cecil Murphey. Not only did I win one of his scholarships for an upcoming Christian Writer’s conference, but Mr. Murphey generously sent me a copy of this book.

From Cecil Murphey’s Knowing God, Knowing Yourself, page 12:

“Find the things about which you are passionate. We can give ourselves to enjoying those tasks, jobs or professions. If we don’t find pleasure in what we’re doing, maybe we need to think about doing something else. I found my greatest joy in writing; Others have experienced joy in other areas.”

“If we want to enjoy life, it’s not in accumulating trophies of big houses, expensive cars or profitable investments. The joy comes in following our inner desires. If we give our best to whatever it is, we can enjoy the process.”

“I want to give you permission to dream- just as I gave myself the freedom to do that. Think passionate and powerful thoughts about your life. Enjoy the excitement that comes when you throw your energies into a project. Why not do your best, regardless of how things turn out?”

Wow, what powerful words for me to read during this period of my life as I struggle to continue down the path I felt led to embark on last year. This is what I want for my children, I think, what my mother wanted for her children. What David wanted for me; a feeling of joy in our chosen profession. It isn’t about money or material items.

With each workshop, with each success, I begin to feel stronger. Not only am I following my inner desires, I’m enjoying the process. Yes, there is that pain of loss, that yearning for the companionship of my beloved David and that bittersweet sadness with each success that isn’t shared by him.

But, dare I say it? There is a growing sense of excitement, too.

What does God have in store for my future?

A prayer from my journal;

“Dear Lord, thank you for opening all these doors and leading me to something that feels so right and is so much fun I can’t believe I’m getting paid to do it. This feels like what my mother and David wanted for me, but even more importantly~ a way to utilize the talents you have bestowed upon me. Thank you, Lord, for giving me David so I could recognize how true love wants joy for the beloved.”

And for the most part, I am finding my answers in the books I’ve picked up, and from those who have gone down this path before me.  I have filled pages of journals with heartfelt sentiments, jotted down notes and quotes. I have made a list of my regrets, and transcribed some of the last conversations David and I shared. I’m writing essays and filling my calendar with future speaking engagements and workshops that I am looking forward to.  Moving one foot ahead of the other. Functioning.

I thought I was doing so well.

And then, this morning, I get a phone call. When our friend Bob died, his sister had promised all his books, the books I had located and bought for him over a period of ten years, would come back to me. Even at the wake, his own sons expressed their appreciation for helping feed their father’s book lust, and they stood in front of me and shook mine and David’s hands and insisted they would get those books to me, despite my protestations that they were given to their father as a gift. Bob’s sister called to inform me that all the books had been carted off to the local library over the weekend. It was evident that she was horrified by the lack of consideration to me, and yet I reassured her they were just books, and I could attend the next library book sale and buy any of them I wanted. She has had more than her share of pain in her life, and I hated to hear the worry and concern in her voice.  “Don’t worry about it,” I assured her.

Then I got off the phone, and burst into tears.

This is how it works, this thing called grief. It hits us when we least expect it, and in ways we could not imagine.  When I found a half-empty bottle of men’s cologne in the downstairs bathroom medicine cabinet last week, I was thrilled. None of David’s shirts have retained his smell, but now I could sprinkle them with my favorite of his scents. When I hunted for a box of tea bags in my cupboard a few days later and found a stash of David’s gum, I cried. Why the gum and not the cologne? Why could I easily rid the closet and drawers of David’s pants and shoes and yet I cannot bear to part with any of his shirts? It made perfect sense to one of my sisters who remarked that it was the shirts I touched as I hugged him.

I am learning that grief doesn’t always make sense. I was not crying about the hundreds of books I’d bought Bob. I was crying about the few personal books of  David’s that he had loaned to Bob; books I’ve already replaced in my library, most notably Don Piper’s 90 Minutes in Heaven and Todd Burpo’s Heaven is for Real. Simple paperback copies of these two books that David had loved, and then loaned to his friend to enjoy. Then there were the two Chicken Soup books David had me inscribe to Bob because my stories were featured in them.

I was crying about the few books that David had loved, touched, and personally cared about.  And yet, without any sense of loss at all, I had packaged up and sent David’s brother the last few books he’d been reading at the table. When one of my daughters expressed the desire to read her Dad’s 90 Minutes in Heaven (since he’d mentioned it so often), I’d commented that it would be returned to me when Bob’s books were, and then I purchased a replacement copy for her to read. I decided I would pass that replacement copy off to someone else when David’s came back to me. I assumed all along that I would be getting David’s personal books back at some time, and maybe even with one of the little pieces of paper he so often used as a bookmark inside of it.  Paper with his handwriting on, if I was really lucky. Suddenly, that tiny, tenuous thread of a future connection to David was broken. Even if I attended that book sale, would I be able to find David’s books among those for sale? What if someone bought them before I got there?

Of course I called the library, and began explaining what had happened. I was horrified when I started sobbing on the phone. Whoever it was who had answered must have been just as horrified; I was suddenly talking to a dial tone. A few deep breaths later, I called again, and was transferred to a woman I know. Dianna seemed to understand my dilemma perfectly. She told me someone had donated about 30 boxes that hadn’t been gone through yet, and I was welcome to go through them. Nearly ten years of collecting books for Bob, at an average of 10 books a month in the winter and fewer in the summer; yes, 30 boxes sounded about right.

All the reading and the talking over grief I have done since David’s death couldn’t have prepared me for the onslaught of emotion I felt over the loss of a few paperback books. Of course, I have now filed away this experience in the notes I have been accumulating for my own “someday” book on grief.

It really wasn’t about the books. When I go to the library to look through the boxes, I just might find what it is I am looking for;

Another small connection to the man I loved, and miss so much.

“100% of marriages end.”

This is a line from “Marriages and Other Acts of Charity,” by Kate Braestrup, a book I highly recommend for anyone who likes to read about relationships.

Don’t you love it when a line or paragraph jumps out at you from a really good book? In fact, I am quick to judge a book as “good” precisely because of those moments.

100% of marriages end. 100% of relationships end.

This is, of course, a truth we don’t often ponder. My marriage will end at some point, despite my best attempts to stay married. One of us will die, eventually. One of us will lose the other. Even if we were to die together, our marriage is, in the words of the Bible and our vows ‘till death do us part.’

My book is not really a story of David’s illness; his cancer story and my caregiving one. On the surface, it seems to be just that, but the reader who finishes my book will set it aside and think about their marriage relationship, not cancer.

What sentence will jump out at them? What paragraph will they think about when they set my book aside? Will it be the horrifying details of an invasive surgery, or will it be the moment when I take David’s hand in mine and plead, “Make it mean something.”

“100% of marriages end,” Kate Braestrup writes.

I feel as though I’ve just gotten started loving David the right way. Let mine not end for a long time.

My marriage ended two years later, on March 27, 2012, and I continue to struggle with that fact. In his wonderful book, Reflections of a Grieving Spouse, H. Norman Wright reiterates that it is the “without” that is the most difficult for us; I will continue down the path of writing and speaking that God has set me on, without David by my side. I will see sons and daughters get married, without David. I will watch grandchildren be born, without David. It isn’t just those “big” things I will be doing alone, it is all the little things; I will go to church, the grocery store, and thrift stores, without David. Go to garage sales, without David. Do the dishes, hang out laundry, go to the library, watch television, check the oil, change the toilet paper roll, take out the garbage, and go on bike rides, all without David. Things we did together, or those he always did that I must now do, are daily and constant reminders of my loss.

“Then one day you’re alone. Your life partner is gone and the words ‘till death do you part’ have become reality. It’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s come true. It’s one thing to say the words, to know they’re part of the commitment, to perhaps remember them occasionally, but it’s another to experience their reality. It’s so final. It leaves you alone. You have a sense of isolation. It’s a feeling of separation.” (Page 122, Reflections of a Grieving Spouse)

When will loss be less of my day, I wonder. I have felt it keenly the past two days, even as I’ve kept myself busy preparing for a writing workshop I am conducting this weekend.  Could it be the approaching holiday that sharpens the pain? Last year I mourned the loss of my mother on Mother’s Day. This year, I mourn the spouse that always made certain the day was special for me.

“What do you want for Mother’s Day?” he would ask, and inevitably, with eight children and little time to myself, my answer was “Time alone to write.” He gave me that each year; my “Mom’s Morning Out,” but he’d also add a small box of caramels, a gift certificate for a restaurant or a hair appointment. I faced a Mother’s Day without a mother. Now I must face it without the man who loved me.

Yes, I believe that accounts for my increasing sadness; a Mother’s Day “without.”

So, just as it seemed appropriate last year to visit my mother’s gravesite with my siblings on Mother’s Day, this year it will be a picnic at the old homestead where I grew up, now owned by my son Michael.

Without David.

But with our eight children.

Yes, writing about David, grief, and loss is helping me, but so is reading. Today it is H. Norman Wright’s Reflections of a Grieving Spouse.  When his wife of 48 years passed away, Mr. Wright was not prepared for the sudden emptiness in his life, despite his own training as a grief and trauma counselor. Through these short chapters that include entries from his own journal, he walks the reader through the journey to healing and a new chapter in their life. I have been picking up this book and reading it in short bursts for the last two days.

I was alarmed when one of my children expressed some dismay at my continual mention of my widowhood.  Were they correct, and was it not quite sane of me to offer a $5 men’s razor coupon to a total stranger in the store, then murmur, “It’s okay, take it. I won’t need it. I lost my husband a month ago,” when the young man demurred, saying he couldn’t take such a valuable coupon.  “Why do you insist on telling everyone?” another daughter asked, making me doubt myself even more.  Where was the Handbook of Grief I’d asked for at the funeral home?  Is it a normal response for me to want to speak of David, and my loss, at every opportunity?  Yes, I want to talk about it. To everyone.  A lot. Is that normal?

It turns out it is perfectly normal.  For me.  In fact, according to Mr. Wright’s Chapter 4, we each have our own way of grieving, and all of these are included as symptoms of “normal” grief (page 20);

• Distorted thinking patterns
• “crazy” or irrational thoughts
• Fearful thoughts
• Feelings of despair and hopelessness
• Out of control or numbed emotions
• Memory lags and mental short circuits (my forgetting or losing things?)
• Inability to concentrate
• Losing track of time
• Shattered beliefs about life, the world and God
• Want to talk a lot or not at all (emphasis mine)

He then assures the reader that these responses are perfectly normal and grief takes longer than we think and tends to intensify at three months, on special dates, and at the one-year anniversary of the partner’s death.  At the end of each chapter are questions for the reader, to help guide them through their own steps in accepting God’s grace and adjusting to life without their spouse.

This is a beautiful book, and one that I will be sharing with others who are grieving.

Of course, I know the “How are you” is a loaded question when it come from people who truly love me. They long to hear the reply that I am doing fine, the kids are fine, and that I am recovering nicely from my loss, thank you very much. Those closest to me have even chuckled with embarrassment after they’ve asked the question, knowing of course that I am not really fine, will not be for a very long time, maybe not ever.

Five and a half weeks have passed since the morning I found David. I can look back and wonder at the distance I have already traveled in this journey of grief. I will not soon forget the tender ministrations of my sisters during those first days after David’s death; sisters who were doing dishes, folding laundry, continually hugging both me and my children, and listening, always listening. Neither will I forget the look of shock and pain in their eyes that mirrored my own. I cannot count how many times I repeated the same story, over and over again, about how I’d found David that morning; how I came downstairs and saw him in the chair and thought he was asleep. I went into the kitchen to make coffee, got a glass of water, sat down on the couch nearby, and started writing a letter to my friend Mary, and still did not know my beloved was dead. My sisters knew I needed to report that horrifying fact to anyone who would listen, and even in the repeating, I still could not make sense of it.  How could he have seen the doctor that very day and be gone the next morning? How could I have sat near his body for over half an hour and not known he was gone? It did not escape me that my sisters were worried about my sanity during those early days, and rightfully so. I noted the worried glances between them, barely discernible, but visible to me nonetheless. And then came the numbness of shock that carried me through the funeral planning, the funeral and the luncheon. Blessed, blessed numbness. I can vividly remember sitting at the table with the funeral director and my two oldest children and sensing a presence to the left of me, between me and Elizabeth. “I did this, too,” I heard the soft voice of my mother. Yes, yes, you did, I remembered then, and my resolve to get through the terrible ordeal was strengthened. My father was only a few months older than David when my mother lost him. I felt her again at the gravesite, when the funeral director handed me David’s wedding ring, and I thought my heart would break in two.

I know I asked the funeral director where the handbook for Widows was, and I was only half joking. I wanted a handbook that would tell me exactly when how long the pain would last, when it would wane, how soon I would be able to say David’s name without breaking down, a handbook that would tell me how to navigate the rough terrain of widowhood.  Instead, I have been relying on the writings of others who have gone this road before me; Madeleine L’Engle in her Irrational Season, C.S. Lewis with A Grief Observed, Joan Didion in The Year of Magical Thinking, and even Widowhood by Dr. Joyce Brothers. I am heartened by the fact that I actually do shave my legs when C.S. Lewis saw no point in shaving his face without a spouse there to touch it. I am strengthened by the fact that I have already successfully disposed of David’s shoes when Didion kept a pair or two “in case he came back.” I envy the efficiency of Dr. Brothers and the spirituality of L’Engle. I want more “grief work” to read. I desire diaries that detail the grieving of others who have lost a spouse so that I know what I am experiencing is perfectly normal. I want to read the fictional account of Lolly Winston’s widow who, in a fog of grief, forgets to dress one morning and wears her pajamas to work. And as I read books like this, I get the strong inkling that I will be writing my own book on grief someday, that perhaps my cancer love story is not done and will include my mother’s death from cancer, my grandson’s cancer journey, and finally, the death of my beloved David.

I am also reading books about heaven. One of David’s favorite books was Don Piper’s 90 Minutes in Heaven. I have re-read that book, and picked up half a dozen similar books; Getting to Heaven, Heaven is Real, and a devotional based upon 90 Minutes in Heaven, all co-written by Don Piper and Cecil Murphy…the books are scattered throughout the house. I’ve been reading Joyce Meyer, and discovering what it was about her words that drew David in. David liked her down-to-earth counsel. I’ve added several of her books to my shelf just since his death.

If I am surprised by anything in this journey, it is how painful it is to see older couples together. I do not begrudge the young in love; I had that. It is the sight of older couples holding hands that causes tears. I did not get the chance to grow old alongside my husband. David did not get to be an old man, I think at a restaurant when I spot a table full of old guys talking, and my eyes pool with tears. Then one of them rises, painfully, and hobbles out the door, nearly losing his balance in the process. Ah, I reflect then, remembering David’s warning to our daughter Emily a couple of weeks before his heart attack, “Don’t get old. Everything hurts. I can’t do anything anymore.” He was already in pain a good deal of the time.

Another aspect of grieving I had considered only briefly before, after my mother died, is the effect of grief on the mind. My menopausal brain was already struggling to remember things, and now I have been losing things; Losing my mind. Where is the certified document that shows my purchase of a gravesite? Where is the newspaper clipping my friend Mary sent about a grief camp for families? Why do I know the date of Emily’s surgical consult to have her wisdom teeth removed, but have no idea of the time? In a desperate attempt to stem the very real possibility of over-due bills and charges, I have taken to paying my bills immediately upon their arrival in the mail. Never before have I been so efficient in paying them. In fact, I discover when yet another bill arrives, I have paid at least one of them twice. So it is with thank-you notes. With extreme efficiency and politeness, I began a list of the thank-you notes I owed. Halfway through my pile of sympathy cards, I lost the list, and panicked. What if I’d forgotten someone and they held it against me the rest of my life? I am certain that some received two notes, and others got no acknowledgement at all of their thoughtfulness.

How am I doing? I ask myself that repeatedly. David would be asking the same thing if he were here. The irony of that does not escape me. He was always concerned about my anxiety, my tendency to worry, and my impatience. Initially, upon his death, I wanted to hurry through the grieving, to quickly get past that terrible pain and anguish. Why do you always have to be in such a hurry, I can hear him ask. Be patient. There is no getting through the grief quickly, no going around it. We all have to plow right through it.

In the darkness of grief, we set out on the journey of the rest of our life; one foot in front of the other, our hands held out in front of us, feeling for the light. And some mornings, like today, after a day spent with a good friend who knows how to make us laugh, we get glimpses of the brightness ahead, and we know with certainty; I’m going to be okay.

Today’s prayer: “Dear Lord, You truly are the light of the world. Please help my family get through the grief we are experiencing from the loss of wonderful father and a loving husband. Thank you for bringing us friends and family members who care about us. Thank you for continuing to show us that you care about our every need. Guide me in the path you wish me to follow and let me always honor my husband’s memory and glorify your name through my words.”

For those who have wondered if they should say anything, if perhaps saying something about the loss of the spouse might remind the person of their grief, I can assure you~ there is no forgetting. As the grieving souse puts one foot in front of the other, as they talk and respond appropriately to whatever is going on around them, as they laugh even, inside there is a constant sadness. Grief fills us, seeps out our pores, makes us feel as though we are not of this world, but in another dimension, like walking underwater. We co-exist on this earth, alongside the rest of you, but we are not really “all there.” Surely you can see it in our eyes; the walking wounded. We wonder if the couples around us wish we were not there to remind them of what they will face, if our friends and family anxiously wait for us to get back to “normal.” If our blog readers are tired of our grief, and want more garage sale and couponing stories. Some days, the best answer I can come up with to the question “How are you doing?” is that I am functioning. Other days, when things go very well, I worry that I am not grieving my loss properly. Then there are the days like this past Sunday, when I found myself going through old greeting cards, photos, and little notes from David. I just wallow in it then; tears streaming down my face and shoulders shaking with sobs.

Yesterday I had a book-signing at the University book store in Cedar Falls. Cedar Falls, the town where David and I had met, married, and lived for several years. As I drove down a street that David and I had traveled together just last June in a day of reminiscing, I passed the dormitory where I had stayed as a young, naive, nineteen year old. I glanced at the door of the building, where David had kissed me goodnight countless times. We’d taken a picture of me at that doorway just last summer.

We’d visited the married student housing complex we’d lived in during our early college years. They were being demolished, and the doors were wide open. We’d walked through the asbestos-laden rooms together.

I felt a now-familiar ache of sadness at the memory, but I did not cry. Later, inside the bookstore, a bookstore where David and I had once bought our college textbooks together, I sat at a table, talking to those who had come to see the three authors sign their stories in the Chicken Soup for the Soul: Messages from Heaven book. I enjoyed “talking shop.” I even managed to mention my husband in the past tense several times, without my eyes welling with tears. I was very proud of myself.

And then, driving home, I lost it. One glance at the empty passenger seat was all it took. I was alone. David was gone. Despite my Christian belief that David and I will be reunited someday, I will never, ever have David as my spouse again, my partner in life, my best friend. My remaining days on this earth will be without David.

I am reminded of this when I wake up and there is no David to greet me with “Happy May 1^st!” David and I had shared this first day of the month greeting for many years. I don’t know when or how it started, but we’d tried to beat the other one to the greeting on the first day of every month, and David invariably won, sometimes even waking me up shortly after midnight, just to say it before I did. I am reminded yet again when I make my cup of coffee. It is no wonder I bought the Keurig coffeemaker David and I had talked about last Christmas~ the other empty pot sat there taunting me every morning with the reminder that there was no husband to prepare the coffeemaker the night before. And I am reminded yet again when I reach for ice cubes for my glass of water. David always made the ice cubes. Then, when I reach for a Tylenol and notice the bottle of Flaxseed oil supplement I haven’t taken in five weeks because David wasn’t here to hand me one. Idiot, I think, before popping one in my mouth, along with one of David’s Centrum vitamins, what kind of idiot depends upon their spouse to remind them to take their own vitamin? Then I drag the bags of garbage to the curb, yet another reminder of my loss. David always took out the garbage. 7:30 a.m., and I’d already experienced five vivid reminders of my aloneness. Senselessly, I kick the last bag of garbage.

Then I check my e-mail, and there it is in my inbox: a first day of the month greeting from my dear friend Mary. She’d remembered, and wanted to make me feel better! And it worked. Something so simple, so caring, worked. I smiled. The fog of grief lifts for a moment, and I can see clearly.

Yes, I’ve lost David, but I am not alone.

Last night I enjoyed a book-signing and the companionship of the other two writers. This morning I can appreciate a friend’s caring e-mail. A new friend from the Kansas writer’s conference told me she loved me in an e-mail on Sunday. Someone who cares about my family sent me gift cards last week. My sister Denise sent a greeting card. Two other sisters called me on the phone. I think of the devotional a complete stranger sent me, the hugs I can now count on from my children. The prayers of a friend on Saturday. Suddenly, the future doesn’t look as bleak.

I reflect on a comment someone recently made; I think when someone we love dies, they are never very far away. The “Wind Beneath My Wings” wind chime hanging on my porch, quiet all morning, rattles loudly when I type those words. Now it is quiet again.

Driving home alone in the van last night, crying so hard I could barely see, I called out, “I miss you so much! I love you!” It did not escape my attention that my love for David continues to grow, even in his absence. I want to talk to him, share these things; David, Mary will be visiting me on Friday. I’m excited about my upcoming writing workshops at the River Lights bookstore. Can you believe I won a scholarship to the writing conference that ends on our anniversary? I wish you were here to watch the kids. I feel guilty leaving them. David, our dream for my book is one step closer. I signed with an agent on Sunday! I think you would like him. He is the one who told me that when someone dies, he believes they are never far away. I wonder if he knows that clinched the deal for me. David, I love you. I miss you.

Prayer for today: “Dear Lord, I thank you again for the privilege of loving David for almost 33 years. Thank you for my eight children, and for the friends and family you have blessed me with. I ask for continued guidance in the path you wish for me to follow, and healing through your son, Jesus Christ. Please, Lord, when I don’t feel strong enough to handle the loss of my beloved, bring me strength and wisdom through the Holy Spirit. Amen.”  

I laughed our loud when I got home and opened up the back of the van.

I could imagine David shaking his head, but smiling. He didn’t understand my penchant for all things paper, but he tolerated it. After all, there are worse habits a wife could indulge in,  ones that involved much more money; $300 purses come to mind. (my daughters and I had also wondered at the long waiting line at one sale as the garage doors opened. The women rushing to the table of Coach purses answered that question)

“Mary, do you think some couponers are actually hoarders?” a male friend asked me recently, and my mind’s eye flashed to my modest stockpiles of cereal, peanut butter and shampoo.

“It can get that way, like the extreme couponers I see on television,” I replied, then added truthfully, “But if I hoard anything it is stationery and paper.”

“Stationery?” his wife’s eyes immediately lit up. “I would love stationery! I can never find any nice stationery.”

I sent her a “care package” of stationery that week.

The only thing that dampened my enthusiasm for this sale was the absence of my oldest daughter, Elizabeth, also a paper addict. After a morning of garage sales, she ‘d returned to the hospital to be with Jacob during the last 24 hours of his latest chemotherapy treatment.

I think it is time to put together another paper “care package.”

“An essay for a contest,” I answered, not looking up from the legal pad I was writing on.

“Is it about me?”

“Always about you,” I answered softly, then looked up to see a contented smile on his face. Our eyes met, and I smiled back, then went back to my writing.

“Does it help to write about your grief?” someone asked me recently, even though they had no idea just how much I’ve actually been writing about David. All they’d been privy to were my blog postings. In fact, I’ve filled half a hardcover journal with the musings of my heart. I’ve completed one essay about our marriage and David’s death, submitted it to an anthology. I’ve also been working on revising that contest essay I’d begun after David’s heart attack, the one he’d asked me about.

It has also helped me to read of the grief of others. Just as I search the faces of those who have been down this road before me, I search writings by those who have lost a spouse, looking for answers to the questions uppermost in my mind, most notably; How? How do I do this? I will not forget how I initially wished for a handbook on grief, how I still wish someone could tell me exactly how to proceed.

I’ve also been jotting down pertinent information about David and the conversations we’d had.

“David would have wanted that.” For the most part I speak the truth when I say that. I do have a good idea of what David liked, how he thought, and what he would have wanted. We lived together for almost 33 years, after all, and we’d had many conversations regarding our hopes, dreams, and wishes for the future.

At what point, however, will my natural writer’s bent towards embellishment kick in, and my own desires become his in my memory? I panicked one day, wondering if I would forget what David really had said and begin substituting my own words for his? I couldn’t bear the thought of losing the reality of David in my own twisted memories.

That is why I’ve also been writing in this journal, Angel Catcher, recording our most recent conversations, along with thoughts and feelings regarding our relationship. I don’t want to forget anything about David.

How do I get through this? I wonder, even as I scribble furiously on legal pads, notebooks, and in journals deep into the night. I haven’t watched television more than once or twice in the four weeks since David’s death. Instead, there is a small pile of journals, stationery, notepads, books and letters at the end of the couch where I find myself sitting, night after endless night. The children laugh about Mom’s “hoarding pile,” but that pile encompasses what has become my solace through these long days: My writing. I write. And then I write some more.

Always about him.

Today’s prayer:

“Dear Lord, I have felt your healing spirit within me even on those darkest of days. Let me always honor my husband’s memory through my writing and glorify you through my words. This morning I have had two e-mails and one phone call from others who are reaching out to me in their own time of need, and though I am still in the midst of grieving my life’s partner, I am able to see how already you are using me and my pain to allow me to help others. Thank you for bringing me comfort in the way of the friends and family you have blessed me with.”