Today when I woke up, my right eye was swollen, badly bloodshot and dripping with tears. This is the eye that was slammed to the pavement during my bike crash a couple of weeks ago, but it’s been healing at a good pace.

Now I’m going backwards. I prayed to our Great Physician, my heavenly husband, asking him what I should do. His assurance was that the tears were washing my eye, keeping it clean. “Just use clean tissues,” was the thought he gave me.

I left Jack at home as I biked around the neighborhood but stuffed both pockets full of clean tissues. The tears flew from my eye into my ear like raindrops off the windshield of a speeding car.

Feeling sorry for myself while running errands later, I was distracted and didn’t see the red-tailed squirrel bolt across the road in front of my car. “Oh no!” I said out loud, realizing I didn’t have time to brake. But the One who is healing my eye was also protecting his little squirrel. It ran under my car but came out the other side without breaking stride. “Thank you!” I shouted out loud. Jack wagged his tail as if to say, “You’re welcome.”

I’ve become a friend of sorts with a peppy red-tailed squirrel I frequently see outside my windows. The first time I noticed him was during a blizzard. With a foot of snow already on the ground and big flakes plopping out of the sky, Little Red was scurrying about the yard as if it was still autumn, burrowing his head through the snow in search of acorns. He had no competition, since all the other squirrels were nestled in their winter hideaways.

Little Red would nose-dig through the snow again and again, popping up repeatedly to check for danger. When he found an acorn, he’d scurry up the nearest tree, sit on a branch and chew on his find, stuffing the bits into his cheeks before heading back down for more.

Two things about Little Red were endearing: his perseverance despite big odds against him, and the way he used his furry tail. He’d figured out how to shelter himself from the snow storm as he chewed, by curling his tail up and over his body like a broad umbrella. I watched him go through the burrowing, retrieving, climbing, chewing, body-sheltering process again and again, admiring his pluck.

Today when my car went over the squirrel, I was sure it was Little Red. If I’d felt a bump, I would’ve pulled over, retrieved that mangled little body and conducted a full-blown funeral service to the tune of a thousand tears. Death is awful, more so now than ever, even the death of a little neighborhood squirrel.

Although I’d been feeling sorry for myself with my swollen, bloodshot eye, after Little Red’s victory on the road I felt better. And the Protector (the squirrel’s and mine) encouraged me further during a second bike ride later in the day. Little Red appeared fifty yards away, romping around on a sunny spring afternoon and accompanying me for most of my ride.

“Are not two sparrows [or squirrels] sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground [or be run over] apart from the will of your Father.” (Matthew 10:29-30a)

I remember well the day Nate and I signed up with Hospice. He would have only 16 days of their tender, loving care, but when we first met with them, none of us knew that.

We hadn’t told Nate the Hospice nurse was coming that day because after mentioning the possibility earlier, his response had been negative. But his doctors had encouraged us to call them anyway, telling us we’d soon need their services.

I kept watch through the window to catch her on the front sidewalk, because I wanted to warn her Nate was negative about Hospice. Surely, I thought, most patients feel that same way, not wanting yet another sign that death was imminent.

When I saw her drive up, I walked out to explain and noticed she was wearing an ID badge with the word “HOSPICE” in bold print across the top. “Do you have to wear that?” I asked.

She put her hand on my arm and quietly said, “Don’t worry. I’ll explain everything to him.” I followed her through the front door, in doubt about that.

Immediately after introductions, Nate noticed the badge. “So you’re from Hospice?” he asked her directly, and sitting by his side, I felt like two cents. I should have been willing to do the hard part ahead of time and tell him the whole truth.

“Yes I am,” she said. “Let’s start by you telling me what you already know about our organization.” And the conversation was up and running. Her main mission was to describe the specific ways Hospice could be of practical help to Nate and the rest of us. As he listened, I could see him melting into the idea.

He signed the living will without hesitation, and although the meeting had been stressful, he didn’t say a negative word after the nurse had gone. In the days that followed, we watched the amazing Hospice personnel minister to our family with so much compassion that we eagerly anticipated each visit, whether it was the aide to help with baths, the nurse to bring meds or the doctor to examine him.

Today we attended a “Service of Remembrance” at the local Hospice headquarters. Anyone mourning the loss of a loved one in the last year was invited to attend and bring a small item representing that person. If they chose, they could get up and talk for a few minutes about the one they loved. About 75 people came, representing 17 former Hospice patients.

When we walked in, I was feeling strong, but seeing a fresh box of tissues on every fourth chair gave a clue as to what was ahead. There was singing, prayer and encouragement from the bereavement coordinator before the sharing began. Some talked with vigor; others broke down. One young woman told of both parents passing away only six weeks earlier from different diseases. A family with two young children sat in front of us, son, daughter, dad, grandma and grandpa. The mother had died.

Ten people shared briefly while the audience pulled tissues from the Kleenex boxes. I brought a pack of Post-Its and a pen to represent Nate, telling how he managed his life with a few notes and a sharp mind. As I described missing the thinking half of our marriage whole, I couldn’t finish without my own tears, but I did get in the part about Nate’s name being written in the Lamb’s Book of Life with God’s pen, not his own. When I sat down, Klaus put a comforting arm around me, and Mary’s presence, coming all the way from Chicago just for the service, lifted me also.

As we drank coffee afterwards and chatted with Nate’s Hospice doctor (who remembered him well), I knew I’d always love Hospice. And if I ever become terminally ill, I’ll call them myself.

“This is what the Lord Almighty says: ‘Administer true justice; show mercy and compassion to one another’.” (Zechariah 7:9)

Five months ago we were walking through the final days of Nate’s life with him. Five months is nearly half of a year. In the days after his funeral, I wondered how long it would be before we adjusted to life minus our father and husband. I thought, “Surely by spring we’ll all feel better.”

Now here we are, and rather than becoming easier, living without Nate is more difficult. My widow warriors and Dr. Abrams warned me about this. Although I sensed I was on automatic pilot in the days of the wake and funeral, what I didn’t know was the way auto pilot would quietly slide into numbness. And I didn’t know how long that would last.

After terminal illness terminates, loved ones are left feeling empty and cold. I don’t doubt this is God’s gift. Just like a dentist numbs our jaw to cover intolerable physical pain, so God numbs our thinking to cover intolerable emotional pain. It’s as if he freezes the feelings-center of the brain so that full outward function can continue. Eventually, though, when the person is ready, God allows a gradual waking up, just as a jaw regains its feeling when the drug wears off. And that’s where we are, beginning to be aware of our loss with new potency.

Several of our children have mentioned feeling this way, saying they miss their father more now than ever. It’s true for me, too. We’re being carried through grief stages, and there’s nothing to do but cooperate, although its comforting to know God has control of the Novocain.

Sometimes when visiting the dentist, I’ll get a zap of pain while he’s drilling and say, “Ow!” He’ll take his instruments from my mouth and administer a bit more of the numbing drug, then wait to be sure I can’t feel anything before proceeding. God operated the same way during our numb months, letting us think about and talk about how sad it was without Nate but not letting us experience the permanent “ow” of the situation.

Now he has begun to gradually wake us from that numbness. He’s slow and gentle in allowing this new kind of pain, letting us experience the hurt of reality only as we can tolerate it. He waits for us to catch up to him while at the same time asking us to be patient with our own emotional healing. Sometimes we just want him to make the sadness go away. One precious widow friend told me she pleaded with God to please bring back her numbness.

But when the dentist has made my jaw numb, it’s no fun to eat, talk or even smile until the Novocain wears off. It’s similar with emotional numbness. Life can’t be rewarding and full when we can’t feel it. The only thing to do is to gradually let go of the numbness and to let God manage our pain tolerance. He wants us to come to him for the assistance we need as we wake up to what’s really happened. No matter where we are on the numbness scale, he welcomes our requests and knows exactly what dose of Novocain to give… or withhold.

“The Lord still waits for you to come to him so he can show you his love and compassion. For the Lord is a faithful God. Blessed are those who wait for him to help them.” (Isaiah 30:18)