Category Archives: Widowhood

Beaching it

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Today the mercury reached for the 100 degree mark on my kitchen thermometer as it did in much of the country. Without AC, my two best options were the basement or the beach. No contest.

Floating in the cool water looking back at the sand dune, I thought about Nate’s last beach visit. In the summer of 2009, just before we learned of his cancer but well into his back pain, Mary and I wondered if we should leave him to go to the beach that day. He was settled in his favorite chair at the cottage, his back resting on an ice pack, with his two favorites next to him: the newspaper and a mug of coffee. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

It was a coolish summer day, so Mary and I settled into our low beach chairs away from the water line at the base of the dune. Thirty minutes later, we were surprised to see Nate struggling down the sand, coffee and newspaper in hand. I was delighted and jumped up to get him a chair.

“You came!” I said, knowing the 10 minute uphill hike to the beach must have taken a toll.

He didn’t last long, but I admired the way he wanted to participate, despite substantial pain. Surely the cancer was secretly doing its damage by then, and his misery must have been extreme. Did he sense that day’s beach trip might be his last?

When life gets raw and options narrow, most of us cling to life’s ordinary things. If we suspect death might be coming, we adhere to our regular routine as if that might hold it back. A perfect example was the morning after Nate heard the words “terminal, pancreatic, stage 4, metastasized.” He got up and went to work…. as usual.

If we had even a blurry picture of what awaits us after cancer “wins”, we’d rush to our death beds. It may be psychologically healthy to hold onto our earthly lives, but heavenly-speaking, it’s absurd.

As Nate neared the end, he had one foot in each world. He held onto the commonplace, newspapers (unread), coffee (undrunk) but finally settled into his hospital bed like a beach-lover fits into a comfy beach chair. Peace enveloped him as he gradually curtailed his involvement with the ordinary and committed to the extraordinary.

Today as I looked at that little dune, I found the memory of Nate’s last visit to be sweet and felt deep satisfaction in knowing he’d been moved from the comfort of earth’s regular routine to the glories of eternity.

And it happened as smoothly as slipping into a cool lake on a hot summer day.

“Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death.” (Isaiah 57:2)

Transported Back

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I don’t know what prompted me to do it, but tonight I clicked on my email file entitled “Nate”. The day after we received his fatal cancer diagnosis, I started saving messages in this then-new folder. One of the first entries is the long letter I sent to my closest friends letting them know our dreadful news.

Following that are pages and pages of letters, literally hundreds of emails containing endless offers to help, promises of prayer, expressions of love, encouraging hymn-words and powerful Scriptures. Tonight I read one after the other for several hours until I was weak with gratitude.

I’m not sure what prompted me to delve into those emails. Maybe it’s that I’ve been missing Nate a great deal today, and possibly it’s because the non-stop activity of the last several weeks has quieted. As I plunked down in my flowered lazy-boy on a tiring 90 degree day without air conditioning, I was preparing for a prayer time when my thoughts turned to Nate.

Back then, as we took our first steps into the world of pancreatic cancer, we were uninformed and unproven. The pain escalated (both emotionally and physically), and the emails describe countless offers of (and eventually acceptance of) charity. Love-gifts are often difficult to accept, but gradually we understood that charity is simply another word for love. Even as I read the emails tonight, love radiated from the screen, and I was overcome with the thoughtfulness of others.

Reading was difficult, but I couldn’t stop, despite the tears. Overwhelmingly, the singular message to our family 20 months ago and to me tonight was of unfailing love, love from friends and relatives, and from God.

When a writer would say, “I have no words,” or “Words are inadequate,” they would often follow that with God’s words instead, a supremely comforting alternative. Isaiah 41:10 (below) was repeatedly mentioned.

Many corresponders reminded us we were all part of the same family, the family of God. How good it was to be steadily and repeatedly told of the bond we shared in Christ, because that assured us the emailers were now willing to share in carrying our burdens, too.

When I finally stopped reading, I felt like I’d been given a short course in “What to Do in a crisis.” Along with lots of love, emailers dispensed wisdom, encouragement, strength and hope in a hopeless set of circumstances. None of us knows exactly what to do when tragedy strikes, but these people all did something, and I’m so grateful.

Today I really missed Nate. Although it’s been a long time since I’ve gone back to those last 42 days with him, tonight it was the right thing to do.

“Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10)

On the Outside Looking In

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Today a Chicago area friend and I spent the day together in Michigan, talking, laughing, biking, praying, wading, sunbathing, eating and walking. It was a meaningful day of simple pleasures most anyone could enjoy… anyone but a new widow.

Several months after Nate died, I remember a dark time of sorrow and gloom. One day in particular stands out as a low point. I was walking Jack in the pitch black of a winter evening, shivering with the cold but also with the misery of missing Nate. Passing a neighbor’s house, I saw through the window they were entertaining friends, and I was overtaken by sharp loneliness.

While standing in the road watching six adults talk and laugh in a warm living room, I felt like the little match girl of storybook fame, homeless and cold, looking in on a family holiday meal. I had a home and plenty to eat but like her I was on the outside looking in.

A week later, other neighbors invited me to dinner. I said “no.” It was crazy to reject a chance to be part of the happy conversation “on the inside,” but that’s new widowhood, a hodge-podge of emotions that make no sense: “I’m lonely, but leave me alone; I’m excluded, but don’t invite me in.”

So what’s to be done for a new widow?

Not too long after my forlorn experience in the road, I walked into a neighbor’s kitchen, though I can’t recall the reason. Once inside, I saw a long dinner table set for a crowd and realized they were having company. A big pot of stew simmered on the stove, and fresh bread lay on the counter.

“Our small group is coming tonight,” my friend said. I nodded, and then she did the perfect thing. She filled a bowl with beef stew and handed it to me. “Why don’t you take this with you? I’d love for you to have it.”

Gratefully I accepted her gift and stepped into the cold night with my warm stew, feeling included but not with the pressure to meet new people or make small talk. It was exactly what I needed.

Showing love to a new widow is difficult. You might be refused repeatedly and be wounded by rejection. After several rebuffed invitations, you might think, “What’s the use. She wants to be left alone, so I give up.”

But from experience I can say, “Please keep trying.” Her in-and-out behavior of living on the fringes is her way to cope with the complex and unwelcome role of widowhood. If you don’t give up, eventually you’ll receive a “yes”, and you’ll know you’ve helped end her days of standing on the outside looking in.

The Lord said, “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness.” (Jeremiah 31:3)