Category Archives: Widowhood

New Widow Friends

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Although Nate and I were fans of public TV when we lived in the Chicago area, here in Michigan I’ve become a devotee of public radio instead. That’s a result of not being able to receive a television broadcast signal, along with being stubborn enough not to get cable. Whatever the reason, I’m thankful for NPR.

Today I listened to an interview of two widows who had both written about their experiences, one having been alone four years, the other 18 months. The show was entitled “The Daily Challenges Of Learning To Be A Widow.”

I knew the program was coming and had structured my day to listen, readying a pile of ironing beforehand. The minute these two ladies came on the air, although both were strangers to me, I felt an immediate kinship. Other widows called in with questions and comments, and my heart bonded with each one.

For example, one asked about wedding rings, how to know when it was time to take them off. The two writers gave opposite answers. One said she hadn’t taken them off yet and had actually begun wearing her husband’s ring, too. The other said she’d taken her rings off only one month after her husband’s death, because she wanted to look at her hand and be reminded of what had happened, rather than forget even for one instant.

These widows also discussed the question, “What is my new place in life?” The answers vary and only come with a great deal of introspective work and the painful passing of time. Unlike in a divorce, marriage had been most widows’ happy place to be.

They also tackled the question, “How much do I rearrange my life and how soon?” One call-in widow had to move out of her home immediately, because she kept thinking her husband might walk through the door he’d walked through so many times before. Of course she knew he wouldn’t, but the pain of forgetting then remembering was a roller coaster she chose not to ride.

Many widows have email addresses with their husband’s name in them. They have to ask, “Is it more helpful to delete his name or leave it as a comforting reminder of him?”

A younger widow talked of the stress of raising children alone. While that was being discussed, an older widow pointed out that having children, though taxing, forces a widow to stay in the mainstream, eating regular meals, structuring sleep and wake times, and attending happy childhood functions. An older widow often loses interest in cooking just to eat alone, and she might start keeping crazy hours.

At the conclusion of the program I felt better than I had at the start. It was encouraging to know women all over the world (245 million of them) are trying to build new lives without their mates, just like I am. And because the first Baby Boomers are moving through their sixties, there will be many more.

Although none of us widows have identical fact-sheets, our responses to widowhood are often shared. I’m sure there were sympathetic head-nods at the end of every radio wave today. And without even meeting each other, we became friends.

“The Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome… He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow.” (Deuteronomy 10:17,18)

The Gift of Sleep

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During the night God gave me a gift – ten hours of sleep. I can’t remember ever sleeping like that, although as a teen I surely must have.

Yesterday had been strewn with melt-downs and tear-ups, and one thing I’ve learned during the eight months since Nate died is that grieving is exhausting. Although I didn’t expend much physical energy yesterday, by the time I crawled into bed, I was whipped.

Before Nate died, I had no idea about this part of new widowhood, but now I’m getting an education. Years ago I asked a recently widowed friend if she wanted to come for lunch, just her and me. I knew enough not to invite a crowd but had no understanding of how hard she was struggling to cope. Without even pausing to consider my offer, she said, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I don’t have the energy.”

Her response took me by surprise. I’d planned a simple lunch, assuming talking with someone who cared about her would be encouraging, maybe even strengthening. I had no knowledge of the drain it would be for her to get ready, drive to my house, answer my questions and struggle to maintain composure throughout her visit. Now, because I’ve been on the flip side of that situation, my friend’s rejection of the lunch makes complete sense.

The process of grieving a loved one is strenuous, and losing a spouse is wrenching. Although I’ve seen both of my parents pass away and experienced deep sadness both times, grieving for Nate is in a separate category. When people get married, they “leave and cleave,” which is biblically correct and should set parents down a peg on the priority list. After marriage, a husband trumps mom and dad.

As the years and decades of marriage compile, the marital bond strengthens, or at least that’s the way it should be. Though we’ve known our parents longer than our mates, the parental bond doesn’t have the power of two-becoming-one.

Mary asked me yesterday if I missed Nate more than I expected I would. The answer? Definitely. It seems there’s no end to my discovery of the ways he was dear to me. We were undeniably two halves of a whole, but when he was with me, I didn’t give much thought to that idea. Now that he’s gone, it’s painfully evident. And when half of anything is removed, the other half falls.

Since none of us can “walk in another’s moccasins” until our experiences overlap, we can’t appreciate someone else’s response to a life crisis, just as I couldn’t comprehend why my friend didn’t want to come for lunch. But as we live through our own experiences, we gain understanding. The gains come with pain, but they eventually become the way we can help others. Maybe that’s why my Widow Warriors are so precious to me and have blessed me profoundly. They’ve already walked the road I’m on, which validates their counsel. And many of them have advised me to “get good rest.”

After last night’s sweet sleep, which was God’s timely gift, today has been a much better day.

“This is what the Lord of Heaven’s Armies, the God of Israel, says: ‘I have given rest to the weary and joy to the sorrowing.’ At this, I woke up and looked around. My sleep had been very sweet.” (Jeremiah 31:23,25-26)

Meltdown

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I knew I shouldn’t have done it. After all, it was a Sunday.

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I’d been by myself at the house this morning, unusual for a Sunday, and even though I was up and ready, it crossed my mind to skip church. No one would miss me, and I wouldn’t have to sit alone. But that sounded like going backwards, so I drank the last of my coffee and headed out. Despite wearing a skirt, I rode my bike rather than walk the six blocks, because I was late.

As I pedaled toward the church, I could hear a woman’s voice being piped from the pulpit to outdoor speakers. She was weeping as she asked for prayer to handle a challenge she was facing. Parking my bike near an out-of-the-way bush, I felt ashamed of my self-centeredness, having temporarily forgotten that no one is immune from serious pain.

By the end of the service, I felt weepy and headed away quickly, talking to no one, anxious to get back to the shelter of the cottage. Although our family tradition has always been to eat out on Sundays, a bowl of oatmeal sounded just right. But I should have known better than to accompany it with the hard-copy stack of emails from the early days of Nate’s cancer.

This stack of 8 X 11 papers, which I’ve tried to read several times,  approaches the sacred to me, and a sad Sunday seemed like the right time to read a few more. I was missing Nate, and by looking back into those days when he was still alive, it was almost like a visit with him.

The 50-plus emails in my stack were all dated between Sept. 23, the day after Nate’s diagnosis, and Sept. 29 – six days of shock and hurt. When the girls had printed them out at my request, some of my own responses were still attached to many of them. It was one of my own paragraphs that made me burst into tears over my oatmeal. The following lines were written to Linnea on Sept. 24, two days into Nate’s cancer:

“Tonight as we were driving home from Chicago (me driving), Papa was beginning to share something about our family, but when he said the phrase ‘Remember when the kids were little and…’ he broke down and wept. I don’t know what it was, but I think he was thinking back to those happy days and one of you doing or saying something cute, and thinking of these difficult days now and the passing of time, and all of it mixed in together for him.”

Dabbing at my mascara, I set the stack of emails aside once again, wondering if I’d ever be able to get through them. I want so badly to re-read what our precious friends and relatives had sent in the beginning, knowing their words and verses had been chosen with care to encourage and support. They might hold even more power now.

All of a sudden I had an overpowering urge to look at Nate’s wedding ring. I ran upstairs and pulled the tiny green velvet bag from my dresser drawer and took out his gold band, hugging it and crying with longing for my man. It’s not easy when the only thing left to hug is a husband’s cold ring.

I took a gold chain off its hook, the one with the heart pendant that had Nate’s name engraved on it, and slipped his ring onto the same chain. Suddenly I couldn’t make sense of what seemed like a contradiction: God is good, but this is bad. Although I’ve accepted his goodness many times over in recent months, today it wouldn’t compute.

Immediately a favorite quote came to mind, and I knew right away Who was rushing toward me with understanding and comfort:

“If you can explain what God is doing, God is probably not doing it.” (Dr. Bob Cook)

In other words, because I can’t explain Nate’s cancer, his death and our grieving, I can be certain the whole thing IS of God, and I know he wouldn’t have taken Nate as he did without an excellent reason. God doesn’t expect me to understand his ways. (Both he and I know I never could.) He only asks me to believe he knows best… for Nate… and for me.

And I do.

“ ‘My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,’ says the Lord. ‘And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine. For just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so my ways are higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.’ ” (Isaiah 55:8-9)