I Miss My Husband

... of course, every day. But some days, it's more poignant. poign·ant [poin-yuhnt, poi-nuhnt] adj. 1. keenly distressing to the feelings; 2. keen or strong in mental appeal; 3. affecting or moving the emotions.

 Today, it was somewhat distressing, strong in mental appeal -- and affecting of my emotions ...  how I missed my husband.

I'm experiencing one of those ebbs in the grieving process ... but not such a terribly sad one -- just an impacting one. Okay, it's a little sad. It hit me as I brewed coffee yesterday morning. I can't quite explain it. But anyone who's lost their husband -- or any loved one really close to them -- understands. The simplest day to day stuff can throw you down -- throw you back -- drudge-up associations, memories, whatever and leave you standing in your footsteps completely overtaken by emotion.

It's strange because, historically, I didn't really brew the coffee. David brewed the coffee. Actually, I would have brewed the coffee, but I wasn't quick enough! He brewed and brewed and brewed -- numerous pots in a day. I scarcely got a chance to step-in to wash the coffee pot, wipe up the counter, or anything -- especially in the last few years of his life, marked by odd OCD behavior. I would find countless cups of un-drunk coffee around the house, but he would still be brewing. Yeh, it could get old. So the memories and associations that slammed me yesterday were wrought with a variety of feelings: a sense of being bereft, simple sorrow, and, yes, relief -- that the days of spilled coffee and beans all over the floor were over. That, alone, is sad. It makes me feel like I'm a cold and insensitive woman. Thankfully, I know that is not and was not the case ...

So my response was to basically indulge in a sick day. Yesterday (a Friday) I nestled-down in my bed. Thankful for my Roku (Christmas gift from my son), I caught-up on some of my favorite programs -- and became quite involved in a new one -- a "comfort" show -- Downton: Not too much peril to be upsetting -- just enough excitement -- and good, old fashioned love. Wonderful. Comforting. But my productivity was next to nil -- aside from making sure that I had three delightful little meals (on a tray transportable to my bedroom) and a delightful snack of cheddar and crunchmasters. yum. A day of self-indulgent escape. It was good for my soul -- but not so good for my tax deadline. It was supposed to snow, offering even further excuse for my self-centeredness, but it didn't. That was a bummer. But you know what? I didn't wallow in self-pity. I just enjoyed my simple pleasures day. Everybody needs one of those from time to time. It actually probably prevented me from going to the self pity place. So kudos to me!

Besides, this afternoon (yeh, another whole morning plus of the same hibernation ...) I vacuumed my wood floors and did some laundry. I've been keeping up with the dishes, too, and that is saying something!

Some of my most fond memories of David are those lazy afternoons that we spent together when the kids were at school. He would return home from a long weekend away and then really just want and need to spend the next day resting and recuperating. We enjoyed downtime together -- sometimes shopping, sometimes ..., sometimes indulging in videos -- movies or television series that we watched on DVD (Netflix really catered to our ways ...). Lazy days -- spent together in our family room stretched out on the sofa and easy chair -- enjoying some drama or adventure. It was like manna after a long, separated weekend. I miss those lazy days. I miss him. See how I got there?

So this evening, I'm playing some loud music (that I wonder if he would like ...) and doing a little laundry and housework (yay!) but I still haven't shaken those feelings of familiarity ... the delightful lazy days spent together here in our home after a weekend apart. I wonder if I'll ever really forget this feeling -- of liberty with a day and knowledge that I was not alone. I was with my husband -- my chosen companion.

But now he's not here -- so sometimes I just I do it alone -- me and my dog, (who isn't really good company when it comes to discussing the finer details of plot lines or predicting what is going to happen in a favorite storyline). Right now all I can think is "damn."

But tomorrow is a new day ... and he would expect me to plant my feet on the floor and thank God for "One More Day." I don't do that ... and sometimes feel guilty. But I'm the one left behind. I often wonder if he would be so hopeful and positive if the tables had been turned and it was he who found himself facing each day on his own. But he brewed his own coffee, so maybe he would have been okay. I brew my own coffee, too. Maybe I'm going to be okay, as well.

My Hands

I wish I had taken a picture of my hands every year of my life. I could have chronicled my life in a very explicit manner if I had. I also wish I had a picture of my mother's hands. I can't quite remember what they looked like. I don't think my hands look much like hers ... but maybe they do ... or did. I'm a good year plus older than she was when she died. My mother was a pianist. Most of my memories of her hands -- well, really ideas of memories -- are of them moving across the piano keys. I remember the first time I heard and watched her play the boogie woogie. I was never the same after that. I was so ultimately impressed by my mother's talent. All I could think was that I would never be able to play like that. And I never was.

I wear one of her rings most of the time. I have a vague recollection of the way it looked on her hand. I remember the stone had fallen out once and she was in a panic. Lucky Mother found that diamond on her bathroom floor. She found another lost stone teetering on the welting edge of a car seat. Lucky. Yeh, lucky. Dead at 47. Hmmmmm. My sisters and I also joke about the "backhand" and the diamond that might catch our cheeks if we were cheeky. The hand that could discipline ... Thanks for that. I learned.

Tonight as I glance down at my own hands I see age -- but I'm not distraught. I have soothed sorrows and pain -- wiped away tears -- bathed babies -- put on bandaids -- and even given injections with these hands. I have brushed my daughter's thick, beautiful hair and cut my husband's black curls with these hands. I have sewn clothes and knit socks for my son with these hands. I have baked cookies, crimped pies, peeled potatoes and kneaded bread with these hands. I have fingered notes on my flute and directed singers -- even arranged music with these hands. They haven't let me down. Yet. The last few weeks one of my thumbs has had that pang of arthritis. I've had it before -- in the same thumb and, sometimes, a pinky -- but, thus far, the discomfort has always passed. I think the pain is fading even as I write. I hope so.

My aunt had crippling rheumatoid arthritis and developed it at a very young age -- probably around 24. She had studied and trained to be a surgical nurse and was brokenhearted when she was unable to continue her career due to the effects in her hands. I never knew her without the painful disfiguration that she suffered in her hands and feet from that arthritis -- and have always thought it a very cruel affliction that she endured with such beauty and grace. I will always think of her hands as beautiful, loving hands -- as they prepared and served meals in her home year after year -- and how, somehow, she maintained her distinctive handwriting -- somehow unaffected. I loved her hands.

My kids' hands resemble their grandfather's more than mine or David's. David's father's hands, not my father's hands. My son uses his fingers just like his grandfather -- the way they manipulate a knot or handle small items. It's uncanny. But his hands form the same shape that David's did on the guitar. I remember the way David's hands fingered his unique chords on his guitar -- and what they looked like picking the intricate patterns of his songs. I remember the way they looked the day he put this little diamond on my left hand and they way they cradled our newborn daughter. Her hands have their own beauty as they, too, go up and down the piano keyboard, making beautiful music that I wish I could make.

A few nights ago I celebrated the birthday of a dear friend and gifted her with a cake. It made me remember some of the great cakes I used to create with my own hands. Were I in another time in my life, perhaps I would have formed the rosettes on her cake myself! Instead, it was my hands that cradled her cake in the pictures of her blowing out the candles -- like so many pictures in our family albums. Some day one of those pictures might stand-out to a grandchild, as they realize that those were my hands in the old pictures -- lovingly offering a cake made with love by Grandma Leslie -- or Great Grandma Leslie. That's a comforting thought!

I miss holding hands with David. In the later years of our marriage, we didn't do it all that often -- but when we did, it was poignant and I always made a note of it: Hold hands more often! Sometimes, it was better than a kiss. These days, I am sometimes taken aback, but always thrilled when my daughter grabs my hand and publicly walks with me down sidewalks and inside stores. She's 20. Imagine, if you will, the gratification -- the sheer love that I receive in that simple act. Bliss.

Since the kids have returned to school, I use these old hands to text random greetings -- to check on loved ones -- to share information. Somehow they have adjusted to the touchscreen keyboard! I thought I'd never be able to change from the numberpad with the satisfying bounce and beep, but I've successfully made the switch. Of course, sometimes the result can be quite humorous. "I live you" is a common error. My son likes to mock me on that one. Oh well. Hopefully, the message gets through anyway.

Another thing I miss is writing notes. Before all of this adventure, I was a note writer -- a card sender. I still try, but it's just not the same. It was a spiritual discipline for me. I wrote to my aunt with the arthritic hands almost weekly. I had a friend who was experiencing very aggressive cancer and wrote to her regularly until she died. I sent pretty regular cards to a couple other young widows, too ... some weird sort of foreshadowing?

But last night I got to use these hands to comfort and feed a friend -- to hold her hand and ladle soup. I think that sums it up -- hands to comfort -- to serve -- to pray -- to create -- to touch -- to love. Mine are a little wrinkly-looking these days, especially in the dry winter cold, but they are still my hands and I get to decide how to use them. And I am accountable for how I use them. Thank you, God, for hands.

Alone again ... naturally?

That sort of sounds pitiful -- a little pathetic. Part of me feels that way; part of me does not. It is the natural order of things -- for children to grow up and move-on (though it is also natural for them to return home from time to time). It is NOT as natural to be widowed and alone at my age. The more natural order of things -- well, at least for what I believe to be the majority of other parents around my age -- is to be "alone" with your spouse again -- a return to those pre-kid days. That is not what I'm experiencing, though it is what I had always planned. Dang.

As the day of the kids' departure drew closer, I began to panic a little as I looked at the still-adorned Christmas tree and the myriad of decorations dotting our home. Packing-up Christmas alone is awful. My daughter has been a real Godsend these last few, sad years -- not leaving me to face the daunting task on my own. This year, my son was a great help, as well -- patiently hoisting all the boxes upstairs and very neatly putting them back into the attic. Taking down the tree is particularly difficult for me. I pretty much weep over every ornament, remembering where it came from and associating it with Christmases past. As the kids get older, I have a harder and harder time differentiating their personal ornaments, which we pack separately. I really needed both kids to sort those and get them packed before they left. Thankfully, the tree is now perched atop the burn pile and the boxes are stowed away for another year. Now I can put my attention to the dread task of preparing for the taxes and the requisite FAFSA.

It's always a post-Christmas curse -- working through mountains of receipts and credit card statements in order to itemize all of our income and expenses. Once accomplished, however, taxes -- both corporate and personal, FAFSA and assistance from my financial advisor become way more straightforward. Still, it's a nightmare when you're like me and don't keep up with such stuff. I think I have at least six months' worth of bank statements never even opened, let alone reconciled!

Way back when the kids were wee and David was healthy and a young, very upwardly-moble professional, he handled all of our bill paying, banking and taxes. This may surprise many who only knew him since his diagnosis and change in vocation -- but it was David who purchased a new and exciting software program, Quicken, and itemized every last cent spent -- and was one of the first in line to purchase the brand new, life-changing Turbo Tax software. (Wait, Turbo Tax wasn't the first one -- it was something else, but the point is the same.) He was very organized in his mind and in his behavior. His office was neat. He kept up with all the financial stuff so that he never faced what I'm facing right now -- and he accomplished it all pretty painlessly. When all of that responsibility got turned over to me in the aftermath of his diagnosis and subsequent life changes, I did not handle it as well. I was adding it to my already billowing list of responsibilities, which altogether became more and more overwhelming. I have never recovered.

Throughout the last decade and a half, I generally spent most of the month of December working through all the financials and was pretty much incapable of getting the tax data to our accountant before mid-February at the earliest -- so I stopped doing it in December and started punishing myself in January instead. I'm putting it off another day by writing this blog! I always hope and plan to stay more up-to-date each year. Maybe this year it will happen! I've been planning a computer swap for a while now -- and finishing the financial work will get me a step closer to that, which will result in a notebook computer that I could keep in the kitchen, where I may be much more likely to enter expenditures and reconcile a bank statement upon receipt. Guess I'll have to wait and see whether or not my really wise plan sees fruition. That mental energy factor will be key. It continues to ebb and flow ... mostly ebb.

But I've had to move my old computer downstairs into David's office -- mostly untouched since the last time I wrote about it. Somehow, the desk had been cleared, so I have some workspace. My son helped me to move it and connect all the cables. Lo and behold, David's old laser printer worked without any snags -- no searching for drivers or anything! I didn't know it was still functional and my laser broke down last year. This is a coup. The CPU is now hard-wired to the ethernet, so I'm back in business. Now to begin attacking the mountains of paperwork ... Not surprisingly, I am writing this on my notebook in my kitchen. David's office still smells like David's office -- his things are still in there -- all over place. I'm going to have to work up to spending long segments of time in there. Perhaps it will be a motivation to more purposefully undertake the task of dismantling his life.

I struggle with happiness. I struggle with the near mandate (or actual mandate) to rejoice in the Lord because I have a hard time rejoicing in anything, so I sometimes feel guilty about this. I'm not one to dwell on the sinfulness of mankind, but more on the loving, merciful, saving Grace of the Lord, but I often feel like my "failure" to love my life is sinful -- sort of a waste of God's creation. I do know that God knows my heart -- my sorrow, my brokenness -- as well as my faithfulness, my service and my desires so I'm not beating myself up over this. I'm just aware of it. I find great comfort in the two first Beatitudes: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. (The Greek can also mean that not only are the poor in spirit and mournful blessed by God, but that they bless others. I think that's beautiful.) I know that God is patiently waiting for me to get to that place of joyfulness, but for now, being blessed and being a blessing is where I am -- where He has me. It's okay. For now. What I really need to figure out is how to do all this "paper"work joyfully -- remembering to pray for the mental energy and being mindful of the gratification of completing good work. Sounds like a plan! But tomorrow, it will be daunting again.

Today's sermon was about the true nature of worship. Kierkegaard's "Theater of Worship" was the model. It made me remember good old Dr. MacKenzie teaching the "Religio-Philosophical Dimension of Life" at Grove City. Anyway, the point is that God is the audience and we are the performers -- praising, confessing, and responding. Though I never finished reading Rick Warren's "Purpose Driven Life," I believe he borrowed heavily on Kierkegaard's thinking regarding Worship. So my question -- my conundrum -- is how to worship fully RIGHT NOW. I have an added element, perhaps an obstacle, but not necessarily. Continuing with the "Theater" metaphor, I am a "prompter" more than I am a "performer." I participate in worship nearly every Sunday through music. Rather than being a plain old congregant being prompted and performing for God, I'm a middleman. I'm playing descants and cueing cut-offs for the choir -- following the bulletin to see when I have to get up and do something. It can, and often does, detract from my worship performance. It sounds strange, but it is true. I think this is why a pastor friend of mine found an alternative church to attend -- to worship as a performer, rather than a prompter. Food for thought.

So back to the alone part. Nearly my entire adult life I worshipped "alone," that is, David was out of town on Sundays at least a third to a fourth of the time. Always a prompter, I had other companions in the choir loft, for example -- but worshipping beside a spouse is different. For me, it made worship more complete -- and now I never experience that fullness of cleaving. I always have and continue to grieve a little for others who worship alone -- those who are single, widowed, or divorced -- and particularly for those whose spouses simply do not worship. After David died, my worship environment wasn't altered much, but I moved into that space -- single worshippers -- with involuntary certainty. I still had my children beside me (and they were often prompters, too). But now I never have him by my side. I also no longer receive sweet, intermittent text messages from David, rebelliously giving me a glimpse into his worship experience that day -- sort of placing us side by side. This fall, I grew accustomed to the absence of my kids. My pew space requirements keep getting smaller and smaller (we have chairs, but I prefer my metaphor).

I guess it's just the same old broken record. Poor old Leslie -- sitting alone in church -- going home to an empty house -- getting up in silence and having to brew my own dang coffee. This isn't natural and I don't like it. Poo hoo. But I'm gonna' try a new "worship" theater -- my office. I'm going to bring God in there with me and praise Him when I get a good chunk accomplished. I'm going to play music and sing along -- performing for Him -- glorifying Him -- and being thankful. I guess I'll have to report on my progress, won't I. Oh look ... I need to do laundry!