Hang Ten!

Sometimes grief can feel like an anchor, tethering you in place, restricting all attempts at forward movement. And then the next, it releases its grip and allows you to propel ahead. One thing I’ve learned in the last few years is how I feel today, or even this hour, can change in an instant. I’m getting better at not fighting it. Instead, when the grief comes, I allow it to surface whatever emotions need to come out, knowing that I’ll be all right again when it passes. It’s like labor pains, but with no acceptable epidural option. You don’t receive a beautiful newborn out of the deal, but you do become stronger, braver, more resilient and empathetic with each grief contraction.

For the longest time, I felt moving forward meant leaving my husband farther behind. Today, I feel differently about this. Now I feel as if I’m bringing him along as I move ahead with life. I don’t know when or how this shift in thought and emotion happened, but I’m so glad it did. Today I don’t feel as imprisoned by grief. Do I still miss him terribly? Oh my goodness, yes! Every hour of every day!! But I don’t fear time as much anymore. Maybe it’s because I now know time can’t erase him from my memory. Maybe it’s because I know how short this life is and so I want to make the very most of it. I want to take the (reasonable) risks, go on the adventures, decide to make today a good day. And, I have the blessed reassurance of heaven. Some days I long for it, and other days I think – just a minute, I’m not done here yet. But what a day it will be when I can be reunited with my love again!! 

Deciding to sell the house, move to Kentucky and now all the packing to move has been quite the blender for emotions. I’m mostly very excited about all of it. I can’t wait to get moved in and start this new chapter in our lives. I’m so eager to be near my brother and his family, to not have to deal with HARD winters, and to sit under that ceiling fan on my new covered deck!! BUT, it also stirs up a lot of other feelings too. Blended into the excitement and joy are moments of raw grief. You find a lot of sentiment when packing things you haven’t touched or seen in years. Hand-written anniversary cards,Father’s Day cards in crayon, and heartbreaking letters written to their Dad after he died. And worst of all, the clay handprint the hospital made so we could place our hand in his any time we want. Finding that broke me. SHATTERED me, really. I had a long, hard, sobbing cry over these things. 

I had forgotten about that handprint. I stored it high on a shelf so it wouldn’t break and as a result I hadn’t seen it in years. When I pulled it down, I placed my hand into the impression of his. It fit perfectly, which made me cry even harder. We were literally a perfect fit for one another. Oh, how I miss him! 

The sorrow is something I’m getting better at not running from. When it comes, I just allow myself to feel it. I consent to the ugly cry, permit the sadness to emerge and accept that I’m going to dwell in the longing for just a little while. I know now, it won’t stay. It just drops in like an unexpected, unwelcomed guest. 

Soon after, I was back on track with packing boxes and dreaming about how I’ll decorate my new home. The grief wave had crashed and then receded. I could breathe again. 

I used to have moments where grief was paralyzing. Now, I’m just crippled. I know how to move forward now, but I’ll always have a limp. C.S Lewis hit the nail on the head when he wrote this in “A Grief Observed,”

“Getting over it so soon? But the words are ambiguous. To say the patient is getting over it after an operation for appendicitis is one thing; after he’s had his leg off it is quite another. After that operation either the wounded stump heals or the man dies. If it heals, the fierce, continuous pain will stop. Presently he’ll get back his strength and be able to stump about on his wooden leg. He has ‘got over it.’ But he will probably have recurrent pains in the stump all his life, and perhaps pretty bad ones; and he will always be a one-legged man. There will be hardly any moment when he forgets it. Bathing, dressing, sitting down and getting up again, even lying in bed, will all be different. His whole way of life will be changed. All sorts of pleasures and activities that he once took for granted will have to be simply written off. Duties too. At present I am learning to get about on crutches. Perhaps I shall presently be given a wooden leg. But I shall never be a biped again. “

Wow. Read that again! He sure has a way of putting words to the feelings of our hearts, doesn’t he?!

If you’re reading this and can’t imagine ever feeling OK again, I’m not here to tell you it gets better. But I hope by sharing my “journey” honestly and in real time gives you hope. We all experience grief differently, on different timelines and with our own unique memories and emotions, but I pray you know you aren’t alone with it. For every person who just doesn’t get it, there are dozens who do. If you’re feeling alone and haven’t found those who understand where you’re at in grief, I’m so glad you’re here. I hope you’ll join us at The Widow Army, a private Facebook group for encouragement and support. For sure that’s a community who understands. 

And most importantly, I want to remind us all that our God understands. He loves you beyond imagine. I’m praying you feel that today and find hope and peace in his love for you. Praying that for myself today, too.

Sometimes the waves of grief nearly drown us, but eventually, we’ll “Hang Ten.” Thanks for riding the waves with me!

Extra grace,

Jodi