Rejoicing Chuckles

Bill and I met in the summer of 1966.  It was on Sunday, July 31^st to be specific.  The 31^st falls on a Sunday again this year, so memories will flood.  I was only around for about 3 weeks after we met, as I was scheduled to sing at a wedding in Maine and another in Illinois before returning to college in early September.  During that brief time, Bill and I developed a remarkable friendship.  We probed one another’s minds and hearts with intense conversations.  It is noteworthy that this involved no physical contact….no kissing or even handholding.  There was no commitment to a “relationship.”    That being the case, there were no promises of letter writing going forward.

I decided I would not be the first to write.  If there was to be a relationship, he needed to make the first move.  I waited only 2 weeks before receiving a letter from him, in which he admitted that he had first decided not to write, but then changed his mind. It was a sweet and thoughtful letter, and he signed it “Love.”  I knew he was not saying he was “in love,” but that he loved me deeply as a friend.

I responded, and when I heard back after my first letter, he said that he had laughed the whole time as he read it.  He went on to explain that his laughter was not because it was funny, but rather that it caused such delight because of my choice of topics and means of expressing my thoughts, that he experienced “rejoicing chuckles.”

I am thinking about the beginning of our relationship now, because I have been rereading our letters to each other.  In another letter, he signed his name “R. Chuckles.”  I am remembering the delight we both experienced at finding someone with whom we could talk about anything…someone who genuinely cared about our ideas and feelings and who filtered what we said with understanding rather than criticism.

I have “rejoicing chuckles” as I think back on knowing each other for 56 years and being married for 54 of them.  I am so sad that he is gone, but so grateful for the delight of the mutual support we experienced.  No matter what we were facing, we knew we could rely on each other.

 I can laugh through my tears, and those are rejoicing chuckles.

In God's Time

If you were anywhere on earth,

I would search until I found you.

I have already looked for you,

In the places you have inhabited.

 

But then my thoughts go to

How I found you to begin with.

I did not search for you.

I just stayed on the path God planned.

 

And we found each other surprisingly,

Seemingly as a coincidence.

But we came to believe, it was

The guidance of a divine hand.

 

What am I to believe now?

If our meeting was God-ordained,

What am I to think of our parting?

Was it a mistake…horrible and unintended?

 

“Shall we accept good from God,

And not trouble?” said Job.

Did God plan the joyous meeting

And not the painful parting?

 

In God’s time…

Meeting

Parting

Reuniting.

Achan's Sin

Achan’s Sin…and Mine

             (Joshua 7)

Have I squandered and hidden away,

That which is yours by right?

A bar of gold, a pile of silver,

A garment of radiant light?

 

Have I buried under my tent,

A holy, sacred thing?

An item intended for worship

A trophy for my king?

 

Has my sin impacted others,

Leading to their defeat?

Will confession undo the wrong,

As I come to the mercy seat?

 

From Achan’s sin came destruction,

His family’s death by stoning.

My sin by the grace of God,

Is cleansed by the blood’s atoning.

Looking for You.

After May eighth, you were not in the apartment in which we lived the past year.  Your clothes were still in the closet.  Your to-do list was on your desk.  Under your laptop, I found the Mother’s Day card you had planned to give me.

I spent five days by your side in a cardiac unit and three days in a hospice.  I held your hand and talked to you.  You did not respond.  I don’t know if you were still there or not.

I went to our home at the retirement community, but you were not there.  It was empty and still.  There is a large stack of never used jigsaw puzzles next to your desk.

I flew north and drove to the city in which we spent most of our married life.

I drove past our former homes, but I didn’t see you.  I knew you had not been there recently as the bushes were not properly trimmed.

I arrived at the cottage, but you weren’t there either.  It was cold one morning, and I had to start the fire in the pot-bellied stove.  You used to get up and start the fire, and then crawl back in bed with me as we snuggled to stay warm.

Your cousin’s wife died, and I went to the memorial service without you.  You were not there to visit with your cousins and reminisce about your childhoods together.

I went to the cemetery where we buried your ashes.  I told myself I was going to think about what type of headstone would be best.  Of course, I thought only of you, even though I know you are not there.

I stood there and wept.  I watered a plant that remains among the dying floral arrangements.

I wept again.

I know you are in heaven and that you are free of pain and problems.

I also know you are not here…not anywhere so that I can see you or talk with you.  You are not out on a run or away on a business trip.  Since meeting you 56 years ago, I have never gone this long without some form of communication with you.

I weep again…

and again.

What is a widow?

What is a widow?

*much more than a box to be checked on a survey

*someone I didn’t expect to be

*a member of a club practically no one wants to join

*a person who feels like she has lost a body part

*someone whose sleep patterns are altered

*a person who is struggling to find her purpose

*someone who has a gaping wound, an aching space that can’t be filled

*a person who has no appetite and no desire to cook

*someone wondering, “Who am I now?”

*a person who rarely cried before, but now cries daily

Having talked with several other widows in the past 6 weeks since I became one, I can state that all the above are true of most of us.

Most of us hesitate the first time we have to check “widow” instead of “married.”

Most of us have an enormous sense of loss, as though part of our very selves is missing.

If our spouse died during the night, we may awaken every night at that time…as though an alarm was going off.

We wonder why our husband is gone, but we are still here.

When eating alone, we choke down food, because that is what we are supposed to do.

We have a bond with other widows that we never realized would exist.  We understand each other even without words.  The bond is bittersweet.  It is comforting, but not something for which we previously wished.

We are living in a strange new world.

We are living.

How Long?

Throughout my life, I have rarely cried.  I figured out years ago that it didn’t solve anything and often left me with a headache.

But…

Now I cry at some point every day.  I cry when I see his clothes in the closet, when I eat alone, when I look at the Mother’s Day card I found after he was gone, when I see the mental picture of him taking those last few shallow breaths, when I want to tell him something and he isn’t sitting next to me, when I run my hand over his side of the bed and it is empty.

How long does it take before one can get through a whole day without crying?

Hope of a Brighter Day

Dawn of a gray and dismal morning.

The sun is shining somewhere.

The sky weeps tears here.

But the storm is nearly past.

The clouds will soon scatter.

Revealing a brighter day.

 

I am in a gray and dismal time.

The sun is shining somewhere.

And although I shed tears now,

This too shall pass.

Time will scatter the clouds

Revealing a brighter day.