Has it been that long?

 I checked up here and it's been since late September that I've written anything. Time flies, I guess.

It's Christmas Season now. Once again, I wasn't going to put up much of a tree. Last year it was a 2 foot high thing with a single piece of ribbon that read "Merry Christmas". Grandpunkin was horrified this year when I said I didn't think I'd put up anything, so I was shamed into getting a 6'6" fake tree and a few strings of lights. When those were up, he expressed disappointment that there were no ornaments on it. So, the box came out and we set to work, with him asking questions about each one, as my ornaments all have stories. Some were ones purchased the first year Himself and I were married, in 1986. Others were made by his daddy and uncles as they were growing up. Those are my favorites, the awkwardly painted balls and that one lego thing...whatever it is...that one of them made when he was 8 or 9. There's a copper foil paper origami crane, and now the one who made it is extremely skilled with origami and made a polyhedral ball type thing for this year. He promised a new something origami every year now. 

Christmas is when I miss them. Himself and Capt. And when I have the cognitive dissonance of missing 2 men, without feeling a strong preference. Who do I miss more? I had Himself for 30 years., and he's been gone for 9. I had Capt for 5, and he's been gone 1. They were very different men. One was cautious and diligent. The other was adventurous and carefree. Both were extremely intelligent with mad building skills and mechanical abilities. But I miss them both. 

They say you aren't married in Heaven, and I am thankful for that because there's the age-old (and pointless) question of who would I be married to? Neither, I'm told. It's Heaven, and perfect, and we're all too busy being in Heaven to deal with things like that. 

Thanksgiving was 2-fold. Thursday was with Capt's family (they're all so lovely!), and Saturday was with mine and a couple of extras. Christmas will be on the 15th, because that's when we can all get together. The 2 living in Atlanta will be working on the 25th, and we have never needed to do it on The Day. It will also allow Grandpunkin to have the whole Family Experience with us, involving potato cannons and explosives and bonfires, and then have Christmas Day with his mother and her family. He gets 2 Christmases! Lucky kid!

I am reading an advent devotional, and it is emphasizing the point of Christmas, as a celebration of God's incarnation as a human being, with all the physical stuff like being born and such. He lived with us, as one of us, probably with mosquito bites itching, skinned knees as a kid, maybe likes and dislikes (did He ever have to endure brussels sprouts? Or was He one of those kids who appreciated everything? I mean....He created them, after all.) Living as one of us meant He actually truly understood what we go through as people. The frustrations (remember He got mad and flipped tables in the temple), the physical limitations of our bodies, fatigue, hunger, all that. He knows us, fully and completely, and can relate to our shortcomings. That hits me now and then, knowing there's a perfect God who reached down to live with us as one of us because He wanted to. I love that. It's comforting. This month we celebrate His desire to love us where we are, on Earth, as a limited creature, so He plopped himself into a food trough, with a mom and dad to look after him, and joined us on Earth. That's what Love is. That's why I put up lights and a silly tree full of memories, cook giant meals for my family and remember the 2 men who loved me most. It's how I do it. All through it I remember that God loves us enough to do join us here, where we're at, and walk with us through life and it's hardships, always pointing a way to go, to get to a place where, instead of Him joining us where we're at, we get to join Him where He's at. 

Here I am again

I think grief makes me want to write. I'm not fooling myself into thinking anyone reads this, but it feels good to get stuff out of my head and onto "paper". Maybe one day I'll be very industrious and print it all out so even after the world collapses someone can read it and feel sorry for me. Or not.

Anyway, I was reading through past posts, going on to a year or two prior to Capt's passing. How clueless I was. I always am, you know, not being able to predict the future and all. I was also very careful about what I wrote. Capt was sensitive about his image, and didn't ever want to be seen with a critical eye. He had some real character flaws, but don't we all? Now I don't have to be so careful but I am not going to expose him, or Himself, or my children, to the critical eye of the world. There's no point.

As for me, I am not afraid of the critical eye of the world. I am probably far harder on myself than anyone else could be, because I am living inside my head and know everything going on in there.

Thank God for God, and redemption. He's the only other one who knows exactly what I'm thinking, planning, and all that. He knew what I was thinking when I was so angry at Capt, frustrated with my kids, and wishing I were anywhere else but here with a mind wiped clean by amnesia. Fortunately He doesn't work that way, but sometimes I sure wish He did. 

Now here I sit, on a Saturday morning with all the plans cancelled, a third cup of coffee, wondering what to do today. I think I'm just writing words down to get them out of my head, in no particular order and for no particular reason.

I have, as seen in the most recent writings, been dealing with the recurrance of Grief. It's a heavy load and the problem is that it's mostly borne alone. Sure, friends want to help but no, mostly a singular event.

I am weary of feeling sad. Missing Himself, missing Capt, mourning the loss of long term plans, feeling sorry for myself because there's no Grandpa to my Grandma, probably going to get old alone in the bed. You don't appreciate the sold feel of another body next to you, the safe feelings of knowing you're not alone if something happens, the comfort of having another opinion on a matter...there's an awful lot people take for granted. I guess if all this has taught something, it's been to appreciate relationships. 

I try to console myself with trivialities like not having to share pillows, pick up someone else's underwear, or coordinate with someone else's plans. I don't have to ask an opinion about dinner, choose anything based on someone else's preferences. I can go to a movie, whatever movie I want, whenever I want, and get the kind of popcorn I want. I can binge watch anything I want without anyone else's input or commentary. None of that really matters. I think I'd be willing to compromise those things, but I have also learned that looking for someone merely to have a warm solid body and safety isn't the way to do it.

You see, that's why I met Capt. I wanted and thought I needed another person to feel complete. I'd been half-of-a-whole for over 30 years and when Himself died, I lost half of myself. I jumped into a relationship with both feet and half a brain, and went all-in. Don't get me wrong, I loved Capt and the life (well, most of it. The last year wasn't so loveable) we made, but it was hard to learn how to live with someone so opinionated, especially since I was equally so. 

Now I am having, AGAIN, to learn how to live with myself, and I don't like it. BUT, I have also decided that this is where God wants me and it's my responsibility to accept that, and plow ahead.

Catharsis

 Writing is cathartic. Spilling everything in my mind out, putting it in words, allows the "paper"...what would have been paper 50 years ago...to hold the thoughts so I don't have to. It helps to organize smelly mists swirling around in my head, congealing them into something that can be tangible, compared to something else tangible, like holding a rock in each hand and deciding which one is heavier. Then I can bang them together and maybe make a spark, or at least a noise. 

So last time I wrote, it was about the return of some grief. It's still there, I'm still wearing it around my shoulders like some sort of cloak, and that's ok. There was a prayer meeting at church last night, after a pot-luck supper. I do love a potluck supper. Someone brought pineapple casserole. YUM. The church provided fried chicken, everyone else brought sides and desserts. I contributed deviled eggs because there's never any left over so I don't have to deal with them. Also- cheap and easy. Anyway, at the prayer meeting, it was announced that someone had lost her husband very suddenly, funeral was at such and such on an upcoming day. I had to cover my face because here comes the tears. 

Not because I was feeling sorry for myself, but because someone else was having to experience something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. 

How do you pray for someone in such a situation? I never knew but I do now. Pray for her to have courage in the upcoming days/months/years. Pray for her to feel God's presence and comfort in her grief, and for you to be able to know what God wants you to do to help.

How do you help? Let me tell you. Bring her a bunch of those Bolthouse Farms or Naked (brand) smoothies they have in the produce section of the grocery store. She'll have plenty of casseroles and probably not be hungry. Widows lose weight. I lost 50 pounds. Another friend lost 15 that she didn't have to lose. It's really hard to swallow and you have ZERO appetite, even if you know you probably ought to eat.

Don't try to distract her from her grief, she'd probably feel guilty about that. But honor it, sit with her without talking and if she wants to talk, encourage it. Let her talk about her beloved. It helps. If you knew him well, pull out a "remember when" and "one of the things I loved about him was (this thing)" I remember being so afraid he would be completely erased, and it's incredibly comforting to talk about him.

If bringing casseroles and baked goods is how you are led to help, that's wonderful! Especially if there's kids at home, because they need to eat and she might be having trouble with that. Or not- maybe taking care of her children helps her focus and manage each day. That said, if you bring food, PLEASE bring it in a disposable container, and ready to stick in the freezer, in case she has a lot of other food. I know how wonderful it was, when I was having a horrible day even months later, to reach in and grab something I could just stick in the oven and be done with it. Or if the 15 yr old was hungry, he could do it. Consider the size of the family when you make stuff up. If there's 2 or 3, a 9x13 pan of chicken and rice is kind of intimidating. Make 2 8x8 pans, ready to freeze. Put your name on it somehow, so she will know who brought it, because she's probably not going to remember. I know I'd forget the most basic things, like my own phone number, or personal hygiene. So remembering Ms Anne brought the macaroni and cheese is kind of a lot to expect.  And please, please, don't expect a thank you note. You might get one, but there's a lot going on and social niceties really need to be set aside. 

If you're in a church, and there's other widows there, let them know, and they will come around and be a tribe. I know I have my widow's tribe. When Himself died, there was one particular woman who knew just what to say, and her help early on was invaluable. Now I'm in another town, and found the widow's tribe. We have breakfast every Thursday, sit together at the potlucks, and encourage, laugh, cry, and help each other. 

For the funeral, if there's a request for a donation to a charity instead of flowers, PLEASE do that! PLEASE! I know it meant so much more to me than a bouquet. As nice as they were, I had no idea what to do with them. Same with the plants. The peace lilies. Oh lord...Yes, they're good houseplants but just like carnations, they're funeral plants. Please make a donation. It is so much more meaningful. I got a thank you from the charities Himself and Capt loved, and that meant the world to me. I guarantee the $50 you'd spend on a bouquet that will die in a week would mean so much to a volunteer fire department, homeless shelter, or humane society.

Understand that the widow will probably never get "back to normal". She will likely never be who she was before her beloved died. She has to create a new normal, which will include spells of grief. I don't know how long that will last. It's different for every person. For me, I expect it will last the rest of my life. Himself was called Home 8-1/2 years ago. For Capt it will be a year Oct. 8, 2023. Seeing a picture of Himself, smoking a cigar on the patio, brings me both comfort and sadness. Seeing a picture of Capt on his fishing boat, wearing a broad brimmed hat and happily barefoot, does the same. I imagine Himself in a big rocking chair talking philosophy with Jesus. I see Capt standing in the sand, fly-fishing with Saint Peter. Those images are incredibly comforting but also tears-inducing. 

A widow needs to learn to be able to have the sadness and grief without being told it will pass. No it won't. She will learn to be able to talk about her beloved without crying, but probably not immediately. So let her, and keep a couple of tissues in your pocket when you go for a visit. Some women are able to wear their emotions out there, and are unafraid to show them. Others are like me, mortified at the idea of being so publicly "irrational" (there's nothing irrational about it, but it is still horrifying to let people see me acting such a way). Either way, try to be comfortable with it. If she's a hugger, give her a hug. If not, give her a tissue. If you can, offer a cup of tea. 

Does any of this make sense? Does it help? I hope so. 

Slammed again

A couple of days ago, Himself's (husband #1, who died in 2015) father passed away. It's hard on my boys, who were very close to him. I (and they) know he's gone to his Heavenly reward, and it's not "good-bye", but "see you later". What a tremendous comfort. Really it is. It has also recalled a lot of hard feelings for me- missing Himself, missing Capt. Being a double widow is not easy. In fact I'm feeling down right whiney about it. This too will pass, just like everything else. I know it's not good-bye, it's see you later for both of them. 

But (you knew that was coming), there's still stuff to deal with. I joined the choir at church, and looking out into the congregation there are many elderly couples, married for 50+ years and I wonder if they have any idea just how blessed they are. I wished for a 25th anniversary. While Himself and I were together for 30 years, on our 25th anniversary there was a massive crisis at work and all the plans I'd made had to be cancelled. He promised we'd do it on our 30th, but we only made it 28-1/2 years. Then I hoped for it with Capt. We would have been late 70's for a 25th, but that's doable, right? He passed away a week before the 5th anniversary of when we met. So, do you see why I'm feeling sorry for myself right now? 

Am I going to get the privilege of getting old with someone? It is a privilege, you know. Not a right. When people get married, whether it's young like Himself and I (I was 21, he was 22), the expectation is for 60-70 years together, grandkids and great grandkids, holding hands with each other on the front porch with family all around. That was a dream we both had. 

When Capt and I began our relationship, we were going to travel, see the world, do the things that didn't happen when we were both younger. Some of that was done, with trips to Honduras and St Croix, plans to go to Cozumel and possibly some work in Nicaragua. A couple of weeks before he died, he knew it was coming, and told me to travel when he was gone. I thought he was being morbid. I HAD PLANS.  

Apparently, so did God and they weren't the same as mine.

I tell myself getting mad at God for all this is silly. His plans aren't necessarily the same as mine but they're always good. He knows what he's doing, and has it all figured out. I am supposed to trust that, and I'm trying. 

But I have to admit that I'm still human. It still hurts, and doubly so because Capt's death brought back all the feelings of Himself's death and a huge part of me wants to scream IT'S NOT FAIR only with some choice words added in. 

I'm not special that I should not have to suffer now and then. God has done a LOT for me. He has taken care of my children even when they have tried as hard as they could to mess their lives up. He has seen to it I am well provided for, have friends, and everything I could want, except for the one thing I would really like.  However, I am sure there's a very good reason behind the (how do I say this)....noticeable lack of companionship. Perhaps He is protecting me from something. Maybe He has something planned beyond my imagining. I don't know. I'll go with the protection because I don't want to be all hopeful then disappointed. At any rate, I'm not going to push the issue. I am not going to go out and do the modern thing and get online to look for someone. I'm just...not.

I am changing my name back to what it was prior to Capt. It's my children's last name, and I kept my business in it, because paperwork and such was ridiculous for making a change. I have thought long and hard about it. I talked to a few people, worried that it would be considered disrespectful of him, then decided he's busy fishing with Peter and a few other apostles, probably telling them how to fly fish. He isn't worried about anything, especially his last name. So, there it is. 

In the mean time, while I am very busy feeling sorry for myself, I am going to have a glass or two of white wine and watch some Masterpiece Theater.  I have begun looking after myself without wondering what anyone else thinks of it. I hired a personal trainer and am paying him an exorbitant amount of money to get me fit (it's working!). I went to Spain with a friend. I watch PBS and have a glass or two of cheap white wine. I am living life as a single person now, but with many good memories. I'll be fine. It's how I do things.

I'll think about it tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day.

You know you're old when doctors are all younger than you. 

I had a Procedure today, one of those mildly unpleasant ones that involve fasting for 2 days (clear liquids only), half a day of ingesting a month's worth of laxatives, and some sweet, sweet propofol. I was HONGRY afterwards but felt like I'd had a stiff martini, so rather than indulging in the Niffer's burger Dad had offered, he drove me straight home and I had some leftover stew. Of course, stew is always better as leftovers than the first day. I also ate a whole carton of ice cream (ok relax, it was a pint, not a half gallon) and had several cups of coffee. And a nap, coffee notwithstanding. 

There are more Procedures on other parts of my 58 year old body, planned for next week. Might as well get it all done at once, right? Fortunately none of them involve fasting and laxatives. After that, a sweet year of nothing much unless Something Comes Up which, at 58, can do. Whatever. We live in a fallen world where bad things happen like diseases and infirmities and calameties, (calamaties? Ca-lam-uh-tees? Bad Things.) I can point to my life and show a few, though to be fair, in spite of dead beloveds, horribly injured children, and Japanese beetles eating my roses in spite of the traps THAT DON'T WORK, life's pretty sweet right now.

I am, as I like to recount every morning, ridiculously and utterly without merit, blessed. I have had the immense privilege of being loved by 2 men. I have gotten to see my children come through very hard times with a strong faith in Christ (It does NOT get any better than that.) Most mornings I can thank God for all that but occasionally there's a big fat WHY ME? I didn't do anything to deserve any of this. It just...fell on me like manna and quails in the desert. And I am grateful. 

mmmm braised quail and figs.

Sometimes, this melancholy bent of mind kicks in and says "This is just a chance to catch your breath. Something bad is going to happen, you know" and yes. I know. I also know what can be lived through. How bad it can get and yet, survival happens. If something terrible should happen to me, I know where I'm going so really it's not that bad. My kids will be fine, they don't actually need me now. The only thing I fear is a long drawn out painful bit. I'm a wimp and The Good Stuff doesn't work on me, pain-wise. 

My much-wiser-that-me youngest son reminded me to take it a day at a time. Jesus says in Matthew 6:34, 

"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of it's own."

So I try not to do that...worry about tomorrow. I mean, God said not to and who am I to argue with Him?

Time to get up!

My brain woke me up at 4am. "Get up!" it said. *whine* I thought. "NO. GET. UP." it demanded. Or maybe it was my bladder. I don't know. They're easy to confuse at Dark:00 am.

Capt. was not a morning person. Bedtime at night was a very reluctant 11:00 or midnight, and getting up was an even more reluctant 8am. Funny thing was, even though he'd complain like a child about going to bed at night ("I can't sleep if I go too early! I wake up at 2 am and can't go back to sleep! <etc>...), as soon as his head hit the pillow he was OUT. How do men do that? Himself was the same way. Lay down, go to sleep. All 4 of my sons, same way. Lay down, go to sleep.

It takes me more time than that, and a certain orderly ritual to tell my mind it's time to sleep. I MUST READ. Even if it's only 1/2 a chapter, laying there, book in hand (and yes, it must be a book, with paper pages and a pretty bookmark. None of this electronic e-book thing, even if it has non-blue night mode or whatever), reading with the bedside lamp. In years past, there was the warm presence of a softly snoring man. Now there's the warm presence of a softly snoring dachshund. Also male, also goes to sleep almost immediately. He has to arrange his blanket Just So, but then after circling 3 times he's out. 

Once my brain says GET UP, that's it. There's no laying there, possibly going back to sleep for another hour. It starts clicking and whirling and thinking too hard. If I stay in bed, it goes into dark places and worries about things over which I have zero control, and the only way to stop that is to GET UP. 

The coffee maker is set to start it's Oh-So-Vital job at 5am. Getting up at 4 means I have to *gasp* WAIT for the Elixir of Life and Productivity. I don't like that because I am a spoiled princess, but for obvious reasons, wait I must. But only a few minutes. I remind myself during those minutes that I didn't have to walk 2 miles to a muddy river to get the water. I didn't have assemble the coffee components while groggy, nor milk a barn full of cows.

I decided, a while back, that if I believed in reincarnation (which I don't), then in my last life I must have been an Amish dairy farmer, due to the regularity of waking up at 4am. Granted, the 4am wake-up call is probably due to the 8pm bedtime, but it's a self-perpetuating cycle, isn't it. I try hard to stay up until 9 or 10, but honestly, why should I? 

4am is a great time to get up! It's before the sun or birds are up, and there's something really sweet about having open windows, and hearing the first birds yell about whatever it is they're yelling about. 

HEY...I'M UP! ARE YOU UP YET? 

I AM NOW! IS BOB UP YET? 

YEAH I'M UP! WHERE'S JOE?

I'M DOWN HERE BY THE POND!  and so on.

The first ones up are always the wrens. They like the front porch, and will peer through the window, probably wondering where Capt. is. They were good friends.

A goldfinch on a sunflower, in the front yard

Isn't it wonderful how systematic and reliable God is, when it comes to the natural world, the rising and setting of the Sun, the phases of the moon? I'm always enchanted by a good full moon even though it's happened every single month of my life. The dependable regularity of the seasons...you know it's Spring when the pond peepers and whippoorwills start up every night.  Mankind can make a mess of things, but the seasons happen, the sun and moon do their things, the tides rise and fall, and the wrens yell first thing. Comforting, isn't it.  It's a testament to God's reliability even when things seem to be going sideways.

 Lord, you are my God; I will exalt you and praise your name, for in perfect faithfulness you have done wonderful things, things planned long ago. Isaiah 25:1

And so here I am, at 6 am and already finished my second cup of coffee. The dog, who probably has more sense than I, is asleep next to me on the couch, snoring softly and twitching a bit. The sky has lightened and the birds are telling each other whatever it is birds say. #3 just butt-dialed me on his way to work "Sorry, Mom! I didn't mean to get you up!"....no worries, I'm up, have a good day!

This is a magical part of the day. No phone calls except accidental ones from my favorite people. No noise from the road yet, just Dad ripping by in his golf cart, on the way to get the newspaper. I love it. Maybe that's why I am up at 4am.

Recovering

 I still have a hold-over cough from the Flu That Knocked Me Down. Or maybe it's allergies. Who can tell? The privet is blooming and that usually does a thing to me. Benadryl at night and Zyrtec in the morning means I can function with minimal noise.

Anyway, part of my morning routine is to spend a bit of time thanking God for whatever it is I am thankful at that moment. Today that means breathing, tasting food, and the myriad gifts that allow such luxuries as travel. 

Getting to see a whole different part of the world, where things are done a bit differently from here in the Deep South USA, only actually not that differently. People in Barcelona are unfailingly polite and friendly. Very Southern. There's a quiet "oh, disculpe!" ("excuse me!") if we bump into each other in a crowd. I was warned, pre-trip, about rampant pickpocketism there, but nary a pocket was picked. People smiled, and smiled back, asked where we were from, offered opinions about foods and politics, all very Southern, from my perspective.

Children stayed up a lot later than we were accustomed to. 11 pm, and there were young ones shouting and playing on the plaza below our room. When my kids were that age, bedtime was no later than 9pm. Ever. More for my sake than theirs, to be honest. 

I have a thing about cathedrals and the ornateness of them. I was raised in austere Presbyterian churches. Minimal ornamentation, all of them. When visiting a cathedral I was hit by the sheer...overwhelming....

Little nooks for particular saints, gold leaved, statues, each one with a small bank of candles in red glass jars on a rack for people to light in honor or whatever....not real sure. A small sign and box on each rack asking for 1 euro to light

Beautiful stained glass windows, 

 seats for families indicated by painted coats of arms, 

 all really lovely and interesting and through my head was the thought "how many homes could be built with the gold on this stuff?" but that wasn't the intent, I don't think. These were built for the Glory of God, and that's not a bad thing but still. My austere Presbyterian sensibilities had to set aside their prejudices and accept the beauty for what it was and that it didn't care what I thought about it all.

The whole city had these little pockets and pieces of beauty. Why should a lightpole be plain when it could be amazing? 

Why should the hinge on a door be plain when it could be beautiful?

Why should the wall of a building be ugly block when it could be plastered with an amazing image? What a wonderful sensibility! It was fun to turn the corner in an alley and find a dragon, or a small courtyard with a beautiful fountain.

This is a city that recognizes it's special, like an old woman who's lived an interesting life and recognizes she's beautiful.