She Walks These Hills #1, Fitted for Widow's Weeds

My husband Dave died one year ago, after seven years of on-again, off-again illnesses, on March 17, 2016. During the last years of his life, and during the year that has followed, I kept a journal. Two weeks ago, I read it. All of it. And, as I did, I took the journey again, but this time with perspective, and I saw the winding path of those days, and where they led--where they had to lead--and the gentle hand that guided me through them.

I've often said that the sorrow of my loss is always mixed with gratitude for the many years Dave and I shared--full of constant love and lush laughter--but it's taken time to understand what was so gradually accomplished in those days, both in him and in me.  And that is the best part of the story, the part that renders less important our physical ends--after all, Dave did die and I did not--but it gives an opportunity to see what God did for us during these days, how He listened, how He answered each prayer as we put one foot in front of another into a place we did not want to go, and how He welcomed us there with grace beyond our imagining.

This post is the prelude to what will eventually be a year of posts, published chronologically just as they happened, almost all taken directly from my journals. I give them as a gift, both for those who have walked this path before me, for those whose daily walk is still healthy and whole, and also those for whom mortal illness holds a vibrant terror. God is with us all in each of our places. This was my walk through the valley.

#1:Fitted for Widow's Weeds

I don't know why I didn't record this in my journal, because I remember it vividly--the day I bought my widow's weeds.

That's what they used to call them back in Victorian days, the clothes a widow wore for a year following her husband's death.

Long, heavy, impenetrable, they included a weeping veil whose purpose, I'm assuming, was to hide her puffy face and red eyes. We don't wear these anymore, of course, but we do need a black dress for our husband's funeral. We do need that. And, more than a year before he died, more than a year before anyone knew he would die, I found one.

I was in Goodwill of all places, browsing for something to wear to a wedding, I think, and there it was. Crepe, mid-calf, with little pintucks down the front and a belt in the back. Just the style that looked best on me and a bargain besides. Obviously, however, there's a problem with this. One does not buy a dress to anticipate one's husband's death. It's not done.And for good reason.

How could I even consider it? I knew he was sick, very sick, and had been so for a long time. My common sense told me that, eventually, he would die. But not soon enough to necessitate buying a dress. Not even close. I didn't try it on. I hung it back up like I'd been stung instead, and walked out.

But I kept thinking about it, trying to imagine what would happen if--when, if I was being honest--Dave did die. Would I want to go shopping then? After all, I almost never wore black. I didn't have one thing in which to wrap grief that big.

And I kept remembering the little, almost microscopic, ways that God drops favor into my unexpecting lap, and I kept thinking of the dress.  Would it not be better to get it now rather than have to get one later, when I would rather be doing absolutely anything else? I knew it would. OK, I thought, I'd put it to the test. I'd wait a couple of days and if it was still there when I went back, well, I'd get it.

It was and I did, but guiltily, without telling anyone, and I shoved into a corner of my closet. I didn't want to look at it. And it hung there for 13 months, after which I took it off the hangar, wore it exactly twice, for both of Dave's funerals, and got rid of it, casting it out as though someone had coated it with acid.

My widow's weeds, for which, by God's grace I did not have to shop while broken and weeping, had served their purpose and I never wanted to look at them again.


Images: Shutterstock, Amberrose Hammond

Deep to Deep

Advent and Christmas, coming in these darkest days of the year, invite contemplation. They make me think--about seasons, about waiting, about where I fit in the grander scheme of things. I feel my vulnerability more acutely when winter storms gather outside and I have to work to stay warm and to guard myself  against harm from the elements. These are times of pause.

That may be why happening upon this image on one of these cold mornings caught me. Eve and Mary. The first in full knowledge of what she's lost. Her head hangs down in defeat. She can't meet anyone's eyes, let alone her companion's. The snake still coils about her feet in apparent victory. The flowers of Eden, now all she has left of the place, still cling to her clothes and ring her head. But she is cast out and knows it only too well.

And then there is Mary, pregnant and understanding completely. She reaches out to Eve in feminine fraternity while at the same time stepping firmly on the head of the snake. Eve may have been temporarily defeated, but she has not lost. Mary is here, bearing more than just hope. She has brought rescue.

And there they are, the female bookends framing the story of mankind. Eve and Mary. Creation and Salvation side by side. They are their own beginning and end, Alpha and Omega. Christ made them both and they have each done what they must. Eve has presented the problem and Mary carries the solution. 

Men will not understand this the same way a woman will. When a woman reaches out to place her hand on a sister's pregnant belly, they share an understanding of what was, what is, and what is coming. The life that belly holds moves and grows and promises a future. And as women, we treasure that promise in our hearts in a special and personal way, just like Mary.

And Eve, in her hopelessness, lets Mary draw her into a secret circle of hope and life. There they embrace, where Deep calls to Deep.

This is advent. 

During these dark days, Mary and Eve feel together the movement of the coming Christ, and know they have been saved. From the moment of His incarnation, while He still adds cell upon cell to His burgeoning humanity, while He still stirs under Mary's heart, while the process is even just beginning, Christ is already saying, "It is finished." 

Drawing above by Sr. Grace Remington, published in Give Us This Day, December 7, 2016

My Love

October 15.
Today would have been our 38th anniversary.
Now that I think of it, maybe it still is. After all, in the eyes of the world, I'm a single woman now, a widow, and no longer married. But in my heart, well, that's another matter.

In some ways, this anniversary is sweeter, distilled down from experience and transmuted into memory. It is the day of wedding, and every one of the 37 anniversaries that followed,  all celebrated
together. A combined delight, made better in combination.

Memory.
All anniversaries are memory, aren't they? While lovers are together, they add to their communal experience, but after they've been parted, well, the experience ceases and the memories alone carry on, becoming thick and palpable, more real sometimes than reality itself. I feel them all, know them not like a thought, but like a thing. I'm getting very good at remembering, and it becomes a pleasant, vital pastime--active, not passive.

Memory is a privilege.
God Himself urges us to remember.
When we cannot have real presence, memory consoles us. Memory teaches us how to long for something once had, how to use loneliness to good purpose. Memory makes solitude productive.

While those we love are with us, we have the pleasure of their flesh and blood. We have laughter, and love, and we make stories together. It is so good. But later--later we have this longing. We have the privilege of feeling again what we once had.
But this time, the experience differs. This time, we feel, but are not satisfied. God, after all, does not want us to be too satisfied in this world. He wants us to long for another. He wants us to remember that satisfaction here is fleeting.

"See?" He says, "What you've had was good, but there's more. I'm going to prove it to you...." And suddenly, our loved one is gone.
But in his place is Memory. The sweet experience of re-living all of the best God has given.
 
So, what if memory does not satisfy? What if it does not ease the longing?  Memory is bold and intrusive. It pumps up the longing, intensifies it. It makes me remember how good it was and want more. It leaves me panting with excitement. I remember and am glad to be able to do it.

Then I hear Him speak again. "I have more," God tells me. "I've always had it. And you will come to know it.  But, in the meantime, enjoy these days, full of sweetness, full of memory. They are my gift to you. Live them again with your love, and then look for Me. I am here. Full of hope and promise. You will find me. This is our time."