I Remember You

There is a cemetery nearby where many of my paternal relatives rest. Four great-grandparents, three great-aunts, and my own grandparents are in one family area. My mother and father are in another place in the same cemetery.  I was close to my grandparents because they lived five houses away on my street as I grew up. I could walk to see them any time I wanted. I would bring my grandmother flowers and we'd play board games together.  I was also close to my great-aunt Irene. She never married and lived a simple, and I thought, lonely life. My mom and dad took very good care of her in her old age and she was a part of all of our family gatherings. She was 87 when I had my first child and I gave my daughter the middle name Irene so she would be remembered. 

Cemeteries are not fun. They make you think about uncomfortable truths. Many people have nothing to do with cemeteries because they say their loved ones are not there. But, in a way I disagree. When you go to the grave of a loved one you can feel their presence. Even though you may think of them frequently you are solely focused on their memory as you gaze at their names. I like to think that when I am there they feel a surge of love wherever they are.  It's a time to talk to them, catch them up on earthly matters, and once again, tell them how much you miss them. There are always tears, but it feels important for me to do. 

When I go to the Vogel plot of my ancestors I always say "I remember you." I say this because no one else will remember them.  Why would you think of them when you don't even know where their plots are?  The rest of my cousins were not close to my grandparents and they live in far away. My grandmother and grandfather have been gone since 1970 and 1972 respectively. Who thinks of them now that my dad and his sister are gone?  I do. 

I am still overcome with sadness to think that all of my many aunts and uncles and even a few cousins are now gone from this earth.  My mother was the last of her generation in our family when she died in 2016. So now my cousins and I are the matriarchs and patriarchs. Something you never imagine. It's a completely unique part of life when all those before you are gone. Life takes on a different meaning when you see another generation coming into the family as I do with my three grandchildren and my cousin's grandchildren. 

I recently read a novel that took place in post-war Germany. The main character visited a cemetery and inquired why graves were being dug up. She was told that they are dug up and replaced every thirty years because after thirty years no one remembers them. That's not particularly true these days, but it was a shocking reminder of the brevity of life. 

I recall my parents devotedly caring for the Vogel gravesites and I will do the same as long as I am able. No one else will. Every time I visit I will say, "I remember you" to each one there who lived and breathed and made it possible for me to be alive.  

Stella

Losing a dog is a lot like losing a person. There is a period of disbelief. Where is she? When is she coming back?  I thought I just saw her, heard her. But when you lose a parent or a friend chances are they weren't next to you every minute of the day and night—but a dog is.  You love and care for a dog. Suddenly you are no longer a caregiver and there is empty time in your day. All of your daily routines are upended and unfamiliar. There is no one greeting you at the door when you arrive at home. You are without the unconditional love that only a pet can give, (even if it's just because you are the one to feed her.)

I chose Stella from a shelter 13 years ago and I felt her love, devotion and gratitude every day of those 13 years.  She was my walking companion. She always pulled on the leash. I knew that should have been corrected but it made me walk faster and we both stayed trim.  I estimate we took over 1300 walks together until last spring when she could no longer make it around the neighborhood.
She was a beautiful, gentle dog and I miss her terribly.

A dog often forces you take them to their final destination. You make an appointment to end their suffering and although you know it is the right thing to do it is not normal to take something you love to die. It seems wrong and guilt and doubt accompany your decision.  But I believe that a dog knows when their time has come and September 27, 2017  Stella let me know she was ready. I will miss her always.

It seems silly to think there is a heaven for dogs but I hope there is some reward for all the joy and love they give us while they are here. And just like people you hope there is relief from pain and suffering for eternity.

Goodbye to 2016

A year is only defined by the changing seasons and numbers on a calendar, but God must have known that we needed to start things over once in a while.   As a teacher the end of August brought fresh hope for a better school year than the last. We had packed up the old year in all of our classrooms and then in two months time reopened them in anticipation. As 2016 closes I am happy to look on the number 2017 as a new start in my life even though it is only one day passing to the next.

In the past two years I have lost my father and my mother. They lived full and long lives, but sometimes that makes their absence even more painful. They were the two people in the world who were the happiest to see me when I walked through their door. No one will love me like that again. I know that now. It is a life-changing realization.

I spent most of this year dealing with their home and the possessions and memories of over sixty years—the only place that was truly home for me.  I had to empty it of every tangible item and relive my life and theirs along with each discovery.  I read their love letters. I found all my cards and letters to them. It was at once excruciating and also comforting.  I sorrowfully had to sell the home to a new young family—only the second family to ever live there. I feel unnaturally attached to them as I dream about their little boys playing in the same yard I did.

One year ago today my mother was in a rehabilitation facility—a place I despise with all my heart for its loneliness, boredom and isolation. She had clearly lost her will to live since my father had died one year before. To remember last Christmas is reliving a nightmare.  In two weeks time she would have a massive stroke and a week after that we would bring her home and wait for six days for her to die in her living room, not really sure if she knew she was there or not. It was not a peaceful ending to a well-lived life. 

All the formalities are complete; the graves, the memorial services, the sale of the house, the bills, the matters of the estate. Suddenly, I am left with a life bereft of the caregiving responsibilities. But not really....

In the month of May a new person was born to fill my heart with love. My second grandson. Two beloveds are gone and two have come from heaven to bring light back into my life. This is life. So in 2017 I will embrace the new hope that God has sent me and I will honor and treasure the losses of the past as we all must do.

Happy New Year

The Remnants of Life

February 10, 2016

I spent the day going through the remnants of my parents’ lives.  Every bill and check with their names, every list and note in their handwriting, sixty years of photos and piles and piles of clothes—that is all that is left of the two people I loved every day of my life. 

I lost them both within fourteen months and I am grieving for the set of two, the unconditional love that no one on earth will ever have for me again, the smiles every time I came into their presence. That love and that joy is known to me because I have it for my own children. It is irreplaceable and eternal.

They lived their last days in the home they built sixty-two years ago, the house I came to from the hospital in the beginning of my life. I will grieve that house too—the place that has always been home no matter where life took me. When life brought upheaval and fear I could walk in that door and find solace. Now it is just empty space. No one will come home there ever again because they are gone. 

As the day wore on I became enveloped in their presence. I discovered that the mother I thought was not very sentimental kept every note, card and letter I ever wrote to her. Copies of every poem and article I wrote as an adult were kept in labeled envelopes.  An ancient box was hidden with the memorabilia of her wedding and honeymoon in 1953.  

My dad’s bowling and golf scores pads, my mom’s inspiration for all her artwork, Dad’s meticulous checkbooks dating from 1980, cards and letters saved from friends and relatives, scrapbooks and photo albums I made for them, cards and artwork from their grandchildren, fifty years worth of manuals and warranties from everything they ever owned—it is overwhelming. It is all that a life is made up of. 

All of it is precious and none of it matters at the same time. I felt their presence so strongly today that it is all I need for now. So many memories and relationships fade with time, but I do not think the people that created and loved you from the day of your birth can ever fade away. We are one in the same.

I bring home boxes of photos and tangible items that will always remind me of them, but I think about my own children having to go through all of that and more someday and I wonder if it really matters at all. 

Never have I sensed the presence of love as strongly and deeply as I did today. Amidst my sorrow and tears I have had a revelation of the eternal that I have never experienced before. My mother and father were there with me today just as they have been every day of my life.  That is not something I am creating to comfort myself—it is something I experienced deep in my soul. 

Carry

Carry
(song lyrics) by Tori Amos

Love, hold my hand, help me see with the dawn
that those that have left are not gone

But they carry on as stars looking down
as Nature's Sons and Daughters of the Heavens

You will not ever be forgotten by me
In the precession of the mighty stars

Your name is sung and tattooed on my heart
here I will carry you forever

You have touched my life
so that now cathedrals of sound are singing

The waves have come to walk with you
to where you will live in the Land of Youth

My Mother

For Martha Jane Vogel 

July 28, 1929- January 19, 2016

My Mother’s Art

She does not compromise what she alone sees.

The generosity of her hands on the canvas or the piano,

the counterpoint of her brushstrokes and her voice,

the walls become a pastiche or hold a rhapsody.

Moving through eras of little expectancy, rising up

out of her service, when her world turned to face 

the sun she did not rebel but floated forward

and now beauty exists where there had been voids.

We are juxtaposed in the choir lofts for decades

and still there are songs we haven’t sung.

When her fingers were on the piano keys for me

my small voice strained to equal the passion,

the music eternally suspended in me.

What my mother can do always has a future

without a murmur of leaving it behind.

So I understand what I can become, what I must become

for the infinity of mothers and daughters

for her mother, for my daughter.

What is a Living Will?

My dear mother had a massive stroke five days ago. The only ability she has is to open her eyes. Otherwise she is trapped in her body, unable to express herself in any way, and we have no way of knowing the extent of her suffering.  She looks at us as we cry and speak of our love, but are we just adding to her pain? As a mother I know that the worst thing in life is to see your children suffer.

My mother was my accompanist on the piano as I sang from the time I entered my first solo and ensemble contest at age 14, up until she sent me a resignation letter about thirty years later. She had arthritis and was afraid she would make a mistake as I sang in church. (She never made nearly as many mistakes as I did).  About 15 years ago I recorded a CD for my parents for Christmas. So yesterday I played the CD and sang along for her. Her eyes were open and focused on me for a solid half hour. She is unable to make a facial expression, but her attention allowed me to communicate with her in some small way.

She is in ICU attached to multiple IV's that contain medications, nutrition and hydration. There are inflatable wraps around her legs for circulation. There are boots on her feet to prevent sores. There are pillow and  pads surrounding her to keep her in place because her body randomly moves in instinctive or reactive movements.  Her right side is paralyzed and still, but her left arms flies up in distressed movements as she seems to try to remove the paraphernalia attached to her body. There is a feeding tube in her nose because she cannot swallow.

She pulled the feeding tube out last night. The feeding tube is keeping her alive. Is she communicating with us?

My mom has a living will. It says that if she in unconscious she wants no life-sustaining measures, but she is not unconscious.  It says that if she in a terminal condition she wants no life-sustaining measures. But is a massive stroke a terminal condition? One doctor says yes because her body is shutting down and it may be a matter of hours or days. But another doctor walks in the room and says it is "in the realm of possibility" that she could get better.  What is better? Is it being able to keep her eyes open all day? Is it being able to eat and speak again?  No one knows. Every specialist has a different opinion and perspective.  Is a feeding tube even considered a life-sustaining measure if she is still breathing on her own?

So if you have a living will maybe it needs to be much more specific.  What if you are permanently non-communicative?  What if you can never squeeze a hand or blink an eye again.  Everything we do all day long as a humans is communicate our thoughts, feelings, and desires. Are you living when that is over?

It is too late to ask my mom. We thought everything was in place but life has shown us otherwise.

The Gift of Stressful Times

These past two years have been heartbreaking, revelatory and soul-changing.  It has also been stressful, exhausting and confusing.

I have been through several heart-wrenching and life changing times in my own life - divorce, depression, difficult relationships, stressful work situations - and yet I have discovered that a painful experience in your own life is nothing like watching someone you love going through trials.

Even after so much turmoil in my own emotional life I have discovered that being a daily participant in the end-of-life struggles of my beloved parents has been much more stressful.

I keep asking myself why I am not handling this better. Why it has completely consumed me and I cannot separate myself from what they are going through even when I am not with them.  My life revolves around their needs, physical and emotional.

The natural reaction seems to be to try to keep something of your own life intact.  Try to find stress relievers, a little joy amidst the sorrow.  That in itself is a huge effort and one that constantly gets slapped down as needs change, as unexpected crises arise.  You can never truly get away from your grief and concerns.

I began canceling out my own life because I couldn’t be counted on to fulfill any commitments. I did it willingly and said to myself - this is my life now and it’s ok.  I am grateful every day that I am now retired and yet that sense of constantly being torn between my life and theirs has not changed.

I feel like I am lost, unfocused and starting to slide into a depression.  Depression, I learned many years ago, happens when something is too much for someone to handle.

But this can’t be too much for me. I have no choice but to care for my mother now. I am extremely fortunate to have one other sibling to share the care-taking. How can it be too much when I am so willing to devote myself to this right now?

But on those days when I am off-duty I flounder. I still feel sad. I miss my father and want him back to help us through this.  We didn’t really have a chance to grieve his loss before we were consumed by my mother’s needs.

The stress comes not from chores and visits or from advocating for her welfare everywhere we go - but for making choices for someone else’s life. It is heartbreaking telling her she is once again going to the hospital or the rehab facility.  We spend a lot of time encouraging her and the rest of the time agonizing over how we will deal with the next need, the next change in plans.

There is not enough money to provide 24 hour a day home care and yet, that is what she needs right now.  Even though my father planned well for these years the money is quickly dwindling and we must make decisions about that as well. 

I believe what is needed now is to embrace this experience for everything that it is.  To stop the battle between her life and ours. Some of the effort is in trying to avoid the most difficult situations. Times of indignity and humiliation, times when nothing goes as planned.  

I have a praying family and I pray as well. Yet, one of my biggest life lessons has been that God does not make anything easier no matter how many prayers are sent up for you.  What will happen in this world will happen.  He does not make the elderly young again. He does not make care-taking pleasant. He does not heal the body when it is worn out. He does not follow our well thought out plans, or even give us what we are so sure we need ( which is usually to make it easier).

I have thought a great deal about prayer in these years because so many people say they are praying for you.  Even in my life-long faith I began to wonder what good prayer is when the situation never gets better or even clearer.  What exactly are we praying for?  We can pray all we want for someone to be healed, but if they have a life-threatening illness they will not heal. They will die anyway.

I have honestly not felt uplifted by prayer at this time in my life even though I have at other times. So what am I missing?  I am not blaming God for anything. This is life on this Earth and sometimes I long for heaven myself - something better than this.  Why is the journey to get there so difficult? Why do we never stop grieving those we have lost?

Then I think about how I have changed as a human being during this process. How much I have accepted, how much I actually have handled. That doesn’t mean there haven’t been tears (buckets-full)  or anger or frustration - but we have made it through so far.

We kept our Dad in his home until the end - and that was the plan. We spent two beautiful days surrounding him with love.  My mother knows she is loved and cared for and that we will do whatever we need to to help her through this transition in her life.  My own children are seeing and experiencing these years, which is something I never saw in terms of my own grandparents - and maybe they will do better than I have in the future.  I was given a beautiful, joyful grandson in the midst of the sorrow to brighten every moment I am with him.  He was and is a gift beyond measure and has probably saved me from true desperation.

I am more compassionate to others that have gone through these same trials (and most people have or will at some point since so many people are living longer). Maybe in the future I will be able to help someone else through the same thing.  I have a husband and friends who listen and care and when I am at the end of my rope. I have learned that my life is not really mine after all. Surrendering to what is has been an on-going learning experience for me in life. Service to others is something that is part of a rich and full life.  Compassion is a divine goal. Love is always the answer. 

Dad

February 20, 2015 would have been my Dad's 92nd birthday. 
This birthday will have no pain or suffering.


DAD

I want to touch your hands again.
I memorized the shape of every finger;
the ones that held, fixed, carried, loved.

The hands I clutched on your last walk on this earth
after sixty years of steps
across the living room and back.

Then for two days we circled, spoke in your ear,
held those hands, wept, questioned,
and we were one - covered in your final gift.

You know the glory now, Dad,
the reward for always choosing love -
and we are bereft here

on the surface of this incendiary planet
to wait
and wonder.

Grief

The Grief

is a straightjacket:

no time limits,

encumbered,

the futile struggle to be set free

awakens you with phantom voices,

burning images,

hovers, even when

others think it should be gone,

removes the things you loved,

hides them from your eyes,

crawls through the imprisoned body

with waves of lethargic pain.

No conscious control,

just a disaster of tears pushing out

of your ruined face, a craving for comfort

when the comforting time is past.

Life Has Changed

Yesterday I sang a solo in church. It is one I have sung many times - Come Unto Him from Messiah.  But this time was like no other.

I started singing church solos at age 14. I cannot even count how many - and my dad was my biggest fan. Always sitting a few rows back to my left.  He always wanted to sit where he could see my mom and I next to each other in the choir loft. Mom and I sat in the choir loft of two churches for almost 40 years together.  (The various directors somehow knew better than to try to separate us.)

When I am asked to sing, I do, because it is my offering. It is something I can do that sometimes touches people's hearts.  There have been many times I wanted to quit because I didn't feel my voice was dependable or good enough. But even the times that I felt awful about my performance, someone would be moved by it.  I'm not a professional, just an untrained soprano. It's a very humble offering, believe me.

I learned many years ago to never look at my dad while singing because there were often tears streaming down his face. Yesterday my dad was not sitting there and my mom was not either because of poor health.  It didn't really hit me until I sat down after the song, and then I was overwhelmed with grief and loss and the confusion of change.

My dad was supportive and proud of everything I ever did. I know I am just now experiencing what so many of you already have in this life.  I was more than blessed to have him here for his 91 years. Parents (and maybe siblings) are the only people you have known every day of your life so, even though I have lost friends and other relatives, this is much different.

I know my Dad is ok.  I believe in heaven and this is what I believe:
Heaven is the place, the everlasting life, where we receive everything we yearned for here on earth. As human beings we spend our lives searching for unconditional love, for perfect peace, for unknowable joy and for release from the cares of this troubled world.  This is the definition of heaven to me.  All will be known. All will be understood. All will be the peace that passes understanding. It will be nothing like being here - where we are left to grieve and wonder and wait.

Final Flight

When wings expand at last, each of us
will have one singular moment:
airborn, lifting free, voiceless.
We are made for final flight.

In this time between flights,
theirs and ours,
we wait out the unanswered days,
our senses permanently altered,

gliding through dreams and daydreams
tendrils of a spirit entwining us,
yoking us so close
to the line that we cannot cross.

Our hearts float in their own seas,
alone, searching for the voyager
who has crossed the uncrossable line
and left us behind.

Memories relentlessly skimming the edges
of our brains, sheathing themselves in eternity,
while ordinary life goes on
outside our earthly windows.

But someday the veil will be lifted
and we will be invited to the party
in the unknown Kingdom
in joyful reunion with our Maker.

Now we hold each other in broken arms,
we lift each other in hopeful prayers,
until we take our final glorious flight
away from the rabble of this known world.

Carry

lyrics by Tori Amos
from Night of Hunters


Love hold my hand
Help me see you with the dawn
That those who have left
Are not gone

But they carry on
As stars looking down
As nature's sons
And daughters of the heavens

You will not ever be forgotten by me
In the procession of the mighty stars
Your name is sung and tattooed now on my heart
Here I will carry, carry, carry you forever

You have touched my life so that now
Cathedrals of sound are singing
The waves have come to walk with you
To where you will live in the land of you

I will carry you forever

(Thinking of Louie 2/14/84 to 2/23/11)

Whitney Houston

The photo is from the video" How Will I Know". One of the cutest videos ever. When my daughter reminded me this week of dancing around the living to Whitney's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me) I thought about why we're so sad when some singers leave us. After all, they were just singers and we didn't know them personally, right?

Singers often give us happy memories. We love their songs, we love the way they interpreted them with their singular talents, we love the memories attached to them. The songs remind us of a different time in our lives. That's why.

Yes, celebrities are just people like us, but to me, Whitney, just like Michael Jackson, came to us with God-given talents. They had no choice but to share them with the world. And they did, but they also paid the price of a greedy world. I think being so famous is life-altering. It's not normal. They must feel infallible and untouchable and maybe that's why they leave us too soon. We all know drugs take us away from reality, and the unreal lives they lived as worldwide celebrities is probably too much for human beings to handle. I believe Whitney, like Michael, came to do what they were supposed to do,and it's OK if we miss them.

If you've never seen the videos for "How Will I Know" or "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" find them on You Tube. You'll dance.

Battery Life

by Dane Zito

(This was written by a high school senior and friend of my late step-son Louie, who passed away in February at the age of 27 from muscular dystrophy. We have all been touched by his maturity, writing talent and profound compassion. He gave me permission to share this with you.)

The sun illuminated the landscape ahead as we approached
the neighborhood lake, your wheelchair bulldozed
the blades of grass.The wooden bench comforted me,
the branches above protecting us,but your body
still becoming weaker. Yet, you always made me laugh.
The battery on your wheelchair glowed green; full power.


The clouds cart wheeled in front of the sun, the air
becoming colder,as you grew old. Your brittle fingers
struggled to text as we sat staring at the water.
We observed our friends swim and play but I always chose
to stay with you. The eye of the birds stared at us,
as if they were listening to us talk. The battery meter
on your wheelchair flashed yellow, losing power.

The sun battled the clouds, the rays narrowed through the sky,
the grass accepting the light the sun provided. You were hungry
so I fed you,cutting your food into bite size pieces you could
manage to eat. The straw pressed to your lips,
the liquid washing down your throat.The battery meter
on your wheelchair flickered orange, power halfway gone.

The sun jumped behind the lake sliding down the sky,
painting the sky red. Darkness nearly won but you kept fighting.
You had no energy to do anything but I would still see you.
The Xbox controller exploded when it hit the ground but I helped
you placing it back in your hands. The battery meter
on your wheelchair has now turned to red, low power.

Darkness painted the sky, the sun disappearing,
the clouds choking any light that was left. I cried.
My palms crushed my face not knowing what to do.
I miss you already, and now I understand what it is like to
be alone. We no longer could see the lake.
The battery meter on your wheelchair shows no color, no power.

That Wednesday

That Wednesday

will mark all other Wednesdays.
That prosaic middle day

between our past
and all the days to come.

The exigency of the living carried on
while we were enveloped in

the sudden beauty and stink of the lilies,
in baskets and baskets of sorrow.

Now we speak to him in the day,
at night, in his room of earthly things.

We speak softly to each other
until we lose our words,

until there is nothing left
unfinished between us.

We wonder about his unexpected journey
to a place we do not understand.

Do You Pray? - Revisited

My last post stated that I had nothing to say - but surprise - I do! I scrolled down on my own blog and saw that I had written about prayer. Little did I know when I wrote that post that I would experience the subject in a whole new way a mere two weeks later when my life turned upside down.

My stepson unexpectedly died and everyone I ever knew sent their "love and PRAYERS" through calls, cards, emails,visits and Facebook messages. In my previous post I asked whether people were really praying or was that just a way of saying "I'm sending you good thoughts." So God answered my question in a most amazing way.

I FELT, with every cell of my body, the prayers that were being prayed for my husband and me. Can I explain what that means? Not really. No one's prayer took our pain away. No one's prayer stopped the flow of our tears. No one's prayer changed the shock and sadness. But this is what I experienced: A true sense of being lifted up, somehow held up, an undergirding of faith and hope. I cannot describe it better than that. There was hope and the promise of peace.

Going through the agony of a funeral home visitation and funeral is emotionally exhausting and confusing. In a moment your life has changed forever. But we made it. We were held up by all the beautiful things people said, by the stories of their own beliefs about heaven, by every hug and shared tear. This, to me, is the tangible expression of those prayers - and how it comforted us.

I also learned that during the weeks and months following a loss, prayers are needed as much as ever. Keep calling the grieving family, keep visiting, keep telling them beautiful things about their loved one - and especially keep praying for them.

Requiem

Introit

This is just a time between losses
and now we've lost the future,
but there is rest, eternal rest ahead.
Doves are in the trees mourning,
an angel rides her winged horse
escorting us to the peace.
In the perpetual light of morning
there is no end,
no end, no end
to the shining on them, on us,
requiem aeternam, dona eis, domine

In Paradisum

Would you walk the same path again?
When the angels poured out their bowls
would you open your mouth wider?
Would you sing heavenly songs louder?
Gently lay your burdens down now,
don't wonder how it happens,
don't speak - just look up.
We have all been under the same sky,
the same loving eye, now we will be
in eternity, in paradise together.
In paradisum deductant te Angeli

Pie Jesu

Oh sweet Lord
untwist the harsh days of this world
and usher us to pure joy.
We are on our way to sleep,
wrapped in your infinite
blanket of love.
Now let the sky close
on all pain, and gift us
with our unearned requiem.
Grant us everlasting rest.
Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem

My Grief Observed

I may not be able to write of anything but the grief process for awhile. I hope you don't mind and will bear with me. I hope you may be enlightened in some way. It turns out that grief is an all-consuming experience. One may return to work and smile, go to the grocery store and turn on the television again - but nothing much seems to matter. Life has been put in a stark and revealing perspective.

It has been a profound learning experience. I now know that when a friend loses a parent or sibling they are not all right just because they seem all right. After the funeral home visitation, the cards, the hugs, the funeral itself - there is a whole new life to consider. Something that may have been a singular part of you for all your life or for decades is a void now. You still need to talk, to relive the experience in order to accept it. You still need hugs.

I will now pay more attention to friends in the midst of this experience. I will not stop calling or visiting or bringing food when the funeral is over. I will continue to lift them up in sincere prayer because I have experienced the incomprehensible and indescribable sensation of being prayed for. It does not dry the tears. It does not take away the pain. But it gives an undergirding of hope and strength when you thought you were weak.

Those are my thoughts today. The only other thing on my mind seems to be all the people I would like to thank for their kindness. I will get to that soon. Otherwise, as I said, nothing else seems to matter much right now except loving my husband, who has lost more than anyone ever should.

A Grief Observed

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.

At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet, I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me.
From A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis