Warning. The first year is the hardest. The milestones stack up. Fourth of July. My birthday. Time at the lake. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Larry’s birthday. Christmas. New Years’ Day. Valentines Day. Easter. Our wedding anniversary. The first anniversary of his death. Then, will it get easier? I don’t know yet.
On a beautiful morning the tears began as I looked at the sun shining through the golden, yellow, and red leaves, arched across Legion Way in Olympia. I was driving to church, realizing that my being late was not only normal but intentional--fewer people to greet, rushing past the memories of escorting Larry carefully to a seat near the front of the sanctuary, a seat where he would not have to stand and would still be able to read the words on the screen. I remembered his irritation of my tendency to run late. I had conquered my impatience with our differing concepts of time management. I was free of our mutual irritation. I was relieved of the burden of care. I repeated to myself that his release from suffering was a gift. Yet, the surprising tears kept coming.
In that moment I recognized that our continuing participation in the life of the church post-retirement had not been about the preaching content or the worship experience (although good to excellent by my estimation) but about how he held on to his identity. With limited energy or strength, Larry served on committees and taught a class, contributing to the life of the church. It wasn’t what he got from the church, but what he could give, that added value to his life.
I cried again this Sunday, as the Saints were named, candles were lit, and a bell rang. I was intentional about being at the service my cousin and his wife attend. I knew I did not want to be sitting alone. Someone was holding my hand when Larry’s name was read. I was safe. I was comforted. There will be one final remembrance of Larry being honored among the saints at the Memorial Service at Annual Conference in June. I will be surrounded and held in love again.
I went home to find David Whyte’s book Consolations. He gives his poetic voice to the “solace, nourishment and underlying meaning of everyday words.”
He writes of “Alone:”
“One of the elemental dynamics of self-compassion is to understand our deep reluctance to be left to ourselves...”
Of “Heartbreak:”
“Heartbreak asks us not to look for an alternative path, because there is no alternative path. It is an introduction to what we love and have loved, an inescapable and often beautiful question, something and someone that has been with us all along, asking us to be ready for the ultimate letting go.”
There are days I am both heartbroken and reluctant to be left to myself. There are days I find a path to self care and experience great joy in the world. There are days when I realize that a holiday is coming, a day filled with tradition and memories that need to be honored and then reconfigured. These are days I make plans to be away, to do something completely different. There are more good days than bad.
As the seasons move me through this year, I am ready to move with them into something more, something new, something yet to be revealed.
