Purpose

As my second year without Faye draws to a close, on Jan. 17, to be precise it troubles me to acknowledge I'm still in significant measure lost. Yes I am. My life is still in a bit of shamble.

Hope and faith remain steadfast, yet I still feel like I'm driving in the fog. When I talk with other grievers I find many of us are still in the same place.

My emotions are fairly stable. I have happy days. In fact I have genuinely happy days. And more reasonably happy days than the opposite. If you would ask me how I'm doing I would more than likely tell you that I'm fine, or good, or perhaps I'd say I'm okay. And I would be telling the truth.

But yet I'm having trouble getting life in order and living with purpose.
My house is a mess and I feel like I'm still drifting through life.

With that in mind my one word for 2020 is purpose.

To explain I like to end every year, or begin every new year, with a single theme word. The word this is year is purpose. I intend to live this year with purpose. Beginning, of course with finding purpose.

Of course my intention is to live fully for the glory of God as the tattoo says "Soli Deo Gloria." But what that is supposed to look like for me, in particular, this particular year, has yet to be fully determined. But I will live with purpose. That might mean leaving some things behind while I pursue new purposes. Could be. Might be. But it does mean embracing life again.

And it does mean forgetting what lies behind and pressing on to my high calling. And yes I am firmly convinced good things lie before me. I will, I must, go where the life is and where the joy.

That sounds kind of vague and mystical perhaps. But it's time to live with purpose again. I must be determined in that.

As I've been praying and meditating of late I've been sensing a call to embrace new wineskins. Sounds a little frightening but I will do so. I need to live again.

Pressing on.

Joe Bonamassa - "O Holy Night" - Christmas Music Video

When My Heart Is Torn Asunder By: Phil Wickham

It's been a while

I haven't posted for a long time--50 percent because I'm feeling better, 50 percent because I've lost my discipline.
I would say I'm doing well emotionally, but my world is still upside down.
And so I press on.

Donna Taggart - Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain

Hiraeth

I haven't blogged a lot of late. Partially it's a matter of other priorities and partly because it seems the first part of my grief journey has come to an end. The sharp pain of sorrow doesn't trouble me so much anymore. And I am thankful for that.

But the journey continues.

I stumbled across the word hiraeth yesterday. Hiraeth is a Welsh word.  The definition is a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost place of your past.

All that seems to sum up my present state. I can honestly say I'm doing well but underneath there is an almost unidentifiable yearning, or longing for the home I've lost. I still have my house, but the home that I had with Faye is lost.

And I yearn, to a new degree, for that eternal home where I will meet Faye.

And I press on.

A regret

I try my best to avoid regrets. I loved Faye and she loved me. Our marriage was happy. And yet, there were imperfections as there almost always are.

We were too busy. We really were. I was busy. Faye was beyond busy. I always teased her that she would somebody be the busiest person at the care home, which never happened of course.

We often go several days without even having a meal together. And longer without more extended time together. It would have been fair to say we often were like ships passing in the night.

So we had a weekly game night. And we drove places together--including church--whenever we could. Of course she would concentrate on knitting. :)

Holidays were precious times. And were times with family when Faye concentrated on being a mother and grandmother.

None of that can be changed of course. And life was what it was. And Faye had to channel her immense energy.

So I press on.

Just a daydream

I had a day dream today. It's good it was a day dream because I was driving.

I saw myself entering Heaven where I was greeted by Faye. Off in the distance I saw a whiteish whirlwind running in our direction, barking and jumping.

Paisley's been waiting so long for you to come home, Faye told me.

Like I said--just a day dream. It's not theology or doctrine. It was just a day dream. But a sweet one that made me smile.

Just imagine my dog, who has never met Faye, being allowed into heaven and meeting her and recognizing her and adopting Faye as her heavenly human. And imagine Faye dropping her reservations about dogs and loving Paisley.

It was just a day dream. I'm not putting any weight on this at all. But it made me smile. And it makes me smile now.

Still longing

It has been more than a year and a half since the worst day of my life, when Faye left so suddenly without saying goodbye.

My heart is slowly, unsteadily, healing. But changes come in fits and starts.

Somedays I feel like I've finally conquered that mountain. My vision is clear. My ambition is returning and energy is coming back.

And then the fog settles in again. But God is with me. And I am recovering. I will embrace life again.

But I miss her smile every day.

Yet I press on.

My best decision

I often think of Faye when I playing with Paisley (that's not her to the left, but it looks quite a bit like her. Paisley has more white fur, her ears have a different fold and her nose is black.)

In fact, I sometimes call Paisley Faye as in "stop that Faye."

But most often I find myself wondering if Faye would like Paisley.

I think she would complain, a lot, about Paisley mostly about the mess. Paisley is a professional shedder and she loves ripping stuff apart. Not furniture but thinks like plastic bags. She doesn't eat but she rips them apart.

But for all that, the things about Paisley that make me smile would make Faye smile as well. I know Faye would smile when Paisley demands a tummy rub from me. She would like stroking the velvety fur on top of Paisley's head. She would like it when Paisley would lie at her feet.

And I know she would like going for walks together.

The best decision I've made since losing Faye is getting Paisley.

A fond memory

Faye loved hospitality.

When we lived in Manitoba, just a short walk from the church, Faye would sometimes invite everybody who was available to come for Sunday dinner.

Since moving to Alberta she had to work a little harder but she did.

She would call people until she found somebody who was available. And she didn't see any of it as work.

It was a pleasure to her and it was an outpouring of her gifts. One being that she was a genuinely friendly extrovert. She wasn't afraid of the telephone and a few no thank yous along the way did not deter him.

Fond memories. And I press on.

Feeling tendernesss

Faye was embarrassed by her arthritic hands. She generally tried to hide them in photographs.

They didn't bother me. I loved her. And I loved her hands.

They symbolized, for me, her work ethic. She worked hard all her life. Hard work wasn't just something she had to do at times, it was part of who she was. She worked and she had the heart of a servant.

Nobody who ever had us over for a meal needed to ask Faye to help, she started helping from the moment we walked in the door.

And somehow those arthritic hands was a visible sign of her love of service and work. They were hardworking hands.

How I miss being able to tell she was beautiful to me in every way.

I've been blogging less of late--partly because I'm consciously trying to get busier and use my time differently. But the foundations of my new life are getting more stable--so my mindset is changing.

And I press on.

Fond memory

This quote could be referring to my Faye.

There are many things I remember about her. Lately I've been thinking about her work ethic.

Faye had an absolutely incredible work ethic--which sometimes drifted into workaholism. This quote is describing her. She never, ever turned up her nose at work.

If there was work to be done, Faye rolled up her sleeves and got right to it--immediately. I say immediately because I honestly can't think of anyone with less tendency toward procrastination than my Faye. She did not put things off--even things she would rather not do.

And in her work she was a servant. She absolutely loved doing things for other people.

In all of that she left an amazing legacy on me, on family and everyone who knew her.

I say that as somebody who doesn't have the same work ethic. I don't.

But as I continue to feel better I am seeking to honour her with my work ethic.

Pressing on.

Getting stronger

Something has changed. Something has definitely changed.

It's not necessarily that I'm totally happy now. But I am generally happy. And it seems the sadness I feel from time-to-time is more along the lines of the sadness everybody feels from time-to-time.

Emotional ups and downs are part of life. I recognize that and the occasional bout of sadness I feel is more along the lines of that kind of sadness than deep grief.

I still think about Faye a lot every day but truly those memories have become sweet memories of a beautiful who touched my life in many, many ways.

I sense new emotional stability or strength. I also sense a restoration of ambition and a slowly developing work other and genuine desire to start living a fruitful and productive life again. I sense hope for the future. I'm almost tempted to say I've climbed that mother of all mountains. I admit, I'll have to see about that. But I have hope.

What's happening. Creeping along, inch-by-inch, has actually moved me forward. The movement was imperceptible but I was moving forward. The ongoing love and support of friends, family and church have helped.

A change in diet has helped, very quickly, to restore mental clarity and focus.

Three hours of ministry with Restoring the Foundations have seen things click into place. And I am very grateful.

Hard times almost assuredly come. But I know I'm stronger. That subterranean monster may still be there but it's smaller.

And I press on.

A real smile

1. Duchenne smile(Noun)
   A smile involving contraction of both the zygomatic major muscle (which raises the corners of the mouth) and the orbicularis oculi (which raises the cheeks and forms crow's feet around the eyes).

A Duchenne smile could also be called a real smile; even people who don't know recognize the term Duchenne smile, a real smile.

My Faye had a real smile. It involved her entire face and it came from the heart. And it lit up her face and the whole room.

I don't think Faye could have faked a smile, or any emotion at all, for that matter, if her life depended on it.

I always called her a woman without guile. Faye was entirely without pretence. And she didn't have a cynical or skeptical bone in her body.

I remember her with love. And I press on.

inch by inch

Something has shifted. I really feel that to be true.

I've had my happy moments since Faye's death. In fact, I've been happier than I am right now. I'm happy enough but I've had happier moments.

It seems, however, as if there's a new foundation under this sense of peace or slightly growing well being.

The happiness, or peace, is accompanied with a small, but growing determination to get my life back.

I also have a new measure focus and ambition to start living and being productive again. Emotional healing is part of that--a huge part. I've also had my eyes open both to the need for a productive, healthy life and to the fog I've been in.

Another part is, I believe, is the effect of improving health habits. I've taken steps to stop eating whatever is in front of me and eat what I know to be healthy. For me that means a ketogenic diet. In the slightly less than a week since I got strict my clarity and focus has improved sharply.

Body, soul and spirit are working together. And I press on.

Establishing foundations

Fourteen months have passed since Faye died.

It has been, without question, the worst 24 months of my life. And I honestly believe that is simply speaking out of reality, as opposed to self pity.

But it seems the Lord is directing me to start embracing life, to make that mountain my mountain and to embrace it as a holy mountain.

Now, he is talking to me about establishing new foundations to my life--or, to put it another way, to rebuild my foundations.

Life is entirely different for me now--entirely. The bedrock foundation of my faith in Christ Jesus has not, of course changed, but everything else is new. And it is time to put foundations in place for my life going forward.

I need structure. And I need fresh vision. I have a sense of what that will look like but I need foundations in place again, simply because the loss of Faye--who was part of my heart--devastated those foundations like an earthquake.

I am looking forward to the next steps in my life.

And I press on.

Healing coming

This weird, convoluted, journey of grief has brought me back to a place of peace and energy and even a measure of happiness. And I am grateful for that. I'm particularly grateful for a restoration of a measure of energy.

But here's the thing with grieving the loss of someone you love. The monster always seems to be lurking just below the surface. Which creates something very much akin to paranoia.  I feel good today but I'm so sure about tomorrow.

So I'm learning, I admit I'm a slow learner, to live in the moment.

I'm happy-ish today. There is no guarantee about tomorrow. I could be happier, or grief could kick me in the groin. I don't know.

Literally all I have is today--this very moment. I'm not responsible for tomorrow. I can't control  tomorrow. I can live as well as possible today--this day--so I will choose to do that.

I also need to remember to live inch by inch, by inch by inch. My life will come back together that way--tiny little incremental step by step.

Thirdly, I need to always keep in mind that I am a physical being, living in a physical world. And that means growing in the physical disciplines to become healthier and stronger. And yes, I am firmly convinced bodily health affects my emotions.

If I'm healthy I will be stronger emotionally.

And I press on.

My mountain top

Mountains and mountain tops have become intensely significant for me emotionally since I lost my beautiful lady.

Preachers often talk about mountain top experiences--meaning it to be a time and place of joy and peace and a sense of the presence of God.

I see it differently. My mountain top experience occurred January 17, 2018. That's the day Faye died.

Take a look at the mountain top--what do you see but rock, ice and snow. You can't actually see it, but it is also an almost airless place of intense cold. That's where I felt I had landed that day--I was in a place of rock, ice, snow, and bitter cold--a place not meant for life. Survival for me was a matter of day by day, inch by inch. I was almost unable to breathe.

But slowly, ever so slowly, my perspective is changing. People who have survived wilderness experiences talk about getting a glimpse of heaven from a seat in hell. The wilderness, even when it seems it might take your life has a certain fierce beauty. In ways I find difficult to fully articulate I can testify to this. I see life differently now. And I can see beauty again.

In my times of prayer and meditation I can sense God telling me to embrace life again, and, even, to embrace this mountain.

It is becoming a mountain of God's holiness.

And I press on.

Hope returns

A new thread has been pulled out of this twisting, turning, tangled ball of yarn that is grief.

The thread of hope has been pulled out again.

Partly, I'm sure, is the fact that the sun is shining and spring is here.

It's also partly, at least, because of my dog and the fact I seem to have become the sun, moon and stars of her life. Who can explain that love but I tend to agree with the man who said something to the effect of wanting to be half the man his dog thinks he is.

In truth, however, it is something given by God in his grace and closing allied to faith and love.

So hope means that I am not hopeless, or lost, because God has me.  And He is in control of my future. Hope is understanding that all things do work together for good for those who love the Lord.

Hope is confidence that seeds of life and joy are growing, even if they are below the surface.

Hope is stubborn faith and the refusal to give up, even when everything within me is screaming for me to just stop caring.

Hope is the energy to get up off the floor and keep acting, and praying and worshipping and expressing gratitude, including gratitude for 24 good years with a good woman.

Hope is firm confidence that my story has been finished. It is also confidence that Faye's story is continuing.

And so I press on.

Why I'm writing this blog

I may have written these things before but I'd like to lay out why I write this blog, trying, very hard, to be consistent in working on it. (In other words, treating it as part of my productive, working day.

1. Honestly I felt divine direction in doing this, so I do it.

2. Laying out my thoughts and emotions regarding the death of my beautiful lady is part of my healing. I firmly believe that.

3. It also allows me to track my grief journey. I know the tenor of my posts has changed over the last 16 months or so.

4. I have no idea how many readers I have but I believe this blog can help others either dealing with grief themselves, or who have friends suffering from the loss of someone they loved.

5. I have a notion of compiling all this raw material into a book at some time

I am deliberately, consciously, as emotionally honest as I can possibly. Again, there is a reason for my honesty.

I believe this would be purposeless, apart from being as raw as I can possibly be.

I actually believe in pressing in, by faith, into God's goodness. And I believe in using the language of grace and appreciation, and faith.

But there is a place for the expression of raw emotion. It needs to be let out. And that attempt at transparency lets friends know precisely where I am at, and maybe,  just maybe, it will help someone else express their pain.

I may even sometimes delve into slight over statement, again deliberately, because looking at the worst actually gives me hope that I can deal with things and move on. I've taken the hardest shot I can take. And I'm still standing here. I still believe God is good.

And I am pressing on.

Confession time

I have to confess that I didn't go to church yesterday. I didn't go anywhere or do anything, other than hang out with my dog.

Truth be told I was hiding from Mother's Day. Cowardly I suppose, although I've already dismissed that worry.

I love the Lord and I love my church. But Mother's Day would only have reminded of the beautiful lady I lost. And I just didn't care to go there.

Yet I press on.

The colour purple

I've been thinking about the colour purple.

The reason I've been thinking about purple is that Faye was beautiful in purple.

And I've been thinking about purple because Faye loved purple--scarves, sweaters, ear rings.

I've been thinking about the colour purple because it's the colour of royalty and Faye was my queen. And she is now heavenly royalty

I remember going Christmas shopping many years ago and seeing a purple something or other. It may have been a sweater, or it could have been a blouse, but I knew she would be beautiful in it. And I loved looking at my beautiful lady in purple.

List this under fond memories.

And I press on.

01 Beth Hart - Might As Well Smile - Better Than Home (2015)

Battered and bruised

If I could be a neutral or objective observer of grief (hint, I'm not neutral or objective and I never can be), I would make the point the journey of grief is long, hard and unpredictable.

A month or so ago I was genuinely happy. The cloud of grief and its side effects had lifted.

Of late, however, I've been feeling like grief has punched me in the face and then proceeded to curb stomp me.

Boxer Mike Tyson once said something to the effect that everyone has a plan until you get punched in the face. That describes the grief journey, at least from my completely subjective point. Just when you think you have a recovery plan in place, grief punches you in the face.

Having said that, however, I will add that I am battered and bruised but I'm not broken. I will get up off the mat and I will recover.

I am determined in that. And I know God is with me. And I know healing and recovering and the embrace of life are in the plans for me.

Pressing on.

A broken and contrite heart

you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.
17 My sacrifice, O God, is[b] a broken spirit;
    a broken and contrite heart
    you, God, will not despise. Psalm 51:17

I think I have met the condition of a broken and contrite heart.

And now I wait on the Lord, in trust, and faith and humility.

No I don't believe the Lord took Faye home for the sake of changing my heart. He could do that in any number of ways.

But I have changed. I certainly have had my heart broken and I am in a place, right now, where I can only depend on the Lord and know He is good, He is sovereign and He is at work in my life.

Pressing on.

Don't take this too seriously

I'm restless. By my strictly amateur research this is common among people dealing with grief. And it makes sense as a response to the dislocation the loss of someone greatly loved can bring about in someone. Home isn't really home anymore.

We try, we do try, but it doesn't quite feel like home anymore--hence comes this feeling I describe as restlessness.

So what am I going to do with my restlessness. I could buy a pair of running shoes and make like Forrest Gump (that's him to the right) and run, north, south, east or west, destination anywhere, who cares? I guess I would prefer not to head north because I've winter so maybe I'll head south and run and run and keep running until I hit the ocean.

Or, perhaps,  I could go live among the Taramahura Indians of Mexico. They live in the Chihuahua region of Mexico. If I recall they specifically live in the Copper Canyons.

They are known as the running tribe.  Oversimplifying they run, that's what they do and grow corn.

So I could disappear, get skinny and sunburned.

But they don't eat much more than a particular kind of cornmeal and chia seeds--so meatless and running all the time. So maybe not.

Perhaps I could lose myself working in a small African village, doing who knows what but doing something.

That makes a little more sense to me.

Or maybe, just maybe, I could buy a pith helmet, board a tramp steamer spend four months onboard ship puking constantly and finally make like Sydney Greenstreet and live a scallywag in some tropical port city.

I would of course be a Christian scallywag. And I don't know if there's even such a thing as tramp steamers any more. But that's an alternative.

Did I mention that is not meant to be taken seriously?

It's not going to happen.

I don't think.

But the sense of restlessness is real and it's powerful.

There's also a reason for my over the top, melodramatic venting. It makes me laugh at myself. Really it does. It does a negative feeling and helps me to laugh at it, put it into perspective and in the process I get to feeling better.

And, you know what, I think I hear Faye laughing at me, saying something like "oh Tim, you're being silly.

And I am. But I am restless.

Lamentation

Something that came up in my GriefShare class last week was lamentation.

By lamentation I mean crying out to God in sorrow or grief.

Lamentation is biblical. Crying out to God is acceptable. No, it is more than acceptable, sometimes it is necessary and, in reality, demonstration of trust in the God Who Hears and who is just in all He does and who loves His people.

So I have deeply lamented the loss of my beautiful wife and it's impact on my life. And that is not a demonstration that I lack faith but that I have faith. God is real. And He hears me.

Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered. Romans 8:26

Jesus wept.

Jesus is better

Again, the kingdom of God is like a merchant seeking beautiful pearls, who, when he found one pearl of great price, went and sold all he had and bought it. Matthew 13; 45, 46

Jesus is that pearl of great price--worth everything I have. He is a treasure of incalculable value.

Can I truly say Jesus is better than anything else in life? Is that a reality for me? Or is it just a thing that I can sing in one song or another.

The love of God is greater far than tongue or pen can ever tell. It goes beyond the highest star and reaches to the lowest hell. So goes the classic hymn.

I can sing those words and they stir my heart. But do I know them to be true. Can I truly say those words with meaning.

The most precious person in my world was taken away from me 15 months ago. My life was literally ripped apart. But can I say the love of God is greater far...? Can I say that to know and to love Jesus is better?

It's a hard thing to say..but, yes, with grief in every syllable, yes I can say it--Jesus is better.

Here's the thing I honestly, painfully, can say that but only because of God speaking it to my heart, through his written word, through song, through what I know He has done for this world and for me.

Can I tell other grieving people Jesus is better?

That's a hard question to answer but it is an understanding God has birthed in my heart. I fear other people dealing with painful loss might not understand. So I give you my testimony and I leave it at that.

Pressing on.

Day of memories

I had a weird day yesterday. Every single moment of the day reminded me of my Faye. Everything.

I watched the dog play and I thought of Faye and wondered how she would feel about the dog. (She probably would have complained but secretly liked the dog.)

I talked to various people during the day and thought of Faye with each one.

I looked at the chaos of my life and thought of Faye and how much this would upset her.

I looked at myself in the mirror and thought of how important health was to Faye.

I passed by the butcher counter at a grocery store and remembered how Faye would ask the butcher to do something a little out of his way for her. And he would do it.

I miss her. Indeed I do, but I press on.

I suck

At this being single thing. That's what I suck at it.

Even as I heal emotionally--and I am healing--I suck at being single.

Let me explain that picture.

I feel like a man who has had a limb amputated. And relearning to walk that way is incredibly, incredibly difficult.

Faye was more than part of my life, she was part of me. And, now, with only one leg, I feel like I'm perpetually walking in circles. My life is chaotic in o many ways and getting things back in order--especially after a year of brain fog and uncertainty is more difficult than I ever dreamed it would be.

Having said that I will conquer this mountain of mine. I know I will, by God's grace, and the wisdom and gifts he has blessed me with, I will conquer this mountain.

And so I press on.

Checking the wound

I have been facilitating a GriefShare group in my church.

Going in I was concerned it would reawaken that subterranean monster of grief.

I am happy to say the monster has been relatively quiet.

But what has happened is that I've torn the scab off my wound.

I've ripped it off as I re-examine the loss of my Queen.

And, yes, I still have a wound. And, no, healing is not complete.

But here's the good news--I'm clearly healing. The infection is not as deep, nor is it as raw as it once was.

I've come to a place where I believe God can use me to encourage others on their own grief journey.

Even as I continue my walk on this unplanned journey I believe I'm able to extend a hand to others walking along it with me.

God is extending grace to me.

And I press on.

He's Coming Soon (Hebrew & English) Sea of Galilee, Israel Music Video

My Dear Companion (Remastered)

My new companion

Okay I've gone and done it. I've picked up a rescue dog that looks a lot like this one to the right. That's not her but it looks like her.

I wanted to get a dog a year ago but was advised to wait by friends. And, yes, I think that was wise.

Last year was my year of traveling a lot. This year I feel I need to focus on making my home feel like home again and making some money.

And so, I felt it was time.

My dog's name is Paisley and I still have a week or so to decide if I will keep her. There's definitely bonding happening so it seems to be heading that way.

There are challenges for sure. Working out a routine that works for both of us is more challenging than I expected. Being able to do productive work, while giving her the attention she needs is taking a bit of time to figure out but we will.

She is getting me outside more than I have in a long time. She is also getting me walking more than I have in a long time. But both were actually part of my motivation in getting her. So that's good. And she gives me a companion.

As everything seems to do, she makes me think of Faye. Whenever we dog sat the grand dog Faye would fuss about him. She loved him more than she let on but she fussed. "You're in the way. You're in the way."

I honestly can hear her voice "You're in the way, Paisley, You're in the way." And I smile.

And I press on.

My gatherer

Doug Kelly, who spoke in church yesterday, put out a call to become gatherers, to inviters.

I'm sorry but I couldn't help but think that I've lost my gatherer.

Faye was a born gatherer. In fact, if I recall correctly, one of her strengths and Gallup organization strengths test I had her take a few was gatherer. Actually, I think the word was not gatherer but wooer. As I understand it, that's the same thing.

If Faye wanted to have people over for a meal, she called, and then called again, and then called again until our table was full.

She was perpetually gathering people.

If she felt somebody needed to come to church again, she would call and call and call again until that person made it out.

Few people objected because the sweetness of her heart was obvious.

But I have my gatherer by my side any more. So what will I do? Grow? I guess that's possible. In God all things are possible.

Pressing on.

Fond memory

The first time I went into a shoe store after Faye died it was a painful experience for me because of the memories it brought up.

Faye had bad feet and it was difficult, very difficult, to find shoes that fit properly, were comfortable and attractive.

I've spent many hours hanging around shoe stores while Faye tried on shoe after shoe. I sympathized greatly with the poor clerks pulling out shoes for her.

Now Faye was a sweetheart. And she clearly needed to be careful when buying new shoes. They would fit in the store but hurt her feet a few days.  So she was obviously not a difficult customer. But I think she wore out more than few clerks.

A year ago I really could not spend time in shoe stores, even if I honestly needed new shoes, because of the triggering of sad memories.

That memory has switched to sweet and slightly amusing. So inch by inch this mountain is becoming mine.

Pressing on.

Long and winding road

Every bit of this journey of grief and healing is long--longer than I could ever expect--and winding--windier in more ways than I dreamed off. Mind you, who dreams of losing half your heart.

It seems I miss Faye in new ways every other day.

The newest way is interesting. Or it would be interesting if I could examine it from the outside looking in--or objectively. Of course I can't do that.

But I've been blessed with hints about a new life and healing and good things ahead.

One of several items is encouragement arising through my involvement in Toastmasters. I've won a competition and evaluators of veteran Toastmasters have been very encouraging.

That makes me happy but then I think about how much, how very much, I'd like to talk to Faye about it. But I can't. That pang is worth it, but it's a pang nonetheless.

And then I think about the impossible--how much I would like to have Faye's hand in mine as I watch this exciting new journey. It would happen.

The road ahead is winding and foggy in places. But I am excited. Yet I ache.

Pressing on.

Coroner's report

I was finally called by the office of the coroner last week--14 months after Faye's death, with the final report on the cause of death.

It was natural, of course, and everything I actually suspected. Now I'm dealing with regret, just slight but regret nonetheless, that I could have and should have dragged her to the hospital that last night.

But the past is the past. She didn't want to go.

And so I press on.

More fallout

The loss of a spouse creates a wide range of fallout--beyond the grief itself.

For instance shared household responsibilities are no longer shared--there's no one to share them with.  So the one left behind is forced to do things they didn't do previously, or take complete responsibility for something they shared. All that, of course, adds to the loneliness, the sense of loss and the disarray coming from that loss.

The fallout from Faye's death includes, in my case, weight gain. Some people lose weight when grieving, others, like me, gain weight.

Faye was my nutritional conscience.
Yes, she didn't hesitate to talk about it if she thought I was getting off course. And she was very disciplined in her eating habits.

But she was so much more than that. She was my partner in health. We were on the same page. And when I lost her I frankly got lost in terms of my goals for health and fitness. I came unglued.

For months after that dreadful day I honestly didn't give a rip. My give a rip button was broken. Now it's flickering on and off. There's so much involved in that, including the lack of joy in eating alone. Every time I make a good meal I find myself wishing Faye was enjoying it with me. Obviously laziness and lack of discipline plays in as well.

But here I am now--fat and unhappy about it. And I can't help but think how upset Faye would be if she was here. Although she could hardly be unhappier about it than I am.

So what do I do about it?

I know what to do. I know how to eat. I do know how to take care of myself. So I need to take action on doing what I know to do. I need to start enjoying healthy meals. I need to set aside time to prepare food. And I can't get anywhere beating myself up about it.

The past is past. Time to control. And I need understand--and I do--inch by inch, inch by inch and step by step. This mountain too, will be mine.

Pressing on.

Ain't No Grave (LIVE) - Bethel Music | VICTORY

Broken brain; broken heart

I've begun to slowly reread to the book The Grief Recovery Workbook by John W. James and Russel Friedman.

In the very early pages there's a quote that I highlighted on my first trip through the book. It obviously struck me that first time, but it struck me even more strongly today.

They say "Grief is about a broken heart, not a broken brain." I think that is absolutely true. Let me see if I can explain why I think it's true.

At one level, when Faye died my heart was broken, or even ripped in half but my brain was not.  That's not to say I haven't suffered brain fog, or have always been in a place of great mental clarity.

Grief does cause brain fog. But I wonder if, maybe, that's really just the brain protecting you from being destroyed by your sorrow.

I'm thinking out loud here. My blog, I get to do that.

It was my heart that was broken. It's my heart that needs to be healed. Far too many well meaning people attempt to address my brain in their efforts to comfort.

Telling me that Faye's in a better place is an example of that. m
My brain knows that perfectly well. (To be honest my brain also thinks that cliche is a pretty mushy way to describe the glory of Heaven where is more alive than ever. My brain gets it. My brain doesn't need to ponder that. It's my heart that misses her and it's my heart that's aching and lonely today.

Another thing grievers hear is something to the effect of "you should be over this by now." I must have some wise friends because I've never heard that. I know many grievers who have. That's an attempt to address broken brains, while missing the broken hearts that are at issue.

How are broken hearts healed? That's a hard one. I'm not sure I have the answer. But I know I need to express my sorrow, as openly as possible. Simply dealing with it and moving on offers no help to the broken heart. Understanding the deep emotional need of the broken hearted ones, while respecting the facts that their brains are fully functional is helpful. Friendship is helpful. Refraining from offering advice about something you might not understand is helpful.

It's my heart that needs healing, not my brain.

But I press on.