Authenticity

“There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear, because fear involves punishment, and the one who fears is not perfected in love.” 1 John 4:18 NASB

“To love at all is to be vulnerable, love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” C.S. Lewis – Four Loves

I love authentic people, not only are they easy and fun to be with, but they give me courage to live authentically. They’re warm, inviting, graceful, joy filled.  They are not perfectionists. I leave their presence feeling just a bit better. Enlarged. May we be courageous enough to do the same.

And you will get hurt. You will be stunned. You will have a broken heart. You will be betrayed. You will be criticized and sometimes cruelly by spineless creatures on the Internet. Sometimes our own family. Yet, love we must, authentically, or it’s not love. It’s probably some people-pleasing, approval-seeking, manipulative, codependent behavior. It’s making someone else responsible for my well-being, my sense of self, validation. If that person disapproves, then I crumble. Thank God!  Work to do. There’s only one Person who can give us perfect love. And he waits for an invitation. He does not cross boundaries, threaten or intimidate. He does it perfectly. Where is our treasure? Where is our self-image? What is our idea of success?  

People die. Pets die. Plants die.  I read somewhere that the greater the love the greater the grief. Grief is the final act of loving someone. But it’s authentic, painful, agonizing, but part of who we are. What an empty life without authenticity. Love. The good and the bad. Joyful and despairing.

Musings

The most authentic, unassuming, validating Person I know is Jesus. From rabble-rousing fishermen, tax collectors, prostitutes to me, what an authentic person! He had no advantages. He grieved. He wept. No status. No sports cars. No designer clothes. No media platform. No agent. Yet, people were drawn to him. Changed with him. Loved with him. Died for him. He experienced everything and more.

Prayer

Father,

Thank you that you have made us unique individuals with stewardship over the talents you’ve given. Help us to live authentically for that is the only way we can truly live and love. Love hurts sometimes. Your beloved son knows this. “For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” Thank you for joy and a life with all the colors.

Amen.

Damaged

Damaged

“Do not be conquered by evil but conquer evil with good.” Romans 12:21 HCSB

“He who works with his hands is a laborer.
He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.
He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.”
― Saint Francis of Assisi

Other Bible translations say, “Do not be overcome,” which I appreciate and thoroughly believe. However, sometimes conquer really describes what we must do with evil, with the Holy Spirit’s help, of course. We Black Sheep, Scapegoats, Ne’er-do-wells, dysfunctional, rageaholics, addicted and downright ornery know it’s conquering evil that must be done. Not another. Not a group. Not ourselves. Not our family. EVIL.

I believe in God, so, I know Evil exists. Evil “disguises itself as an angel of light,” too. How many addictions have we adopted looking for happiness and security, how many people have we carbon-copied, how many positive-thinking gurus have we devotedly followed, how many quick-fixes have blown up in our face? By the way, regular people do this too.  Some of the faith do this. Evil is a “roaring lion” looking for someone to devour. Christ’s disciples were not immune, therefore, neither am I and neither are you

To conquer evil, we must put on the “breastplate of righteousness, the helmet of salvation” and “draw near to God and He will draw near to us.” He conquers if we let him. Invite him. Trust him. Partner with him. We don’t go it alone.

Musings

The most loving, uplifting, encouraging people in my life were very damaged people. They still are with courage, honesty, hope and faith. They’re not perfect yet. I’m not either. Their compassion, patience and presence are what I too embrace, share and give. Conquer.

Prayer

Father,

“Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ” was Paul’s instruction to believers. He was very damaged until his road trip to Damascus. The legalist who wrote the most beautiful description of love. We have our roads too that introduced us to your love and mercy.  Only Christ is the true conqueror of every evil thing and he conquers with mercy and grace. Thank you that this is true for us. Give us the courage and strength to imitate You. To let you do the battle and win the war.

Amen.

Ordinary…

“Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.” Romans 12:2

“Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is the way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.”
― William Martin

My grandma’s birthday is today. Yes. June 21st.  Her name was June. She’s gone now. She was the most loving, smart and forgiving person I knew. She’s been gone for over 30 years and yet I think of her everyday with some wistfulness. She was what the world would call ordinary.  Baseball was her game of choice, cardplaying with grandpa and her friends, the best homemade pies (still haven’t accomplished this). Staying overnight with her was a treat! Smelling the line-dried sheets on the huge bed, pancakes in the morning, games, stories about her childhood during the Great Depression. Her mother owned a small grocery store because she was alone with two girls to raise and this was so courageous during this dark time in history.  Stories about ice-skating to school, how she met my grandfather at an auction. How her great uncle was wounded fighting for the Yankees during the Civil War. Even more stories that still are fascinating to me and I share with others. She gave great hugs, warm, big, reassuring. Ordinary.  She taught me to be a grandma before I was in junior high school just by who she wasl. I now tell stories to my grandchildren about the old days of a wall phone with a dial, television without a remote and those funny rabbit ears on top, going everyplace in our neighborhood to play and coming home for dinner. No fear. Lots of community. And I give great hugs, warm, big, reassuring. Ordinary.

Musings

Throughout the day, throughout my life and when boredom comes, when I’m alone and feel nothing I do matters, nothing makes a difference, I think of my grandma. What a legacy she truly left me! She taught me love. Ordinary? Perhaps to the world. Then I remember all the ordinary things Jesus used to teach, encourage and love. Things like a mustard seed, salt and light, bread, living water, harvest and even his own humble and short life. Ordinary. A legacy of love and grace for all.

I’m about to play Go Fish with my five-year-old step-grandson. The start of a legacy?

Prayer

Father,

You bless the ordinary now and in heaven. We don’t see it sometimes. We forget “a cup of cold water only.” We forget we’re children of the Most High.  Help us to do the next right thing, the ordinary, the way you see them. Even Jesus said he did what he saw the father doing. May we do the same. Thank you for all the miraculous and wonder you’ve done and do. And thank you for the ordinary.

Amen.

Ready or Not!

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 NIV

“Sometimes we are called to proclaim God’s love even when we are not yet fully able to live it.” Henri Nouwen, Bread for the Journey

Or, another saying that is so true, “If I know who I am, I know who I am not.” If I’m his child, his daughter/son, his disciple, servant, I am a person of love. Love is the hardest thing for me to do. You? It’s so easy to love others when my problems have dissipated, the sun is shining, money in the bank, recognition, approval, and the kids are behaving, the dog didn’t scoot across the new carpet. Unfortunately, that is a rare occurrence! We have problems every day. Commutes. Angry bosses. Health concerns. Kids with minds of their own. Gossips. Slanderers.  Then the bigger problems: traumas, anxieties, addictions, bankruptcies.  And we are STILL commanded to love.  I have not accomplished this perfectly. Opportunities and practice come daily. All my posts reflect wrestling with God.

Jesus did perfect love. Jesus is our example of love. He forgave while hanging on a cross. He forgave his enemies while hanging on the cross.

So many times, we confuse love with feelings. Good feelings come eventually when we act lovingly, but we are commanded to love whether we feel like it or not. Love is discipline (see above quotes). From the little annoyances like someone cutting you off in traffic, patience when waiting in line to life’s bigger problems like grief, feelings of despair, fear. Yet, we are still commanded to love. That doesn’t mean we let people walk all over us. Sometimes people do not respect you or your limitations or boundaries. Do what Jesus did. Walk away. Take it to your Father or a dear friend. Sometimes absence is a much better and loving teacher than all the feelings, words and gestures we can demonstrate.

Musings

We can’t love another if we have no clue how much we are loved, especially by our Father. Sometimes we feel secure in our Father’s love. Sometimes we don’t. Many times, we don’t. But if we keep our eyes and heart on how Jesus loved, we start getting a clue. And we practice. God provides unlovable characters at times so we can practice. Sometimes that unlovable character is me!

Prayer

Father,

Thank you that we “vessels of clay” have the honor and privilege to love. Jesus demonstrated his love so many times in scripture from washing dirty, filthy feet to the most shameful and painful death. He did this so we can walk in newness of life and love others.

We thank you for faith, hope and love. Especially love, the greatest of these.

Amen.

Is God to Blame?

God Gets the Blame

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” James 1:17 NIV

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.

 “Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!2 So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets. Matthew 7:7 – 12 NIV

Here’s one I’ve heard many times and deemed it gospel: “God never gives us more than we can handle.”  I’ve heard this at funerals, to the terminally ill, to a worried parent, to a struggling addict. I beg to differ. God is our rescuer, especially when times are more than we can handle. He loves us. The Psalms are filled with how God rescues. Paul in his letters talks about how God had rescued him from death several times. Peter was released from prison by an angel sent by God. Jesus died for us so we are no longer imprisoned. He rescued us. We couldn’t handle our sin. God certainly did not make us sin!

How could we trust a God that heaps trials and temptations upon us? God never, ever does this. He is a merciful God. His mercies are new every morning. (Lamentations 3:22)

The other axiom that I hate, really hate, is: “This happened for a reason.” Said to parents whose child has died, said to someone who’s spouse just died, said to someone who’s become disabled. Really? I saw Jesus heal and not disable a child of God. Who really does this?

These trite axioms are said by those who have not truly suffered.  I know. In my ignorance, I’ve thrown those axioms out to others to assuage my guilt, ignorance and awkwardness. Ran home to safety and security. God forgive me.

When my husband, parents, beloved friends, pets died, here comes: “They’re with God now.” That’s true. Very true. However, I’m here lonely, despairing and hopeless. What a slap in the face! Dismissive! Uncaring! If even Jesus grieved his friend, Lazarus, don’t we know we will someday experience the same? How many beautiful psalms were written by David that were a tribute to his grieving? If Jesus was tempted, grieved, hungry, lonely, and he was, so will we be. Remember that we take up our cross and follow him. He is with us. Will not forsake us.

Musings

When I think of some of the things I’ve said to others, I cringe. I’m hyperaware of how my tongue of fire and lack of compassion hurts and destroys. God didn’t do it. People do it. A corrupt world with narcissistic tendencies enflames pain. When I was at my neediest, I needed a gentle presence. A witness to my pain. Hug of comfort.  An ear to vent my agony. Not preaching. Not trite quotes. Presence.

Prayer

Father,

Thank you that you’re always with me. Thank you that your son took the blame for me, though Your Son was blameless.

 Please make me aware of those I need to make amends to, those that need presence, those that need hope, forgiveness for those that have hurt me and a gentle, listening ear. We all stumble with listening and bearing witness. You will transform me.

Redeem the pain of those who are suffering.

Amen.

Growth!

“So then neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but God who causes the growth.” 1 Corinthians 3:7 NAS

“God comes to us disguised as our life.” Paula D’Arcy

The above quotes are such a relief! I am responsible to show up, learn, practice, study and rest in God’s love. Who causes the growth in me and others? God. I may not see my growth. I may not see another’s growth, but God causes it just the same. Seasons.

I plant many things in the spring. Some seeds shoot up quickly. Some take a long time, or so it seems to me. I do water, feed, and nurture the plants, but God sends the sunshine. God provides the nutrients. The water. In the dark earth a mystery is unfolding.  If I dig it up to observe, it’s ruined. When I was pregnant with my son, I ate nutritious foods, exercised, saw the doctor to ensure a healthy birth. However, who caused my son’s growth? God. In the dark. A mysterious miracle.

This is the way of my spiritual growth too: frustration, despair, regret, grief. Those very dark places where all we can do is hang on and pray, “Father, help me.” I’m thinking that’s the most used prayer of all. Perhaps, the most answered.

Musings.

Even our Savior was in a dark place. Of course, there was his bogus trial, crucifixion, shaming, extreme emotional and physical pain. Then the tomb. Dark. Mysterious. So mysterious there were guards posted. Then He rose. Who did this? God in such a marvelous, unexpected and beyond all comprehensible way! God caused the growth.

Prayer

Father,

Thank you for those dark places that we enter. I don’t like them. I want them over. They can be very painful. I rush my growth, foolishly thinking I cause it.

We do not enter darkness alone. Thank you that growth is happening even when I see nothing. Feel nothing. Can hold nothing. Thank you that I can hide in the shelter of your wings. (Psalm 17:8) At the appropriate time I will be exalted.

Amen.

Beginners

“So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up.” Galatians 6:9 NLT

“Change is hard at the beginning, messy in the middle and gorgeous at the end.” — Robin Sharma

Why, oh why do we feel shame if we are a beginner? Babies learning to walk don’t feel shame, some bumps and bruises along the way, and they fall down many times before they run. Learning to ride a bicycle was daunting in my childhood years, yet I persisted and soared through forests, bumpy dirt roads and grassy vacant lots. Then I tackled ice-skating. Ouch! I had no embarrassment or shame in learning to play a game, the computer, driving. I did as I got older and someone saw me struggling. The focus was taken off the activity and onto me. When did it become shameful to become a beginner? I made many mistakes as a widow. I’ve never been a widow before. When I became a manager, I made mistakes. I’d never managed before. Quitting destructive behaviors. I’d never done that before. In fact, destructive behaviors are quite easy to pick up. Well, except when I started smoking and had to smoke a pack till I was nauseous, dizzy and green.

We are all new at something for the rest of our lives. Old? Yep. You’ve never been old before. Married? Yep. Never done that before. And if you’re remarried, you’ve never been married to that particular person before. New job? Yep. New people and skills to sharpen our education. Grace, loads and loads of it, is needed in all beginning situations.  We’re all beginners at something.

What to do?

Musings

Show up!!!  Take a class, ask a friend or mentor for help, read a book, do an online search, ask God for wisdom and courage. You’ll still fumble at first. But every day you show up, you’re making progress. Sometimes slowly and sometimes quickly. Drop the embarrassment and if someone teases you, you can bet they’re new at something too. Say a quick prayer for the outlier and put you focus on Him. The One who does all and is all. Struggle. We all have messy beginnings and middles.

Prayer

Father, I was new when I became a part of your family with failures, sins and regrets. You welcomed me any way. Being new at anything in this world is humbling, scary, requires patience, discipline and trust. Hold back my shame in being a beginner. Help me to accept that we all,l from infants to the very old, are learning new things. Help me to be kind and understanding with beginners in my life. “Unless we become like children…”

Amen.

Slip Slidin’ Away

Photo taken by my late husband when we were on a Snake River Dinner Cruise.

“Jesus answered, ‘If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you? You must follow me’.” John 21:22 NIV

“Progress not perfection.”

Many of us have slipped during our Christian journey. Peter did too. We’re in good company!  I did. You did. Those thoughts and behaviors we thought were completely behind us, banished through grace, become whack-a-moles.  We started our journey with high hopes and joy—peace even. Then our Black Sheepness creeps into our thoughts and behaviors. Uh-oh! I slipped at eight months of sobriety. Uh-oh! I spent too much, ate too much, bragged and… However, I did not stay in my slip. It was no longer comfortable to be someone I’m not any longer. I’m a New Creation! Grace lifts me up, puts my focus back where it belongs (Him) and I don’t wallow in shame, self-pity, blame or other sticky, icky behaviors. It’s my responsibility and the Holy Spirit puts me back in good standing.

What happened? I compared myself to others and was found lacking. I didn’t ask my Father for help. I dwelled on my shameful past, which is history by the way, and tried to cover up. And blame? Woo-hoo! There’s so much of that to go around and avoided God’s mirror. Too busy pointing fingers.

God’s standard? Perfection. Jesus.

Where was my focus? On me. Not in a healthy, introspective way. It was more glory-seeking, scrounging for other people and things to validate me. Affirming a scarcity mentality.

Musings

Each day my Father reveals to me things that need work in me and my life. He does this gently, firmly and not in a condemning way. Condemnation and judgment are not from above. Correction is. He works with me and with each improvement, comes compassion, generosity, peace with hope for myself and others, if I keep my focus on where it belongs—Him.

Prayer

Father,

Thank you for your never-ending patience, love, mercy and strength. With you, the past is past, the future is yours, we live in the present together. When I fall, and I will, lift me up and hold back shame, anger, regret and fear. Remind us that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, especially when we slip, mess up, sin. Help us to remember that Perfect Love casts out fear. There is no punishment.

Amen.

Abandonment

“Although my father and my mother have abandoned me, Yet the Lord will take me up [adopt me as His child].”

Even if my father and mother abandon me, the LORD will hold me close.” Psalm 27:10 NLT

“For my father and my mother have forsaken me, But the Lord will take me up.” Psalm 27:10 NASB

Many of us have been forsaken and/or abandoned. There is a subtle difference, but the feelings are still devastating, dark, life-damaging.

As verbs the difference between forsake and abandon:

Forsake is to abandon, to give up, to leave (permanently), to renounce while abandon is to subdue; to take control of, slavery.

Sometimes it feels like both forsake and abandoning are happening in our lives. A spouse has an affair, parents leave either through addiction, death or their own issues, colleagues dump work or gossip. Even worse, dealing with abandonment and being forsaken as a child takes a lot of work to heal and overcome even though the Lord has taken us up. Adopted us.

I come back to the Prodigal Son when I’m feeling abandoned. The imagery of the father rushing out to embrace his black sheep son in front of the judgmental Pharisees is so comforting. So uplifting. So encouraging. So loving.  How about the loving and forgiving image of Jesus with the prostitute? Then there’s the 23rd Psalm, which is soothing and reassures us that we do have a Father that cares beyond human love. We may feel abandoned and forsaken, but if we just hang on, our Father reveals a new family, friends, colleagues. He breaks the bonds of addictions, loneliness, shame and spiritual poverty.

Musings and Prayer

Father,

Thank you for our adoption where we are free to cry out as if for the first time, “Abba! Daddy.”

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

He leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul:

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:

for thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:

Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Amen.

Honor Your Story

My husband and me on our wedding day.

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair;persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.” 2 Corinthians 4:8-10 NIV

Talk about a caregiver! Paul went to all and any length to bring the Good News to the suffering everywhere. Even though the Holy Spirit was with him, challenges and even Satan were tormenting him. Of course, our Savior, did this too.

I have tears as I’m writing this. That’s okay. They’re healing. Tears sparkle. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to remember someone we deeply loved. Feel the feelings. The anniversary of my husband’s death is this month.

We were deeply in love. We planned, in our 40’s, to move to rural Idaho because our kids were grown and doing well and we wanted to retire with high-desert, mountains, blue rivers as our playground. My husband was an amateur photographer, though quite good. Brian started a rock band in high school, studied and received a degree in music. He could play woodwind, brass, piano along with a beautiful baritone voice. Brian taught music at our little rural school. Football games and basketball games, he and the kids rocked!

We moved to a humble home in the country and gained two horses, two dogs, three cats and even more joy with our kids and grandkids.

One Valentine’s Day at work, I watched my colleagues receive beautiful sweet-smelling bouquets of roses and flowers. Me? Nothing. Then towards the end of the day, here comes my hubby with a smile on his face and a five-gallon rose bush. I was devastated! Seriously? A rosebush in a bucket? Where’s my bouquet? My husband saw the disappointed look on my face and said, “I want you to have roses every day, not just for a few days.”  I still have that clove-scented rose bush which flowers almost every day, spring through autumn. Bittersweet.

Then the diagnosis… “Parkinson’s,” they said, because Brian’s walking was a tumbling forward as if he couldn’t catch up with himself. Stiff. Sometimes painful. No tremors. We were relieved because it wasn’t terminal. It was manageable with medication. Our plans for retirement were still to be realized. I could help with the driving, camera equipment and be the main bread-winner. We had hope. We had love. I didn’t drink. Maybe some wine with friends or family on occasion.

Then Brian displayed anxiety, depression, saying inappropriate things at work (and fired), walking getting worse with paralyzing freezes at the grocery store, falls, pain from contracted muscles. Trips to the emergency room for panic attacks and falls. One zero-degree night, he ran out into the yard ripping off his clothes because he could not breathe. He could, but panic attacks feel like that. I could not sleep. On alert. I drank.

Then he fell… heart-thumping crash in the kitchen. Head wound bleeding profusely. “I need help,” he was sobbing. “Please don’t call the ambulance! Please. I want to stay home, our home.” I cleaned his wound, steri-strips, got him to sleep and then I drank. Would others think he was abused? He looked so weak and beaten. Then I drank. Lots.

Then I called Idaho Home Health and Hospice… The next day with a mother of a hangover. A healthcare worker arrived who took one look at Brian’s wound and foggy confusion. An ambulance was called.I was tired. I was empty. Frazzled. PTSD-like. Frightened. Brian started having delusions right then. Started taking off his clothes. His speech unintelligible. The dog was licking his head furiously trying to fix the unfixable as the ambulance was en route. After the ambulance left, I guzzled more booze. Lots. His daughter witnessed all of this with amazing acceptance. She was covering the night shift so I could get some sleep. We cried. Embraced. Choked down more whiskey, believing the whiskey would soften, if not eliminate the nightmare. Brian would never walk through our front door again.

Then another diagnosis… Lewy Body Dementia. Neurologist and family doctor agreed. Some mental tests. “He can’t be home.” “Life-threatening tragedy” will happen to Brian or me. “You can’t provide 24/7 care. No one can.” Stopped at the liquor store on the way home and stocked up. Lots because it will be at least seven to eight thousand a month for care. That’s not counting medications, physical therapy, wheelchairs, specialists, and such.

Then I visited the care home… Almost every day. Brian lived there until hospice. Brian would yell my name and was not comforted by my presence. Other visions? No recognition. He became paralyzed and could not swallow much. I hand fed him gently wiping food and drool with crushing heartache. Where is dignity? Where is God? Where are my friends? The care workers had to lift him with a special lift to bathe him. Bedsores. Splints and casts for contractures. There was more. But…Then I drank when I got home. Lots. Whiskey and water. Saltwater. Tears that sparkle?

Then hospice… And I drank from a “hidden” bottle while comforting my husband. His head rolled back and forth from who knows what. Agitation? Thirst? Angels waiting? Drank waiting for courage to comfort his daughter too. His breathing was absent for a minute–deep, raggedy sighs and absent again. Gurgling. Is he still with us? I lay in bed with my husband a day before he died listening to his sporadic breathing and gently holding him, horrified by the mottled appearance of his legs, hands and ears. Active dying. I’ve seen it before. It was hard then, but this was my soul mate, the love of my life, our golden years. I was exhausted, in pain with anticipatory grief. Afraid as I watched the Healthcare Money Truck take most of our savings and retirement. Funeral plans. His clothes don’t fit him anymore. New ones? I’m still here. How do I go on? With what? For what? God, I’m ready to go too because I can’t do this anymore. Please, God, provide someone to care for the horses, dogs and cats. And then I drank. Lots and lots. Blackouts and pass outs would not come. Vomiting did. I’m still here.

Then he died… He was 66 years. Eighteen months after the real diagnosis. And I drank. Lots. At the funeral, at the community bar, at home, in the front yard watching the hummingbirds, in the shed with the horses. You could’ve set me on fire with one quick match. I drank during the holidays, wine with my bath, whiskey in my morning coffee. Never spilled a drop. Merry widow?

Then I isolated… No phone conversations. No community bar. No family. No holidays. Tons of chick flicks on TV. My new love. Whiskey.

Then I quit drinking… For four months or so. Then I resumed drinking for a couple of years. Slept in my husband’s shirt night after night sniffing the collar, trying to catch a tiny scent of my husband. Dog cuddled. Ate my tears. The visions of the suffering my husband endured always woke me. A shot to go back to sleep.

 Tried dating. Gave my horses to the local kids because I couldn’t quite afford them or take care of them any more. And I drank, bottle behind my back as the kids gleefully walked the horses to their new home. Every time the kids rode, they’d stop at my house showing me what they learned. One wrote me the most adorable thank you note with a picture of one of the horses on it. I still cherish it.

Then I quit drinking again. I sought spiritual quit lit like a starving person. I recommend Breathing Underwater, Richard Rohr; the Pastor and the Prayer; Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning. All of these authors are Christian and struggled with addiction. Brennan Manning has passed but his words and grace soothe and give hope.  I visited grief counselors, BOOMrethinkthedrink.com, Celebrate Recover, prayed with begging or take-me-now prayers. But it’s very important to contact a professional, whether a pastor, counselor, or a trustworthy person who has been a caregiver. And lost. Addiction with grief needs extra special care. I pray my story encourages and comforts.

Then transcendence… During my reading one night, a word jumped out at me: Transcend: a: to rise above or go beyond the limits of b: to triumph over the negative or restrictive aspects of: overcome. Definition from Merriam-Webster Dictionary. I can do this with the help of God and others. I am doing this even though my heart and mind haven’t got the memo.  I can transcend.

I have been transcending since September 13, 2020, one day at a time. Grieved the past while using it to help others by writing a devotional for dementia caregivers, blogging with dementia caregivers, writing articles about dementia caregiving (one comes out in May).  And I’ve had my butt handed to me on many occasions. Brene Brown, in her book the Gifts of Imperfection, says sharing vulnerability is quite the risk! Even a grieving widow has her butt handed to her with a bow on top! Some won’t understand. Some won’t like you. Some will ignore you. Some will gossip. Some will try to use you. Telemarketers anyone? Yeah! Let’s add that to the drinking, financial woes, and grieving. I’ll just put a bow on top and call it a gift. A crappy gift! A hurtful gift! Judgmental gift! Watch me use it for my growth and others’ growth. Transcend.

Met a fellow who was widowed too, and we help each other, care for each other, love each other and our kids. Listen, really listen to each other’s stories. Vulnerability.

Grieve the past but live in the present. Grace helps tremendously. Our motto. That was then. This is now. Another motto of ours. Now is very different than my past life, but it is just as fulfilling. Promise. Hope. Peace. Joy. And sober. Transcend.

I give myself permission to cry when anniversaries of loss come, after all, tears sparkle. I forgave myself for my survival mode drinking. “Who wouldn’t be in survival mode?” A veteran with PTSD gave me that gift. When I allow myself to cry and feel my feelings, a new insight, treasure, gift comes into my life, sometimes quickly and sometimes agonizingly slow.

 A rich, full life has pain, challenges and lessons.  It also has joy, growth and love. Transcendence. It’s a journey. It’s a process. I have a place at Life’s table. Booze does not.

And I cried today. That’s okay. Something new will come. Tears sparkle. Tears clean the conscience. A gift.

I’ve told you one of my stories. Would love one of yours.

Author of Meditations and Encouragement for the Caregiver of a Loved One with Dementia