One Year……

Exactly one year ago my life changed forever.  Most likely you saw the post that I wrote the morning after our beloved Werner so suddenly died of a massive heart attack.  Wrenched from my hands in an instant – my love, my safe place, and my life as I knew it was taken.   

My soul  has screamed it’s protest and the pain has been unimaginable and at times unbearable. I miss Werner more than I could ever describe.  I miss it all: the laughter, the plans, the dreams, the purpose, the affection right along with the frustrations, the misunderstandings, and even the “discussions”.

I miss having my person who sees me and knows all the details and always stands with me.  I miss my companion, my travel partner and my buddy to relax with.

Maybe I should warn you now that this post is not going to end with a neat uptick to the positive side.  I once thought (along with most of current culture), that I needed to extract the upside from every circumstance in my life – to learn the lessons for a future good and to believe and act my way out of the hard places.  Well, I no longer buy that.  It just doesn’t work that way.  Life is a complex mix of glory and tragedy and refuses to be reduced to a set of black and white predictable outcomes.

There are days where I sob inconsolably with a shattered and broken heart until my eyes are swollen and weary and my head pounds.  At those moments, it feels like I will never stop weeping. Many of my loving friends have so tenderly invited me to call when I am at my lowest.  “You can sob into the phone and I’ll be there.  No expectations.” And I am so grateful for your generosity for I know that what you are offering would not be easy to witness or hold. Yet in the darkest moments I can’t imagine picking up the phone and sharing that kind of misery and vulnerability.   It feels too raw.  I can’t share the whole thing – not because it isn’t welcome – but because it’s too personal, too intimate and it’s between myself and Werner.  

Not so long ago – when I was waking up from the fog that (blessedly) enveloped me for a while – I was startled with the thought that I am certainly not the first person to suffer loss.  In fact I am part of a great company of generations of people who have survived unimaginable losses. How did I not understand this and why did I assume people would just find their way out of it if they were proactive enough?   I even admired those who appeared to be doing just that.  “Look, how well they are doing”, I would say with relief.  But that has changed I deeply regret not understanding the depth and magnitude of what people carry (many privately) and I repent of minimizing, misunderstanding and giving inadequate answers. I want to acknowledge those of you who live with unbearable realities that cannot be changed.  You bravely, and often silently, bear the unbearable*  every day.   May your bravery be acknowledged, may you feel enveloped in love and may you have the gift of community – a few people who carry you when you cannot stand.

I started by saying that this wasn’t going to end with a positive uptick but I have learned that in the midst of it all there are some unexpected gifts.  Recognizing the gifts in the midst of sorrow is not the same thing as believing that I am going to get through this to find a better tomorrow (I don’t know that tomorrow will be better because there are no guarantees.) Neither do I anticipate learning valuable lessons from my loss and being a better person for it (Certainly I’m forever changed but it’s not all positive.)

No. The momentary gifts arise and recognition dawns slowly in the midst of my fog and bewilderment. The unexpected surprises showed up almost immediately and have accompanied me – they have woven themselves into the most terrible season of my existence –  they are so simple that they could easily have been overlooked. 

For here is thing:   life goes on – the sun sets and then it rises again, the seasons continue to change, and I am still here – broken and undone and reluctant – but nonetheless still here.  In the midst of bearing what cannot be borne* – if and when you have the energy to pay attention – you gradually notice: 

• There are  moments of reprieve from intense longing and  grief because no one can sustain 100% grief all the time,
• You come to cherish an existing loving community and you find love in new and surprising places and (By the way – this is the place where I have felt God presence most strongly). 
• What is most important. I am so grateful for our little nuclear family.  We have held closely to one another and we have grieved freely and vulnerably with one another.  We talk about dad and Opa all the time – and whatever emotion comes is welcomed.  My heart is most comforted by this lovely legacy that Werner helped forge.
• Your life becomes simplified because life in the midst of pain becomes a matter of loving and being loved, belonging or not belonging, showing up or seeking seclusion and holding tight to what you cherish most.
• And the most surprising realization? Anger actually helps to propel you forward (yes even that is a gift)

And there’s another thing: If you know me then you know that I love to laugh. And now I know that even at one’s worst, one still finds a way to laugh.  How can this be? I don’t know how it’s possible, but there are moments when I throw my head back and laugh long and hard – fully enjoying the mirth of the moment and the warm comfort of the people who laugh with me.  Thank you to my laughing friends and family

Some of my grieving friends say that the second year is the hardest. I can see why – I’m out of the fog now so there’s no denying my situation.  I’ve worked hard at living my life solo for a year.  I think I’ve given it a good shot and put on my bravest face and showed up as best I could….and guess what?   I don’t like it.  I want to dust my hands of it and say,  “Ok we did it this way for a whole year and honestly it doesn’t suit me so can we go back now to the way it was?”  It’s almost like it’s for real now and I still refuse to give my permission.  Maybe that why it’s hard.   We’ll see.  I’ll continue to show up because – well – what else is there to do?

I am walking this out one day at a time.   I still cry often and when the storm comes – intense and dark – I allow it space until I am spent and there is nothing to do but get up and do the next thing.

 At the same time I also look for -and discover – moments of hope, I seek out loving community and I welcome slivers of promise for a future.   I am forging a new and unfamiliar path for my life (albeit reluctantly) and inch-by-inch I’m finding a way to live wholeheartedly with this gaping hole in my life that will now always accompany me.

I love you Werner. You know. I will miss you always. 

*This phrase is borrowed from one of my favorite grief experts @refugeingrief