Drifting off to sleep last night, after an enjoyable evening with a friend and a good talk on the phone with my sister, feeling calm. Then I am startled awake by the remembrance that Ramsy used to be there beside me. I can remember the exact feel of the sole of his foot as I massaged peppermint lotion into it, the thick, angled scar on the bottom where he once sliced his foot on a piece of glass. The feel of his calf in the palm of my hand as we sat at opposite ends of the couch, watching Law and Order. The smell of his neck. I can see the particular way he would run his index finger over his thumbnail, checking for rough edges. I can hear him stumping up the back steps, briefcase in one hand, coffee mug in the other, coming exuberantly into the kitchen and saying as if happily surprised, "Hey! There's my lovey!" Hear him calling from the shower in the morning because he forgot- again- to check for a towel before he got in. See the tilt of his head as he thanks me.
He's right there; where has he gone?
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Gifts: words
Words have been some of the best gifts I've received through these months. They come to me in different ways: in print, in songs, spoken aloud, written in a letter, popping into my head.
Sometimes the words are descriptions of thoughts and feelings that other people have had in their own experience with loss, which cause my heart to say, "Yes! That's it, that's what it's like for me." It might be only at that moment that I realize what has been going on in the back of my mind, a cloudy, unformed thought that distracts or unsettles. Being able to name it is such a relief. Or I might read or hear a description of a state of mind that I am not in yet, but it helps me to feel prepared and not ambushed when that experience suddenly appears. Then that experience is maybe only a landmark instead of a monster, something to expect and recognize as part of the journey but not a frightening thing.
These words can show up in surprising settings, like at a play I attended a few weeks ago. The actor came out on stage after the performance to do a Q-and-A with the audience and very graciously answered what I considered to be some impertinent questions about the recent sudden death of her husband. And in her answers, I saw myself, some of the same things that I am feeling: great sadness in missing a remarkable person; a longing to express what she feels through the written word; a sense of being at a crossroads in her life, uncertain which path she will now take; and awe at finding the good things that still grow in the muck.
Recently I found a poem that describes the mystery of how simply sharing in similar suffering connects people on a deep level. It's called "Bees" and is by Jean Valentine. Stunning imagery.
Words have also come to me, in letters or out of friends' mouths, which have directly answered questions I had: things I wondered about Ramsy, things I had asked God about, things I wondered about myself. This has happened repeatedly, without these people knowing that I had been asking these questions, usually with them using the exact phrasing which I had used in my prayers and silent thoughts.
The truth is, I sometimes feel like I have lost my sense of self. I don't mean that I "don't know who I am" without him, or that I have lost my identity. I mean that none of us can be very objective about ourselves; we only see ourselves through the filter of our own thought life, and not as others see us. Ramsy was my mirror. He reflected what he saw in me- telling me what he loved about me, saying what my personality looked like to him, letting me know that something I said may not have come across the way I meant it, helping me see where I had grown and where there is still growth to come. To have this mirror suddenly vanish is hugely unsettling. It leaves me craning my neck to try to see the back of myself, wondering if what looks like a giant flaw to me is as visible to other people, being overly critical of my emotional "neck wrinkles", trying to remember what it was that he said he liked about me. So God shows up and says to me through other people's words, "This is how Ramsy felt about you. This is how you helped him. This is what I see in you. This is who I intended you to be." Just like that.
And you know what? Receiving these gifts in the last while has made me realize more than ever that other people need them, too. It's important to tell people what I appreciate about them, the gifts I see in them, the things they have done that have impacted me. One of my family members said, after hearing some of the lovely things people said about Ramsy, "Why do we wait until people die to say these things?" So I'm working on that.
And finally, sometimes the words just say, "I see you. I understand how you feel." A friend telling me, "You don't have to go away to a different room- you can just be sad right here." A school staff member looking at me with kindness as I picked up my injured daughter to take her to emergency and saying, "The first big crisis on your own." A woman who lost her own husband to cancer saying, "It doesn't matter how long you had him; it's still never long enough." Yes. And thank you.
Sometimes the words are descriptions of thoughts and feelings that other people have had in their own experience with loss, which cause my heart to say, "Yes! That's it, that's what it's like for me." It might be only at that moment that I realize what has been going on in the back of my mind, a cloudy, unformed thought that distracts or unsettles. Being able to name it is such a relief. Or I might read or hear a description of a state of mind that I am not in yet, but it helps me to feel prepared and not ambushed when that experience suddenly appears. Then that experience is maybe only a landmark instead of a monster, something to expect and recognize as part of the journey but not a frightening thing.
These words can show up in surprising settings, like at a play I attended a few weeks ago. The actor came out on stage after the performance to do a Q-and-A with the audience and very graciously answered what I considered to be some impertinent questions about the recent sudden death of her husband. And in her answers, I saw myself, some of the same things that I am feeling: great sadness in missing a remarkable person; a longing to express what she feels through the written word; a sense of being at a crossroads in her life, uncertain which path she will now take; and awe at finding the good things that still grow in the muck.
Recently I found a poem that describes the mystery of how simply sharing in similar suffering connects people on a deep level. It's called "Bees" and is by Jean Valentine. Stunning imagery.
Words have also come to me, in letters or out of friends' mouths, which have directly answered questions I had: things I wondered about Ramsy, things I had asked God about, things I wondered about myself. This has happened repeatedly, without these people knowing that I had been asking these questions, usually with them using the exact phrasing which I had used in my prayers and silent thoughts.
The truth is, I sometimes feel like I have lost my sense of self. I don't mean that I "don't know who I am" without him, or that I have lost my identity. I mean that none of us can be very objective about ourselves; we only see ourselves through the filter of our own thought life, and not as others see us. Ramsy was my mirror. He reflected what he saw in me- telling me what he loved about me, saying what my personality looked like to him, letting me know that something I said may not have come across the way I meant it, helping me see where I had grown and where there is still growth to come. To have this mirror suddenly vanish is hugely unsettling. It leaves me craning my neck to try to see the back of myself, wondering if what looks like a giant flaw to me is as visible to other people, being overly critical of my emotional "neck wrinkles", trying to remember what it was that he said he liked about me. So God shows up and says to me through other people's words, "This is how Ramsy felt about you. This is how you helped him. This is what I see in you. This is who I intended you to be." Just like that.
And you know what? Receiving these gifts in the last while has made me realize more than ever that other people need them, too. It's important to tell people what I appreciate about them, the gifts I see in them, the things they have done that have impacted me. One of my family members said, after hearing some of the lovely things people said about Ramsy, "Why do we wait until people die to say these things?" So I'm working on that.
And finally, sometimes the words just say, "I see you. I understand how you feel." A friend telling me, "You don't have to go away to a different room- you can just be sad right here." A school staff member looking at me with kindness as I picked up my injured daughter to take her to emergency and saying, "The first big crisis on your own." A woman who lost her own husband to cancer saying, "It doesn't matter how long you had him; it's still never long enough." Yes. And thank you.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Love...
Patient. Kind. Not envious or boastful, not proud or rude or selfish. Slow to anger, not delighting in evil but rejoicing with the truth, not keeping a record of wrongs. Always trusting, hoping, protecting. Enduring. I think this is a pretty high standard, hard to live up to. But it's what God says is the standard for real love.
When I would read it in the past, this description always seemed to highlight my shortcomings to me: I lose my patience with my kids; I tend to be selfish sometimes; I have been known to be rude to my family or lose my temper over nothing or keep score. (Big surprise, I know.) So did my dear husband. So does pretty well everyone I know. But when I read this again in the first week after Ramsy's death, what I saw instead of the ways we all fall short was how Ramsy really, truly did love like this. Not every single second, not in every single incident, but overall; and his successes in reaching for these sky-high standards far outshine the ways that he fell short in his love for me and the kids. He loved God, loved God's standards, and prayed every single day to grow in patience and wisdom and selflessness. And then he let God change him, which is sometimes the hardest part. And we got the benefit of that.
A few years ago I bought him a card that said everything I wanted to say to him that Valentine's Day. It said, "The moment I heard my first fairy tale, I began looking for you."
I'm so glad I found you, husband.
Thank you.
When I would read it in the past, this description always seemed to highlight my shortcomings to me: I lose my patience with my kids; I tend to be selfish sometimes; I have been known to be rude to my family or lose my temper over nothing or keep score. (Big surprise, I know.) So did my dear husband. So does pretty well everyone I know. But when I read this again in the first week after Ramsy's death, what I saw instead of the ways we all fall short was how Ramsy really, truly did love like this. Not every single second, not in every single incident, but overall; and his successes in reaching for these sky-high standards far outshine the ways that he fell short in his love for me and the kids. He loved God, loved God's standards, and prayed every single day to grow in patience and wisdom and selflessness. And then he let God change him, which is sometimes the hardest part. And we got the benefit of that.
A few years ago I bought him a card that said everything I wanted to say to him that Valentine's Day. It said, "The moment I heard my first fairy tale, I began looking for you."
I'm so glad I found you, husband.
Thank you.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Some gifts
I've been thinking of some things that I've received as gifts (some in a more abstract way) that are helping me. I'll talk more extensively in other posts about a couple of things, but here's a quick list of a few things that are making the hard things bearable:
- prayer shawls- these often wrap around me as I sit in our living room or on the bed. One keeps me warm on cold nights.
- videos of Rams conducting wedding ceremonies, baptisms, church services. Love seeing him in action.
- photos of him, some that I had never seen before. Love, love, love that face.
- letters and emails from old friends or people I have not yet met. It is immensely comforting to hear stories and memories of Ramsy or to receive such kind expressions of sadness and encouragement.
- offers of rides to and from the kids' activities.
- an amazingly kind and supportive school staff here, where I worked in 2010, where two of our kids attend, and where I am always received with friendly smiles and understanding. I feel happy when I am at the school. You guys rock. (Also must mention the Gr. 1/2 class, which has actually cheered on occasion when I have walked into the room. Confidence boost, anyone? And no, I was not carrying cupcakes any of those times.)
Those are just some highlights. Thank you, thank you for the incredible support we have received. Nothing can fix the ache, but the love extended to us helps to soothe it sometimes.
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