I have a new hobby. Walking. Specifically, walking through my graveyard. It’s good for me mentally, spiritually, and physically. But to do it, I must come right home after work, quickly change my clothes, and get my graveyard shoes on. I like to see Deb before it gets dark. Right now, I have a half hour before the sun sets. Each day, the sun goes down sooner, and eventually, it will be dark when I get home. I don’t think I’ll go for a walk when it does that. I don’t like walking when I can’t see things on the ground.
Walking isn’t an obsession. It’s something I like to do. But I don’t have to do it.
Some think I need to get flowers by her grave, but I don’t want to. It’s a nuisance to constantly get real flowers out there, taking the dead ones away and replacing them with new ones. And I don’t have to justify my decision. The prisoners would say, “I don’t have time for that.” I don’t want to put flowers (real or fake) by her gravesite because 1) she’s dead and she doesn’t care, 2) this is for me, and I don’t care, and 3) it’s expensive, 4) its time consuming, and 5) I don’t care. I bristle at the “should” of getting flowers, which makes me NOT want to do it even more.
If circumstances were reversed, I know she’d get me flowers. I know she would get flowers for my grave if that’s her prerogative. This is mine. Then again, she liked the throw pillows, and I didn’t. I’m throwing them to the Salvation Army, where all misfit throw pillows go. I didn’t need to defend my preference. I’m still adjusting to life, but I’m growing a bit in my confidence. And I adjust better without flowers, thank you very much.
When I get to her grave, I don’t know what I should be doing. So, I stare at the grave marker provided by the funeral home. It has a short blurb about her with one of the last pictures I have of her. Three weeks before she passed, we went to Springfield, Illinois, where we saw all the Abraham Lincoln stuff. It was our last vacation, which he had saved up all year. We had our picture taken in front of a Frank Lloyd Wright house. She, with her beautiful smile, and I looked like I had just adjusted my shorts. The funeral home edited me out of it (good call). I like to look at myself, but I love looking at her. She was so beautiful. I stare at her, mesmerized by her smile. That smile is still intoxicating to me. So positive. So energetic. Her image draws me to her like a moth to light. I’I’mlmost helpless.
There are beautiful women worldwide, but Deb was in a different category. She was my life. I loved her more than I thought possible. And I still react to her photo. It makes my heart skip a beat or almost skip a beat. I find myself saying out loud, “Y,”” You’re so beautiful,” “even though I know she can’t tear me.
Speaking of speaking, I’m still unsure of graveside etiquette. Is it OK to talk out loud? Should I keep my thoughts to myself? I’m nervous someone will stare at me and say, “Who ya talking to, weirdo?” “No one ever has, but that fear is in me. Still, I stare and think quietly in my mind. I mentally talk with her and share my thoughts.
About ten homes line opposite the street, a hundred feet from where I stand at Deb’s grave. They can see me if they want; I just can’t imagine why they would. They could hear me, too, if they wanted to. I know this because I can hear them on the rare occasion they stand outside their houses and talk. My first response to talking to Deb verbally was, “Why not?” What would these nameless, unknown people think if they heard me talking?” Then I thought, “Why would I care?”
Why am I afraid of what someone else may or may not think of me? Is this peer pressure? There is no one around me. Who could possibly care? Is this a Junior High fear? I should have matured and passed this stage long ago.
Something inside me changed when Deb died. I don’t care so much what others think. So, I talk out loud. I share my day with her like I did when she was alive. Well, sort of. I used to respond to her responses, but now there is only an awkward one-way conversation. I’m a solo act. I feel a little uncomfortable giving a monologue. I update her on my life. Since she’s in heaven, she might not care about all the boring things in my life, like the washing machine needing an obscure piece of plastic that strangely costs $120 and offers no guarantee. This is boring to me. Maybe she doesn’t know, but I like to pretend she does. I love talking to her.
Thanksgiving will be a big event in my life. Or better, my first “Deb-less Thanksgiving.” “he always handled everything during the holiday. She arranged it, knowing where we would go and how long we would be there. She made the food, set up the desserts, and knew what needed to be done. Now, a part of me feels like that kid in the movie “H” me Alone,” “except I have a job and a house, and I don’t want my family to disappear. I’m surprised that a part of me wants to be told what to do. “W” is going to MoMom’sor Thanksgiving,” I can hear her say. But I didn’t have that anymore. And honestly, it scares me a little. I fear I’ll do the wrong thing and offend the family. I can’t remember what the rules are anymore.
Sometimes, I wonder if she hears me. Maybe there is a seldom visited public monitor in heaven viewing “earth channels,” one dedicated to me. This invisible camera follows me all day, recording my actions except when I go to the bathroom when it just shows the closed door when I go in, like the “Truman Show.” “he can tune it in when she wants, barely hearing my words over the static of bad reception from heaven to the north side of Grand Rapids because of the “sin flare-ups.” How would she do that? She has family members to enjoy, Moses to talk to; she can talk with Eve and find out what Adam was “r” ally like” “after he sinned. Or she can run like a deer through the woods with her strong, healthy lungs and new, hot body.
I don’t think she forgot about me, but I don’t think she’s stealing everything I do. Does she even care about me right now, with all of heaven at her disposal? Or am I an egomaniac for thinking she still loves me? I spent so much of my life trying to know what that woman was thinking; now, I have no idea. None.
For most of our lives together, we were verbal. The language was the love language of our marriage. The most precious things we shared were conversations (and I did a lot of hugging and touching, too). We shared each other. We discovered each other. We even discovered ourselves in the context of understanding our own lies, fears, and frustrations. We never seemed to run out of things to pray about. I found who I was in light of our relationship. She changed me with her love.
Perhaps that’s why I talk to her. She offers no feedback. She can’t accept or reject me anymore. She can’t get mad at me for throwing the throw pills out or when I left some water behind the kitchen faucet. It’s lonely to be in charge of yourself when you have another person involved.
So, I stare. I stand in front of her grave and stare. She has a perfectly rectangle dirt spot; no grass has grown over it yet. As it turns out, it’s hard to have a one-sided conversation. I feel comfortable monologuing, so I stand and stare. I can’t tell you why I do this, but I don’t seem to be able to stop doing it. And I want to do it every day. It’s good being near her. Sometimes, I pray, but often, I have nothing on my mind. There is a part of me that confirms, “Yeah, she’s really dead,” “while another part that isn’t positive there was some mistake and that she’s in the hospital. It’s not logical, it’s emotional. Then again, everything is emotional.
Public Display of Emotion
I try to separate myself or limit my time with the men who try to “solve” grief. The truth is I didn’t have a problem. I have pain. I have an unquenchable heartache, and there is no solution to it. My stomach is tied in knots, and I can’t always get enough air in my lungs. The people who understand this process do not try to solve it; they try to listen.
Knowledge is good, but it doesn’t meet the heart’s needs. Pain must be experienced in order to get to the other side of it. Grief is a terrible pain that extends as deep as you loved the person lost. I am told to love God with all my heart, soul, and mind. Yet I so often forget my heart and try to learn more facts about God and his word. I seek truth and am disappointed God is not in the facts; he’s in the person of Jesus. And a person is more than facts. He’s a person to be relationally enjoyed. Relationships don’t fit into black-and-white categories. A computer can’t learn relationships.
Why do I try to limit our love to facts? Isn’t that an insult to our living God? He’s a person. He wants to spend time with me, not to tell me the three things I need to do. One of the most precious things about Jesus is his willingness to suffer with me. He’s my priest. He knows my pain. His pain was much, much worse than mine, but he never seemed to bring that up. He wants to be with me in my sadness.
Knowledge can be controlled, but relationships can’t. The heart is more complex than we can imagine, so sometimes, I shrink back into facts to stay safe and in control. The problem is life can’t be controlled.
The Father broke through the silence when his son was on earth. He spoke to us about him publicly at his son’s baptism. And what did he say? Did he quote Scripture? Did he remind him of three important things he needs to do to make his ministry effective? Did the Father try to fix anything?
No, he went for his son’s heart by sharing his. He knew Jesus would be beaten and flogged by whips and accused of terrible things, so the Father wanted everyone to know how he FELT about his son. “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” Matt 3:17 (NIV). Jesus knew the facts. The Father wasn’t educating anyone, he just shared his heart. He loved his son and was so proud of him that he wanted everyone to know. And he did this in front of his son. Perhaps emotions should play a higher priority than they do in our Churches. It seems the Father clearly displays his emotions clearly at his son’s baptism.