One of my grieving tasks is to “redefine myself,” a suggestion given to me by my widower group. So, I’m on a “quest,” which is an excellent word and sounds more adventurous than the word “adventure.” This quest is an important step in my journey through grief. I have to redefine myself. It’s not one I want to take; it’s a quest I must take.
When I first tried to define who I was in Junior High. Before that, I wasn’t “self-aware,” like the Terminator in that second movie. I was just aware. I was a bundle of fear and anxiety at that time. Now I have two cars, less hair, a washing machine, and less fear and anxiety. I’ve made progress in becoming a competent adult and have passed most major mile markers. And if things don’t go smoothly, I can always buy a box of Ho-Hos and put them in one setting like I did when I was a kid.
For 32 years, I defined myself as “with Deb.” She impacted every decision I made. I was not a solo act; I was a duet. Decisions were made together, from buying food to spending time at church or planning vacations. We were “Team Walker.” Now I’m just “Andy,” or “That guy whose wife died.” To my close friends, I’m a “Mystery.”
Deb loved investing in housing projects. We did one project after another. It wasn’t until last year that I realized that her list repopulated. Once one was done, three more arose, like one of those Hydra heads. “Once were done painting the upstairs, we’re done, right?” I naively asked.
“Oh no. This house is getting older, there is lots that needs to be done.”
“Isn’t there an end to this list?”
“Don’t worry, I can do them by myself,” which was emotional blackmail because I knew she couldn’t. Her projects were my projects, just like her debt was my debt.
We invested (or wasted, depending on your perspective) a great deal of money, energy, time, and evenings in these endeavors. Since I don’t know what I’m doing, I would typically return about 20% to the big box stories of various colors, from orange to blue, and some to the green store.
Now I’m on Sabbatical. I’m not fixing anything, thank you very much. I’m not sure the word Sabbatical applies here, but it sounds cool, and I have always wanted to be on one. I’m happy when I wake up Saturday and think, “I don’t have to fix anything…cool.” Instead, I spend the day writing, which may or may not be a waste of time but seems therapeutic.
Deb loved the lawn. She spent energy, money, and many Saturdays trying to make it more beautiful. She had a green thumb. I have a Caucasian-colored thumb and don’t care about my lawn at all. I have toyed with the idea of blacktopping the entire lawn to save me time from ever wasting time mowing, but I fear neighbors would complain.
Deb loved making great meals with unique spices and other things that look like spices, all of which remain in my cupboards. I have several tall bottles of something called “Big Sexy Hair” that I’m afraid to throw away for fear of it expanding in the garbage bin and becoming hairy. I didn’t realize it until after she passed, but she had about a dozen containers of CeraVe planted all around the house. She had two in the shower, one in her purse, one in her dresser, two in her travel bin, one beside her bed, and several scattered throughout the house. I’m thinking of giving them to the kids as stocking stuffers, but I am unsure how they will react to an opened bottle of lotion.
Deb cared about decorating the house with art, while I wanted to decorate the house with pictures of my family. Now I have spare art in the basement that I’m not sure what to do with.
I miss my Deb, but there are some things I would not have chosen if not for her. Now, as insensitive as it sounds, I’m free. My schedule has opened up.
I enjoy the old Frank Sinatra stuff. There’s something about a jazzy big band that decreases the stress in my body. It makes life feel more innocent. And I’ve always loved Pavarotti, perhaps the most incredible voice ever. So, after struggling with my inner cheap Irishman, I decided to buy music I would normally have never purchased. I’ve given myself a license to indulge in my new strange music. This may sound insignificant, but I’m pretty cheap. It took me three months before I allowed myself to indulge in this “unnecessary” hobby.
I’m unsure if I am changing faster than usual, but I have no roadblocks to my goal. My agenda had to do with what Deb wanted. I’m a social butterfly, flitting from one house to another. And I love it. I’ve had more community in the last six months than at any other time.
My love for writing has blossomed into an entire life form, which surprises me. My passion for Jesus and my church has moved from “important” to “essential.” Now, I’m helping out with little people who are much cuter and more innocent than any of the prisoners I see. Deb liked it when I wore collared, button-up shirts that needed to be tucked in. But I don’t. So, I went to Sam’s Club and purchased enough “non-tuck-in” shirts to last me through the year.
Figuring out life has been a quest. Sometimes, I’ll call my girls and ask them, while on the phone, how to cook and which spices I should use. I talk with my oldest daughter, Brooke, about finances and how to make things work in the house. I speak with Erin every Saturday for about an hour, just sharing life. They both tell me how to live without Deb. She spoiled me; now I must be the adult since I’m the only one here.
And I’m asking questions I never thought I’d be asking:
“What’s a Seersucker shirt? Does it suck anything? And is it in any way unbiblical?
“What are spatulas made out of?” and “Do I have enough spatulas?”
“How do you cook rice?”
“Am I supposed to wash blankets?”
“What is a throw pillow and what is its purpose?”
“Can I save money by not using coupons?”
“Why in the world would I (or anyone) ever have both a JC Penny or Kohl’s credit card?”
“Can I eat eggs, toast, and hashbrowns five days a week without getting sick?
Pressure
Deb was a laid-back person. I’m not. She liked to take it easy, which caused me to be restless and, in her view, “irritating.”
She would say, “You put too much pressure on yourself. “You can’t earn God’s love.”
“I’m not trying to earn his love, I got it. I’m full of it. I’m busying giving it away. And I love doing it. Being socially involved with others gives me life.” She did agree that I was full of it, but I don’t think she was thinking what I was thinking.
“I’m overflowing,” I told her. I don’t know if she had something in her eye but she seemed to be rolling them.
Balancing the pressure of “doing” with “not doing” has always been a problem. I like to overflow. It’s kind of a hobby with me.
Today, after church, I went to a friend’s house (an impromptu dinner invite). I noticed Brad’s family was not pressured to go somewhere. I was. I love spending Sunday afternoons writing, watching short Lion videos, and reading. Perhaps I need to adjust my pressure odometer and learn how to enjoy Sunday.
I’m a little more like my dad than I’d like to admit. He thought Billy Joel was singing about him in his song, “I Don’t Know Why I Always go to Extremes.” I guess I do like to run hot with life. I like the “buzz” of getting things done.
Henri Nouwen has been a godsend for me. He helps me balance my unbalanced life with Jesus. Solitude is a gift. Crying is something that I shouldn’t apologize for but embrace. Suffering purifies my faith and helps order my disordered loves. I see Jesus clearer in the pain while, at the same time, I work to avoid it. Instead of running from the black hole I’m so afraid of, I need to invite Jesus into it with me. The truth is, I’m afraid of my sorrow. However, I also believe it’s the path God has for me. Nouwen writes:
“When we have no project to finish, no friend to visit, no book to read, no television to watch, or no record to play, and we are left all alone by ourselves, we are brought close to the revelation of our fundamental human aloneness and are so afraid of experiencing an all-pervasive sense of loneliness that we will do anything to get busy again and continue the game that makes us believe everything is OK after all.”
It’s disorienting to learn that it’s OK not to be OK. It’s good to feel my loneliness. I’m trying to allow myself the vulnerability to feel my emotions instead of avoiding them. I must let my fear catch up and feel it “all the way through,” as C.S. Lewis suggested.
Jesus wants me to move from the “many things” to the “one necessary thing.”” Am I doing that? I’m starting to enjoy life beneath the surface, or as Richard Rohr calls it, “Breathing underwater.” In some ways, life is the same without Deb. In others, it’s completely different.
My perspective needs to change. I hope to fall deeper in love with this great God of mine. Instead of worrying about what is right, I want to learn how to love better.
I never thought my wife would die. I never thought I could be this confused at 59. The only thing I’m sure of is that I have a great God who makes all the difference in the world.