Seven Months: An Honest Update

It’s been seven months since my husband’s death. I wasn’t sure I could make it seven days after he left this world. And yet, somehow, month after month, time has passed.

Months filled with grief unexplainable, but also with so much to do. So much to decide. So much to learn. So much to figure out. So very much. I guess because Rick did so much. Taking over the things that were always in his lane has been an undertaking. That word doesn’t quite do justice. There was nothing “under” about it. Many times, in fact, I felt like the process was plowing me over. In so many ways it felt like an overtaking of me. 

Selling and buying and packing and moving our home arrived on the heals of my massive learning curve. It forced me to go through everything. Every little thing. I kept getting the question, “have you been able to go through Rick’s closet yet?” Go through his closet? That was nothing compared to going through the entire contents of our home and life of almost 40 years together. I spent my summer opening crates and closets and boxes and drawers. All of it tearing open even wider the wound of his absence. Our lives so intertwined for so long it was a heart-wrenching task to revisit the memories and the mementos of our marriage so soon after his death. 

But I got there. I got through it. Somehow. With the help of my children and many dear friends we did it one day at a time, one box at a time. And in the first week of September I moved into my new house, strangely enough, on Rick’s birthday. I thought that would be a good plan—all of us together and busy and buried up to our noses in boxes. I am not sure I can call it good, but it did keep us somewhat distracted and maybe a little bit numb. There is a little less time to wallow when you’re trying to find your underwear and toothbrush.  

And now it’s been a little over a month since my move and the dust is settling. The boxes are unpacked. The furniture placed. The artwork hung. The plates and cups and cutlery nestled in their new respective drawers and cupboards. And here I am in a brand new home with my brand new life. And yet—though I hate to report it—the grief has followed me here. It is now knocking at this new front door. Somedays, pounding its unrelenting fist against the wood. It didn’t forget me. It didn’t fail to find me when I changed my address. No, it moved right in with me. Somehow the sorrow got itself packed up with all of the house stuff and it has found its way to this new street, in this new neighborhood, and settled itself like a throw blanket draped across the back of my sofa. 

I know we were all hoping the new house would help. I was hoping that too. And whereas I am exceedingly thankful for the provision of it and really do love the house, I have to to tell you, it’s not been the answer. It hasn’t fixed the grief problem. It hasn’t fixed the “he’s gone” problem. It hasn’t healed the wound or filled the hole or mended the heart. It’s four walls and a roof, not a remedy. 

In some ways it has accentuated his absence. I look around this lovely new spot and I feel the void of Rick keenly. He should be here. He would really like this house. My fisherman husband should be down at the water’s edge with a rod or at the fire pit with a cigar and bourbon. There are two chairs out in the yard. One empty. His big frame should be sharing my bed and taking up half the closet. There are two sinks in the bathroom. Every morning as I stand brushing my teeth I stare at the extra one and hate how it mocks me. 

No, a new house didn’t make the world right again. But what it did do is remind me that there is nothing in this world which will. Nothing. Not a thing. My world is forever changed and my husband is forever gone and it is not ever going to be about fixing this problem. It is now about accepting it and finding a way forward in this life ahead. 

And I guess that’s where this strange double portion of trial seems to meet up. I am not only a grieving widow, but also a woman with terminal cancer so this whole present and future thing becomes a little bit tricky.

The encouragement that someday my season of sorrow over Rick’s death will lessen and clouds will clear is possibly true. But “someday” for a woman with stage 4 cancer is a pretty iffy kind of thing to bank on. I feel as if I’m caught in the crosshairs of present suffering and future uncertainty. As a cancer patient I am told to seize the day and enjoy the present. Make the most of the days now while I can. As a woman still drowning in grief the advice is to get through these days and look to the hope of my future. Well, perhaps you can see the way these two things kind of work against one another, right? A true catch 22 if ever there was one. I am not seizing my days so well right now and my future isn’t exactly very certain or bright with a prognosis such as mine.

And let me tell you, this is a perfect place in which to pitch my tent at Camp Pity Party. I can easily convince myself that other widows can have some hope for their futures and other cancer patients can have some joy in their present days. But not Jody. The present and the future both feel kind of crappy from her limited point of view.

And right here, at this point, you will find the raging the battle for my soul and my surrendered life. Right here. Do I set up camp and concede to the sadness of life? Or do I put on the whole armor of God and fight for my life? Whatever that looks like—even if it is full of great suffering now and more suffering to come. The battle lines have been drawn. The pity party pulls at me all day long. It beckons. It assures me I have every reason and qualification to wallow and wane. If anyone deserves to be miserable it is a widow with cancer. Few would attempt to dispute that summary of my circumstances.

And that is exactly why this is spiritual warfare. 

I might be caught in the crosshairs of present and future, but I am most definitely caught in the crossfire of battle for what I choose to believe about my life and the One who is Lord over it. It's a serious situation because the enemy wants to do nothing more than use this disaster to be my total undoing. He is, even right now, working on me with his whispered, wicked lies. “No one understands, Jody. No one else has it this hard. You are so alone. Why would God do this to you? What did you do so wrong? You must have done something to deserve this. Your present is so painful. Your future is so fragile. Your life went from fairytale to freakshow. How can you not see how your God has abandoned you entirely?”

The evil one’s lecherous lies come at me like fiery darts. Throughout my day, but especially in the dark hours of the night. Ping. Ping. Ping. I feel the impact of where they pierce. I wince at the pain. I cry in my affliction. Maybe, you know the intensity of what I write. The utter exhaustion.

So here I am. And maybe you are too. Maybe you’re not a widow with cancer, but you’re probably a someone with something. We’ve all got our stuff. Most all of us are under some kind of attack. And maybe, like me, you too have found out that another new thing — not even a brand new house — is going to fix it. There is not enough stuff in this world which will fill the hole we’ve (all) got inside of us. Maybe for a short time that trip to Target or Homegoods will help, but we delude ourselves if we think our doo-dads and distractions are going to do much for our pain or problems. There is no address far enough away to escape life's sorrows.  

So what is the answer? 

Corrie ten Boom said this, “Faith is when you praise God in the storm, you trust Him in the valley, and you follow Him in the dark.” 

Storms, valleys and darkness. She didn’t pretend those weren’t very real things. She lived through a concentration camp in WWII. She watched her family die. She suffered unimaginable hardship and grief. Yes, Corrie knew storms, valleys and darkness quite well. But she takes those three hard places and she pairs each one with a point of action— praise, trust and follow. 

Praise, trust and follow. These words don’t eliminate the storms, valleys and darkness, but they elevate, encourage, and, even more so, they enlist the very power of God.  This world will bring trouble. Death, disease, disaster. It is all imminent for most all of us. If not today, then maybe tomorrow. Jesus is clear on this fact. "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." John 16:33

So what’s the battle plan when Satan comes calling? When Satan comes seeking our souls and attacking our everything.

Praise. Trust. Follow. 

Praise God. 

Trust God. 

Follow God. 

This next month I am going to try to share some writings about what each one of those things looks like. Operative word: “try.” I am not easily putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard these days. But I want you to know that is my desire. I want to share what God is doing and how He is leading me even in this very real battle. Even in the storm, the valley, and the darkness of these hard, hard days. 

I have offered up a pretty bleak picture. I hesitated to do so. Like I said earlier, I am trying to step around the pity party, but I decided an accurate picture was important. I do no one any good pretending things are all peachy and pretty and getting back on track. I would be lying if I told you seven months of sorrow has been sufficient and now I’m all settled and coming through it swimmingly. So I’ve told you the truth of my circumstances and now I hope to tell you the truth about God who is way bigger than any circumstance. Even mine. Even yours.

Let me know if you’d like to come along for this next month of Praise, Trust and Follow. I have no outline or grand plan, but I am asking the Lord to lead me in my writing and help me with my words.

The sunsets in this new yard have been amazing. Grateful for this beauty.