Letter to God: Two Years as a Widower

Dear God,

Has it been two years already? Two years since I held my wife’s cold body? Two years since I watched the morticians carry her down the front stairs? It’s hard to believe.

As I have walked the path of a widower with You I have consciously chosen a middle path between two different forks in the road.

Fork in the path #1: To honor Shannon’s memory, I need to hold closely to things that were important to her.

Sometimes people, after a loss, attempt to keep life the same. The deceased’s clothes hang in the closet. The decorations on the walls reflect the deceased’s decorating. Things that were important to the deceased remain important to the one left behind.

God, you know I have not chosen this fork.

Someone told me last week, “Your life has really changed.” A simple list reveals the truth of that!

Today I call Danielle Reuss my wife. After I got to know Danielle I knew that we would have a very happy life together. I now affectionately refer to Shannon as my ‘late wife.’

I sold our home in Eyota and moved to Rochester. I left a lot of memories behind, and I admit it was tough walking through the place for the last time, yet a new life with a new wife required a new start, including a new home. I love our new place.

As I cleaned out our home in Eyota, many things which held memory went away, either given as gifts to others or donated to charity.

I have made the decision to sell Shannon’s business and am in the process of negotiating to get that done. Shannon had a passion for Treefrog Treasures. While I enjoyed it, the passion was not there. After two years of owning it without her, the time has come to let others take over and to step away. For years the business took a significant amount of time to oversee (even with three full time employees). Soon I will have more free time. I look forward to that.

New life has come, and I’m enjoying myself immensely. I’m on a middle fork, which means there is one on the other side.  

Fork in the path #2: To shield myself from pain, I avoid thinking about Shannon

Sometimes people, after a loss, try to ‘move on’ and live life as if the deceased never existed. They avoid talking about the deceased, put away pictures of the deceased, and do whatever they can not to remember.

God, you know I have not chosen this fork.

When my son Ben and I talk we often share memories of things Shannon has done. She comes up in conversation on a somewhat regular basis. After 22 years of marriage, I have a font of fun stories to tell!

Shannon’s ashes rest on a shelf in my home next to our wedding photo. The day will come when they are buried with her mother, but for now they remain here. A few decorations from our life together grace our new house. I have visible reminders around me of my life with Shannon.

Worship songs still bring tears. God, just this past Sunday the song kept returning to ‘Holy Holy Holy,’ the words from Revelation on the lips of the hosts of heaven singing Your praises. Shannon now sings with that host. I choked up trying to join in the singing.

Shannon’s family remains my family. Her folks remain my in-laws. We have forged years of relationship. They understand that my life has changed. They remain a part of that life.

My personal journey has kept me on a path between these two different forks. I deeply remember Shannon while living a new life. I have found it possible and healthy to live in this middle space. God, thank you for leading me on this journey.

Letter to God (and Shannon): Thank you for the wedding gift

Dear God –

I have a letter for You to pass on.  I include it below.  Shannon is with you now, not me, so I can’t just talk to her.  I’d like to let her know that I’m getting married in two days.  I know full well this isn’t how it works (it’s wrong on so many theological levels), but it feels like the right thing to do.

Thanks!

Pete

Dear Shannon,

I’m getting married in two days. Yes, married! Can you believe it? I think you knew Danielle, at least a little bit. She led worship from time to time at our church. She always goes out of her way to welcome new folks to People of Hope, so I’m sure you met her. She remembers meeting you!

I want to tell you about the wedding day, but first I want to thank you for your wedding gift. You gave me the best wedding gift a remarrying widower could possibly want. That day of hospice over a year and a half ago, while your physical body weakened as cancer took its toll, you sat me down, looked me in the eye, and said, “Pete, you are young. Go out and enjoy life. Find someone to love. I want you to be happy. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be gone.” Those simple, profound words opened up the possibility for a new relationship for me. You understood that I’m not a person who enjoys being alone. You remembered that the vows that we made to each other included ‘until death parts us.’  You loved me enough to give me the emotional freedom to step into a new relationship without an ounce of guilt that I somehow ‘betrayed your memory’ in some way. It took courage on your part to let go. Thank you for that gift.

Shannon, you get to be a part of our wedding ceremony. In the prayers we will remember the ways that God blessed marriages in the past, including Danielle’s folks, Dad and Edee, Dad and Mom, your folks, and, yes, Pete and Shannon Reuss. A picture from our wedding will join those other wedding photos (we were so young!). I do not enter inter a new marriage pretending that I have never been married before. I bring all the love that we had for each other forward, knowing full well that I am in a new relationship with a new woman. I have moments of tears as I remember the love we had for each other (I’m wiping some right now), but that past does not consume me. You freed me to love again. Again, thank you.

It’s going to be a fun party! We talked many times about our regrets of not having a dance at our wedding. We were young and didn’t know what a wedding could be like! Well, Shannon, on Saturday we’ll make up for that. We’re still not going to have a lot of dancing (you’ve seen me dance…it’s not pretty) but we’re going one step further: karaoke! Yup, we’ll be singing! You’d be proud. We’ll have games and pizza and family. It’ll be great!

In two days I again will stand with a woman and vow, “Until death parts us.” These are exciting days. Thank you for your part in making it possible.

Your loving husband (for you will always be my first wife),

Pete

Letter to God: Goodbye to our home

Dear God,

It’s been a long time since I’ve written! After Shannon died we spent a lot of time together in these

letters as I worked to process what her death meant for me. In these past seven months life has continued to unfold. For the most part I have looked forward to the life that is to come: taking on new work responsibilities, moving things into a new home, planning a wedding. I step into the future with hope and anticipation.

Yet in the midst of that journey, from time to time I find myself continuing to walk through a valley of grief. In sorting through my home to prepare to move to a new place I’ve uncovered things which brought memories flooding through me: pictures of Shannon from our year of living in Idaho, Shannon’s ubiquitous ‘to do’ lists, her favorite ‘no hair day’ baseball cap. Memories bring joy…and pain. Last month I attended a meeting at the church that hosted Shannon’s funeral. I hadn’t been there since the day they wheeled the casket out the door and into the waiting hearse. As I approached the building I pictured the whole scene in my mind.

This week I have taken another step on that long journey. On Tuesday I stood in our home in Eyota for the last time. This morning completed paperwork will transfer ownership into a new name. Shannon and I bought the home in 2003 after a whirlwind day of house hunting. Her business moved into the basement, with inventory quickly overwhelming the place. This house saw Ben grow from a cute kindergartner to a grown college man. The walls reverberated with sounds of love, laughter, and joy. They also witnessed 11 years of chemotherapy, becoming Shannon’s safe haven when she felt tired or run down. The home became a place of gathering as Shannon entered hospice and loved ones streamed to say goodbye. It grew quiet after Shannon passed away and Ben went to college.

On Monday I signed my paperwork allowing the house to start new memories with a new family. It felt strange to only see my name listed as owner. I never owned that house alone…Shannon and I bought it. Shannon and I lived in it. Yet only one name remained, and I scrawled it on many documents.

On Tuesday evening I met the new owner for a final walk through. I stayed for a time after she left to say goodbye, goodbye to a place that knew so much love. As I walked from empty room to empty room I wanted to flood myself with the joyous memories of the place. They wouldn’t come. As I stood in the living room I remembered it filled with people coming to see Shannon on hospice. When I walked into the bedroom I remembered sleeping on the floor and Shannon stumbling into the bed the night before she died, frustrated that I wasn’t there to help her. As I entered her ‘office’ I could only picture the hospital bed with her still, unbreathing body. As I moved to the front door I envisioned the morticians carrying her frail body down the stairs. A place that holds so many wonderful memories had become a place holding pain. So with tears I said goodbye and walked away for the final time.

I may have left that house, but it remains a part of my story, a reminder that grief will never simply go away. Frankly, I don’t want it to. I gave several decades of my life to living with Shannon Helfritz Reuss, and I will never pretend that life just ‘moves on.’

In 16 days I will once again stand before a pastor with a woman I love and say, “Until death parts us.” Life will continue in exciting and wonderful ways. Yet even as I look forward to the future I bring the past with me. I am a widower. Shannon remains my late wife. From time to time that reality will flood my eyes with tears. That’s normal and OK. It doesn’t diminish my love for Danielle or the hopes I have for our life together.

These weeks bring new steps on the journey of grief. Not stepping away from Shannon and her memory. Not stepping to Danielle and our future together. Just steps on a journey. Thank you, God, for walking with me every step of the way.