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