Letter to God: Committing her ashes to the ground

Dear God,

The journey of grief continues.

For over twenty years Shannon and I had a wonderful life. We raised our son together. We built a business together. We played games together. We laughed and cried together. We shared faith together. For her last 11 years we endured cancer treatments together. I look back and recognize the blessed life that we lived. I would not have had it any other way. Thank you God.

How life has changed! Now, Danielle and I have a wonderful life together. We ‘raise’ two Springer Spaniels together. We enjoy being with my son Ben together. We go camping and skiing together. We laugh and cry together. We share faith together. I recognize the blessed life that we live. I don’t want it any other way. Thank you God.

God, it can seem very linear, as if one thing ended so another could start, but it’s not that simple. My life with Shannon ended in October of 2015, yet my time with her continues to impact me. While she may be my ‘late wife,’ I do not forget her. I frequently tell stories of ‘that time Shannon and I…” I have photos of Shannon in my home and office. Our wedding rings rest on a display shelf. For the past two years her ashes lay in a box in my home, a reminder of our great life together.

Danielle has strongly encouraged all of this. The love that I had for Shannon does not diminish my love for Danielle. I can fully live in this present marriage while remembering one that has gone before.

Most of the time my journey of grief feels like it’s winding down. I tell stories of the past with fondness and appreciation. When people ask how I’m handling it all, the truthful answer is, “I’m just fine.”

Yet moments come when the pain of loss still grips me. On Saturday the tears flowed freely. Shannon’s mom Jan, who joined her on the ovarian cancer journey, took her last breath on December 30^th. I can’t think of Jan’s cancer without thinking of Shannon’s. They shared the same doctor. They shared many of the same treatments. Once they even took chemo together, sitting side by side as mother and daughter.

Shannon’s desire was for her ashes to be buried along with Jan, so last week we took her box from my home and gave them to the funeral director. When Ben and I arrived for the visitation Shannon’s ashes sat next to her mother. During the funeral I knew that Shannon’s remains lay in that casket with Jan, so all the words of hope I hard for Jan I re-heard for Shannon. Hope of life. Hope of peace. Hope of resurrection.

Before the service I asked the pastor if Shannon’s name could be mentioned during the committal service, the time when we would entrust them to You. I could barely hold it together long enough to make the request. Then, at the cemetery, as the pastor said Shannon and Jan’s names together, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” tears poured out and froze to my glasses. For me this wasn’t a rational reaction, as if memories of Shannon came to mind. The tears came instinctually from a deep well. As a pastor, the ritual of the committal service holds great power. I’ve said those words over many caskets. Now I heard them myself. After two years of having ashes on my shelf, we finally committed them to the ground. Something powerful flooded over me. I said goodbye to Shannon once again.

Two years ago I said goodbye while holding my son Ben. This time, Danielle held both Ben and I in her arms. How times have changed.

God, the journey of grief rolls forward. In the midst of a life that I truly love and enjoy, moments still come when death, even death from the past, hurts. In the midst of the pain I cling to your words of hope. You are the resurrection and the life. Shannon rests with you. Now Jan rests with you. As I live life today, I entrust them into Your loving arms.

Thank you for walking with me on this journey.

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.

Letter to God: One Year Later

Dear God;

One year ago…

One year ago my wife Shannon’s journey through cancer and hospice ended.

One year ago death came and claimed her. 

One year ago You welcomed her home.

One year ago I lay next to her still body, weeping over the loss of a woman I loved so much.

One year ago I stood by as the mortician carried her small, frail body out the door.

One year ago my life without Shannon began.

One year ago.

Twelve years ago, that day in February 2004, my grieving began.  On each step of the cancer journey, as Shannon’s health faded in and out, I grieved the loss of things Shannon and I so enjoyed.

Two years ago Shannon’s health was on an upswing, the chemo held the cancer in check.  We had an amazing summer of long walks, vacation, and time together.  We (unrealistically) talked of where we’d live when we retired. 

One year ago last September, in one doctor’s visit, we went from being one good chemo away from kicking the cancer aside to entering hospice and waiting for the end.

One year ago.

For one year I’ve had to learn what life looks like without Shannon Marie Reuss.  I have had to learn what it means for Pete Reuss to grieve (learning that we all grieve differently).  It hasn’t meant sitting on my own and feeling sorry for myself.  It hasn’t meant long nights of tears.  It has meant living life to the fullest.  It has meant doing exactly what Shannon told me to do, “Don’t pine away for me.  I won’t be with you anymore.  Go live your life.”  In this year I unexpectedly fell in love and asked Danielle to marry me.  In this year I have brought a partner on to Shannon’s business and moved it forward in exciting ways.  In this year I have lived focused on the life that You lay out before me. 

For me, grieving has meant finding time to intentionally pause to reflect and remember.  It has meant keeping a blog as a way to process my thoughts.  It has meant weeping during worship services as we sing about the host of heaven gathered around Your throne…a host Shannon now sings with.  It has meant telling stories of Shannon on a regular basis.  It has meant speaking to groups about the way that I’ve walked this journey of grief, a journey which began with my mother Edee in 1979 and continues through today.

God, one year ago my life changed.  You carried Shannon into Your loving arms.  In this year you have surrounded me with your love.  Some days have been rough.  Many days have been just fine.

One year ago.  Today I pause to remember the life of a woman who meant so much to me.  I’ll go for a walk in the woods, just like I did on this day last year.  I’ll walk alone with my memories.  Tears will well up. 

God, one year ago.  It’s hard to believe.  Thank you for joining me on this journey.

Your Child,

Pete

Letter to God - Today would have been my anniversary

Dear God –

Twenty three years ago today, July 10, 1993, I stood at Your altar at Trinity Lutheran Church in Watertown, Minnesota, holding the hand of my fiancée, Shannon Reuss.  Before You I pledged to be faithful to her until death parted us.  I gave her a ring as a symbol of my love and faithfulness.  She became my wife.  You witnessed and blessed the whole thing.

Every year Shannon and I celebrated our anniversary.  Sometimes we’d go out for dinner.  Other times we went on small trips.  To celebrate our 20^th anniversary we ‘pulled out all the stops’ and went to Mayo Clinic so she could have chemo (this is what happens when cancer is in your life).  Some saints from my congregation heard about it and decorated the room on the chemo ward for us (I’ll never forget that day!).  Last year we celebrated our anniversary with her getting prepped for radiation (did we know how to party or what??).  For twenty-two years July 10^th would come and I would say to Shannon, “This is my anniversary.”   Not this year.  The ovarian cancer finally got the best of Shannon last October.  Now she celebrates something even greater before Your throne.

Last night I was with my new fiancée, Danielle (that’s a happy story for another written prayer).  I commented, “Tomorrow would have been my anniversary.”  Would have been.  If Shannon lived…then it would be our anniversary.  In this case, the ‘if’ did not happen.  Shannon does not live, so it is not our anniversary.

“Would have been.”  It sounded odd coming from my lips.  Odd, yet harshly true.  Life has changed, I can’t control that.  I can control my language.  On July 10^th I will always say, “This would have been my anniversary.”  It will be  day to reflect and remember a past relationship that I deeply loved and appreciated. 

God, the change in language feels significant to me.

Recently I attended a church campout with Danielle.  In the midst of a conversation I found these words coming out of my mouth, “My wife Shannon and I used to…”    I could sense a flicker of confusion on the listener’s face.  He didn’t know me well.  I doubt he knew about Shannon, her ovarian cancer, or her death.  He did know that Danielle and I are engaged and that next June ‘my wife’ will be Danielle, not Shannon.  I quickly explained the background so he knew what I was talking about.

It made me wonder how to refer to Shannon.  For twenty two years the  title ‘wife’ went with Shannon.  I don’t want that to ever change.    What descriptor do I put in front of it to help people understand (without having to share the whole story)?  “My wife” makes it sound like she’s in the next room.  “My ex-wife” sounds like we were divorced.  “My first wife” can be taken in many directions.  God, I’ve settled on “My late wife” to describe Shannon.  It seems to fit well.  It acknowledges the relationship which meant so much to me, but it also makes clear that new realities have come.

As life changes, words change.  “Today would have been my anniversary.”  “My late wife Shannon.”  These small changes reflect the new reality that I live with.  Shannon has been gone for nearly nine months.  God, these words give me a way to hold to the past while living in the new life that You provide.

Letter to God (and Shannon): Mother's Day Pride

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.  It’s Mother’s Day, and I want her to be aware of how well her son is doing.  I know full well this isn’t how it works (it’s wrong on so many theological levels), but something in me wants to get this letter off my chest.

Thanks!

Pete

Dear Shannon –

I wanted to let you know…Ben is doing great!

In February I got to take Ben to the Cities for his All-State Band Weekend.  We missed the summer concert because you were sick (and I was busy), but I made it to this one.  His Concert Band sounded amazing.  Ben sat there on the stage in Orchestra Hall and played with so much enthusiasm.  Shannon, you would have been proud.

Last weekend I took Ben to Toronto for a Magic the Gathering Grand Prix.  You know how much he loves that game and how much time he puts into perfecting his strategy.  I piled him and Ryan into the car and hit the road so they could be in a tournament with 1700 other people.  As you can imagine, he loved it.  The plan was to let them play on Saturday and hit the road for home (it was a 14 hour drive!) right away on Sunday morning.  Shannon, we didn’t get to leave until 2 PM on Sunday because Ben played so well!  Only the best players played on Sunday, and Ben ended in the top 15%!  You would have been proud.

Yesterday was Ben’s senior prom, and (unlike last year) he actually went!  We got him a tux and he looked SO dapper.  Had you been here you would have taken a zillion pictures.  Shannon, he looked a whole lot like me at that age.  You would have been so proud. 

In three weeks Ben graduates from Dover-Eyota High School.  The end is in sight.  On Tuesday he takes his last Calculus exam and will go to college this fall with not one, not two, but THREE levels of calculus under his belt.  Ben’s graduation robe is hanging in my closet, a daily reminder that my time with him is short.  Shannon, he’s almost made it.  You would be so proud.

In three short months Ben will be off to college.  All the hard work you did in raising this boy is paying off.  He’s a brilliant, talented kid who succeeds at whatever he puts his mind to.    Other parents constantly remind me of how much they trust him…how much caring and compassion he shows…how helpful he is to their kids.  Shannon, you quit your nursing career to stay him with Ben and raise him well.  You did good work.  It breaks my heart that you don’t get to see him grown, living with your legacy.  It doesn’t seem fair.

Happy Mother’s Day!  I know you loved this boy with your whole heart.  He’s doing great.  You’d be proud.

Your loving, widowed husband,

Pete

Letter To God - Shannon's Birthday & Six Months Without Her

Dear God,

Six years ago we pulled out all the stops to celebrate Shannon’s 40^th birthday, with karaoke, catered food, and nearly every friend and family member joining in.  While a 40^th doesn’t usually require a party of that magnitude, this one did.  At that point Shannon had endured two surgeries and over six years of chemo to keep her ovarian cancer at bay.  Many people get anxious around birthday time, especially major ones like a 40^th.   Shannon had the opposite perspective, excitedly proclaiming “Another birthday and I’m still alive!” 

God, this morning I woke to April 18^th.  Shannon’s birthday.  Another birthday.  God, she’s not alive.  Exactly six months ago Shannon took a breath for the last time.  Six months ago I fully entrusted her to you, to live in Your presence.  Six months.  Sometimes it seems like yesterday.  Sometimes it seems like a lifetime ago.

God, today’s events served as a symbol of my journey of grief. 

Today I went to Chester Woods, the place where Shannon and I went on countless walks over the past years.  Chester Woods, the place where I went for a walk mere hours after her death.  I parked in our usual parking lot and took familiar paths through the woods.  A year ago Shannon and I walked those trails and watched life come back to nature around us.  Shannon would pull out her camera to capture the newly emerging leaves and flowers, recording the beauty all around us to share on her Facebook page.  Today I went to Chester Woods to remember.  It felt like the right thing to do.

But God, today at Chester Woods was very different.  I walked the trail with Danielle, not Shannon.  When we came to a fork we turned right instead of left.  Before long we found ourselves deep in the woods on trails I didn’t know existed.  We found new places, walked a much faster pace, shared very different conversations.  Yet the paths looped back and finished on familiar territory. 

I have a little 9 foot dinghy that I brought home from the cabin somewhere around 2011 with a plan of taking it to Chester Lake.  Now, nearly five years later, I went boating at Chester Woods.  God, I went to Chester Woods today and new experiences blended with the old ones.

That’s my life these days.  I live surrounded by memories of Shannon.  I’m in the house that she loved and decorated.  Her photos hang on the wall, our wedding rings lie on my dresser, her ashes rest in the living room.  I will never forget the woman I loved so much for so many years.  Today I wore an old Relay For Life T-shirt with ‘Caregiver’ on the back.  It felt like the right thing to do.

God, despite all those reminders, I live in a new world.  In the past six months I’ve done many new things, I’ve reconnected with old relationships, I’ve built new relationships.   I no longer serve as a caregiver to someone with cancer.  My days look vastly different than they have over the past decade.

God, I’m trying to find a healthy balance between the past and the present.  At Chester Woods today I took the opportunity to tell Danielle about meeting Shannon, our early years of dating, our engagement, our marriage.  I recalled our camping trips to the mountains of Idaho, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and the southern end of Illinois.  I told about the countless letters she would send to encourage her friends.  In the midst of those conversations Danielle and I talked about many other things that pertain to life in the here and now.  God, today I remembered the past while being with someone new in the present. 

Tonight Ben and I went out for dinner at Shannon’s favorite Greek restaurant.  We shared memories of ‘mom.’  We looked ahead to a future without Shannon in it.  We need both.  It felt good.

Shannon’s birthday today.  Six months of life without her.  God, I find myself in a healthy place.  On the one hand I’m not ignoring Shannon or the huge impact she had on my life.  On the other hand I’m not trapped in the past and unable to move into the future that You have for me.  It’s an interesting journey.  Thank You for showing me life in the midst of death.

Letter to God - Faithful Until Death Parts Us

It’s been a couple months since I posted anything.  There’s a good reason for that!  My life has changed in many surprising ways in those months, but I didn’t feel comfortable sharing it openly.  Now I do.  I wrote this blog post a while back.  Right now I am a very happy man.

Dear God,

On July 10, 1993 I stood in the front of Trinity Lutheran Church in Watertown, MN, holding the hand of the woman I loved, and I proclaimed these vows before You: 

I take you, Shannon,

to be my wife from this day forward,

to join with you and share all that is to come,

and I promise to be faithful to you

until death parts us.

For 22 years Shannon and I shared ‘all that was to come.’  We shared in financially scraping by in those early years as we lived in tiny apartments and paid seminary tuition.  We shared in camping trips and long romantic walks.  We shared in raising Ben to be the wonderful young man he has become.  We shared in starting a business.  We shared in Mayo appointments and life with chemotherapy.  We shared in life and love and faith and laughter.  As in every relationship we had our moments where we drove each other crazy, but we shared in that as well.  We shared in honesty, openness, and concern. 

And in the midst of sharing life with Shannon, I held to my promise to be faithful.  She remained the love of my life for 22 years.  I remained faithful through cancer surgeries and chemotherapy.  I remained faithful even as a counselor said, “Pete, many people in your position would have an affair.”  (the last time I ever met THAT counselor!).  Over the years I took on more and more responsibility as her health began to fail.  For months I slept on the floor in our bedroom because being in the bed kept her from sleeping (and being in the guest room was too far away).  I cooked.  I cleaned.  I provided.  I loved.  I remained faithful.  I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

God, on July 10, 1993 I took Shannon to be my wife.  I joined with her.  We shared.  I remained faithful. 

On October 18, 2015 death parted us.  The vows which held such meaning for 22 years passed away with her.  I no longer have Shannon to share life with.  There is no relationship to which to be faithful.  It’s a new day.

Deep down Shannon knew full well that she would not live to an old age.  For years she would say to me, “Your next wife will…”  One afternoon, in the midst of her hospice journey, she took me aside and said, “Pete, don’t pine away for me.  I know that you will meet someone new and get married.  I want that for you.  I want you to be happy in life.”

‘And I promise to be faithful to you until death parts us.’ 

Last month I went skiing for the first time in over a decade.  It just so happened that I spent the day with a single woman.  Ben seemed to raise his eyebrows when he heard that only the two of us had gone, so when I came home I explained, “This was just two people who happen to be single who like to ski.  No big deal.”  His response nearly bowled me over.  “Dad, I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you this, but it’s OK if it was more than just two friends skiing.  I want you to feel free to meet someone you want to be with.  Mom’s not here anymore.  If today was a date, that’s no big deal.”

‘And I promise to be faithful to you until death parts us.’ 

And so, in the past weeks, I have found a wonderful woman that I very much enjoy being with.  I’ve known Danielle for a while as a volunteer worship leader at the new church I joined.  One conversation led to another, and here we are.  When I look at a calendar my first thought is, “Pete, this is nuts.  Your wife died in October.  You’re interested in someone already?  What are you doing?”  The calendar says one thing, but my heart says something very different.  I feel comfortable in spending time with her.  I enjoy talking to her.  I look forward to seeing her come online after a day of work so I can chat with her.  We share interests, humor, sports, and good beer. God, it feels like ages ago that Shannon died.  I sense that it’s time to move on in life.  I asked my counselor if this might be just a rebound relationship.  After thinking about it for a while he said, “Pete, people ‘on the rebound’ are not self-aware.  They don’t deal with their grief and just blindly attach to someone else.  You are extremely self-aware.  I wouldn’t worry about it.”

‘And I promise to be faithful to you until death parts us.’ 

I’ve known for a long time that the day would come when I’d be a widower.  For a while I assumed I’d jump right into a relationship, that I’d be afraid to be alone. Over time I grew confident that I’d be just fine living on my own.  I didn’t need someone to ‘complete me.’  That’s what has been so odd in all this.  I didn’t go looking for a relationship, but it sure seems like I have found one.

‘And I promise to be faithful to you until death parts us.’ 

Now, in the midst of this amazing new relationship, I’m trying to figure out how to explain it to people.  How do you tell folks (especially Shannon’s friends and family) that someone new has come into my life?  How can people understand that I’m not doing this to avoid my grief?  In fact, I’ve put all sorts of thought and prayer into this!  What if people feel that I am not being faithful to Shannon’s memory?  It feels icky to try to ‘hide’ the fact that I’m in a relationship from others, but not everyone finds themselves in the same place on the journey of grief.  For their sake do I keep things under wraps, or do I just be open and honest about life and let the chips fall where they may?  God, I’m pretty confused on this.   

‘And I promise to be faithful to you until death parts us.’ 

I held that promise with my whole being for 22 years.  I did exactly what I promised You I would do.  That promise has now come to an end.  Shannon herself sent me out to find joy in life.  I seem to be finding it.  I feel like a pretty lucky guy.

God, I’m not publishing this blog post…yet.  We’re not yet ready to share news of a budding relationship with the world.  Help me to find the right time and place to be open with people in a way that will not be hurtful for them.  Continue to guide us as together we discern what this relationship means for the future.

Letter to God - Years of Grief

Dear God,

Recently I’ve felt like I’ve been doing it wrong.  I thought grief should be overwhelming, crushing, hard to handle.  I thought I would have sleepless nights of tears and thoughts of Shannon creeping in at all hours of the day.  I assumed that just hearing her name or holding a thought of her would send me into new waves of grief.

That hasn’t been the case.  God, I’ve felt guilty for it.  Other people who are grieving seem to have such a hard time.  What’s my deal?  Am I just in a state of complete denial?  Am I so afraid of the pain of grief that I refuse to deal with it?  God, I’m having a lot of fun in life.  Somehow that has seemed a bit wrong.

God, these questions prompted me to go back to the counselor that I have seen for quite a few years.  He’s served as a sounding board, helping me to process Shannon’s illness.  As I explained my ‘lack of grief’ to him, wondering why I didn’t feel lousy, he said something I will never forget.

“Pete, you’ve been grieving for a long time, long before Shannon even went on hospice.  Bit by bit you grieved the loss of the relationship you and Shannon had.  The moment she died wasn’t the moment grief started for you.”

So simple…yet so profound.  God, thank you for putting those words in his mouth. They were what I needed to hear.  In assuming that grief started at death I totally failed to see how long I’ve been on this journey.

This morning I dusted off Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s stages of grief (a blast from the past in my psychology major days).  In them I can see my own history.

Denial: This one popped up many times in the 11 years Shannon had cancer.  In the midst of chemo

we’d talk about retirement.  While on the one hand we realized that we couldn’t focus on cancer 24/7, we had many times when we didn’t want to admit that the cancer might someday win.  We pretended everything was fine.

Anger: God, you’ve taken the brunt of this one!  In moments of frustration I’ve resonated with the lament Psalms, the ones where people lash out at You.   The ‘Why me??’ question did come up from time to time.  While for the most part I accepted the course that cancer took, I surely didn’t avoid anger!!

Bargaining:  I’m not so sure on this one.  There aren’t many bargains which will make cancer go away.  If I could have made a bargain…I would have!

Depression:  Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!  This is what drove me to the counselor years ago.  Little things would get to me and send me into a spiral.  I had days when I knew I was a useless failure.  Very fringe thoughts of ending it all came to mind (and thankfully were quickly rejected).  The feelings of depression came and went, but when they came life really stunk.  They came much more often than I wanted (though I hid it well)!

Acceptance: God, I had moments in this stage well before Shannon even went on hospice.  I could see her body failing.  I knew her chemo options had become limited.  She just couldn’t go on like that forever, so I started preparing for her to die.  That hurt.  Shannon couldn’t bring herself to talk about it much, feeling that admitting that the cancer might take her life might possibly weaken her resolve to fight it.  For me sometimes the acceptance cycled back to depression.  The beauty of hospice was that Shannon and I could come to acceptance together.

God, I needed this.  While I keep hearing, “Everyone grieves differently,’ it didn’t stop me from feeling like I failed in grief.  Through my counselor you have opened a new door for me: a door of hope.  I’ve been grieving for a very long time.  Perhaps the joy I feel in life isn’t a result of denial.  Perhaps it comes because I have intentionally processed my feelings, I’ve sought counseling, I’ve been made sure that Shannon is not forgotten in my life.  Perhaps my ‘sudden’ return to feeling great isn’t so sudden after all.  I’ve walked the path of grief for twelve years, not four months.

God, thank you for the clarity.  

Letter to God - A Light Shines

Dear God,

On Monday You surprised me.  For the first time in a long time it felt like the light of the sun shone into my soul. At that moment I realized how dark and overcast life had become.

God, I’m just now recognizing the challenges of living with a spouse with cancer. Overall Shannon and I did well, living our lives and not allowing cancer to define things.  We had spent time together, went on walks together, talked together, had fun together.  I felt like life was just fine (and in many ways it was), but cancer cast a shadow over my whole being.  We spent so much time obsessing about pain, bowel function, and exhaustion. Mayo Clinic consumed countless hours with treatments, tests, and doctor appointments dominating the schedule.  We feared for what might come next, that the treatments might not work.  At home I spent so much time alone, cooking and cleaning while Shannon rested. I had little time to get out and do fun things with friends (even though Shannon constantly badgered me to do it).  We enjoyed life as best we could but we struggled to find much joy in the midst of all that.

Then came the utter darkness of hospice and death.  There’s no other way to describe it.   I intellectually knew that You walked with me through that valley but I sure didn’t feel it.

God, you surprised me with how quickly a new day dawned in my life.  I expected the darkness to overwhelm me for a long time (months or years), but before long I found myself getting together with friends and doing things I enjoyed.  I got to travel, to plan, to relax and have free time. Life moved to a new normal and things seemed just fine.  It’s only now, after experiencing the bright sunshine of Monday, that I realize how overcast life remained.  Emotions remained blunted.  Little things frustrated me.  I lacked my usual passion for life.

On Monday You provided me a glimpse of Your sunshine. An overwhelming love for my son Ben, an excitement for the work that I do for the Synod, a sense of love and support that I have from those around me, it all flooded over me. In that moment I felt truly alive for the first time in a very, very long time. It led me, strangely, to bust out an epic air guitar solo in the midst of supper (much to Ben’s chagrin). I’d forgotten what it felt like to live in joy.  I became giddy with excitement for life.

God, You have walked with me, not only through the valley of the shadow of death, but also through the gloom and dreariness that surrounded that valley. I know that cloudy days lay ahead.  I will not get to bask in the glow of Your light at all times, but thank You for allowing me that moment.  It brought me great hope!

An Open Letter to Death

Dear Death,

We’ve had a lot of time together over the years.  I met you for the first time that I can remember in 1979 when you took my mom, Edee Reuss.  Because of you I never had a chance to get to know her. 

I’ve been with you at the funerals for all but one of my grandparents.   In fact, you took my Grandpa Dodd in WWII France before my mom was even born.

As a pastor I’ve faced you many times.  One of the first times was one of the hardest as you claimed Licahan Kennell, only 8 years old, in a grain bin accident.

Last fall we met again as my wife Shannon breathed her last here in our home.  I can vividly picture her gasping for breath, the death rattle shaking her body.  I will never forget holding her still body for the last time.

Death, I have every reason to be bitter.  I have every reason to rage against you, against the injustice of losing a mother and a wife at such young ages.  I have every reason to want to check out of life and be miserable. 

But let’s face the facts, death.  You’ve wreaked your share of havoc in my life, but you have not won.  You will never win.  Ever.  You have been utterly and completely conquered by Jesus.  I know those words may seem trite and rote, something that I heard from a Sunday School teacher once upon a time.  For me they are the foundation of my existence.  My faith has always centered around God’s victory over you.  Always.  It started when you took my mom.  I heard words of hope in a God who conquered death.  I grabbed onto those words and have never let them go.  God’s Scriptures abound in stories of God’s victory over death. I could sit here and type chapter and verse over and over again, but you know them as well as I do.  Just go to the book of Revelation and read about the God who has taken you behind the woodshed once and for all.  God wins every time.  You do not.  I have boldly proclaimed those words at funeral after funeral. 

Recently I’ve found tears as I sing in worship.  When the words turn to themes of eternal life and the saints giving God praise I’ve struggled to keep singing as I imagine Shannon with those saints.  It hurts me in deep ways.  Throughout my life these words have sustained my faith in powerful ways.  Death, I’m not about to let you rip them away from me!  I’m not going to avoid those songs or those words.  I’m going to revel in them even as tears flow.   I’ll let others sing them for me if I must.  God has won.  You have lost.

Death, I have a life to live and I’m not going to let you define it for me.  The almighty God and I will walk through this life together.  The day will come when you will come and take me.  I know that, but even then you will not hold me.  The God who sustained me as you took my mother and wife is the same God who claims me as God’s own, now and forever.

Death, you have not won.  You bring pain, but you will never win.  Never!

A claimed son of the living God,

Pete

Letter to God - My Grief and Christmas

Good morning, God.

This Christmas season has continued to remind me that grief comes in strange and unexpected ways.  It’s been two months since Shannon died, and I’ve heard from so many about the pain that the holiday season can bring.  I braced for the worst and instead found many small, significant moments where I missed Shannon!

I anticipated tears during the ‘decorating’ phase of Christmas but they didn’t come.  It was a year of simplicity.  I didn’t bother with ornaments on the tree or many of the small knickknacks which usually adorned the house.  I went out by myself and got a tree and Ben lent a hand in getting lights on it.  I set out all the toy soldier Christmas sets.   A few lights went outside.  Through it all I came to realize that Christmas decorating had become a solo exercise over these past years.  I decorated while Shannon napped.  The difference this year was that I didn’t feel pressure to go all out.  I could keep things simple.  I had a poignant moment while I set our mistletoe off to the side (not a lot of kissing the house this year), but that was about it.

I anticipated a rough time in making the Christmas cookies, but this too had become something I’d done on my own.  I made a few favorites that Ben and I didn’t want to miss and avoided some of the more annoying ones that Shannon so loved (she had a thing for cookies that were a pain to make).    Now Ben and I have a 9x13 pan of fudge to polish off!!

Wrapping presents proved a bit annoying.  Shannon had always wrapped the presents for the family (except for my presents to her, of course).  This year that new responsibility fell upon me.  I’m no ‘present wrapping artist.’  The main goal is to cover the present so people can’t guess what it is, right?? In that I succeeded brilliantly.  I missed Shannon in the process, though more in a ‘I wish she could be here to help’ kind of way.

Writing the annual Christmas letter proved interesting as I realized that some people receiving it only heard from us at Christmas and would not know that Shannon had died.  After receiving a number of Christmas letters addressed to ‘Pete and Shannon’ I felt a bit guilty sending a letter usually filled with cheer to announce a death.

This December I grew tired of seeing jewelry commercials with their constant portrayal of happy couples embracing and looking lovingly into each other’s eyes.   You can’t watch football in December without it.  They left me with a quiet sadness that I no longer had that special someone to kiss on the holiday.  The feeling never lingered for long.

I prepared for a really hard time in opening presents on Christmas Eve, a time when Shannon and I would sit side by side and give each other lovely gifts.  I got through it without tears, though my pile of presents felt ‘skimpy’ without that special something from her (and I missed seeing her face as she opened something from me).  We had some poignant moments as I gave Shannon’s mom the necklace that Shannon wore at the funeral, her sister Shannon’s favorite ‘magic warming blanket,’ and her dad a little toy soldier nurse set from Shannon’s collection.  I had bits of sadness, but not a lot of grief.

Surprisingly the moments that hit me the hardest in the Christmas season came during some of my favorite Christmas carols at the Christmas Eve worship service. Words that I usually sing with great gusto stuck in my throat as tears quietly streamed down my face:

Sing, choirs of angels, sing in exaltation.

Sing , all ye citizens of heaven above.

Glory to God in the highest

O come let us adore him.

Shannon now joins those citizens of heaven above, singing the same song!

Holy infant, so tender and mild,

sleep in heavenly peace.

Shannon now sleeps in God’s peace.

I came into the Christmas season expecting to be crushed by the weight of grief.  It didn’t happen.  Instead I found many small moments of quiet longing.  I’m constantly reminded that grief can’t be planned or expected.  It comes on its own schedule in its own way.  For me there have been brief moments where it overwhelmed me.  There have been many more moments of quiet sadness where I miss the woman I loved so much.  And, surprisingly, there have been moments of relief as some of the weight of caring for someone with cancer (and the expectations she had) falls away.  I get to make my own choices and chart my own path.  

Merry Christmas! 

O come let us adore him,

O come let us adore him,

O come let us adore him, Christ the Lord!

Letter to God - The Coming Darkness

Dear God,

Boy have I had a lot of fun this past month!  It’s like a weight has lifted and I’m free. So many things were not possible when caring for a wife with cancer.    Now I have a sense of freedom to be able to get together with people and do things I haven’t done in years.

-          I got to go to Chicago to a Northwestern football game with some old college buddies.  I haven’t seen some of them in over a decade.    

-          I’ve gotten together with people to watch football games on TV.  Shannon enjoyed watching the Vikings, but stayed too calm.  It’s been fun to properly ‘help’ the team from afar (I know they can hear me!).

-          I’ve been amazed at the number of people that I’ve been able to get together with and share a beer.  I’m a social creature so connecting with so many has been wonderful.  I’m also finding some very good brews in Rochester.

-          I even got to go on an epic road trip with Richard to a toy soldier show in Washington DC.  In four days we covered 9 states, toured the Gettysburg battlefield, and even got to have lunch with my brother Jim in Detroit.

People continue to ask, “How are you doing?”  With all these fun activities underway my response has been a very genuine, “I’m doing well.”

Tomorrow afternoon a new adventure begins.  I learned that I have hit the ‘use it or lose it’ portion of my vacation for 2016.  This is a first for me.  I always enjoy every minute of my vacation in a year.  This year, however, a couple vacations were cut short because Shannon didn’t feel good (or because of radiation).  So I now have a couple weeks of vacation around the holidays.  My brain keeps telling me that this will be amazing and awesome.  I’ll have time to do some fun things.  I’ll catch up on things around the house.  I’ll be able to relax and enjoy life.  I'll sign on with Netflix and watch movies.

My brain says it should be fun, my gut doesn’t quite agree.  After two months of fun with many people (and some great things happening at work) life will come to a screeching halt.  Instead of filling the days with people and conversation I will spend it at home.  Ben will be around and we’ll do some things together, but I don’t expect Ben to drop everything and hang out with dad for a few weeks.  He has friends to be with.  It’s his senior year, he needs them!

God, I have things to do over this vacation, things I haven’t gotten to since Shannon died.  Shannon has a whole hobby room full of things that I need to sort through.  Many memories are in there.  After she went on hospice she actually apologized for leaving me so much to sort through!  I have books to find homes for.  How many cookbooks does a person need anyway?!  Keepsakes are important, but I have no need to keep every little thing she owned.  

So while most people are wrapped up in the Christmas season of joy and hope, I will spend time in the past.  I will hold many reminders of the woman I loved.  The busyness and fun will end for a while.  For the first time since Shannon died it’ll be me and my thoughts.  I know this is a part of the healing process but I’m not looking forward to it.  It will be a lot more of the darkness of Advent than the bright light of Christmas. 

God, I know you are in the midst of all these memories. I haven’t had many moments of tears lately.  That’s about to change.  Intellectually I know that I won’t be alone.  You will be there with me.  Help me to feel your presence.  Help me to know your love.  Shine a glimmer of light into my darkness.

O come, O come, Emanuel!

Letter to God - A Wedding Ring and Facebook Status

Good morning Lord,

This morning I am holding two seemingly contradictory thoughts in my head.

-          I am now a single man

-          Shannon will always be my wife

Twenty-two years ago I made a vow to Shannon that ended with ‘’Till death parts us.”  That brutal reality has come to fruition.  One month ago this morning Shannon took her last breath.  Death has parted us.   I am no longer a married man.  That is a strange thought.

Shortly after Shannon passed away I looked online to see the ‘protocol’ for wearing a wedding ring after the death of a spouse.  Not surprisingly it doesn’t exist.  Some spouses wear their wedding rings the rest of their lives.  Others put them away.  At the time I thought that one month seemed about the right amount of time to continue to wear it.  This morning it's one month.  It seems appropriate to take it off and acknowledge my new reality.  I am no longer a married man.  Wedding rings serve as symbols of a lifelong commitment.  I have now removed mine.  The commitment has come to an end.

Last week I checked on Facebook to see how they listed my marital status.  Shannon’s Facebook page has been set to a ‘memorial’ account, so I thought that perhaps they would automatically list me as a widower.  They don’t.  Facebook assumes that I am still actively married to Shannon.  This morning I will change the status to ‘single.’  ‘Widowed’ is an option, but when I think of widowed I think of an elderly person who will be alone the rest of their life.  That’s not me.  Shannon and I had many conversations about the fact that I would remarry and life would continue.  She had no desire for me to ‘pine away’ for her.  Life moves forward.   No timetables exist for such things.

I am a single man.  It’s an odd feeling but it’s reality.

Yet I’m not single in the way I was single as a teenager.  Shannon will always remain my wife.  For twenty-two years we shared everything together.  My relationship with Shannon Marie Reuss changed me from a geeky 20 year old into the man I’ve become.  She encouraged me, supported me, loved me, lived with me, journeyed through cancer with me.  That can never be taken away or forgotten. 

Last night in conversation I found myself referring to ‘my wife Shannon.’  To do anything else would be to deny the love that we shared.   She has gone from this world but not from my heart.  While the day may come when this changes to ‘my first wife Shannon,’ the title ‘wife’ will accompany her until my dying day.

God,  I had no idea how much work it would be to try to figure these things out.  Thank you for walking with me on this journey of discovery, hope, and grief.

Letter to God - The Isolation of Cancer

Dear God,

I’m coming to realize what an impact cancer has had on me over the past 11 years.  It took Shannon’s life.  It also isolated me from the world.

Before cancer arrived in our lives Shannon and I were out and about.  We had friends to play cards with.  We cooked together.  We had a huge garden, spending our evenings canning beans and freezing corn.  We went on daily walks, hand in hand.  We sat on porches and chatted with neighbors.  We went camping regularly.  We did most everything together and loved every minute of it.

When we found out she had cancer we had to stop those things while they blasted her with chemotherapy.  As soon as that awful time ended we got right back into card playing and gardening.  The cancer returned a second time and we had less time and energy for things.   We didn’t realize it at the time but our life in isolation had begun. 

It didn’t hit all at once.  Life changed a little at a time.  We got together with people less often because Shannon didn’t have energy for it.  Sometimes just going to worship on Sunday was all she could handle.  Shannon slowly lost the strength to help with mundane things like laundry, dishes, or cooking as most of the household tasks fell to me.  We hired housekeepers to do the deep cleaning, but someone had to have things ready for them to come.   My days off became a long list of tasks to accomplish.  I grew exhausted.

Shannon constantly implored me to ‘get out there and have some fun.’  I did my best, getting together with Dave for a beer or with Eric at the lake, though as time went on even that became difficult.  To have a social life I had to leave Shannon behind.  For a while it wasn’t a big deal, but as she lost energy I felt like I was abandoning her.  My deep love for my wife kept me near her as much as possible.  My time with others slowly slipped away. 

Little by little cancer isolated me.  When not at work I plugged away around the house while she rested.  That’s what became normal.  I used the little free time that I had to be with her, still walking whenever possible, but now avoiding contact with others.  The goal was to get her some exercise and get her home.  Standing and chatting took too much out of her.  My one ‘selfish’ activity was running (and it kept me sane).

God, it’s only now, looking back on things, that I see how cancer stripped away so many things that I loved to do.  I’m a social creature and don’t do well when by myself for hours on end.   Life has been hard.

Now that Shannon has died life has changed dramatically.  In the past couple weeks I’ve done more things with friends that I’ve been able to do in years.  I get together for a drink after work.  I watch football with guys.  I head off to run in far away races.  I have a social life again.  It’s been amazing.

God, I admit that part of me feels guilty that I’m enjoying life.  Shouldn’t I be pining away for my deceased wife?  On the other hand I’m finally doing what she’s implored me to do for years.  “Get out there and have some fun.”   

Cancer took away so much.  You remain.  Shannon has new life in You.  I now have new life as well. Thank you for the hope You provide.

A Letter to God - Leaving the Door Open

Good morning God,

This morning I woke up at 5:00 (I’ve done a lot of that lately).  Exactly three weeks ago my wife Shannon left me went to be with you.  How can it only be three weeks ago?  It seems like a lifetime.

I’ve struggled with how I feel I ‘should’ grieve.  I never wanted to be ‘that guy’: the guy who stuffed his grief down deep and pretended to move on, the guy who kept himself busy so he didn’t have to think of his loss, the guy who didn’t cope well. 

Before Shannon died I imagined myself pining away for her, missing her at every turn, struggling to believe that she had died.  I’ve been surprised to find my brain fully capable of comprehending the fact that she is not here.  It’s like I finished reading a really good book.  I enjoyed it while it lasted but I knew that eventually I came to the end and it’s time for a new one.   Perhaps all the work Shannon and I did over the years to ‘live in the moment’ is coming to fruition.  I’m in the moment and the moment doesn’t involve a wife to live with and laugh with.   It’s a new reality.

At moments the tears still flow but in many other moments I am learning what it is to ‘read a new book.’  I’m reengaging in my work.  I’m having creative conversations with folks around Shannon’s business (ok, there’s another weird thing…it was always ‘my wife’s business’).  I’m getting together with people to watch football and chat (something I haven’t been free to do in years).   I admit that sometimes I feel guilty for enjoying myself too much.  Shouldn’t I be pining away??  People still come with their long faces and ask, “How are you doing?”  I want to give some deep, poignant answer, but the reality is that at most moments I’m doing just fine.  Perhaps I’m fully in denial, but I’m finding ways to move ahead into this new life.

Yesterday one of Shannon’s best friends sent Ben and me a package.  Laura had taken quite a few of Shannon’s ‘Beauty Each Day’ photos and turned them into a book.  The note with it struck me deeply.  Laura lost her mother a while back and she shared some words that Shannon had offered to her in her dark days:

A doorway doesn’t need a door---it can be a giant window to what lies behind and what goes on next.  You aren’t expected to shut it firmly behind you and not look back, or think about what is in the space behind it.  You can leave it wide open and cautiously move ahead while keeping all that is behind you fully in view.  Even as time goes by and you venture off to the doorway into the new space, you can return to the doorway between any time you like, and bask, and reflect, and ponder.

God, I have walked through that doorway.  Last Sunday night at our Bishop’s Theological Conference we had a service for the remembrance of the saints.  I stood in that doorway and lit a candle in Shannon’s memory.  The tears flowed.  This morning in worship our congregation will celebrate ‘All Saints Day’ (a week behind, but that’s how People of Hope rolls sometimes!).  Ben and I will together stand at the door and remember.  We will receive the reassurance that you have conquered death for your people…for Shannon.  It will be hard, but as Ben says, “Dad, we need to do this.” 

God, help me to keep that door open.  When it is appropriate, bring me to that door to look back and remember.  At other times, lead me into the new life you provide.

Thank you for allowing Laura to share Shannon’s words with me.  

Letter to God - I'm Here

Dear God –

Nearly two weeks after my wife passed away this isn’t what I expected.

I expected to have times of intense grief.  I prepared to be overwhelmed every time I thought of Shannon.  I was a bit concerned that I wouldn’t be able to function very well.  Even though I’ve intentionally spent time remembering Shannon (spending most evenings opening sympathy cards), that hasn’t been the case.  There have only been a few moments of tears.

I thought I would have many thoughts connecting Shannon with the readings from Revelation I heard at the funeral, moments of contemplating her with that heavenly choir conquering death.   I’ve done this with my mom Edee for most of my life.  Somehow my brain can’t wrap itself around the fact that Shannon is there.  It doesn’t seem real.

I thought I would constantly forget that she wasn’t in the house with me, that I’d always think I had her to talk to, that I’d feel her presence.  I haven’t.  It’s been pretty obvious that it’s just Ben and me. 

I part of me expected that I’d energetically move on.  After weeks (and years) of taking time to care for Shannon with her many health needs I’m free to go out on new ventures.  I was a bit concerned that I’d just move on and forget to grieve.  There have been moments when it’s felt like a weight has lifted, but overall I’ve lacked much energy.  Right now the future seems a bit overwhelming.  There are exciting aspects of it, but it’ll be a lot of work to get there.

I want to enthusiastically embrace the love that people have shown for me through cards and conversations.  In some ways it’s been great to know that we’re not alone.  In other times, as Ben mentioned last night, “I just want to live life and not have people always remind me that I should be grieving.  I want to remember mom, not her death.”  People seem to expect an intense response when checking in with me.  I guess I haven’t had the intensity to give.

It’s hard to explain.  My emotions have been numb.  They don’t get high or low.  When people ask, “How are you?” my reply is quite truthful: “I’m here.”  That’s about all I can say.  God, I want to feel swaddled in your love.  Frankly, I don’t.  I feared that I would feel distant and angry with You.  I don’t.  I’m not filled with great hope or overwhelmed with deep despair.

Today, I’m here.  That’s about all I can say.  I pray that You are here too.