How Long Have I Been Lost?

Have you ever walked through your life and been utterly unaware of changes inside of you? Changes that you didn't notice because just dealing with your everyday life took every bit of your conscious effort? A couple of years ago, I would have adamantly declared that this description had nothing to do with me. I would even have argued the point.

Watching my much loved husband be consumed with Parkinson's Disease took all the emotional energy I could muster, especially during his last four years of life. If asked to describe myself, I would have said I was happy but sad, fun-loving but stressed, calm of spirit but frazzled. I would have said I was the same person I'd always been, even though knowing I was losing my husband to a disease distressed me on the deepest level of my being. I would have said my sense of humor remained intact.

But I would have been wrong.

I didn't realize that until last month. The Lord has a time and season to reveal what has unknowingly been going on inside us while we dealt with our everyday life. On the day in question, I was doing nothing more than planning my Christmas list and thinking about the quilts I'd make for my grandkids. In the midst of that, I was praising the Lord for returning my joy of life, even though I still missed Jim. Somehow, the scar had healed and though I remain much aware that I am alone, the pain of remembering seldom sneaks up on me anymore. Since it's been only 2 1/2 years, I know it is God's love and grace that has sustained me and brought me to this point.

In the deepest part of me, I realized that this would be the first Christmas that I would have fun. That I would honestly laugh. That I could again be part of the family party rather than an outsider looking in. That is what my mind was dwelling on when it suddenly hit me that I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt like this. It was such a startling revelation, I stopped and asked the Lord, "How long have I been lost and didn't know it?"

I felt like the "old" me. The person I'd grown up with. The adult I'd become. Genuine laughter had come back; joking around and teasing friends rose up inside me and I knew for a fact, the "real" me had been gone a long time. Years, in fact. Long before Jim died. Think as I might, I couldn't remember the time when the real "me" went away and the "determined to survive" me took up residence.

What I did realize is that the Lord had hidden the truth from me, lest I lose heart and falter along the way, giving in to debilitating grief at watching Jim deteriorate before my eyes. I understood that I'd been dealing with life a day at a time. Sometimes a minute at a time. I understood everything that faced me as a caregiver. But I wasn't cognizant one little bit that I had slowly changed into a different person.

The Lord loves me so much that He just kept carrying me through that dark valley, choosing not to reveal to my inner self what was happening inside of me. The Bible says "there is a time and a season for everything" and it dawned on me that day that I wouldn't have been able to handle the changes in my personality BEFORE the return of my peace and joy.  I've always known that God's timing is perfect. Knowing is a far different experience than personally experiencing the truth of that scripture.

What I have come to understand is that the "old" me didn't disappear overnight, but the "old me" returned in an instant. Only the Lord could have effected such a miracle. In the midst of planning for my first "fun" Christmas since losing Jim, came the revelation that I'd been lost a long time. And while I requested of the Lord to tell me when it began, all I ever heard from Him was that it didn't matter because I'd done what needed to be done to care for Jim, and in doing so, I'd cared for the Lord. The scripture that ran through my mind was, "When did I see you sick and take you in? When did I see you hungry and feed you? When did I see you naked and clothe you? And Jesus answered them saying, 'As you have done it unto the least of these, you have done it unto Me."

From that day on, the joy has remained. The fun and laughter are as though they never left. The joking and teasing are again part of my being. Everyday is full of adventure. Filled with fun. My new crafting friends drop by often and we still meet every Tuesday evening to work on our latest endeavors and help one another with things that need to be finished quickly. We named ourselves The Snail Trail Crafting Ladies simply because all of us are desperately slow in getting where we're going. Mostly because of all the artificial knees or hips or disagreeable spines or feet that sometimes do our bidding and sometimes not. We laugh at ourselves. It adds great joy to my life to be with those who are like me, widowed or left alone, who lean on one another for help and get done what needs to get done. We are becoming a family.

I realized the change had been complete when all of the widow blogs I always used to read no longer appealed to me. In fact, they saddened me to what I was and no longer wished to be. Yes, I'm still a widow. Yes, I'm still alone and intend to stay that way--unless the Lord has cloned Jim, which I think unlikely. Yes, I'm happy. You bet I'm busy quilting and knitting and sewing--what with 4 kids, 7 grandkids, and two sisters to make presents for.

 I can honestly say I feel no drudgery in my life anymore. I wake up happy. I've metamorphosed back into the smiling, fun-loving girl Jim married so very many years ago. The wilderness is behind me. Green grass, flowered hills. sunshine and the granite sturdiness of a mountain range are what I am currently seeing through my spiritual windows. And they all symbolize to me the scripture that says, "I will look to the hills, from whence comes my help."  For me, I can look nowhere else for the desire to carry on but "To the Rock, which is higher than I."

I know God is happy for me. That He sings over me with joy. And if Jim can look down from heaven and see the "refurbished" me, I know he is smiling from ear to ear. That sly grin that I always loved. I can see it now. All I have to do is close my eyes and turn on my imagination.

Blessings,

Sandy

Knowing Who I Am

Since childhood I'd carried a secret that few knew about. I'd kept it a secret because when I'd told my parents, they had laughed. Not only had they laughed, but they'd teased me about it in front of their friends. Looking back, I think maybe I misunderstood their levity, looking at it as ridicule when perhaps it was never meant as such. I only know that once laughed at, I took my secret underground, hiding it in my heart and never telling another soul. Not even Jim.

By the time our kids were in school full time, I felt as though I needed to talk with Jim and bring my long-held secret into the light. I felt like that because I so badly wanted to follow my heart's desire and knowing Jim as I did, I didn't think he'd laugh at me. Even if he did, I told myself, at least my wishes would be out in the open. That's how it came about that on a day when he was off work and the kids were in school that I told him I wanted to talk with him about something important to me. He was more than agreeable. It was his nature.

We sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, me talking and Jim listening. "I've always wanted to be a writer," I told him. "Now that the kids are in school all day, I'd like to take some adult education classes and learn how to do it right." Jim reached over and took my hand and with seeming concern, he asked why I'd never told him this before. I detailed my story for him. The laughter. The seeming ridicule. The fact that I'd written stories since grade school and hid them where nobody would find them, simply because I was so sensitive to being teased. By the time I was fourteen, I told him, I'd written a whole book. It was out in the garage, packed inside the box with my other high school trinkets--the whole thing stored up in the rafters where no one would find it.

Always on my side, Jim looked me in the eyes and told me to go for it. "If that's what you want," he said, "then you should pursue it. Take all the classes you want and as long as you're home when the kids get out of school, you'll never hear a complaint out of me." I threw my arms around him and gave him a long kiss. My secret was out. He hadn't laughed. He'd been supportive. I loved him for his caring attitude.

A few days later, out of the blue, Jim asked what I might be needing to pursue the career I wanted so badly. "A typewriter would be nice," I suggested. He told me to start looking for a used one. That made perfect sense. Like all young couples, we lived pay check to pay check and I knew a used typewriter would be all we could afford. I found one in the classifieds a few days later. I sounded perfect.

That night Jim and I went to look at it. The big old Underwood was exactly like the machine I'd had in school and at my parent's home. The keys were fast; the type clear. Jim handed the man $25 cash and carried the heavy metal typewriter to the car and later, into the house where it sat atop the desk. I was thrilled. And while I never knew where Jim had gotten the money, I suspected that he had saved it up over months. He took $20 at the beginning of every month to use as he wished. My best guess was the typewriter money was the accumulated leftovers he'd hoarded because I knew it hadn't come out of the budget.

A few days later, Jim told me that I should concentrate on my goal and not to worry about where the money would come from. "You learn to write," he said. "I'll pay the bills. I'll buy the paper, the typewriter ribbons, pay the postage, whatever you need, I'll take care of it till you're earning enough for the writing to fund itself." I was grateful beyond description. I had his full backing. And not one smirk, not ever.

I collected rejection slips for a year before making my first sale. I'd written a short story and sold it to a church publication for their children's take home magazine. My check came to $15. My next check, many months later, came from a children's publisher who dealt with nature. My short story about the Joshua tree earned me $150. I was dumbfounded. Jim grinned and said, "I knew you could do it. You're able to do pretty much anything you put your mind to."

My husband continued encouraging me to branch out and there came the day I submitted a travel story to a newspaper. They bought it, plus some of the photos I'd submitted. My check was $125 for the package. It wasn't so much the money that intrigued me but the fact that I'd only sold one-time rights and could market the same story again and again. I sold that one piece to ten different newspapers all across the states. I'd found my niche. Travel stories it would be from then on and with only a few exceptions, that is where I stayed.

By the time twenty years had gone by, I was Sandra L. Keith, Travel Writer. By now I'd become well enough known that publishers called me, gave me a subject matter, a deadline, and a decent salary. In the ten more years before I retired myself to spend all my time with Jim, I'd written six books and more magazine and newspaper stories than anyone in their right mind would ever want to read. No one was more proud of me than Jim. And while my parents bragged to all their friends about their "famous" daughter the writer, I laughed at them, telling them outright that if it wasn't for Jim, their so called famous daughter would never have had the nerve to venture into the unknown.

How grateful I was that Jim had always encouraged me to be me. I sometimes felt like I was many different people: Jim's wife, the kid's mother, the Cub Scout den helper, the school reading helper, the PTA cookie maker. I was like every other mom I knew, with a family to care for and obligations in the neighborhood. But I was also Sandra L. Keith, author. To this day I give God the glory for gifting me with an affinity for words. And I still give Jim the credit for pushing me into putting them on paper.

Author's comments:


An awful attitude took over inside me when Jim died. Looking back, I believe it invaded my heart the moment I saw his head fall back and a deathly gray pallor replace his usually robust color. The best way I can think to describe what happened inside me is "Who cares?" Those two words became my motto for the next ten months. 


I refused to care for myself. Who cares if I brush my teeth twice a day? Who cares if my hair is clean and tidy? Who cares if a filling came out of a tooth? Who cares if I pay the bills on time? Who cares if the kitchen is full of dirty dishes? Who cares if the carpet hasn't been vacuumed for a week? Who cares about anything?


That attitude was where I lived and slept. I knew the Lord was beside me, yet I couldn't summon up the wherewithal to take care of the body God had given me or the house I lived in. I had finally agreed with the Lord that I was meant to live. Wasn't it enough that I no longer prayed to die? The few things I did do every day were to bathe, wear clean clothes, and feed my animals. I thought that was sufficient. I didn't eat regularly and when I did, it was usually something I could microwave. I didn't care if the bed got made or if the bare floors were swept or groceries were purchased. I did the laundry only when I ran out of clothes and rather than go food shopping, I ordered online for home delivery.


I began losing weight; my skin erupted into blotches. I looked in the mirror and puzzled over how a 70 year old woman could suddenly pop up with acne. Only when the itching became unbearable did I seek medical help. For the most part I lived in Jim's big recliner, watching the television without really caring what was on. I tried reading, but couldn't follow the story. I tried knitting but ended up in tears because it reminded me of the last two years I'd spent sitting beside Jim during his immobile times.


I have one widow friend who has been alone two years longer than I have. She is still in a whirlpool of not knowing who she is. I try to help her but she isn't interested in changing. At least not yet. How thankful I am that even in my "who cares?" modus operandi I knew who I was. I've always known who I was. I knew I had talents that I would eventually care about bringing to the fore. I knew I was competent. I knew how to run the house. I knew all about my finances. I knew how to re-program the thermostat and the sprinkling system. I knew everything I needed to know to live on my own. Jim had made sure of that. Yet the thing was, I just plain didn't care.


I did not have to search for who I was without Jim, as so many of the books on grieving claim the widow is forced to do following the death of her soul mate. I can't totally explain in words the feelings that took up residence within me, but suffice it to say that I understood I was now a widow. Yet I was still Sandra L. Keith. I began wondering how long I'd been two people: the loving wife and the writer. It puzzled me. It still does. I felt in my heart that circumstances had forced me to give up being Jim's wife. I grieved and am still grieving that I've lost that part of me, for Jim was my life. Even so, little by little, I see my other self emerging. The writer puts my feelings on paper, illustrates the gut-wrenching facts of losing a loving spouse and in doing so, helps the widow in me heal. In many ways, it's nearly symbiotic.


Many of the books I've read concerning widowhood suggest there is nothing wrong with conjuring up your spouse, talking to him regularly, even asking questions concerning things the widow needs to know. I've discovered even some supposedly Christian books talk about writing letters to the loved one while other books now in my library tell the widow to ask the departed for advice or a supernatural visit. I find no scriptural references for such acts. For me, talking to God about everything that touches my life takes precedence over any other avenue.


Last week I was trying to put a new roll of paper in the adding machine and couldn't figure out how it worked. I tried and tried to no avail. In desperation I said, "God I don't know how to do this. Please show me."  It immediately came to my mind that the paper loaded from the back. I looked and sure enough. There it was. I set the paper in the slot and pushed the load button. Done. 


So I ask myself, "Would I have received an answer had I asked Jim how to do it? As I read my bible, I can find no passage that tells me the dead can communicate with those of us on earth. I prefer going to the One who spoke the worlds into existence; Who gave every star a name; Who runs to my aid in time of trouble; Who owns the cattle on a thousand hills; Who promised in Hebrews that He would never leave me nor forsake me. If I'm going to bet on who's listening to me, I'm going to bet on a sure thing. That's a major part of who I am.

"For I know the thoughts that I have toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. And you will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart." Jeremiah 29: 11-13

Mourning And Memories

Jim and I never had a
real honeymoon. We
visited his aunt in
Pittsburgh and his sister
in Virginia. I didn't
care. At least we
were together.

Jim and I had been married less than a month when he came home from work one day, handed me his paycheck, and told me to pay the bills. It was the wife's job, he said. I stood there with my mouth open and what was surely a puzzled look on my face. I was barely seventeen, had never  paid a bill in my life, didn't know how to write a check or even open a bank account. Guess I'd led a very sheltered life.

"I don't know how to pay bills," I said. "It's your check, you should do it." Jim gave me that slow grin of his and suggested I ask his mom for help. Seems the whole four years Jim had been in the navy, he'd sent his paycheck home and his mom had paid what few bills he'd had and banked the rest. I figured by now he must have quite a nest egg built up. Not so, he informed me. His parents had his permission to use leftover money if they needed it and it seems they'd needed it.

Jim's sister, his brother, and him at the
end of the line, all had to work to help pay
the family bills. Jim delivered newspapers
until he was seventeen and joined the navy.

That shouldn't have surprised me. Jim, his brother and his sister had all had to work to help support the family ever since they were kids. And while the Keith family was cast of gold, their income consisted mostly of dimes and nickles.  Or so I was told. Jim always insisted that delivering papers taught him responsibility. I guess he was right. One of his  greatest attributes, besides his dry sense of humor, was the way he stepped up to responsibility without ever once dragging his feet or looking back.

During all our years as man and wife, things around our house went pretty much as they do in most houses. I continued to pay the bills in addition to all the rest of "wife" stuff and Jim took care of everything else, plus a few of the things I never seemed to get to. Like cleaning off the top of the refrigerator. I couldn't see it; he could. My rule was, if you can see it and it bothers you, then you should scrub it. So he did. Sometimes being short pays off.

As the Parkinson's disease set in and then progressed, many of the things that had always been Jim's responsibility became mine. Not because he was no longer willing to do them but because it became too dangerous. When he was on a ladder trying to get the Christmas tree out of the garage rafters and his legs gave way, resulting in a nasty fall--which resulted in little more than a sore body--ladders became off limits. When he still insisted he could mow the lawn, then fell with the power mower going full blast, lawn work was scrubbed from his list of duties.

I knew how difficult it was
for Jim to hand over his
keys. He loved driving
and he loved what he
referred to as his
"dream truck."

Little by little, I assumed responsibility for those things Jim had always taken care of. When it was possible, I hired others to do the gardening and mowing and gutter cleaning. Then came the day when Jim handed me his truck keys. When I looked puzzled, he told me he no longer trusted his ability to drive as he had twice pulled in front of vehicles he thought were further away than they were. Even as he gave me his keys, he apologized. "I know how much you hate driving, Sandy, and I hate to do this to you, but if I continue, I'm afraid I could cause an accident and if you were with me and you were hurt or killed, I'd never be able to live with myself. It's just better to quit now."

By the time the Parkinson's disease had progressed to the point that I needed nurses to help with his care, nearly fifteen years had passed and while I've compressed time for the purpose of telling my story, I can look back and see that the Lord was preparing me to be alone. I just didn't recognize it. I've talked with widows who had no idea of how to handle finances or how the health insurance worked or how to keep track of vehicle maintenance or how to fill up the gas tank or even how the home security lights or automatic sprinklers worked. I'd learned all those things because I'd had to.

In the end, I was grateful. I'm still grateful. It has been hard enough to deal with losing half of my heart without the frustration of trying to figure out all the financial things, the life insurance, and all the other stuff that rears its head, demanding to be dealt with in a timely manner. In the last year of his life, Jim made arrangements for me to sign every financial document so I would have access not only to his IRA, but every other asset he had always personally overseen.

Jim had already been
diagnosed with
Parkinson's when this
photo was taken. His
neurologist was able to
keep him working six
more years before Jim
had to go off on
disability.

Sometimes I find myself wondering if Jim suspected his time was growing short. I know I had no inkling. Neither did his many doctors. Nor anyone else who spent any time with him. Yet by the time he moved to heaven, I was fully prepared to take care of the dozens of jobs Jim had always assumed responsibility for. And although I knew how to handle paperwork, I flunked at losing the man I had loved for so long and so hard and so thoroughly.

It's been more than eighteen months since his passing and while I can now speak of him without tearing up every time, there are ambushes that come at me unbidden and at any time of day or night. A  song, a sound, a smell. Some memory of Jim that floods my heart, filling up my entire being. It is then that the tears flow and I just let them.


Author's comments:


While all of these blogs about my journey into widowhood have been difficult to write, this one has been particularly painful, though I'm not sure why. I wept while I wrote it; I'm weeping now. I've put off writing my author's notes for almost a week, waiting for my emotions to settle back into some form of stability, but that isn't happening. 


Every widow I know and have spent time with tells me the same things I'm feeling myself: their husband was one of a kind, the dearest man God ever created, an affectionate lover, a spouse both gentle and strong, a person given more to smiling than frowning, a hero in a white hat. And most important, the love of their life, who loved them back equally or even more.


For me, the anger that built into volcanic proportions and finally blew was not directed at God for taking Jim, but for leaving me behind. That became the root of the anger that followed. Had that intense anger not resided within me, I likely would never have taken offense at those well-meaning friends who spoke without thinking as to how their words would hurt me. I pray that they may learn how to comfort the bereaved, for if there is nothing else I've learned, I've learned how to do just that. And had that anger not coupled with my original anger, I likely would have shrugged off my long-time friends email as her opinion but not necessarily truth.


But that isn't what I did. And so it festered. Until that night I threw myself across my bed and sobbed out to God to deliver me from so much anger and bitterness. I could not carry it any longer; I didn't want it to be part of me anymore. Grieving my loss was all I could handle and if I were ever to heal, the anger had to go and the peace of God needed to flow into me. I wanted more than anything to stand clean before the Lord that He and I might get on with my journey into accepting widowhood.


Because I believe that God already knows everything, it's always been my nature to be honest with Him. The morning after sobbing myself to sleep, I got up to my usual routine of coffee and more coffee and maybe some toast. When I felt my brain was sufficiently awake to think straight, I took my bible and a notebook, sat down in Jim's recliner, and asked the Lord to meet me there. I had some things I needed to discuss and some people I needed to forgive. I turned to 1 John 1:9 and read "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."


I'd been forgiven before, maybe a zillion times. I trusted the Lord to forgive me yet again. One by one, the people who's words had stung came to mind and although I'd forgiven them time and again, this time I forgave and consciously let the hurt go. As each face came to mind, I did the same thing. I felt like I was making progress, yet I knew something big still sat on my heart. I asked the Lord to show me what was left to do. As I sat in that chair that was way too big for me, I heard the softest whisper in my spirit and the words sounded like "Now forgive me."


Knowledge filled me and while I sobbed almost uncontrollably, I heard it again. "Now forgive me."  I knew exactly what God was asking. Yet I had questions. "Why did you make me watch him die so unexpectedly? And why does that gut-wrenching video loop my mind stored play over and over again?" It came to me that denial is the first step of grief, yet I had bypassed that step because of the reality I'd witnessed. I had not denied Jim's death. I knew with horrid certainty that he was gone. I asked the Lord to be gracious to me and remove the video loop from memory. What I heard in my heart was that the video would remain as a part of my memory, but the pain of it would diminish. And from that time on, the loop stopped playing and when it came to mind, the agony of it was gone, replaced by a sort of sadness that I could bear.


I'd been sitting in Jim's chair most of the morning, going step by step as the Lord directed. Yet I still heard those same words in my spirit. "Now forgive me." I thought about what that meant, knowing it was God who was in the forgiving business, not me. It was then I saw myself, alone for the first time in my life, trained by circumstances to go on alone, but dragging my heels all the way. "God, I don't want to be here," I said. "You know I want to be with you, I want to be where Jim is. I'm not afraid to die. You know that about me."


"Forgive me for leaving you behind," was what kept floating through my mind. "I have work for you to do." Stubborn that I am, I tried one last time, pleading with God to take me home. Yet I knew that wasn't going to happen. At least not anytime soon. I opened my bible to no special place, laid my hands on God's word, and forgave Him for making me stay on earth without the other half of my being. And even as I cried, I physically felt anger leave me and peace fill my heart. That peace has remained and I've been grateful, for the widow's path is strewn with many difficult situations and in order to heal to the point where I would again be useful to the Lord, I needed to continue walking through that dark valley until I came out into the sunlight. I wondered how long it would take.

"For I know the plans I have for you says the Lord, plans for peace and not evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and you will find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart." Jeremiah 29:10-13