No Lesson, Only Experience

Overwhelming green and lush roadside grasses welcomed me back.
Flying down the road, feeling strong and independent
Believing I could handle anything that came, albeit a snow plow, a flatbed of hay,
Eating alone in a dive restaurant.
Yes, I could do it.

I needed this trip to tell me I could still do it.
I needed it to tell me Health and Vitality will return.

The green told me it was all true.
The social setting said none of it was true.

Someone I had not seen for decades asked,
"What's the one big thing you've learned since Rod died?"
His emotionless question shot directly to the top of my list:
"Worst things to say to a grieving person."
While I maintained the expected, social composure required of educated adults
My brain, heart, soul, and spirit spun out of control.

Wanting to say,
             "What an idiot you are to ask such an academic research question!
               Clearly, you know nothing of death, nothing of loss, nothing of grief!"
Instead, I took the hook that always gets me -- if I can explain it well enough then the other person will understand and have empathy.

Always a lofty intellectual goal, but not realistic in the ever deep minefield of grief.
Heard myself getting lost in this example and that example,
With emotions building deep inside with literally nowhere for them to go,
Fiddling with the half eaten piece of pie on my plate,
Wishing for a quick escape.

One man lingers at the church door with tears in his eyes,
Another tells an old classmate to back off because he's still raw with loss,
She lives now in a small apartment without her lifelong love,
His young frame is bent with pain while his cane matches Grandma's,
She puts on a brave face knowing she's the only widow in her peer group ~
                                                                                                         They all know grief.

I wish I'd had the courage to tell the man there is no lesson, only experience.
There is no biggest or smallest thing from the past twenty months, only experience.
It's impossible to explain, for you to know, until it is your experience.

I can say, though, that those who grieve are the toughest people on the planet.
Resiliency becomes the only outfit we wear, day in and day out.
The ever present, low hum of life itching for another chance propels our steps.
Exhaustion may greet us every night as we fall into the bed that used to be full of love,
   but somehow we get up every morning and do what we have to do.

For some it's faith, for some it's deeply grooved habit, for some it's blind willpower.

I wish I'd had the eloquence to tell the man about the beauty in the midst of pain,
About the dreams where Rod looks so good,
is clearly not part of this world,
And always, always, always standing by a door.

Grief winnows the heart and soul like no other tool on earth.
We take the moments of resilience along with the hours of pain and confusion,
Trusting that soon life will morph into
Hours of resilience and only moments of pain.

The trip told me I can still do it - fly down the highway independent and strong.
It broke the news that Health and Vitality will return.

In the midst of my brokenness
Wearing my widow label
I am more resilient than I knew.
With the Lord's help, I am stronger and more faithful than I thought possible 20 months ago.

Next time he comes in a dream looking younger, healthy, smiling at me, full of love and
Standing by a door
He'll know, too.

And, as he always was, he'll be proud of me.
I can do this.
I can do this, even with tears in my eyes and forever in my heart,
I can do this.

Rod's Name

After almost 20 months, he still gets mail. It's not important stuff, but enough to set me back every time I pick up the mail. Cabela's and Sweetwater Music are just a couple. The trash bill still carries his name after multiple requests to change the account. Many junk mail outlets have gleaned his name from who knows what lists. I can't possibly contact all of them. What am I supposed to do with this stuff several times a week? This is the kind of grief detail that people rarely hear about. I don't want his name and our address in the recycling bin so I tear the labels off before throwing it in there. But, then his name stares at me from the counter. Before I throw the remaining label pieces away I tear them up and doing this several times a week is sadly exhausting. It just seems wrong to tear up his name, but letting it pile up on the counter would be crazy.

Two weeks ago I made a home visit with a newly grieving widow. When she looked at my business card she asked the question I've heard for decades, "Castro? What kind of name is that?" Overlooking her obviously racist tone I explained, "Oh, it's Spanish. In the 1700's my husband's family received California land grants from the King of Spain. In fact, they owned much of the Monterey coast." She backed off.

Last week I met some friends after work at a restaurant near the University of Oregon. One of them was trying to remember the name of a small brewery north of Eugene. She asked, "What's the name of that place you went to with so and so when your husband was still alive?" Really? I was dumbfounded. First, of course we went when Rod was still alive. Second, she could have used his name. Third, there was no need to remind me that I was the only widow in our small group of seven.

Less than a week ago I pulled together Mom's tax material to send to her accountant in Montana. I went to my desk to get a 9x12 envelope and randomly pulled one from the middle of the stack. That was it. I was taken out. In Rod's handwriting, the return address started with Rev. Rod Castro and continued with our/my current address. He obviously changed his mind about using it and put it back in the drawer. What was I supposed to do with it? In no way could I tear it up like the junk mail labels. It's in his hand. I couldn't put it back in the drawer, either. With conflicting emotions of dread and courage, I stuck it on my studio bulletin board. It graphically reminds me, in his own hand, that he was here. His name is good. He was very much alive and had plans for the future.

Rod's name. It's precious to me and 20 months into this I struggle greatly when it's trivialized by junk mail and insensitive comments. I thrive, though, when I hear it in loving conversations, "How did Rod serve communion?" "I remember when you and Rod did......"  "Rod would have..."

Yes, the names of the dead are precious and holy. Those who remain on this side of eternity need to hear them in this frame, in this space.