There’s a phrase that’s popular these days, or maybe it was trending a few months ago and I’m just behind the times. Anyway, in an effort to keep up my youthful persona, I’m using it here:
So, I did a thing.
That’s it. That’s the phrase. Isn’t it oddly curious?
Well, I think it is, and I also think it’s just too darn applicable not to use. Because I’m not sure of any other way to describe the first time I watched a video of my husband since his death in 2005.
I’d like to think that I’ve done my share of grieving over the past 13+ years. Hindsight reveals missteps in the early months after Brad’s death (and plenty since then), but I suspect missteps are as much a part of the grief journey as falling is when learning to walk. The rawness of being a 29-year-old widow clouded my judgment and being good at grieving simply never made it to the top of my priority list.
In recent years, however, I’ve had the privilege of facilitating a grief group at our church. Its structured program offered guidance and practical steps toward healing from a profound loss. The video series and workbook provided all of the content for our Sunday evening get-togethers, while my role was that of staying quiet enough to allow for tears and awkward silence that ultimately sparked group conversation, and occasionally asking the tough questions on subjects most non-grievingfolks are too uncomfortable to broach. The surprising outcome of that experience has been the level of my own personal healing. Isn’t that so often how it goes, though? We enter into an act of service prepared to give, yet walk away having received so much more than we actually contributed.
There were times over the course of my years in the grief group that I felt like a hypocrite, though. The video hosts explained that healing from the death of a loved one is a process, a physical act… not unlike walking into water or hiking an unfamiliar trail. I encouraged participants as they reported steps they hadtaken on their own journeys. Tasks like cleaning out a closet, making holiday preparations, and surviving anniversary dates were celebrated through tears, knowing nods and deep hugs. As the months and years passed, a gnawing sense of embarrassment simmered beneath my empathetic surface. The inauthenticity of my words versus actions was becoming a nagging voice that was hard to silence.
I told myself (and others) that I had done the hard work. I went through the clothes, distributed possessions and even posted pictures on social media. What I neglected to mention was that in the thirteen years of my husband’s absence, I had not been able to bring myself to see him truly alive- moving and living- nor could I bear to hear his voice. My daughters grew up looking at carefully crafted photo albums of their dad, with verbiage describing his witty humor and charismatic charm. They saw the dad that I painted for them and I saw the husband that I could view without breaking.
Until now.
I needed to take the walk, the arduous hike up the steepest mountain I had yet to climb, prepared to meet whatever was at the top- whether a cliff, a barren dessert, or even my highschool sweetheart.
With loving encouragement from my now-husband, Joe, I began considering what this would look like. He provided support in every way imaginable from offering to view the videos alongside me, to technical support (these “tapes” are now considered ancient relics, it seems), or to simply make the popcorn and pour the wine for the movie night of all movie nights.
Ultimately, though, the realization became clear that this was a journey I had to take on my own.
out of the dust 