Sir, I'm very sorry for your loss and, at the same time, quite envious of what you so clearly enjoyed. I'm quite sure that if I died tomorrow, my wife would wear white to the funeral out of sheer joy.
I can't express my sorrow at your loss, nor can I express how grateful I am for the time you had with her. You love those grandkids and raise them up in the Lord. And you tell them to never, ever marry outside of their faith, ok?
Praying for you and yours and the soul of your dear wife.
it's taken me a while to reply to this. I'm not good at finding the right words in these occasions.
But I simply had to reply.
I followed your thread when your wife wasn't feeling well, and everyone could feel what you
were going through. It was heartbreaking at times. I wish you the very best, I hope you'll
have a great time with your grandchildren.
May 29th was the day she went to join the Lord. However my kids, Grandkids, pets are the only thing that shrinks the hollow spot in my heart. I’m moving forward and doing well. @DGErwin11 sent me a private message almost a year ago. He needs to know that his words sunk into my thick skull. More than many words of advice I was given. He needs to know that through a simple yet to the point message did so much to help me. It reminded me of what my Father in a stern way would have said to me. Doug has a special place in my heart because through his PM it was a boot in my backside that I needed. Doug will forever hold a spot in my heart because of a simple PM that was timed just when I needed to hear it.
My beloved is now with God.
You may have never known what you sent to me in a simple and subtle PM were words that were timed perfectly. I cannot explain but the timing was perfect. Those words are advice I have shared with several other people who lost their spouses all too soon. Doug is a man I never met in person, along with those words were a unique feeling of “its all gonna be ok—follow my advice.”
One year is hard and at the same time a relief. No more firsts! First birthday. First anniversary. First Christmas. Etc... I just marked the 18th anniversary of my wife's death. I'm 52. I have now lived without her longer than I ever knew her. How did that happen... but one day at a time. I often ask myself why... why... why...? The only answer that has any merit is... to help others. Otherwise all the feelings and emotions I felt were for nothing. I found the following on Facebook. I with I could give credit. It struck me in the heart when I read it and now I pass it on to you. God bless.
I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived (so far) and a lot of people I’ve known and love did not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter”. I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.
As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything… and the wave comes crashing. But in between the waves there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.
Take it from on old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.