Oh, Deer

Anthony spent every available second in his beloved woods on one of the family farms. Much of that time was spent cultivating a habitat for deer, turkeys and other wildlife.  He invested so much time and energy to this effort during the 19 plus years we were married.  

Anthony was very involved in the local chapter of Whitetails Unlimited for many years and up until his death.  One of his best friends, Dan Vogt, is their field director.  Whitetails Unlimited is a great organization.  

According to their website:

Whitetails Unlimited is the nation's premier nonprofit whitetail (deer) organization. Our mission is to raise funds in support of educational programs, wildlife habitat enhancement and acquisition, and the preservation of the shooting sports and hunting tradition for future generations.

Each year in late February or early March, Whitetails Unlimited holds their Deer Camp. The event always sells out quickly and is one of the top grossing annual Whitetails Unlimited events in the country.  It is the place to be if you are a dedicated deer hunter. Anthony was one of the key volunteers working alongside Dan to plan and execute the event. Planning began as soon as one event ended and was ongoing.  When Deer Camp arrived, Anthony spent the day helping with set up, was there every step of the way with the silent and live auctions and anything else that needed doing, then stayed after to tear down and clean up. It was time spent doing something beneficial for his beloved deer and it was time spent with good friends, including Dan, David Westmoreland, John Jones and others.  Our son, Ben, helped with set up for a number of years, as well.

Anthony always had a table at Deer Camp, front and center.  Besides us and the kids the remaining four seats were offered to friends.  Much of the time he had a second table, too, with an aim of filling it with people who cared about the cause and hopefully would be willing to part with some of their money that evening.

Dan Vogt is married to the beautiful Michelle.  They were our first close friends as a couple. Anthony and I met two months before they got married.  When he invited me to their wedding I knew that it would be our official debut as a couple with many of his friends. Before kids came along, Michelle and I used to spend more time together.  We had so much fun in those carefree days.  And we still have fun in our rare times together, as though no time has passed at all. 

Dan, Michelle, Anthony and I spent many good times together.  Anthony and I eventually introduced his friend Rob Seymour to my friend Greta Bassett and they were inseparable pretty much from that first meeting.  Eventually they got married and have now been together for well over a decade.   

The six of us became great friends.  We not only met often for dinner but traveled together to Mizzou football games and on floating and boating trips.  We looked forward to our get-togethers because we always knew there would be laughter.  So much laughter.  I cherish those days and miss them now.  

Anthony was a really, really funny person.  He might seem quiet around people he did not know well but around his friends and family he had us laughing constantly.  He was incredibly witty and was known for throwing a hilarious comment into a conversation when you least expected it.  One of his favorite sayings among friends was that "In certain circles I am a pretty big deal," and laughter would always follow.  And it actually was funny because he was not conceited in the least. But it spoke to his sense of humor and his ability to quote his favorite movies.

The big deal comment was first made when we were on a weekend trip with Dan, Michelle, Rob and Greta. And that was it.  That comment followed Anthony around from that point forward.  On our next weekend adventure Dan and Michelle presented Anthony with a t-shirt that read in big letters, of course, In Certain Circles I am a Pretty Big Deal. That inside joke followed Anthony for years after and we laughed about it every time it came up.  

Fast forward to the 2017 Deer Camp, just two months after Anthony died. It was held the day after Ben's 18th birthday.  So much of that time was a blur.  I knew it would be hard to go to the banquet, that the lack of Anthony's presence would be a hard blow.  I was unsure if I was prepared to face that many people in one room but even more I was unsure I could keep my emotions in check with people either expressing their sympathy or just wanting to talk about him.  Most of all, I was afraid to see pity on people's faces when they looked at the kids and me.  The sympathetic looks I can handle but the looks of pity directed at me, not so much.  

As they have been from my first day in the woods, my Golden Girls were by my side. There were tears for sure but there was also laughter and story telling and goodness.  I felt that many of the 800+ people in the room shared our sorrow and genuinely missed Anthony's presence.  

There were a few surprises in store for us that evening.  When we arrived, we were seated at, what else, the Big Deal table.  Every year a glass mug with the Whitetails Unlimited logo is offered for sale for anyone wanting to drink beer or soda.  But this time the mug contained a quote on the other side - "In Certain Circles I am a Pretty Big Deal."  We brought along poster sized photos of Anthony that had been used for the funeral, including the one of him in the infamous Big Deal t-shirt complete with that big, familiar grin.

The next surprise was learning that items were being auctioned off in Anthony's memory, with proceeds to benefit the college fund I had just established for both kids.  Renowned artist Larry Glaze of Carthage, Missouri, made and donated a bench that brought over $3,000.  Each year a scholarship is presented to outstanding students each and, another surprise, this time it was presented to Ben and Kate.  Buckets were also passed through the audience for anyone who wanted to contribute, as well.  

All in all, we left the 2017 Deer Camp with almost $15,000 in contributions for the Lopez Scholarship Fund.  I could not believe it.  In truth, I was completely overwhelmed by the generosity that Anthony and our children had been shown.  

Fast forward again to the 2018 Deer Camp.  The kids and I were in a totally different place emotionally than we had been the year before.  We had one of these events under our belts and while Anthony's presence loomed large and his absence was definitely felt, it was much easier to endure.  This time we could approach the event without fear of the unknown and without so many tears but instead replacing those tears with smiles and expressions of gratitude.  This time we treated the event as more a celebration of Anthony than a mournful occasion.  

We were again seated at the Big Deal table and the Golden Girls were present along with other good friends.  The event fell on Ben's 19th birthday this time. As a surprise, Dan led the entire room in singing happy birthday to him.  Again this year, Larry Glaze made and donated a one-of-a-kind table for the live auction and buckets were passed for contributions.   

To date, the Whitetails Unlimited organization, through Columbia's annual Deer Camp, has raised and donated over $20,000 to the Lopez Scholarship Fund.  Absolutely incredible. In addition to Dan, Michelle, David and John, special thanks to Jeff Lampe and his family for making an annual scholarship possible to deserving students.  Extra special thanks to the phenomenal Cathy Rupard and Stan Fredrick.  Cathy and Stan, there may not be two more generous souls on this earth than the two of you.  

When someone close to you dies, especially when it is sudden, it is difficult to express in words all of the changes that occur.  And you cannot truly understand it unless it happens to you.  While I know that Anthony was loved and respected by many people, I never would have expected the generosity we have experienced. In some cases it has been from people we knew well and in some cases it has been from people we have never met.  In some cases the generosity has been completely anonymous.  Regardless, it has been humbling and it has offered us tremendous hope.  

There will never be enough ways for us to offer our gratitude and appreciation to every person who made a gift to the scholarship fund in Anthony's memory.  Perhaps the best way to sum it up is to let these people know how their gifts have been used.  Ben is now in his second semester at the University of Missouri but he finished his first semester as a new freshman with a 3.5 GPA.  All indications are good that he will repeat that this semester. We taught him to take his education seriously, of course, but he has worked even harder at his studies because of his appreciation to those who invested in his education and that of his sister.

Resources allocated to education are a wise investment.  Giving to Whitetails Unlimited is a pretty terrific investment, as well.  And I know, because I have directly experienced the impact of both.  Giving is good.  We reap far more in return for what we give than for what we receive.

All of this because of a funny, witty, hard-working, well-respected, genuine and one-of-a-kind guy named Anthony Lopez.  In our circle, and in the circles of so many, you will forever be a big deal.  May you continue to rest in peace and know that you, and your many contributions, will never be forgotten.

We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.

--Winston Churchill  

I don't know how to put this but I'm kind of a big deal.

--Will Ferrell as Ron Burgundy, Anchorman

And The Thunder Rolls

On this day one year ago a small group of family and friends gathered to celebrate Anthony's life by scattering his ashes.  It was an overcast Sunday morning and the sky threatened rain from the moment we set out.  But rain was not in the forecast. Curious.  
It was the last day of winter and the wind was sharp.  It blew from the north all of that day.  

Our group met at the cemetery where Anthony had previously buried his brother, Hans, then his father, Joe, followed by his brother, Trin, and finally his mother, Ellen.  I was by his side for all but one of those good byes.  Anthony was the last of his family to die. Only his mother lived past retirement age, to 72.The rest of them passed at a much younger age - Hans at 18, Joe at 62 and Trin at 31.  I now believe Anthony always knew, deep down, that he would not live a long life.  In hindsight I think he prepared me for that during our entire marriage and his aim was to make sure the kids and I were well cared for following his death.

I had asked my dear friend, Shelly, to select some bible passages and poems to read at all of our stops.  When we left the cemetery we headed to Anthony's favorite duck hunting spot at our friend Aaron's lake.  In the 20 minute drive the clouds became darker and darker and as we pulled up to park, the sky opened up and poured rain.  There was thunder and lightning, and the wind blew hard the entire time.  It was a storm that came from nowhere.  We sat in our vehicles and talked via text and cell phone while we waited for the rain to clear out.  Later we learned that the storm clouds had popped up over a very limited part of rural Howard County, where we just happened to be.  The storm came and just as quickly it was gone.  Again, curious.

When the skies cleared, we all got out of our cars and followed Aaron through the fields, now made extremely muddy.  I felt that Anthony had a great chuckle as we slogged through the mud. That was exactly his type of humor.  We walked a long way until we arrived at the favored spot.  Shelly read scripture then we took turns scattering Anthony's ashes and telling a favorite story.  The photo above has the duck lake in the background.  I am glad that we could smile in the midst of an experience that was incredibly hard.

We ended our trek at the cemetery near Rocheport.  Most of my family members on both sides now reside in that cemetery.  Though it was Anthony's wish to be cremated and he cared little about a final resting place for part of his remains, it was important to me to have a place for our family and friends to honor his memory and to visit moving forward.

Anthony and Ben spent many hours in that cemetery helping my dad and others with its upkeep and maintenance.  It is a beautiful and peaceful spot halfway between Columbia and Fayette.  There are stones in the cemetery that date back to the early 1800's.  Some stones, with inscriptions scrubbed away from weather and time, may be even older.  

The cemetery sits on a hill overlooking the church where my great grandparents, grandparents, my dad and his siblings attended for many years until the congregation either died off or moved away.  After sitting vacant for quite some time, a new congregation has revitalized the church.  Other than the noise of people visiting and filing in or out of church on Sunday and the occasional sound of a car motor on the two lane highway that separates the church from the cemetery, little can be heard but the sounds of nature. The rustle of trees in the wind, the chirp of birds and squirrels.  And sometimes, the sound of complete silence.  Anthony would like that, very much.

It was not until we were close to leaving the cemetery that the clouds parted and the sun finally started to come out.  The north wind stayed consistently at our backs for the day but the sun shone high in the sky with no more rain clouds in sight.  It was Anthony's way of telling us to put the past behind us, to move forward from the darkness and cold of winter and to look forward to a new beginning, the first day of spring.  It was also his way of telling us that we were going to be ok.

Anthony always said he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered in a cold north wind so that each time I felt the wind on the back of my neck, I would think of him. And I do, every single time. A year has gone by, 365 full days have passed and we have all come a long way in that time.  Time helps and time heals.  Time makes the memories more sweet and less painful.  Best of all, time offers hope - the hope of renewal and that somehow, someway, better days lie ahead.

Tomorrow is another new beginning, another first day of spring, another promise of awakening and new life to come.  I look forward to that.  But today, I honor Anthony's memory and the memory of that last day of winter when we told his physical presence goodbye.  

I awoke today to an overcast sky.  Rain fell for much of the day, a cold, driving winter rain.   There was no thunder or lightning this time but the wind was strong and it blew all day.  And, no surprise to me, that strong wind came from the north.  Curious...

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

- M.E. Frye

Good Grief, Charlie Brown

Charlie Brown and the rest of the characters from Peanuts were always my favorite growing up.  Each week I remember reading the comic strip in the Sunday paper with my dad.  I also remember waiting with anticipation for the holiday specials to appear on TV. Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas really were not complete until Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Woodstock, Linus and Lucy kicked it off.  

Charlie Brown's catch phrase was "Good Grief."  And lately I have wondered why Charles Schultz, creator of Peanuts, chose those two words.  Grief has a negative connotation, so isn't "good grief" an oxymoron?  How can grief possibly be good?

I would never presume to know the exact journey of loss that others have been through.  I believe each experience to be as unique as each individual who goes through it and each occurrence that causes the grief in the first place.  But I have to think that grief has similar characteristics though maybe takes on different intensities and forms.

According to Merriam Webster, grief is defined as: 1. a deep and poignant distress caused by or as if by bereavement; 2. an unfortunate outcome.

Well, duh.  A great big colossal ginormous and resounding DUH!  Because those definitions, while technically accurate, do not come close to the true and complicated meaning of grief.  And I know, because I live and breathe this every day.

I have always loved the beach.  There is something amazing about walking on the sand with the water lapping at your feet and seeing an intricate and vast quilt of blue and green hues that seemingly goes on forever.  The ocean itself, in truth, frightens me.  Though it is a majestic, beautiful example of nature at its finest, it is also dark and mysterious.  The ocean brings light and life, yet it also brings darkness and death.  It is to be revered but also respected.

I have used the ocean in the past to describe what grief feels like.  For me, grief is like standing on the beach with my back to the ocean.  I am standing right at the point where the water meets the shore, typically lingers for a moment and rushes back out again.  If I tune out all distractions and close my eyes, I can hear each wave as it washes up on the beach and then washes out again in a natural and constant rhythm.

My feet are wet from the constant ebb and flow of the waves. My bare heels remain in standing water at all times though my toes go from being free in the damp sand to being immersed.  The ocean seems sometimes lazy and passive while at other times it seems insistent  and probing.  Sometimes it seems angry and relentless.  The rhythm may be slow or it may be frantic.  But regardless of the pace or frequency, the waves are constant.

While I can anticipate the regular pace of the waves, because my back is to the water I cannot see a wave until it hits the shore.  And if I cannot see the wave, then I have no opportunity to prepare for its arrival or its size.  The wave may be slight and gone almost as quickly as it arrived.  Or the wave may hit me unaware and with great force.  The wave may cause me to shift my weight from one foot to the other, recovering quickly.  Instead the wave may cause me to lose my balance and become uneasy on my feet.  Or the wave may completely overtake me and knock me down.  I may be able to recover and jump right back on my feet.  Or recovery may take only moments. Or hours. Or days.  Maybe even years.  I am fourteen months in so I do not know for sure. 

When you lose someone close to you, grief sweeps in.  It arrives like an uninvited guest to your party.  Grief begins as an unwelcome companion, an imposition, a roommate who is not of your choosing and with whom you have nothing in common.  Grief is irritating and frustrating and constant and you would give anything to make it go away.  But eventually you come to accept grief because you recognize that it is not going to go away anytime soon.  

Grief changes you.  That person you were before becomes a memory, a former version of yourself that you only partly recognize.  Grief creates a continual stream of thoughts and assessment of your actions, inactions and words.  It may be while you are in the shower or in the car driving back and forth to work.  Thoughts may come when you are trying to fall asleep or as you lie wide awake in the middle of the night.  Certain words or songs or people or places bring reminders of the past.  Sometimes those thoughts and memories arrive like old friends.  And at other times those thoughts and memories assault you, leaving you reeling and asking why.  

I became a widow fourteen months ago.  The ocean waves that knocked me down over and over at first do not hit so often now.  The water is much more calm but my feet will probably always be a little bit wet.  The difference is that I have learned to expect the waves and my feet are solidly planted when each wave hits.    

Grief has become my constant companion like a piece of clothing or an accessory that I wear.  Sometimes the grief is visible to others and try as I might there is nothing I can do to hide it or push it away.  At other times, these days most of the time, I may feel and appear more like my normal self.  People may think I am over my loss, but I live with it every second and it has redefined who I am.

From grief, I have learned many lessons.  Chief among them how fleeting and precious life is, how resilience may be defined, how the things we view as important are not actually important at all and the meaning of true love.  It just took the most awful experience of my life to completely enlighten me.  

So, maybe grief IS good, after all.  And maybe Charlie Brown is a whole lot smarter than the Peanuts gang gave him credit for.    

One of my close friends forwarded me a web link that came from the online publication Reddit. A  grieving person posted, "My friend just died.  I don't know what to do."  The following is the response that person received from someone only identified as G. Snow. Looks like G. Snow and I have a few things in common.  And perspective is everything.

“Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved 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 have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.

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 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 an 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.”

Along Came a Spider Who Sat Down Beside Her

Have you ever wondered how certain words came to be?  Who looked at a desk, for example, and decided to name it that?  Or a road?  Or a tree?  Or a widow?

The word widow makes me think of spiders, specifically black widows.  Black widows are among the most feared spiders because their bite can be harmful, even fatal.  According to Google, a black widow's venom is fifteen times stronger than that of a rattlesnake.  This from an invertebrate being roughly the size of a paper clip, weighing less than an ounce and with a life span of one to three years.  Black widows also have a violent mating ritual once a year that often ends in the death of the male spider.    

There are only a few things in life that I do not like.  Beets are at the top of the list, followed by people who are unkind but I also do not like snakes or mice or spiders.  Ironic, then, that I have had a label placed on me that reminds me of something I dislike so much.  

I have known widows in the past.  However, I always knew them as ladies in their 70s or 80s who lost a husband to illness after being married for many decades.  My own grandmother for one. She was 77 when my grandfather died but she lived to be almost 94. Up until her passing, she lived on the farm in the house she was born in, the same house where four of her five children were also born, the same house her husband died in.  My grandmother was an incredibly strong woman.  But I now understand you have to be to strong to survive the death of your spouse.  Honestly, to not only survive the event itself but to figure out how to adapt your life and keep going takes great courage and strength.  I am tougher than I realized.  Every widow must find strength they previously did not know they possessed.

The word widow is translated from the Hebrew word almana, meaning 'empty house,' that appears 56 times in the Old Testament of the Bible.  The term in Old English was widewe, from an Indo-European root meaning to ‘be empty’. A similar word in Sanskrit meant to ‘be destitute,' and the Latin vidua meant ‘bereft' or 'deprived.' The modern English word void is derived from the Latin vidua.  Yep, those all sound about right.

Did you know that there is something called the "widowhood effect?"  It seems that a woman whose husband has died has a much greater mortality likelihood, especially in the first three months following the death.  That is why you hear of married couples who live to a great age and die within days or hours or minutes of each other.  The thought of being without their partner, best friend and better half can simply be too much to bear.  I can understand how it would be so much easier to curl up and will yourself to die, too.  But no one ever promised us that life would be easy.

In past centuries it was customary in parts of Europe for a widow to wear only black for the remainder of their lives.  In the Hindu religion, the act of sati is still sometimes practiced even today.  It refers to a widow being burned, either voluntarily or by force, often on her husband's funeral pyre.  Some Hindus believe this practice to be the ultimate form of womanly devotion and sacrifice.  If not consumed by the sati practice, the Hindu culture in some areas required a widow's head to be shaved, she was forbidden to wear jewelry and she was forced to walk barefoot. 

When a death occurred during the Civil War, people believed that time stood still and thus pendulums were stopped on clocks at the hour of the person's passing.  The front door of a home was draped in heavy black fabric.  Anything shiny or reflective inside the home, such as a mirror, would be covered in the same fabric.  It was also customary for a widow to follow a very specific set of rules.  Women had to be clothed in "widow's weeds" within 24 hours of her husband's death.  This consisted of all black clothing.  When in public, the garb included black gloves and a veil to cover the face.  Widows were required to be in mourning for no less than two years.  In some locations it was customary for the widow to not leave her home and any sort of social interaction was forbidden.  Interestingly, though, a widower was only required to be in mourning for three months time.

Throughout history, women have taken a backseat versus the role of men.  Though not much is known about the role of women in the Stone Age, it is believed that women primarily held the role of gatherer and nurturer, with men serving as the hunter and protector.  In Ancient Egypt, women were in fact considered equals to men except with regard to occupation. During the Middle Ages, women were generally considered inferior to men and their role primarily involved domestic duties.  If you do your homework you will find that there were some pretty bad ass women warriors and leaders throughout history but they were definitely in the minority.  It was only in modern times during the 20th century that women began to gain more rights, including the right to vote in the U.S. in 1920.  But even in the contemporary times of today, with nearly 50% of women in the work force and more women enrolled in college than men, with women having a longer average lifespan than men, women continue to serve as the lesser or inferior gender.

Also throughout history, women being widowed bucked the norm of society.  With men serving as the primary provider and protector and women not being an accepted part of the work force until more recent times, what happened when a woman lost her husband to illness, war or an accident?  Often she became impoverished, her children were considered orphans, and they became reliant on the generosity of other family members or the church or the government.  A woman's life could change for the worst in an instant and yet because of her lack of rights and accepted societal conventions, she often was thrown into a life of hardship, sacrifice and sometimes shame and stigma.

So here is something to consider.  Women have historically had to endure a lot.  But after a woman has suffered such profound pain and loss at the death of her husband, why was it characteristic of society and accepted for centuries to further humiliate her?  Crazy when you think about it, right?  And I have thought about it a lot.

I have the best job in the world.  It is challenging and sometimes discouraging but it is also fulfilling and inspiring and amazing, too.  As executive director of The Food Bank for Central & Northeast Missouri, I get to make a difference in people's lives on a daily basis. Our team offers nourishment and hope to the individuals, children, families, seniors and veterans who need it most.  Most of the households we serve have at least one employed adult in them. Many of the people we serve are single parents who are underemployed and at the end of the month they just cannot make ends meet.  

Think about your own monthly budget.  You have those fixed costs including a mortgage payment or rent, utilities, childcare, medical and pharmaceutical costs and transportation costs.  If you do not make the payment for one of these costs then there is a negative trade-off.  In your own monthly budget, where is the one area that you can compress your spending depending on what you have left?  It is the amount you spend on food.  And that is why The Food Bank serves over 100,000 people every month and distributes 30 million pounds of food annually in 32 counties.  Because hunger is real and it is all around us.

It is not lost on me that when Anthony died my circumstances could have been very different.  Had we not saved money, had I been a stay at home mom who suddenly lost all income, had we had any debt, etc.  The list of what-ifs goes on and on.  I could instantly have found myself in need.  I could have been one of the people we serve each day.  I am so fortunate that I was not one of these people and I did have some safety nets in place but I am likely the exception, rather than the rule.  

Exactly 406 days ago a spider came along and sat down beside me.  I hate that spider but I sure have learned a lot from it.  Maybe those nursery rhymes were more insightful than we understood in our youth.  And, maybe we really do learn all we need to know of life in kindergarten.

Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet
Eating her curds and whey
When along came a spider who sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.

- Mother Goose

“The leaves let go, the seeds let go, and I must let go sometimes, too, and cast my lot with another of nature’s imperfect but tenacious survivors.” 

- Robert Fulghum, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

With artistic credits to my creative and talented Ben!  Love you to the moon and back!

Because You Gotta Have Faith

In the words of the late pop star George Michael, who died a few days after Anthony, you "gotta have faith".  If you listen to the lyrics you will quickly find that he is referring to love, not to God.  But maybe there is more to it.  There are many references to God and love in the Bible.  Perhaps the most well-known or the one that sums it up best is 1 John 4:8 - "Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love".  God is love.  Think about it.  

Faith is a touchy topic, one that seems to be a lightning rod that divides individuals and families and nations and continents.  When it comes down to it, you either have it or you don't.  You cannot have just a little; you are either in or you are out.  

I have always been a person of faith.  I was not raised to be particularly religious and we were not in the front pew every Sunday at church. I went to Sunday school sometimes.  We were in the congregation for important religious holidays and at other times.  As a child prayer was always present at bedtime and before family meals.  It was just a part of life that seemed a given.  As an adult, prayer continued to be a part of the routine, one that Anthony and I taught to the kids.  He was raised much like me, where religion was a part of life but attendance at church every Sunday did not determine if you were a good Christian or not.    

When tragedy happens, it is excruciatingly hard to have faith.  It seems impossible to believe that there is a reason and a bigger picture.  The loneliness is overwhelming and it feels as though a weight lies on your chest at all times.  Sometimes the weight threatens to crush you.  Hope seems non-existent.  It is easy to question your purpose for living.  Everything you worked so hard for no longer seems important.  Everything you thought was important suddenly is not important at all.  And you feel completely lost, like all of the light has gone from the world.  

He died on December 21st.  We still went to church on Christmas Eve just as we did every year prior.  Maybe it was about tradition or maybe I was seeking something I was never going to find.  But this time it felt like an insult to see so many people smiling, families filled with joy while mine was irretrievably broken.  The words of the minister seemed empty and even cruel.  After that we did not go back to church for months.  In that time I did not pray much.  I felt utterly alone but I leaned on my friends for help and I hugged my children more tightly.  I longed for some kind of sign to give me hope.

One of my Golden Girls is a regular attendee at the largest church in town, along with her husband and two kids.  She told me how much she liked going there.  Like me, she had been raised in the Methodist church.  Also like me, traditional church was not really speaking to her or inspiring her.  She encouraged me to attend a service with her.  At first I resisted because this particular place seemed so foreign to what I knew of church.  The mass of buildings and people were intimidating to me.  I could not imagine anything other than the traditional services I was accustomed to.  But I went with her because I needed something different and I needed to face my faith head-on.

That first service was completely out of my comfort zone and I thought I might not return.  But my daughter loved the service geared toward kids her age and I went back again for her sake, glad that she was benefiting.  We began attending regularly over the summer, only skipping services when my friend was out of town.  The thought of going on my own was too much but I live streamed the service at home.  My son has attended a few times with us, as well.  

Along the way something happened to me.  The sermons started to resonate.  I started to look forward to Sunday mornings, interested in what the message would be.  I started to feel less alone.  I started to feel some acceptance and peace.  I started to re-find my faith. And I started to have some hope that somehow I will make sense of everything.  

In the fall I took a class on grief, alongside those who have walked in similar shoes.  That was an intense experience, two hour sessions each Wednesday for twelve weeks.  I could not say that I looked forward to going each week, because I knew it would be painful.  There were many other widows in the class and we definitely formed a bond.  It was incredibly helpful to know that they understood what I had been through.  And yet none of them became a widow while in their 40s with children still to raise, aging parents and a full-time job obligation.  So as much as I appreciated their friendship and support (and continue to), I was still alone.  A recurring theme. 

The class ended in mid-November just in time to prepare for the holidays.  Whereas last year through Christmas and New Year's I was numb, this year I seemed to feel everything for the first time.  And it was hard. Hosting a meal without help cleaning, setting up or cooking. Smiling and pretending to be happy because everyone else is.  Hoping no one mentions his name and the lack of his presence, then wondering why no one mentioned his name or the lack of his presence.  Putting one less place setting on the table and seeing someone else sitting in his normal chair. No more making his favorite holiday dishes.  No more conspiring on what to get the kids for Christmas and then going shopping.  No more inside jokes about putting up the tree and the lights.  No more playing Santa together.  No more holiday parties together.  No more watching together as faces light up when stockings are emptied or gifts are opened.    

I continue to view this experience as a journey with a destination unknown.  Each day is a new learning experience and the opportunity to become just a little bit wiser.  My perspective is completely different than it once was, for the better.  I no longer take anything for granted.

I have learned one thing that takes priority over all others.  That is, life is ultimately out of our control.  We foolishly believe that our choices and plans and dreams are completely our own.  In the end though, everything is in God's hands.  Everything.  So you gotta have faith.

When Anthony and I got married, the ceremony included the usual reading from 1 Corinthians about love.  It also included one of the most famous poems in existence dedicated to love.  The words are beautiful but in my case they are also prophetic.  Why? God is love.

How Do I Love Thee?

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

With photo credits to my amazing Kate

Thank You for Being a Friend

This is a love letter, the kind that few people may have occasion to write in their lifetime.

We come into contact with many different people in our lives.  Who knows what the magic formula is for forming friendships?  First the chance meeting, then the suggestion to meet again and by that third or fourth meeting you pretty much know if the friendship is going anywhere.  Kind of like what I remember about dating from 25 years ago.  (Is it still like that?)

I have been fortunate to have many friends in my life.  Some of whom I have maintained a close friendship with since childhood or college, some of whom I was once very close to and now do not communicate with often or at all.  But each friendship, whether for a lifetime or just a season, helped shape the person I am today.

In 2010 I was one of 30 people selected for the Chamber of Commerce Leadership Columbia program.  I knew no one else in the class but ended up hitting it off with the woman seated next to me at our retreat.  Over time, we became close with another classmate and then eventually with one of the co-chairs.  

Lunch dates followed for the four of us and in 2012 we were all selected to a program called the Greater Missouri Leadership Challenge, a year-long symposium with four sessions dedicated to informing us of the challenges and opportunities faced by our state and how we could effect change.  That was a great time – four different three day periods where we learned how we could better our community but also a time when we carpooled, shared adjoining rooms and meals, and enjoyed being together.  Just the type of fun good friends should have with each other.

The four of us are so different – background, education, interests, professions, personality types.  But we made each other laugh.  Not chuckles but full-on spells of loud, convulsive, tear-inducing, sides hurting, can’t-stop-it-even-if-we-tried laughter.  It just simply felt good and right when we were together.  Each of us could completely be our authentic selves and know we could bring any issue to the table without being judged but with full support and the offer of help from the others.  We were unlikely friends from the beginning.  In hindsight, I believe we were brought into each other’s lives for a reason that we did not yet know.

None of us can remember the date of the lunch meeting that would change everything.  It started like any other, catching up on our personal and professional lives, the ever present laughter.  And none of us can remember who said it but the comment was made that if something happened to our husbands as we got older we could move in together like the Golden Girls from the popular TV series.  It seemed we each naturally fit the personality of one of the four characters.  Shelly was the sweet, lovable but slightly naive-in-the-best-kind-of-way Rose; Sarah was the tall, smart, take-charge Dorothy; Michele was the go-with-the-flow Blanche who gave us an education about life and men every time we met; and me, Sophia, the oldest who was known for being strong-willed, sarcastic and witty.

We began to refer to ourselves as the Golden Girls and gained a bit of a following on social media.  Holiday gifts began to take on a Golden Girls theme.  Other women told us they wished they were part of our circle.  And we grew stronger as a unit of friends.  I think we began to realize at that time that ours was a special friendship, one unlike what most people had.     

On that terrible day, we were supposed to have lunch and exchange Christmas gifts.  I had so looked forward to spending time with them, because it is difficult for us to find time on the calendar when all four of us are available.  There was no lunch meeting on that day but the four of us did end up together after all.  

Michele was the first call I made upon leaving my office.  She answered in her typically sunny way but immediately knew that something was wrong.  When I told her what had happened, she asked if I needed her to come with me to the farm and I told her no.  I did not know what I needed at that point and honestly would have no idea for days to come.   But she came anyway and brought Shelly along with her.  In their calm, cool and capable manner they just began doing things for us, anticipating what they thought we needed and then acting.  Sarah joined us at my house later in the afternoon.  All three of them came with bags packed determined not to leave my side or that of the kids.  

Michele became my personal assistant, chauffeur and caretaker for the next few days. She took me back and forth to the funeral home and to the bank and basically was there to cater to my every whim.  She was next to me every second and I kept her hopping.

Shelly was my list creator and organizer, helping me to figure out what needed to be done and when and by whom.  She ensured that we quickly had a plan and timeline in place.

Sarah was my advisor and backbone, helping me figure things out with her practical approach to everything and just reminding me to keep getting up and to keep going. Though I remember every detail of the day he died, the next week leading up to the service was a blur.  But I do know the Golden Girls were there through it all.  They kept the kids and me moving forward though we were all in shock and existing in a fog.  They gave up their regular lives to ensure that we could keep going with our own, foreign as it was. 

I had other friends who offered to help and did so much for us in those early days and beyond.  Amazing, wonderful friends to whom I beyond grateful for their support and whom I cherish.  But the Golden Girls did not ask, they just showed up in full force and began to do things for us, many of those things we did not even know we needed.

We all held a bunking party in my living room for the first few nights but for a full week at least one of them stayed overnight with us, quietly making sure we had what we needed while at the same time providing as much levity as possible to what would otherwise be a very somber household.  Sarah included us at her Christmas Eve open house, and we attended church with Shelly and her family, followed by brunch at her parents the next morning.  They made sure that all of the bases were covered for us.

Next up they all helped with the many decisions, arrangements and logistics needed to be determined for the service and they took over arrangements for the gathering at our house following.  Michele set up a meal train on Facebook and within an hour or so we had commitments for a dinner meal to be provided for the next month.  She became the great communicator from sharing details of the service with family and friends, to keeping people posted on our progress, to fielding calls from reporters to ordering thank you cards.  I lacked for nothing and my children lacked for nothing because of these three friends.   

In the days and weeks that followed, the Golden Girls had every milestone on the calendar. When any significant day was approaching, they had a plan of action.  Each day would start with an early morning group text exchange to lift my spirits.  New Year's Eve? Bunking party. Valentine's Day? Dinner at my house with me playing chef.  My would-be 20th wedding anniversary?  Impromptu but serious dance party in pajamas on my deck.  Actually most of the time we were together a serious dance party was involved.  As the days passed it became a little easier to laugh and find moments to be light-hearted.  The Golden Girls intentionally created those opportunities for us and ran with them.  They knew that the 21st of each month would be a hard day and another milestone and they were prepared with words of encouragement, a lunch date, an acknowledgment or a gift of some kind.  They didn't miss a single important day.

I could go on and on about the many things they did for the kids and me.  The more important thing to share is that their devotion was instantaneous, completely encompassing and it did not waver.  From tragedy came true friendship.  Today we have an unbreakable, unshakable, forever bond. I absolutely believe that we were destined to come into each other's lives.  This friendship was meant to be and along the way these friends became family and in turn their families adopted us.  

I am so incredibly lucky to have many friends, including those who knew Anthony first.  In no way does this tribute to the Golden Girls detract from the support we have received from other friends.  We could not have made it through this time without them.  What I have come to realize is that our friends support us in ways that they are capable of, using their individual strengths or skills, at any given time.  And sometimes they are simply not capable of providing support because they do not know how or their own pain may be too deep.

That said, this is also a love letter to some friends who are not Golden Girls.  Thank you:

David W. - for being his work partner-in-crime, for keeping his legacy intact and being determined to see it continue, for loving him fiercely and feeling his loss so deeply, for taking a piece of him with you on every hunt, for advising me and encouraging me, for knowing every inch of the farms and where his hiding places were located, for seeing and believing in signs that he is still with us and for sharing them with me; please know that there is a reason he is sharing these signs with you and also know that he loved you

Aaron - for being my friend since childhood then also becoming his friend, for the many hours spent together chasing ducks and dogs at the duck lake, for your devotion to the kids and me, for being my shoulder to cry on, for the advice given, for showing up unannounced (because you knew I would not ask for help) and tackling any home improvement project or bit of manual labor needed, but mostly for being determined that his loss will make you appreciate your own blessings more profoundly - at least outwardly, you have learned and grown the most from this situation, which means his loss is not in vain; please know that he loved you

Dan - for being his friend since middle school, for the many laughs and memories you shared together, for being half of our first "couples friends", for your caring and kindness, for your devotion to him and for your unbelievable fundraising efforts for the kids college fund through Whitetails Unlimited; please know that he loved you

Michelle - for being his friend and then becoming mine, for being the other half of our first "couples friends", for those many fun and hilarious happy hours way back when, for your ever present and one-of-a-kind smile and for always providing encouragement, a kind word and a compliment

Rob - for being his best friend since high school and best man, for the many laughs and memories shared, for the miles traveled and multiple concerts attended together, for being half of our second "couples friends", for supporting each other through significant life losses and for snow-covered driveways shoveled anonymously; please know that he loved you

Greta - for being my friend first and for being the other half of our second "couples friends", and for helping me navigate the legal aspect of death, which has not been easy or immediate

Glenn and David A. - for being a phone call or text away, for advising me and for fixing what needed fixing; please know he loved you

Terri - for your consistent presence during this awful time, for two decades of friendship, for the multiple times we got in trouble for laughing but did not care, for our shared and warped sense of humor, for "Dear Jim" and for big red arrows in presentations

Mike - for being my brother in every way except blood, for being an advisor and mentor, and for being the voice for our stories at the funeral when we could not speak

Linda and Catey - for quietly showing your support, for our group lunches and dinners, for wine and laughs shared together and for consistently checking up on me

D.W. - for helping me find my smile and my faith, which I thought were lost

J.H. - for encouraging me to write this blog, for assuring me that it would help others and for understanding because you have experienced your own awful life loss 

Mark and Brenda - for watching over us from next door, for always being there for whatever we might need and for loving our kids as your own

All of our neighbors - for your help with meals, rides for Kate, walking of Scout and being ready to lend a hand

The "cult-de-sac" crew - for adopting us as honorary members

Daryle, Julie, Charity, Bobbie and now Eric - for your unwavering support and faith in me, for letting me walk away from work for awhile during the busiest time of the year and knowing that all would be well, and for being the best team of leaders a girl could work with

For everyone who helped us in some way, with a card, a hug, a prayer, a positive thought, encouragement, a donation, a meal, whatever it may have been - please know how much your kindness was appreciated.

Friendship is not a sitcom.  There is no script, no producer, no theme song, no opening credits, no conflict with a tidy resolution at the end of 30 minutes.  Friendship is like marriage.  It takes work and commitment to make the relationship grow, thrive and last. Friendship is an investment of time, energy and resources.  And when the friendship is true, the return on the investment is priceless.  I have the best kind of proof.

Thank you, for being our friends.

A Strong North Wind

On December 29, 2016, we held a celebration of life to honor Anthony. It was a cold, gray, blustery day with a fierce wind coming from the north.  It was completely the opposite of the sunny, unusually warm day just over a week earlier when he died.  The weather on the day we celebrated him was completely by his design as I will explain later in this post.  

I walked into the chapel where I had stood with the kids a few days before to say our goodbyes to Anthony as he lie in a casket.  This time I walked into a chapel filled with flower arrangements and plants too numerous to count, many of the animal mounts that normally filled our basement and poster sized photos of Anthony that all flocked the simple wooden box that now contained his ashes.  No casket needed this time.  

I could not believe the outpouring of support that the kids and I received on that day.  There was a solid line of people starting 15 minutes before the visitation began and lasting through its two-hour duration, with many people never getting the chance to speak to us directly.  I watched that line snake down the side of the chapel and out to the foyer.  I was later told that many people waited patiently for a long time outside in the cold to be able to pay their respects to us.  I am not sure how many people came or if they all signed the guest book. Some of my friends estimated close to 700 people attended that day. They came from all over the country and included family, friends, clients, co-workers, former neighbors, classmates, teachers, you name it.  It was a mix of both familiar faces and faces we had never seen before.  Every seat was taken in the chapel and every additional square inch was filled with people standing.  The overflow space in the basement was filled, too, where attendees watched the service as it happened. Though I could not see them very clearly, I cannot express how moving it was to see the entire Rock Bridge football team show up in their jerseys to honor Ben. The attendance that day speaks to the fine person Anthony was, the impact he made on many lives and in the hunting industry, and the legacy he leaves behind.

Many of Anthony's colleagues came for the service, including his boss from Minnesota.  He spoke about how well-respected Anthony was in the field and what a blow his loss was to both his business and the industry overall.  He and representatives from Bear Archery, the primary line sold by Hudalla Associates, also posthumously presented an award to Anthony for Bear sales representative of the year.  The decision had been made to give Anthony the award the day before he died and he had not yet been told.  He would have been thrilled to receive the coveted award, and I have no doubt he was watching and smiling from above.  

Many of Anthony's friends and some of our family members wrote their own memories which were shared at the service.  And, unbelievably to me, Ben and Kate left my side in the audience, joined hands and walked up to the stage where they stood in front of the large crowd and shared their own memories and funny stories about their dad.  I was in awe and have never been more proud of them than in those few minutes.  I kept thinking about how strength, both inherited and learned, was the primary gift he instilled in them.  And what a gift it is.

Some of Anthony's close friends created a slideshow with pictures of him from childhood up to the present.  Music was an important part of the service.  We carefully selected the songs played during the visitation to represent Anthony's musical tastes, though we did not play the heavy metal that he loved the most. My good friend Nollie, a fantastic tenor, and his two sons sang a version of Hallelujah that was jaw-dropping and an amazing tribute to Anthony's life.  

The last song played at the service as we walked out was unorthodox but so Anthony.  He loved music and had seen dozens of concerts with his friends.  Iron Maiden was one of his favorite bands and he saw them about 10 times.  At the end of every concert as the crowd filtered out, thousands of fans would whistle along with the song "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" by Monty Python's Eric Idle.  One time when Anthony was snow goose hunting with our friend Aaron and the hunting was not so great, Anthony said he wished they had that song to play over the snow goose caller so the hunters they were competing with could hear it.  Aaron, being a DJ who is always prepared, had the song on his phone and gave it to Anthony to broadcast it at full blast across the field through the multi-speaker caller.  Aaron said that he never saw Anthony smile bigger or longer in his life.  So of course we asked attendees to whistle along with the song as they left, to reflect on Anthony's life and to know that he would love being sent off in this way.   

Below is the eulogy that I wrote for that day.  

Anthony and I met in March of 1992 when I was 20 and he was 21.  Instantly I knew that he was special.  He had a smile that lit up a room, a combination of happy-go-lucky and mischief.  We became inseparable very quickly.  Though we were both smitten, we dated a full five years before getting married.  On June 14, 1997, we got married at Linn Memorial Methodist Church on the Central Methodist University campus in Fayette, my hometown.  

Anthony was a devoted husband and he loved me deeply.  He showed that love most often by teasing me mercilessly and by playing pranks on me.  Among his favorites - leaving rubber snakes for me to find or chasing me with them, putting bubble wrap under my car tires to scare me when I backed out of the garage and his favorite, blowing a duck call to make me jump while I was in the shower.  He blew that duck call for the last time on the morning he died.  Though we were complete opposites in just about every way, we were very happy together and we shared matching philosophies on the things that mattered. 

Ben came along in February of 1999.  Anthony was so proud to have a son.  I remember vividly that huge smile on his face when Ben was born.  Kate followed in March of 2004.  From the first moment he saw her, she had his heart.  Ben and Kate could not have asked for a more devoted father.  Though he traveled frequently with work, he always made it a point to stay connected.  He was in the stands or bleachers for every football and basketball game, on the sidelines as an assistant soccer coach for several years, and in the audience at every concert, recital and performance.  Anthony was not particularly close to his father, who also died too young.  But that compelled him to ensure a close relationship with his own children, to be the father he didn't have growing up.  He succeeded.  He could not have been a better role model to our kids.

Anthony loved the outdoors.  We went from season to season in our house - deer, duck, snow goose, turkey, etc. I always dreaded deer season and told Anthony that was when he was the least fun to live with.  It was because he was chasing the trophy.  Not just a deer but an exceptional deer.  That meant many days up waking up well before dawn and sitting in a tree stand with no promise of a harvest.  Anthony might arrive home each day without the trophy deer but he enjoyed his experience, of watching the sun come up and the world waking up, the stillness of the woods. Then there were the great days when he did harvest a big deer.   The smile on his face, the story he had to tell, the pride in his voice.  When duck and snow goose season arrived, he was practically giddy.  He took such great pride in duck hunting with his black Labrador retrievers, first Bailey and then Scout.  Anthony always said Scout was the best retriever he had ever seen and she worshiped the ground he walked on.  She continues to watch and wait for him to come home.  

Anthony was the hardest working person I knew, only to be rivaled by my father. His entire career was spent in the sporting goods industry. He covered a large territory for many years working with accounts in Missouri, Kansas, Iowa, Nebraska and Southern Illinois.  Though he didn't like to be away from us for long periods of time, he truly loved his job as a manufacturer's representative with Hudalla Associates.  It was more than a job or a paycheck for him.  He felt incredibly lucky to turn his hobby and passion for the outdoors into a career.  Anthony gave his customers the royal treatment, with many of them becoming close friends over the years.  He would always tell them he was available 24/7 and he meant it. He took such great pride in his work and that's why he was so successful.  He was born to do it.

Anthony had a laugh that was epic. When he thought something was really funny, everyone around him knew it.  His laugh was utterly contagious.  He loved to laugh and he was incredibly funny.  Around people he didn't know well, he might come across as quiet.  But to his friends and family he showed his huge personality.  He was really witty and was known for inserting a hilarious, usually naughty, comment when you least expected it.  His timing was always impeccable and he never disappointed.  

Anthony was the strongest person I have ever met.  Physically he could out bench press most men and he was proud of that.  Emotionally he was as stable as they come.  He lost his entire family, both parents and his two older brothers, all before he turned 40.  But he didn't let that define him. He used that loss to make him a better person, a better husband, a better father and a better friend.  

Anthony was always early.  Being on time meant 15 minutes before an appointment.  30 minutes before was even better.  He was always on the go, always had a million projects at once.

Anthony was a fierce friend.  He chose his close friends very carefully and they were a select group.  To him, those friends were family.  He would drop what he was doing, no matter the time, if a friend needed him.  And they would do the same for him.  Several of them have pledged to continue to be there for the kids and me and they have upheld that promise.  

      

Anthony loved to help people.  When we had any measurable snow, he got on his four-wheeler and plowed our driveway, then he did the same for the neighbors.  Several years ago we had a snowstorm that shut Columbia down for days.  He stayed inside for as long as he could stand it, then got outside to plow our driveway and the neighbors drives as he always did.  A snowplow had not yet come through our subdivision, so he plowed the street.  Then he realized that he needed gas and he plowed his way to the nearest gas station, more than a mile away.  He was the only customer there and when he went in to pay, the clerk asked if he would be willing to plow the driveway.  He was offered a candy bar and a soda as payment.  Of course he said he would do it and he did, not because of what he was offered but because he saw an opportunity to help. But he did take the candy bar. 

Anthony lived life to the fullest.  He cherished every day he had on this Earth.  His loss is a terrible tragedy but he died the way he would have wanted to - quickly, with little pain and in his beloved outdoors.  He would not want anyone to cry or mourn him for too long.  Instead he would want us to move on with our lives and think of him fondly from time to time.  It is fitting that he passed away on the first day of winter.  He always told me he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered into a cold north wind so that when I felt that north wind on the back of my neck I would think of him.  I hope everyone who loved him will join me in thinking of him when that cold north wind blows. 

One of my favorite movies is Four Weddings and a Funeral and who knows how many times I have seen it?  I always liked a poem from the movie and listened carefully to the words each time I heard them.  Of course I did not realize that they would later represent my thoughts during my own time of loss.  We did not include this poem as part of the service but it speaks to how I felt during that worst period in my life and how I imagine others who have suffered a loss must feel, as well.  

The north wind is blowing as I write these words.  In fact, the wind has been blowing from the north for days in brutal, record cold temperatures both here and across the country. And the sun just came out after being missing for days. Coincidence?  Maybe.  Or, maybe not.  

  

Funeral Blues by WH Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead.’
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.