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.

First Day in the Woods

This is the first time I have told the full story of the day my life changed forever - December 21, 2016.  It was supposed to be an early morning at the family farm cutting firewood for a few hours. Something Anthony had done literally hundreds of times before.  He knew what he was doing and was no amateur, having learned how to trim trees while working for the City of Columbia during summers in high school.   He left early with our son and they were supposed to be back mid-morning so that he could get some work done in his office. We planned to have dinner with good friends that evening, friends that we had not seen in some time and finally had found time on the calendar to meet up.  It was a good day, a beautiful, sunny, unusually warm December day.  The first day of winter, the first day of holiday break for the kids, a day filled with Christmas spirit, as well as anticipation of the holiday to come and time spent with cherished friends and family.  It was the kind of day to which you look forward.  How quickly that changed. 

I got the phone call you dread and yet never expect to get because you are too young.  For most of us there is a pure complacency, an it-will-never-happen-to-me attitude, a certainty that bad things only happen to other people. Never to me, never to us.  Unfortunately I got that call from our son. I will never forget the panic in his voice.  Initially there was disbelief, then shock. My daughter had come to work with me and was sitting in my office when the call came.  I don’t know how much time passed while I was on the phone either with my son or one of the EMTs.  It seemed like hours but it was just minutes, maybe 20 or so.  The waiting and the updates.  The EMT telling me that they were attempting to revive him, that it was a very grave situation.  Sitting there holding my daughter’s hand because even though she could not hear the words I was being told, she knew that something terrible was happening.  Hearing my own voice asking questions in such a calm way, but being careful not to say too much in front of my daughter.  

Then, the EMT asked me if I wanted to know the outcome.  Of course I already knew.  He said, in such a practiced, professional, detached manner – “I am sorry to tell you that they have pronounced your husband as deceased."  How could this possibly be, when Anthony was just with me earlier this morning, like every morning?  I told the man that I would get there as soon as I could, then I thanked him.  Because my parents taught to me to be unfailingly polite, that was my automatic response.  And I thought to myself, wow, I have just thanked the man who told me that my husband is dead.  How strange.  There was a realization of prayers said in haste now unanswered.  The shock I had felt quickly turned into complete numbness. Like being underwater where it is more difficult to move your limbs, sound is muffled and everything moves more slowly.

I hung up the phone and turned to look at my daughter.  She already knew, of course, but I had to tell her that there had been a terrible accident and that her father was gone.  Seeing the disbelief and realization in her eyes was a hard punch in the gut.  She was so quiet and so unbelievably strong.  Exactly as he would have been.

I left her in my office with the door closed and had to gather my senior team to tell them.  I delivered the news in such a matter of fact way, almost what I imagine an out-of-body experience to be like.  Hearing their gasps and seeing the looks on their faces, asking what they could do to help.  But of course there was no help anyone could offer at that time.  No help for me and certainly no help for Anthony.  The numbness continued.   

We drove the 45 minutes to the farm getting behind every slow vehicle in two counties along the way. Did they not realize what a hurry I was in?  Except that rushing to his side was not going to make a difference.  And the phone calls. I only made a few but my phone was ringing constantly. Because somehow the word was already out that he was gone. They say bad news travels fast but tragic news carries on lightning speed. I will never forget the reaction of our close friends.  I will never forget the pain in their voices.  I can still hear them in my head.

We got to the farm and were greeted by the EMT who had talked with me on the phone.   To this day I do not remember his name, this person who shared such a personal experience with me.  He said my husband did everything right but the dead tree limb fell the wrong way. Yes, a “widow maker” is a real thing.  Hearing again “I am so sorry for your loss.” What appropriate, yet empty, awful words. I have lost count of how many times I have heard that phrase.  I completely and utterly hate those words, though I realize there is nothing else you can really say to a person in my situation.  

I remember seeing the ambulance in the driveway.  No flashing lights, no rush to get to the hospital because this time there was no one to save.  I remember talking to the other EMTs, some of whom I recognized from when I was a child, and wondering how they could remain so calm when my life had changed so dramatically.  But that is because they are professionals.  And this experience had not happened to them.  

I remember the pain on my father’s face when he saw me, the way he gripped my hand.  And his words – “It should have been me.”  Finding myself comforting him because I did not want him to blame himself.  He was nowhere near when the accident happened.  Had he been, it likely could not have prevented anything, anyway.  I remember being so calm and asking the EMTs what would happen next.  Asking if I could see Anthony and being told it was not a good idea at that time.  Ah, ok, I get it.  He must look pretty bad.  Imagining then what he looked like instead.  Bad idea, very bad idea.  And remembering him just a few hours earlier, the smile he gave me and the words “We won’t be gone long, I will call you when we get back.”  No, not this time.  Never again, actually. 

  

Two of my Golden Girls (to be explained in a future post) were waiting for me when I left my parent’s house.  We were supposed to have lunch that day.  I had Christmas presents in the car for them and had been looking so forward to spending an hour laughing and exchanging gifts.  No one can make me laugh like those three can.  There was to be no laughing that day, after all.  I had called them while driving to  tell them what had happened.  I told them not to come.  But they might be a little bit stubborn and they came anyway.  They drove the kids and me home and also brought back Anthony’s truck.  I have no idea what we talked about along the way.  I kept thinking of people that I needed to call, everything I needed to do.  Feeling overwhelmed.  Where would I start?  And the numbness continued to consume me.

So many people came to our house that afternoon and evening.  I am not even sure how many but the volume level was deafening.  The lights and sounds, the Christmas decorations everywhere were overwhelming.  People laughing, people crying.  I have never seen so many grown men cry.  Hugs and hand holding and stories.  So much food and no desire to eat anything.  I knew if I had even one bite I would be sick.  I ate nothing for two days.  The death diet is not the way I would recommend losing weight, by the way.  I continued to hear that awful phrase, “I am so sorry." 

Our neighbor and good friend could not get there until late, after most people had gone.  He is a doctor who is also retired from the Navy after completing two tours in the Middle East.  He pulled me aside and he told me something that I have remembered every day.  He said that he had seen many of his friends and colleagues die, there one minute and gone the next.  He told me I had to keep getting out of bed each morning, to keep putting one foot in front of the other and that eventually, somehow, things would start to get better.  He was right, things do get better with the passing of time but for me the initial wound remains intact as I imagine it does for him.  I have a new appreciation for the sacrifices active duty service men, women and veterans make for our country.  

The first night I did not sleep for one second. I have one of those clocks that projects the time onto the ceiling in red digits.  I literally watched the clock on the ceiling tick off every minute of the longest night of my life.  I have never felt so cold, never felt so completely alone.  And through it I was totally numb.  I understand now that the numbness was a gift to help me get through what had happened hours earlier as well as what was yet to come.  

The hours and days that followed were surreal. Making decisions that I did not think I would have to make at my age and hoping that I honored all of his wishes. Kicking myself for all of the questions I should have asked but never did.  Damn it, why didn’t I ask him those important questions?  And I will never have the answers now.

The numbness continued, maybe intensified. Seeing him in a casket and knowing that was the very last time. He looked different, just a shell of himself.  Earlier I had given the funeral home one of his favorite t shirts and a pair of jeans – no need to include socks and shoes, he did not need them where he was going.  I touched his chest and even through the t-shirt I was shocked at how cold his body was.  I will never forget that cold feeling and thinking that just hours earlier his heart was still beating.  That cold combined with my numbness was a shock.  I stood there coping with my loss but feeling more profoundly the loss for our children. Asking why. I will never understand why. And I will mourn all of the milestones he and our children will miss together in future years.

I lost my best friend and rock, the most amazing father to our children. His wit, dedication, sense of humor and work ethic made him special. He loved his family and was incredibly proud of his children. He loved his friends and would have done anything for them, truly anything.  He loved his country dearly. He loved his job and everyone he worked with. He loved the outdoors and all they represented. He loved and lived life to the fullest and left this life with few regrets. He just left way too soon. He was very strong, both physically and emotionally, and his strength inspires the kids and me to keep going even though at times that has seemed unthinkable.  Our children possess his strength in ways I do not.

The trees form a canopy, there is brush underfoot and I cannot see my way out yet.  I am not afraid as I travel even though uncertainty surrounds me completely.  There is a kind of peace that comes from knowing that I am not the One in control, though I am still not sure how or why I got here.  Who knows where the path will lead but I will keep getting up each day and putting one foot in front of the other until I find out.   Until then I will count my remaining blessings and simply keep walking out of the woods.