I’ve entered into a new season of grief. The days when each breath felt like a fight for survival are long gone. Intense therapy, individual grief work, a loving community of widows, and the slow passing of time have worked together to allow the pain that once screamed to fade to a dull roar. It no longer hurts to breathe and I don’t feel nauseous when I eat. I don’t wake up each morning to the startling realization that my husband is gone and wonder how I will ever make it through the day.  

As my friend and fellow widow Clarissa Moll says, grief is now my companion. Grief comes with me everywhere I go– showing up in the ordinary moments of laundry, dishes, and commuting to work, as well as the big moments of birthdays, holidays, and the turning of a calendar page. Grief is a thread that is woven throughout my days. It never goes away, yet only on occasion does it bring the depth of pain that it did at first.

For over two years after my husband’s death, life felt like a prolonged dismantling of all I knew.  Every thread that we had woven together into the fabric of our life throughout two years of dating and 13 years of marriage was cut one by one until only pieces were left. My husband was gone and the threads that held us so tightly together were now severed. My identity, faith, and purpose were all stripped down to the core. I was no longer a wife and partner. I was no longer a caregiver or my husband’s support in ministry. Nearly everything I had used to define myself was gone. 

When my husband died, it felt like my life shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Like a beautiful crystal vase that is dropped by clumsy hands onto a hard and unyielding floor, the life I’d known was over and not coming back. The pieces were too fragmented to ever be restored. My life from that moment on would have to be something different. I would be someone different.

When life shatters, faith can shatter with it. So often, the death of a loved one begins the slow death of faith. Where trust may have been easy before, it now feels terrifying. Death seems to loom everywhere and new questions flit across our minds: Where was God? Why didn’t he stop it? Why would a good Heavenly Father allow something so horrible to take place? Does he even care? Who will he take from me next?

So it is with this season of faith and grief. I often long for a sign that God is at work in my life. I long for evidence of growth and the unfolding of purpose that will make it obvious to myself and others that I did not lose my husband in vain. I desperately want to know that there has been purpose in this winter season of grief. I want new life to come and to come soon.

I look around me and see others blossoming. I rejoice with widowed friends who have found fresh purpose, an exciting ministry, or the gift of a new relationship with a godly man. I see signs of obvious blessing– fresh blossoms– and breathe a sigh of relief. The spring has come; their barren season is over. God’s goodness is on display.

As I look around, I also start to wonder– what about me, God? I long to rush through this dormant time and get to the beauty. Buds that grew some time ago look no different today than they did before. Where is the promised flower? Where is the beauty from my ashes? I am eager to spend less time digging roots down into the secret places in my soul. I want to blossom with new life and possibilities.

Yet, just as it is for the tree in my yard, blossoms that grow too soon are vulnerable. It is in waiting and patient endurance that the flower hidden inside of the bud is protected from the threat of frost. To rush the healing process and try to move forward into new places and new adventures before God has prepared me would be foolish. My timetable might look different, my blossoms may not yet be on display, but God is at work in this season of stillness. Life is at work even if my branches look barren.

I tend to blame my loneliness on my husband’s death, thinking that the only reason I am lonely is because he isn’t here. But the hard truth is that I was often lonely before he died. Widowhood didn't cause my loneliness; it exacerbated it. The approach of Valentine’s Day only highlights the loneliness that has always been a part of my life.

I have come to see that there’s a loneliness - an “alone-ness”- inside all of us. There are places in our hearts and minds that no one, not even our spouse, can access. We have experiences that cannot be fully shared with others through words alone because there is a type of knowing that comes through experience and an un-knowing that comes from hearing about an experience second-hand.  

While it’s likely that my story looks very different from yours, I wonder if you too have experienced this thread of loneliness. Loneliness has taken on different forms throughout my adult years, but it has always been there. 

As we approach the two year anniversary of my husband’s death, these questions have been replaying in my mind over and over again: What did we miss? Why didn’t the doctors warn us? If we had known what was happening, could we have saved his life?

Deep down inside, there’s a part of me that is still fighting against the loss of my husband. I know in my mind that he is gone, but in my heart I long to find a way to make it untrue. There’s almost this sense that if I could go back and understand what transpired, maybe I could undo it all.

My husband’s death made me realize how little control I have over my life or the lives of those I love. Since God is the sovereign one, I’ve asked Him over and over again: “How can this be your plan? Why didn’t you stop this? Why didn’t you prepare me? Why did you let my young son lose his wonderful father?”

In the face of devastating loss, it is hard to reconcile the love of God and the plans of God.

It’s the first day of Advent and my heart feels weary.

The simple joys of the Christmas season feel heavy in the midst of grief. What used to be my favorite time of year now has undercurrents of dread. The cards, carols, and family gatherings are all little reminders of what was and what can no longer be.

To an outsider, Christmas in my home might not look very different from years past. We set up the same nativity scene and hung the same stockings. Tomorrow we will build the same artificial tree that has dropped its needles on the same rug for years. We will wrap it with the very same strands of gold and silver tinsel that we have used for nearly a decade.

However, for us on the inside, every part of Christmas feels different. It is no longer my husband who carefully arranges the nativity each year - that tradition has been passed on to our son. And while Greg’s stocking still hangs above our sofa, it will remain empty on Christmas morning. This is our second year of decorating without him and our third of celebrating Christmas without him. He died just 6 days - and 60 years - too soon.

My home may look festive after an evening of decorating but my heart is weary.