4 Friends, 4 Days, Countless Holy Moments...

I spent MLK weekend in Louisville, KY with 3 women who have been key to my survival lately. You’ve read about each of them before: I met Roberta on my wedding day when she and her husband and their 1-year-old daughter drove from Louisville to Knoxville to show Bruce they loved him. That was the beginning of a life-long, life-giving friendship. Anita and I lived on the same floor in Carver Hall at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. We became BFFs pretty quickly and that has lasted more than 30 years. Kym and I met as teenagers at Carson-Newman College. Forty (gulp) years later we are closer now than ever. When Bruce got sick, these three women joined forces to pray for me, cry with me, make me laugh. They took care of me while I took care of him.

At Bruce’s funeral we reminisced about our days in Louisville where Anita, Kym and I were seminary students and Roberta was gainfully employed supporting her seminary-student husband. This weekend was a chance for us to hang out, visit old haunts, laugh and remember. We crammed a lot of remembering into 4 very cold days. We visited significant sites – apartments, daycare, jobs, favorite restaurants and – like the true Lu-a-vul-lians we are, Hadley Pottery. We shopped, played games, and had deep, spirit-filled conversations. We geocached, toured museums, walked a labyrinth and took tons of photos.

This was, of course, my first trip to Louisville since Bruce died. This town was where we met (for the 3^rd time but the 1^st one that stuck.) This was where we noticed each other, dated, fell in love, decided to get married, and laid the foundation for the next 30 years. I kept seeing sights and thinking “I should take a picture – Bruce would love to see this.” And then I would remember.

I read a friend’s post recently that described losing a spouse as changing every aspect of your days – what you eat, how you sleep, what you watch on TV, where you spend your free time. For me, the thing I miss most often is having the one who knows all my stories. Having this friend who knows why I smile when someone mentions Home Alone or why a jar filled with purple pens can make me cry. I miss making him laugh by saying “that would explain all that blood and fur up in there” with a Kentucky drawl or calling to say “I’ll be home in a couple of hours – I need two more caches.” The soul who knew me best in the world is gone and can’t be replaced. I have amazing friends who love me and know me. These 3 women each hold significant portions of my stories. I am so thankful for them and the army of others who surround me. And who knows, someday I may even fall in love and marry again. But no one else will ever be the man who taught me how to love – most especially how to love myself. This loss is permanent.

In my work as a clinical chaplain I regularly lead grief groups. The metaphor I use to explain grief is the ocean – sometimes calm, sometimes stormy but unchanging. The hope is that the griever can learn to navigate the seas – because the grief will always be. My sailor skills are getting stronger every day. Today when I came home by myself, I was happy to be here. Tonight I’ll go to bed in my sweet little house, curl up with a couple of cats who have missed me, and sleep well knowing that I am not alone. God showed up for me in a very real and poignant way on this trip, which is a story for another day, but that presence reminded me of what I already knew to be true. I am loved and surrounded every minute of every day. God is here. So, I believe, are the “great crowd of witnesses” who have gone before me. I’ve got parents, grandparents, in-laws, aunts, uncles, friends, and one wonderful husband on the other side – loving me, cheering for me, “all the days of my life.”

Nakupenda Sana, my Beloveds. I pray you will feel the love that surrounds you tonight, too. Know that you are not alone – even on the days it might feel that way.

Cathy