Letting Go

MAY 15

Letting go is a theme that keeps showing up in my life. Various blogs, books, religious articles, and life advice.

There are things, memories, items, ways of being to let go of and it can be good advice to let go, to release, to learn a new way of doing, of being. 

But, on the other hand, holding on to people, some things, memories, photos, music. The list can be long, and it is important. There are treasures that are worth keeping. That we need to keep and cling to when life gets uncertain, the ground feels shaky, we feel lost or afraid.

So, finding the balance seems to me to be a lifelong task, a journey, spiritual, heroic, or literal.

In the last set of years, I have had to let go of much. My husband died without much warning. Being tired and having back aches is not something surprising or unusual for a man who has a stressful job and a stressful commute. He’d dismiss my frequent requests for him to get a medical check-up. What are they going to say? That I'm tired? I already know that.

This foolishness from a very intelligent man. Maybe the keyword there is man. For some reason, and I don’t have statistics, just years of anecdotal chatter, a man is likely to ignore symptoms his body is sending. And pleadings from his wife, by the way.

So, all of a sudden, I was a widow. Letting go? Not willingly. Kicking and screaming, at least on the inside. Sobbing, stunned, in shock, my life stalled with his passing. He was always strong and steady and the rock of our family.

We had a division of labor, which most marriages develop.  He takes care of these things, I take care of those things. All of a sudden, I had to take care of the things he had handled for decades.Talk about a learning curve. Especially since I was stunned and my brain felt like I was stuck in a fog and could not see one step in front. If it weren’t for friends, (Mark and Brenda) I don’t know how I would have straightened out all the financial details that Gene always handled. Not because I was totally incompetent, but because I couldn’t focus, couldn’t wrap my mind around these things. Yes, important, but still, I was a long way from finding my new self.

Letting go seems rather a cruel concept when all you relied on, without really knowing that you relied on, millions of things, have disappeared. How you start each day—with a smile, a kiss, a cup of coffee, a look of love on his handsome face to greet me each morning. That’s a pretty big thing to have to let go of.

Conversations. All the things we could talk about—our long, shared history, our children, and grandchildren, our plans for the weekend. Everyday conversations. Every day laughter or worries.  Every day a remember when bit of recall.   —

Meals. Cooking. I couldn’t cook for a very long time after Gene died—I cooked to please him. What would Gene like for dinner? Of course, I wanted to make something he would enjoy, that we would enjoy together. Shared meals are vital to life. The word ‘companion’ means breaking bread together. Luckily, I had grown children nearby and friends to share meals with on occasion. Luckily. Blessedly. 

Letting go of all that? That’s asking a lot.

Letting go of his work suits was easy, mostly because he was growing weary, deeply weary, of his corporate job. He needed new suits, but he didn’t feel like getting any in the months before he died. Perhaps that was a sign. He was letting go—looking for a way out. In the days before he died, he said to me at our usual routine of kisses before he left for work, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this”. I pleaded, “Then stay home. You look so tired.”  “I can’t, I have a meeting.”  He said this on Friday morning. Sunday morning a heart attack took him.

His sense of responsibility is a wonderful quality in a husband and father, but taken too far, given his level of exhaustion. He was letting go, but not in a way I hoped.

So, I was left. Not quite alone, I had friends and family, but my better half was in a Columbarium at our church, what was left of his physical remains—his ashes.  He was clear that he wanted to be cremated, so at least we were able to handle that in a dignified manner.

The pain, the ripping away of my beloved, left me dizzy. I felt like I was in an echo chamber.  Sometimes I went a bit deaf because I had to tune out the noise, pull inside, like a turtle, I suppose. Pull inside and hold on. Hold on to memories, to moments, all the millions of moments that made up our lives, that made up who we were, together, yes, but separately too.

I realized over the years that we had confidence and a sense of ourselves not only from our intrinsic gifts, but from the gift of the love and support we freely provided each other. The entire support system of the faith and love we had for one another. A lifetime of love was a wonderful thing to stand on. So, I couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t let go of that.

Beginning, Again

April 2026

I’m on a bit of a comeback tour—not that I’ve had a tour to come back to, but I have had to come back in many ways over the last ten years.

On April 10, 2016, my husband died in a hotel room north of Austin, Texas. No warning that I could pick up on. I went to the lobby for coffee, came back, and he was gone.   Gurgling, head rolled back, unresponsive.  Gone.

I yelled at Siri to call 911 while I simultaneously called my daughter to get her brothers and get over to the hotel. Dad was having a heart attack.

We took the four-hour drive from north of Dallas to north of Austin the day before. Grandchildren’s christening. Something we talked our daughter into. Something she reluctantly agreed to.

Mass, baptisms, family dinner. Back to the hotel. Gene was working on a program he named Good Puppy Productions, a design, photography, and graphic arts program so he could transition out of the corporate job he took when we got married and started having children.

He needed a break. He needed to work in a job where he could use his big brain and big imagination.  Banking was not satisfying to his soul.  It never was, but it was the means to keep us fed, clothed and housed for 36 years. 

He was working on a fresh start.

He didn’t get that.  At least not on this plane of existence.

He did, however, get picked up by the Blessed Mother. I saw that. Yes, I saw that. She picked him up like you would lift a child into her arms. A new Pieta. This time with my husband. They were bathed in a pink/gold aura. Beautiful. She’s healing him, I knew it. It was a moment of joy.  Look, the Blessed Mother is healing my husband.  There was light emanating from broad wounds in his back as she lifted him, as if he had been pierced with a sword. He was suffused with primrose light.

A sword shall pierce your soul.  Joachim to Mary as she presented her baby at the Temple.

 Every mother knows that; every wife or husband who has dared to love deeply, completely, profoundly, and eternally, knows that.  I know that now.  A sword shall pierce your soul.  A sword, indeed.

The almost miracle, the one I wanted, didn’t happen.  Instead, I heard him speak, as clearly as he spoke to me less than an hour before, I don’t want to hold you back.  I yelled back, internally, but still my throat was raw. Hold me back from what!!! I want you!!

The ambulance people banged on the room door. I was ushered out. Our children had arrived. We were sent to an empty room with a police chaplain.

And so began the next phase of my life. Stunned. Shocked. Angry. Bewildered. Unmoored.

What was the point of me now?  Our children were grown. It was just the two of us for the first time since we married. We talked of what we, just he and I, were going to do.  How we would step forth into the world of the empty nest couple.

We never got that. That last one had only just moved out. One week for just the two of us.

One week.

In the last ten years, we have had two new grandbabies. Some of our children’s marital status has changed.  I sold the house where we raised our family and moved back to the East Coast.  I have four children in four states, from the East Coast to California.

I live alone now. Decades of a lovely big, noisy, joyous, messy family. The quiet is sometimes disturbing and often quite lonely.

But I talk to Gene. Every day.  Every night. I sing silly songs to him. recall various moments from our long past. 52 years and counting.  Yes, I’m still counting. We are not done. We cannot be.

So, what is this new phase? The post ten-year phase?  Somehow, in a way mysterious to me, my novel, The Narrow Gate, is being read.  I have done nothing to promote it. I had almost forgotten it.  I almost took it down from Amazon but never got around to it.  It had things I was going to fix and maybe, re-release.

However, the last few months I have been receiving emails telling me that people are reading my book.  That they are interested in promoting my book. Where did they even hear of it?  Beats me.

I am very naïve, I know—I imagine that AI has something to do with it—AI, the big bad wolf of the literary world.  I suppose there must have been a search, a wide net cast, and my novel on betrayal, forgiveness, spirituality and love hit some marks.

I resisted at first, thinking it was all a scam.  Some of them probably were. But some were really just a new avenue of advertising, of which I had done very little when the book first came out. And then Gene died. I was in a cocoon for several years, trying to find my identity without my partner, my best friend, my lover: my husband.

So, here we are.  I had to resurrect this blog, which Gene set up for me. He was the administrator, and I still don’t know what I’m doing.  I will find a smart young person to help me figure out how to post and send, and try to get an audience.  But, for now, this is me, stepping back into the world of writing.

one of Gene’s photos

Reflection for Advent December 5, 2024 HOPE

ALL SHALL BE WELL.  ALL MANNER OF THINGS SHALL BE WELL.  

WE LIGHT CANDLES AGAINST THE DARKNESS OF THE WINTER NIGHT AS WE GATHER FOR PRAYER

One Christmas morning when I was a young mother I spoke with an older woman at church. I tried to make neighborly conversation about the fun of Christmas and Santa with children.

 She said to me:  “oh, we never did the Santa thing. We emphasized the spiritual aspects of Christmas.”

I was stunned.  She simultaneously judged my parenting skills as not Christian enough and deflated my sense of Christmas as a joyful season of fun with children.

She gave church ladies A BAD NAME—judgmental and joyless.  I felt sorry for her children.  I also, eventually, felt sorry for her for mistaking Santa and the children’s joyful anticipation AS something not worthy of a proper Christian.

Emphasizing the spiritual aspects of Christmas is fine, but—Christmas is the Incarnation—the becoming flesh, becoming a child—the Word that spoke the universe into being became a little baby. A baby who cried, who laughed, who ate. A child who played and asked questions and worried his parents.  A lot like us and our children.

Christmas lights and JINGLE BELLS and pious songs remind us that something beyond the ordinary is available – the eternal innocence of the human soul longs for the mystical, call it magical if you will, but remember it is joyful and abundant and full of surprises.  Our imagination can lead us to a holy place.  Imagination and thinking outside the box, our willingness to ask questions and wait for answers, can be a doorway to the sacred.

God is full of surprises.  Look at his plan for salvation. What general or king would pick a young woman in a tiny poor town in the hills of Galilee to bear the son of God? What clever commander would put this woman and child in danger of being stoned or cast out of the community for becoming pregnant before marriage? What bold leader would speak to his people in dreams and visions, EXPECTING THEM TO GET the message?

AND WHAT IS THE MESSAGE?  THE MESSAGE IS HOPE

Hope is not blind optimism – our hope is rooted in our long history of faith— our own faith and the faith of the generations who came before us. The communion of saints. Our ancestors.

We gather here tonight in the hope that the promises made to ancient generations and fulfilled In various ways throughout the ages are still strong in us— and in each other.  We lean on one another and gather strength for our journey from our brothers and sisters, parents and grandparents, reaching back generations.

We are not alone in the dark. We stand with them. We stand with the shepherds on the hillside who heard the angels sing “Hosannah in the highest” and sought out the baby in the manger.

We travel with the Magi who could read the signs of the times and followed the light to Bethlehem, understanding that a King has no need of luxury or a palace. That a promised King could be born in a cave under a starry sky in Bethlehem.

We stand in hope with Elizabeth who recognized her Savior in her young cousin and her own child leapt in her womb in recognition of the Word Made Flesh.

We stand in hope with the ancient saints and the modern saints and the imperfect saints that we all know in our own lives, who heard the voice of God despite the noise and despair that that distracted others. The noise that smothered hope.

They tuned in to the frequency where the music of the angels sounded in the quiet of their hearts and minds. They could hear and be transformed, filled with courage and love to be a voice in the wilderness like John the Baptist, a voice that called others to faith. A voice that called others to hope.

We gather her tonight in our parish church— a sanctuary against the darkness of the world that still struggles to understand.  We carry our light into the darkness that surrounds us— we carry the light in our words and in our actions.  We carry the light of hope in our very being because our light of hope is the light that darkness cannot overcome.

We gather here tonight surrounded by our loved ones and the generations before us who taught us by word and example, by their presence and persistence in faith and in hope despite the hardships of their lives and the darkness of the world— in war— in hunger—in discontent and anger.  Something in them said no to the darkness and yes to the light.

We lean on the lives of the saints. We lean on their courage to stand up to bullies and dictators and those who turn away from the poor and hungry at their door. We say No— there is a better way.  The abundance of God cannot be measured. It is overflowing and spills out a thousandfold once we open our hearts and resources. It multiplies like the loaves and fishes. 

We live in hope against the hardness of the heart that builds gradually at the sins of those who have been entrusted with the care of the little ones. That hardness of heart that turns us away from God and Jesus when we need him the most. That hardness of heart that focuses on the darkness and ignores the light.

Be a child who sits under a Christmas tree and looks up at the lights and the ornaments, who gazes into the nativity scene quietly, in wonder, listening for the music in the branches, the laughter of a baby, the awe of the shepherds and the harumph of a camel. Sit in the field with the Shepherds and listen to the choir of angels announcing the birth of the long-awaited Messiah. Be brave like the magi who followed the signs in the heavens until they reached the most unlikely palace of a new king.

AND HOPE.  HOPE THAT THE HUNGRY WILL BE FILLED WITH GOOD THINGS AND DESPOTS WILL BE CAST DOWN FROM THEIR THRONES. AND HOPE, ESPECIALLY, THAT EACH OF US AND OUR LOVED ONES WILL BE FILLED WITH THE LIGHT THAT DARKNESS CANNOT OVERCOME.

Flat Tire

Many, many years ago, when I was an undergraduate and it was final exams week, I had stayed up most of the night memorizing cases and issues for a Constitutional Law exam. Drinking instant coffee, trying to burn the midnight oil. It was something I rarely did, but I was nervous about this particular exam and since I had gotten in the habit of receiving an A as my final grade and I really didn’t want to mess that up for lack of a case name.

I awoke with a start, a bit later than usual. I hurried downstairs, no time for breakfast, all nerves. My parents let me drive the very large yellow and “wood” trimmed family station wagon to commute to school, nicknamed The Yellow Submarine by my father.

We lived in Queens, New York, and yes, there were buses and subways I could have taken to get to school. That route would take more than an hour to go less than thirty miles, so use of the car was greatly appreciated. I hopped in the car, put it in reverse, and, nothing. No movement. Worse than that, the car lopped on its right side with a determined thunk.

I rushed back into the house, blubbering. I stayed up all night, now I’m going to miss the exam and he said no chance to re-take the exam and and and…without a word, just a glance between them, Dad, dressed in a suit and tie, and my brother got up from their breakfast and went to the driveway and changed the tire.

I had never witnessed either of them change a tire before. It didn’t occur to me that a solution was to be had for my predicament. I only saw disaster. I didn’t imagine a spare, I only drove the thing and got gas when the arrow approached E. That was the extent of my driving knowledge.

Why did this particular memory, all of twenty minutes of my life when I was ooh so young and thought I knew a little something, pop up now? I'm at a crossroads in my life right now, feeling a bit like a flat tire, hoping to get an A on whatever comes next.

I wonder where I keep the spare.