THE HOUSE

I was thinking about the house I sold last year. It was the house where Linda and I lived for over nineteen years and shared many happy times. The poet Edgar A. Guest said it right: “It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.” Linda and I did a heap of living there. We loved Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and its people.

Our first two grandchildren spent five summers with us, and they enjoyed our pool and exploring along the creek that bordered our property. I built a sandbox for them and painted their names on the sides. Not too many years later, when the boys had long outgrown sandboxes and the wood was rotting, I very sadly tore it down. That happy episode became a memory.

Then it was only Linda and me. We enjoyed walks along the Lake Huron beach, colorful autumn drives along the Lake Superior shore, visits to lighthouses, sailing on Caribou Lake, and sharing thoughts about anything and everything. That sharing I so treasured began to fade in October 2019. Our walks in the country became more silent. Linda’s mind seemed far away. Her cognitive functions deteriorated, gradually at first, but much more rapidly after her bout with pneumonia in late November. On January 19, 2020, she was gone.

So I ask myself now: How do I feel about that house? What does it represent for me? Do I feel nostalgia for it? Perhaps in time (if I have more time) I’ll feel differently, but my most powerful memory of that house is devastating loneliness. That house, the yard with its flower gardens Linda planted and the abandoned vegetable garden Linda tended so diligently, are all testimonies to her absence. Emptiness best describes my final two years in that house.

So I can and must move on. Hope lies ahead—ultimately in heaven.

SINGING OUT OUR GRIEF . . . AND RELIEF

 Of the several books I read during my first painful year of widowhood, one written specifically for widowers mentioned various ways men, in particular, deal with their grief. Singing was one. The author mentioned songs that were written by grieving widowers that helped them cope.

It will surprise a lot of people to learn that only one song in 1968 sold more copies than the Beatles’ “Hey, Jude”: That song was “Honey (I miss you),” made popular by Bobby Goldsborough. Yet the song, written by Nashville song writer Bobby Russell, was inspired by a growing tree outside his window. Some song writers have such empathy that they can beautifully express the feelings of others, and “Honey” touched hearts worldwide, selling a million copies in only five weeks. It also gave widowers—who are reluctant to cry—a needed outlet for tears.

Another popular song released two years later, poetically described the real grief of singer/songwriter James Taylor. The song “Fire and Rain” was better received by cynical critics who considered “Honey” oversentimental and cloying. (Being unbelievers, the critics undoubtedly cringed at the mention of angels!) Taylor’s song, on the other hand, let everyone see in the lyrics their own heartaches, whatever they might be. But the backstory reveals that it was the loss of a beloved mate that prompted the song.

Taylor was in a recording session in London, sharing a studio with the Beatles, when a phone call brought news that Taylor’s long-time girlfriend had committed suicide. John Lennon advised withholding the news until the next day so Taylor could finish his recording session. After the news reached Taylor, he began working out his grief through a song. Knowing the story of Taylor’s grief brings new meaning to the lyrics.

The parents of Taylor’s girlfriend had put her into a drug rehab facility which she dreaded. Taylor blamed the suicide on that decision. Those “plans” put an end to her, in Taylor’s mind.

“Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone.
Susan, the plans they made put an end to you.”

The song goes on to lament all the lost dreams that ended up “in pieces on the ground” when his loved one was lost. Though it’s a common experience to be “walking . . . through an easy time” with our “back turned toward the sun,” just to be blasted with that “cold wind” that “turn[s] your head around,” to the widowed person, it has special meaning, a meaning that only another widowed person can fully understand.  (See Taylor interview: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=15xiQxLAnd4&t=266s)

The song that gripped me most deeply in the early weeks of widowhood was “I Can Wait Forever,” popularized by Air Supply. I had listened to the CD album many times and found it relaxing. I had never paid attention to the words until I found myself alone and the woman I had spent most of my life with was in heaven. What was she thinking now? Was she thinking of me at all? The ethereal bridge to the song brought me down to sobs and profuse tears: “Where are you now? Alone with the thoughts we share. Keep them strong somehow, for you know I’ll always be there.”

I knew where Linda was. Her Lord Jesus Christ had secured her home in heaven. But I was still down here. And at that time, I almost lamented the fact that I was healthy! My father had lived to be ninety, and I dreaded a possible seventeen more years of loneliness.

What helped me retain my sanity was that I also knew that God had a reason for my being here on earth awhile longer. Joshua 14:10 became my anchor: “And now, behold, the LORD has kept me alive . . .” He still has a mission for me. As He had a purpose for old Caleb, He had a purpose for old Tom.

I am grateful that God brought me a new helper and companion, a godly woman with whom I can serve the Lord in this last chapter. And now I’m singing a song more fitting to this stage of my life: 

“And the older I get, the more thankful I feel

For the life I've had, and all the life I'm living still."