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April 26, 2026 widow's tale Post a Comment

Sort of a Poem: I Carry the Grief in my Bones

I carry the grief in my bones.
Or in the stuff of life that brings together my body and mind.
In the involuntary part of being like breathing or heart beating or blinking or inhaling.
I don’t notice my heart or even may breathing until I run up the stairs too fast and I’m aware of the beat or think about pacing the exhale with the inhale.

I carry the grief there.
Where it only occasionally intrudes.
Where I don’t notice it.
But my body knows.
When the memory stirs somewhere deep and lost in my mind and my body sends the reminders before my spirit even knows.
I’m tired.
My sleep is restless.
My thoughts scattered, as if crowded by some unknown uncertainty or wrestling to be mastered.
A sadness manifested in tangible ways – if only designed to slow me down.
To tug at me to remember.
That the body knows.
And rest is ok. Patience is ok.
Listening is ok. Taking the time is ok.
The time to experience my own thoughts and unknowns.
And to heal bit by bit.
I carry the grief in my bones.

December 27, 2025 reading log, widow's tale

Recklessness and The Barbarian Way

Am I running away from myself? That’s the question I started to ask when I finished The Barbarian Way, a short read from Erwin McManus. I have read a couple of other books by the founder of Mosaic Church, and I picked this one up somewhere along the way. It’s been sitting on my shelf, and I finally decided to check it out during our Christmas break.

The holiday break was sixteen days, and now, the day after Christmas, I’m down to ten. I know this because I’ve been marking time. I set aside the break to ask questions of God, to search for His truth after a particularly hard season. A hard year. Sixteen days. Just over two weeks. Amid holiday festivities and traditions, I asked myself… Is two weeks enough time to hear, to understand, to make a change? Because my heart is ready for change. I want peace. A deep and abiding peace that transcends fear and the specter of loss. I want purpose. A clear and present purpose that brings order to my steps and infuses my days with hope and joy.

And so, as most divine interventions are, The Barbarian Way seemed to come at an appointed time.

November 21, 2025 stories

Mama

Several weeks ago as I began to sense that my Mom’s time here was coming nearer to an end, I started to think about how I would describe her after she died. In moments between pushing the thoughts aside and embracing the inevitability of the situation, I began to try and settle my heart on the things that were important about her life.

In the last several years of Mama’s life, she became more isolated as she cared for Dad, and then began to lose the ability to get out and interact with people as she once did. So as I thought about honoring her memory, I knew that perhaps the most meaningful accounting of her life would come from me. I didn’t know if I could find the words, and I didn’t know if I could share them with the appropriate clarity and composure. But, here I am. And here you are. And she is not here.

She is in a more vibrant place than I have ever known, beyond the constraints of this world. And I come to this moment with the stories of what she has meant to us. Stories of love and faithfulness and saying goodbye.

January 12, 2025 widow's tale

Every Good and Perfect Gift

“Every good and perfect gift”

Sometimes I don’t believe good things.

People often encourage me to write about my experiences, and this is a thing I’ve noticed. Sometimes I don’t believe good things.

It is a trauma response, or so I read. A tendency or response when you’ve lived trauma — moments strung together in a hyper-sensitive fight, flight or freeze response to circumstances when you can’t see beyond survival.

No cause for alarm. I’m not living in those moments now. But sometimes it feels like I still am. Because our hearts and minds form habits. Tendencies. So sometimes I don’t believe good things or good people. Even when they’re staring me in the face, in all their faithfulness and trustworthiness. And goodness. Sometimes I still can’t believe. Through no fault of their own, the gifts stumble into the spiral of my history. And the habits I’m trying to break. Desperately.

November 10, 2024 essays, on faith

Sometimes I Wake

Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night. Very often, actually. For a few minutes or longer. Old habits and tendencies from being the only adult in my house. Restlessness and thinking. I sometimes listen to music or watch videos or reels. Sometimes I write my thoughts to get them out of my head – like tonight. Occasionally I even work, to check the thing off that is troubling me. Often times I pray. Out loud in a whisper so the words are more solid – not just a thought. The prayers that we only pray at night. When the tender places in our hearts are revealed. The memories. The worries. The words spoken over us. And to us. The fears. The questions. The plans. Even the joys. Sometimes. It is not as often the joys that keep us up at night.