Matchbox Messages + Other Pink Signs

I am really just winging this grieving/bereavement thing.  Honestly.  Someone recently chastised me, me, over here still counting in weeks, saying that I’ve watched lots of people walk this path, and suggesting that somehow that makes walking it myself easier and something I should be able to get over it more quickly.  Fat chance.  (Also, don’t do that to people who are grieving.  Their grief, my grief, gets all of the space and time it needs and no one else has any business judging that.)

To be clear, I have assembled resources to carry with me.  Enneagram 3 all the way.  Even in this darkness.  I have the long relationships of my friends and my children first and foremost.  Y’all have been like lights along the edges of the dark path – twinkling love and shining on my footsteps so I won’t step off or out.   And I have my spiritual director who has accompanied me through many things and is helping me find the holy in this unholy season.  And I have the trauma therapist who is helping me sort through and sort out the….well, the trauma of it all.  Of three plus brutal weeks and of all of the sounds and images that are stubbornly rooted in my mind.  (There aren’t smells, though, because oddly the ICU seems to have managed to eliminate smells?  I used to appreciate my morning coffee that came with my cafeteria breakfast because it smelled like something.)   And I am reading and listening to people who have made a life’s work out of sharing how they managed through similar experiences.  And I am writing because, as I’ve mentioned before, I am an external processor and it somehow helps me make sense of the unimaginable.  (And my thanks to those of you who have read along and encouraged me and shared this with others.)

I’m also retreating just now, spending a long weekend at the coast.  I just knew that on our wedding anniversary I didn’t want to be in our home.  What my spirit needs just now is neutral ground.  Space where my feet are the only Brulie feet that have walked there (even if I am wearing his shirt).

When I arrived in town yesterday a big banner announced that this weekend is “Hog Wild Weekend” and let’s just say that has nothing to do with livestock or barbeque.  Luckily, my little cottage is away from the center of things, so I’ve not heard too many motorcycles out here.  I booked this space a bit at the last minute and when I walked in, I literally laughed out loud.  It is adorably decorated with the cutest touches of pink everywhere and is Dolly Parton themed.  Not only is that just delightful, I’m reminded that this music icon also lost her husband rather recently.  I’ve said a little prayer for her and for all who are grieving. 

But here’s what else is funny about this:  Our daughter and I have a running schtick where we have created in our shared imagination pink houses, where we each live, near one another.  They are pink on the outside and on the inside and the trees blossom in pink glory.  It’s amazing how many images like this you can find online.  And we often text each other pictures we find:  Here’s my pink kitchen!  Look at my adorable pink bathtub!  Welcome to my pink house in the snow!   When I’d show these to Bruce he would chuckle and shake his head and sometimes say things like “Thankfully I’ll be old and gone by the time you all move in.” 

It feels a bit cringy to remember that now, but mostly, when I walked into this pink house it felt a tiny bit like him saying “I want you to have the things that make you smile.” 

I know, if we try hard enough, we can see signs in everything.  But, what if that’s the whole point?  What if these signs, large and small, really are meant to remind us of the love that remains?  Even if it’s as simple as a pink teakettle against a pink and white backsplash? 

There’s one more sign to share, as I write.  I brought a candle with me.  Bruce and I bought it several months ago;  he liked it because it does smell like the PNW shore and I liked it because….Alabama Football.  The name of it is “High Tide”.   I stuck it in with the groceries and books and photos I brought along and grabbed a box of matches off his desk at the last minute.  He still liked finding matchbooks and boxes that were clever.  As I reached out to light the candle this morning, I noticed the inscription on the matchbox:  “There is only WE”. 

Indeed, my love, there is always and only WE.