My Unplanned Life

A season of resting

2009-05-31T23:43:00.000-07:00

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
Ecclesiastes 3:1-22 (ESV)

I listed my life of the last decade to a friend and she suggested I was entering into a season of resting.

This is hard for me to imagine. The older I get and the more I mature in my faith, the more life seems to become a challenge. I've maybe had some flat land to cover, but very little downhill walks along the way. Most of it has been uphill grade, some of it very steep.

As I confessed to my friend, I sort of asked for this atypical life. I didn't ask for difficulties, but I earnestly prayed throughout my 20s for God to teach me his love, to give me His heart, to teach me His patience and kindness. I've longed to become better than what I am, to be made more like Him.

I've always had a little bit of wisdom. Its perhaps the one spiritual gift I can always identify at work in my life as God brings broken people to me for counsel.

I had at least a little clue about what I was asking for.

Having experienced 40 years of life, and 20 years of an adult path I doubt many people would have chosen given the option, I sometimes wonder if my prayers have been incomplete.

Should I have prayed for more blessing? More comfort? More ... just more? Do I not have because I didn't ask?

Or am I just wired a different way than most. I certainly long for "stuff," but I know God wishes for us to not put our hearts there. So I don't ask. Because, more than anything, I want what God wants for me. I don't want something that could lead to my undoing, or anyone else's for that matter.

I am not a martyr. I have strayed from God here and there, even in poverty and pain, but I believe it was much easier and quicker to reel me back in in that condition than it would have been had I had the means to really go out and chase the desires of my flesh.

This is not a question I would be debating if Jess were alive. May 19 passed, my shared birthday with my late wife, and I would undoubtedly entered my 40th year praying for God's blessing -- for more money, for more stability, for a child, that last one if only to soothe Jessica's tired, weary heart.

But I am 40 and I am ... unattached, returned to the state of simple, single living. Life isn't THAT much easier, but if I don't make the obvious decisions to get myself on financial track I have only one person to blame, only one person to hold accountable. So the right decisions generally get made ... eventually.

I go back to my friend's counsel. I can see the wisdom there, or at the very least a beautiful sentiment from a Godly friend who wishes me well. But as I seek the Lord, I don't see rest ahead. I see more discipline, more expectations, more of God pushing me out from the ordinary and onto the challenging path.

My peers, so many of them stumbled into the kind of life I thought I would lead: long-term marriage, children, stability (for better or worse). But I was too ... spiritual aware to stumble into anything. There was no grace afforded me to do that. I knew better. More was expected of me as a Christian, as a follower of Jesus, and that has been a great burden all of my life.

Whenever I would think of asking for more I would think about the state of people around the world and how even my own meager belongings were wealth in most other countries. How could I ask for more knowing so many of God's own people had so little? How could *want* more knowing God's people were hungry and cold? This is not an infomercial. It's the real human condition for most of the world. And I am self-aware enough to recognize I have more than plenty, enough to share even.

I can't remember when I had a season of rest, frankly. I've had less challenging seasons where I was able to find contentment under lesser circumstances, seasons that prepared me how to find contentment when life is most challenging.

All things considered, I'm fairly happy with how I turned out at 40. I am a better man, and I would be foolish to wish I had been given an easier path here. But I find myself wanting that season of rest, followed by a season of blessing and maybe a little abundance.

But more than anything I want to finish the race, as Paul described it. I think that requires me to get back on my knees and ask for more of the same and be prepared for the challenges -- to be prepared to live an audaciously humble life.

It scares me, but it got me here.

Remedial lessons of the heart

2009-05-25T02:35:00.000-07:00

My late great friend Joey Cadrecha was a phenomenal guitarist. I have never personally known a better musician, by the best of my abilities to determine such a thing, a virtuoso.

He studied with Joe Pass. He had those kinds of chops. He asked me to help him and his friends start a jazz jam at Pita Jungle in Chandler and we'd go over there every Thursday night and play.

One night on the way over there he said he was having some dizziness, but quickly dismissed it and jumped in the chair for a couple of tunes. He stepped down after the second one, saying he felt he needed to go home. He asked me to follow -- I was all too happy to oblige.

Joey was all over the road. If I didn't know better, I'd guess he'd had a few drinks at the jam.

His wife took him to the hospital the next day. He'd been having seizures. Ultimately, one seizure claimed his ability to play his guitar.

I don't think a non-musician can understand what it's like acquiring so much knowledge to play an instrument -- we're talking thousands of hours of minutiae -- and to suddenly lose it. The knowledge was there in his head, but he couldn't get the message to his fingers. It would be like forgetting how to breathe -- things become so intuitive that you take them for granted. This massive amount of information flows out of your brain to your limbs and you just ... do ... and it's second nature. There's no thought as to how or why. Every now and then you have an out-of-body perspective and you can't believe this stuff is coming out of you. You've forgotten the thousands or hours you've spent practicing. When you play, it's in the moment, and it just happens as naturally as your legs know how to move when you walk.

He was encouraged to start over again, but he was emotionally defeated. He couldn't bear the burden of having to teach his hands how to do that again. It'd been far too long since he had to think about how he played the guitar. He was ashamed, embarrassed, though he had no logical reason to feel that way. In hindsight, his health was deteriorating to the point he probably couldn't have done it if he wanted to. Joey passed about a year after that (and I probably think about him once a day ... I miss him a lot).

I've been dwelling on Joey's situation more than usual lately, because I realize, emotionally, I'm going through the same thing. I'm undergoing an emotional reboot.

It's safe to say now that I'm handling Jess' passing much better than anyone could have anticipated. I even surprise myself, and at times I feel guilty about it. Yet I know the real challenges lay ahead.

For example, I'm having to learn how to use the word 'I' when expressing my opinion. It's no longer 'we.' In general terms, I'm learning how to explain my marriage in past tense. It feels harsh sometimes, and especially harsh to admit this here, because I know there are people in my life who have not been able to accept it themselves.

At the time, I was frustrated with Joey because I didn't understand his fear. It seemed illogical. But I get it now, and I'm ashamed if I ever gave him the impression he was anything but normal. I knew Jess like Joey knew his guitar. It was intuitive. Not having her around so I can express that knowledge is very much like forgetting how to breathe.

My biggest fear is not being single, but becoming involved with someone else again. Single I can do. It's pretty easy to make big decisions when you don't have to consult someone else, and they impact no one but yourself. Pick up and move to Mars? That's doable, theoretically.

But having to start from scratch and learn someone else like I knew Jess, just the thought intimidates me. It's a brand new language. Learning how to speak 'Jess' took me years, and it was very rough the first two years because I clearly was still learning elementary 'Jess.' That was a lot of sweat and a lot of tense moments wondering if I would ever get to a comfortable point. Only by the grace of God did I get to the other side of that challenge.

I write this because God is challenging me as I type to not jump back into hermit mode. I did that for most of my 20s. It kept me out of trouble, but it also closed off a lot of people to my life. I was single and content, but I was too easily content to minimize personal relationships. That wasn't God's will for my life -- or anyone else's.

It's the other side of the coin to my note about singleness. It's the real challenge of being a single Christian. We are commissioned to serve the Kingdom and not fret about the loneliness, but we can't close ourselves off emotionally, either. There are no robots in the Kingdom.

I have this strange timing of positive momentum, and I promise you it's not my nature to jump into ambitious personal goals and stick with them, but God has seemingly carried me here for reasons I do not understand. I'm hopeful when I should not be. I'm joyful when I should have none. I'm moving forward when anyone in my position would be considered reasonable if they hid away for a year or two. (I'm beginning to think there are people that would prefer I do just that to satisfy their own need to mourn Jess without a constant reminder).

I've been given a lot of grace these past few weeks, much more than I ever deserved. The challenge, I feel, is that I've been keeping it to myself and I should be giving it away. It's not mine to keep. And I shouldn't be afraid of how God chooses for me to give it away.

The unplanned life

2009-05-22T00:54:00.000-07:00

I have been in counselor mode now for too long. So long, that I find myself giving advice where my opinion wasn't asked. What an irritation this must be for those around me. Everyone around me has been so graceful because they haven't called me on it, but I imagine that fuse is getting very short.

Earlier this week I caught myself short of breath trying to give a friend a pep talk about going to the gym. I'm doing the gym thing and, apparently, I'm an expert on it now. In my mind, of course. As I sucked air back into my lungs I had to ask, "What was your question again?"

"I asked if you ever tasted Coke Zero before," she said, with a hint of agitation.

(I have. I like it. My brother Chris got me going on it. But to a long-time leaded Coke drinker, it's not a replacement for the real thing.)

It's been hard for me to put the counselor hat away because it's the one thing that has truly helped me through this mess. I guess I've felt if I could provide some insight to my suffering, it might help others see life in broader terms. All the positive feedback has only encouraged me to step out and "counsel" some more, for better or worse.

My buddy Danny loaned me a book called A Grace Disguised. He used a portion of it at the memorial, and thought I might find more gems in it. It's written by a man named Jerry Sittser, who lost his wife, daughter, and mother in a car accident. His writing is very familiar to me and I get the sense he wrote this book with the very same intentions I had when I started writing notes about my grieving.

The one thing I will take from this book is it's not a book about recovery. In fact, in his epilogue, he admits "life will never be good again." That might sound depressing, but he counters with his life has been good since he wrote the book. His point, I think, is you don't recover from this type of loss, you don't regain what you had. You end up with something different, something unplanned.

The unplanned life -- that's his point, that's how life really is. The idea of getting married young, growing up with your kids, watching them get married, growing old with your wife, enjoying your grandchildren ... that's a fairy tale for people in our position. There's nothing wrong with people who get to enjoy that ... don't let me steal your joy if that's you. But I think, maybe, people who have the blessing of living their lives as they (mostly) planned them often end up missing on some of the salty wisdom, taking what they have for granted. Life comes at us so incrementally, I think it's almost impossible not to build up some expectation life will always be as good as long as we have nothing to interrupt it.

But my life has been interrupted by dark and vivid colors. I now know real pain, the kind that cannot be felt without first having experienced something of real value. I know what it's like to take life for granted, even at less than a minimum of what most Americans would consider a quality life, and I'm loathe to take it for granted again. I refuse to let the unplanned life dictate to me things I should be able to control -- who I am, what I'm about, what I represent in my words and my actions.

I think that's the thought I've been riding these past few weeks as I pursue many ambitious personal goals. Losing Jess has forced me into countless hours of introspection and I'm beginning to see myself in all the areas where I fall far short of who I want to be. Instead of spending my time in despair, I've found hope in the work and the sweat of becoming a better person, one who does not want to go another day taking for granted what I have remaining.

Bear Bryant, the great college football coach, used to teach all of his players to live every day as if it were their last. That's probably not an inspiring message to a bohemian or a nihilist -- they probably do live every day as if it were their last, on terms that would inspire no one. But to me, as trite and as hollow as that message used to sound to me, is really hitting home.

No more taking a day for granted. No more dismissing my flaws. There's nothing left for me to take for granted. I've now fully embraced the unplanned life.

The long drive home

2009-05-11T17:42:00.000-07:00

By far the worst part of my day is leaving work.

I used to dread the drive home because it'd be late, I'd be emotionally drained, and Jess would have any number of stops for me to make before I could walk through the door and start my nightly routine of helping her and getting to bed.

Now I loathe it because it's an express lane to loneliness.

It dawned on me today there's not enough I can do, not enough great people I can surround myself with, that can replace the fullness of life I experienced with Jess. There's nothing I can do that is as rewarding, not enough things with which I can fill my day to keep me from coming home to this quiet bedroom alone.

If you've never had to care for someone -- and I mean physically throw yourself into caring for someone -- it's very hard to explain the deep emotional ties that develop as a result. Not to be intentionally gross, but when you have to wipe your partner's bottom or give them a shower because they can't do it themselves, and you've done it enough times you don't even think to protest it, you are intensely emotionally invested in that person.

Taking care of Jess became a second nature to me. I was her pack mule, her medical advocate, her chauffeur, her pill counter and dispenser, her datebook, her conscience, and so many other things that exceed the definition of husband. I was constantly challenged to think of her before I thought of myself.

And I miss it.

I was discussing privately with a good friend last night about how much my stance on being single and content is being challenged. Before I met Jess, I had never known what it was like. I didn't miss it. I was content in the reality I knew.

Jess and I rarely left the house -- or the living room, for that matter -- together, but it seems like we did more living in seven years than most healthy couples do in a lifetime. I'm not boasting, I'm just offering my perspective compared to what people have told me about their own married life. We didn't have outside distractions and we were forced to cancel so many dates with friends. We were forced to create something between us that was probably healthier for our marriage than any number of nights out to dinner and a movie.

Among other things I won't mention here, I confessed to this friend that, while I can't fathom being with anyone else right now, it's impossible for me to think of the future without that kind of companionship. There are so many other things I could live without -- even sexual intimacy, to be blunt -- but I don't think I can bear not experiencing that kind of fiery, shared emotional intensity again.

I know it's not something that can be replaced and I won't even try. What Jess and I had was unique to us, two very odd, awkward, broken people finding each other. We were different even when we were healthy and, I suppose, stood out in a crowd for good and bad reasons.

But I can't take many more of these drives home without some hope that it won't end without hope. I've had a taste of something better, the real benefits of life, and I want to taste it again.

Another noteworthy moment

2009-05-09T02:00:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I'm actually destined to live an unusual life or if, by being so consciously and purposefully different, I just invite the unusual into my life. I'll let you be the judge.

If you haven't learned this about me by now, I am part of a massive global network of friends. I've been actively on the Internet since 1994 (Or was it AOL only early on? I can't remember? Jenni, you remember?), and I've spent the bulk of my time getting to know people in ways most would never reveal in person.

I have hundreds of intimate friends all over the world that I've never met, and some of them I've maintained fairly strong relationships with since almost the beginning.

One of those dear friends is Heidi, fantastic wife, super mother of four, and the personality of a pit bull.

A loving pit bull. A family pit bull. One that loves to play and is great with kids, but she'll chew your shoes and poop on your good sheets if you don't bend to her will or give her enough attention.

I love you, Heidi, but you know it's true.

Heidi and I had a "moment" about 10 years ago, a brief flirtation on Internet Relay Chat while we were both single, before we came to our senses and just went back to being friends. I'm a Christian and she is a KJV-Only Christian. If you don't know what that means, I couldn't even begin to explain to you the cultural chasm between us. After that, she (perfectly) filled the role of annoying sister I never wanted.

ANYWAY, she waited all of a month to shoot me an e-mail saying she heard about what happened and she was very sorry.

She also has a "friend" she wants me to meet.

No tact. No decorum. No sense of timing or filter.

Before any of you jump on her below, I've got plenty of grace for this girl and you should, too. Heidi is just being Heidi, and she's one of smallest handful of people who could suggest something like that right now without hurting my feelings. For all her faults she's been an intensely loyal friend. I've given so many of my friends license to test my patience, and Heidi renews it regularly. She never leaves home without it.

Nonetheless, I told her in no way am I even ready for something like that, so back off, which was pointless, because she always gets her way. It's irritating. And I love her for it. But she's really, really, really irritating. So I give. God bless her, but she agitates me to the point where I just give up and let her say what she's going to say.

Did I mention she's a pit bull?

I started calculating ways I could shoot this down with a series of explanations I thought would show her this was a fruitless endeavor:

Me: She goes to a radically different church than I do. No sale.
Heidi: You don't know what she believes you won't know until you talk to her

Me: She's too far away -- no long distance relationships.
Heidi: She's in favor of relocation already

Me: She's a vegetarian. I'm a Tyrannosaur.
Heidi: She doesn't care what you eat, but you could stand to eat a few more leafy green veggies tubby

On and on this went for two days until I relented and wrote something I never thought I would have to write, not this soon:

"@%)(*#$%. Just send me a bloody photo."

Now, I deal with "mugshots" all day long. I've taken a few. After seeing the photo she sent me, I had only one burning question left for my wanna-be matchmaker:

"How many years does she have left on her sentence?"

And I thought I was being funny.

It was a REAL booking photo. Heidi was trying to set me up with a con. Not even an EX-con. A Current Con, right down to the closet full of orange jump suits. This wasn't even her first time in jail. Larceny or something.

Heidi has been pen pals with prisoners for years. It was one of the first things I learned about her. She had grown close to this girl and, for whatever reason, though she might make a good companion for me.

Because all I need is a little more drama in my life, I suppose.

She still doesn't understand my reticence, but she's backed off now. I'm not expecting an apology. Not from Heidi.

She's just regrouping to the east to flank me when I'm not expecting it in a couple of months.

Why coed gyms are a bad idea

2009-05-05T20:39:00.000-07:00

I'm not starting up writing again. I just had to share this unique experience.

I'm a member of one of those fancy gyms that have TVs on the treadmills, TVs on the stairmasters, big TVs up above us ... if they served beer they'd be a top notch sports bar.

But it's a gym and I guess TV is the best way to lure people into punishing their bodies.

I was minding my own business on the treadmill tonight, watching the basketball game, cringing at a particularly nasty collision, when a woman in head-to-toe black Lycra came up and banged on my machine

Holy stretchy suit, I thought.

It's Catwoman.

To my ears she asked, "Are you starting here?" It's important that I point out that's what I heard. I had my headphones on and the gym is louder than a Ramones concert with all those blaring TVs and closeted men grunting over machines in the corner trying to work out their suppressed feelings, so just remember that part. I'm innocent.

"Are you starting here?" I heard again.

She's welcoming me here, I thought to myself. She must work here or something. How nice.

Not wanting to break my forward motion, I smiled nicely and nodded affirmative.

"Thanks for asking," I said, politely.

At least I thought I was polite. She walked off in a storm.

I was finished a little bit after and started to walk out of the gym when a thick-necked Napoleon came up to me with a finger pointed in my face.

"I catch you staring at my wife I'm going to ..."

I wasn't really paying attention to what he said. I got the message, and it dawned on me what the woman really asked me.

She wanted to know if I was staring at her.

My oxygen-deprived brain didn't really have an answer other than it knew we wanted to avoid a "scene" there in front of all the nice trainers who know my situation and made lots of assumptions about my general decent character (I know this because they comped me about $900 worth of PT time). I walked slowly out the door as if that man had been talking to someone else.

The problem was line-of-sight. I'm looking down at the TV on my treadmill, grimacing at at a play, and Catwoman is on the machine in front of me thinking I'm checking out her tush (which, I feel necessary to point out here, was pretty much hung out there in stretchy suit stuff like the morning's produce ... I got the impression she was more disappointed in who she thought was ogling her than the fact she thought she was being ogled ... whatever ogled means).

So there you have it. I'm never going back to the gym again. Not without a mask anyway.

Answering some tough questions

2009-04-30T12:30:00.000-07:00

Keep in mind when you forward these notes to make sure I'm represented properly. I mention this because the inbox on my gmail account is being assaulted by people asking me questions as if I were Dr. Phil. I'm just a dude writing about my awful situation the way, I suppose, a stand-up comedian dumps all their neurotic fears into their routine -- cheaper than a head shrinker.

I'm not an expert on this stuff.

Furthermore, the devil in me is so tempted to mess with some of these people. It's all I can do to not respond just to humor myself. So think hard before you hit that send button, because not everyone is going to "get" these things I write.

That said, I had to respond to some of these questions that keep coming up and I thought I'd do it here in case this gets forwarded again. It could save me some time. I am, after all, committed to responding to every personal e-mail that comes my way (sooner or later).

Here we go ... (If these are your questions, I re-wrote them for brevity and clarity, and for no other reason. I thought about asking for permission to publish them, but I decided that was an implied possibility in an unsolicited e-mail. I will, however, maintain your anonymity. Just pray my answers might actually assist other people, too.)

Q. My daughter's husband passed away four months ago and she's already getting serious with another man. Do you have a better way I could tell her it's too soon?

A. Assuming there are no kids involved, I think you should stay out of your daughter's business. She's on her own timetable and she's a grown woman. Don't be a tool. Don't tell your daughter how to grieve, when to grieve, where to grieve, or when she's done. Only she knows. I've been asked this question four or five times now by people in similar situations, and it reveals all kinds of conceit, IMO. My guess is YOU'RE still grieving your son-in-law and YOU feel betrayed by your daughter's quick turnaround. But if you love your daughter you'll stay out of the way and let this resolve on its own. Then admit to yourself that this is all about you and deal with that.

(Pausing a moment to let my anger die down)

If there are kids involved, pretend like I didn't just dress you down. That's different. Your daughter then has an entirely different set of priorities whether she realizes it or not. I don't think she should even date until she knows (a) her kids are at the end of their grieving process and (b) she's somehow explained to them why "Mommy" is going to start seeing strange men. All kinds of confusion there for the kids. "Is that my new daddy?" Ugh. Difficult. In this case, I think you have to confront her (lovingly) and challenge her to think seriously about her childrens' emotional state. I don't know if there's a timetable on that. It just has to be done with the children being the first consideration. Professional counsel should be involved there, people who have clinical insight into the mind and emotions of children.

Q. My father just died last year and I still can't find the strength to laugh. How do you do it?

A. Having a dog helps. A couple of nights ago I accidentally dropped a treat underneath the bed where my dog Meeko couldn't get to it and watched him stuff his body all the way under the bed. No treat wasted. That's his motto. He got stuck until I put another treat out in the middle of the floor. It took him about 20 minutes, but his stomach is always mightier than his fear. Watching him turn sideways and move his body along with single butt cheek out of sheer little doggie determination had me howling.

It's the kind of thing Jess would do to entertain herself while I was at work. I never understood how funny it was until I tried it myself.

I guess my point is whatever fond memories you have of your father laughing, that's where the joy is. That's where you'll find the laughter. You just can't fear the laughter. There's a release there if you're willing to embrace it. it doesn't require any strength at all. It's possible you've been using all your strength to keep from laughing out of some misplaced guilt or shame. If your father laughed, you can be certain he wants you to laugh now.

Q. My 14-year-old died two years ago from complications of a car crash. She was on a respirator for six months in a coma before her tired little body gave out. The accident was a hit-and-run, probably a drunk driver, but my wife couldn't help but blame me. She served me divorce papers a day after the funeral. We couldn't sell our house so I moved out last month before the banks could change the locks on me. I'm living in my old neighbor's garage sleeping on a cot next to wall-to-wall canned fruit. I feel like I should be in one of those jars. I feel like I am in one of those jars. You write with so much hope and I think I hate you for it. I know I shouldn't, but I've got this e-mail here and I screamed into my pillow with rage without even finishing it. I'm writing you to ask for forgiveness, but you should know I don't really want it. I'm just doing it because I think it's the right thing. I want to tell you and your God to [censored] but what's left of my conscience is directing me to this instead. [Lots of other angry things here snipped out] My faith was blind, but if God wants me now, he's got a [censored] of explaining to do.

A. First, I'm going to stop complaining about my situation. I feel like a pretty small man right now.

I don't have the first clue what it's like to walk in your shoes and whomever sent you my notes should've used better discretion. What you're going through is a complete life meltdown I doubt anyone here could even relate to. You have my deepest sympathies, but I think I'm clued in enough there that you're pretty tired of sympathies. Some other things I bet you're tired of:

- Platitudes
- People trying to explain to you God has a purpose in all of this
- People trying to explain to you that this is somehow by design
- Pity
- Your wife's unjust judgment of you
- People being afraid to approach you
- The wrong people not being afraid to approach you

The good people don't know what to say and the idiots have all the answers. Am I right? I'd scream, too, if I read some drivel from some guy that others are saying is so brave, and there you are going through REAL hell. Buddy, you are so right. I don't know what hell is, but you do.

The truth is evil is evil and it can march on good people. It does every day. That's not God. That's the enemy. This is his domain, his world, his touch of death. That's the kingdom of darkness.

My truth is that I have no hope. It's given to me. Without it, I would be angry and depleted and a total wreck. My hope is in God. That's it. I am as capable of letting the darkness swallow me up as you are, but God won't let me go there.

That's not something I can reveal to you, only God can, but I assure you God meets you where you are. Anger is good. It's real. IMO, your anger is just. Just be sure your anger is directed at the right target: the enemy. That's common ground there with the Big Man. He's angry, too. That's right, I said it. God is an angry God. A justly angry God. He abhors the darkness so much He intends to destroy it for all good time. We just aren't living the Age of Judgment yet. We're still living in the Age of Mercy, the "right now" before the "not yet." The day will come when darkness in vanquished, but right now we're living in the fallout of a cosmic battle. You have to have faith that your daughter is with the Lord and you and her will be someday be able to share a witness of God's final plan.

If you truly want a way out, there's your direction. It won't bring your daughter back. It has nothing to do with your wife. Now life is all about what's between you and the Lord. Like Andy Dufresne says, Get busy living or get busy dying. That's the crossroads of grief.

John 1:5: The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

I swear the hurdles are getting taller

2009-04-28T22:29:00.000-07:00

They day started so well.

I got a call from a guy I met in Scottsdale about his drum kit. He's selling his maple Mapex Pro for $400, which is a steal IMO. It's a 100 percent maple kit for the price of an entry kit. It was going to put me well on my way to reacquiring drum gear I sold off the past five years to pay bills. I planned to meet with him at the end of the month.

Later, I was asked the adjust my schedule to early mornings, which is going to be PERFECT for me. Get up early, get work down, still have time for the gym and get home at a reasonable hour. It's the perfect "get disciplined" schedule. I cannot imagine better timing for this.

Got set up at the gym tonight thanks to a lot of help from my brother and sister-in-law, Chris and Kristen. Weasled out of paying for an entry fee, plus I got a free month's worth of personal trainer time.

I spent an hour talking with the manager and two of the trainers, so of course I came out of the meeting feeling like a Marine recruit who'd just been pumped up by the recruiters for basic training (thick and stupid, but blissfully on his way to physical and emotional torture).

I went home feeling like the wheels were finally pushing out of the mud.

When I arrived home I got the belated news I have to be out of the house by May 6. My new home won't be available until June 1.

You remember that tuba clip they played on The Price is Right when someone blew it? That's what I heard in my head. I got so close to the grand prize, but I jumped the shark right before the closing credits.

I'm pretty much in the dark what God has at work here because it wasn't like I was digging in my heels, planting roots, or staying in bed all day. I'm the anti-Brian Wilson. I was moving forward in good faith. I was doing all the right things.

So the idea of being thrust out into the street for more than three weeks -- which includes, I might add, a one-week unpaid vacation during that time -- feels like a cosmic kick in the teeth.

Maybe I can stay at the gym? They have showers and a better cable package than I have here.

I've never been homeless in my entire life. I'm sure I've been close a few times as a kid, but my parents did an incredible job sheltering me from those problems. My mom made the best imaginary bologna sandwiches in the world when I was six.

I'm not fearing lack of shelter, either, so it's not like I'm going to become a street bum. I'll hit up family and friends and sleep on a sofa for a few weeks until I can get moved into the new house.

But the idea of not having an address, a private place to contemplate all the things I've got on my plate these days, that's intimidating. These past two weeks I've taken this place for granted. I've loathed it because the ghost of that horrific day haunts me in the hallway, and yet now I'm clinging to it because it's so much better than the alternative I hadn't considered.

I was friends with free spirits in college. They considered their address to be "everywhere," not intimidated by the world or their lack of belonging to a specific place on the map. I envied them then and I envy them now -- wouldn't we all be better off without placing such a high priority on real estate? -- but that's not me. If I have any vanity in me, it's a need for a place to go inside and close the door, a place no one else is allowed to follow me.

And that place has a high-speed Internet connection just in case anyone upstairs is taking down my request.

I don't want anyone's pity. I'm not pathetic. I'm not helpless. I know something will get figured out and I'll do just fine. But, Lord, the hurdles were already a healthy challenge before you raised the bar. I'm not looking to set any new records here on difficulty of life turnaround, so if you have it in your heart, one easy month would be my preference in the near future.

When readers attack and levels of grief

2009-04-28T00:21:00.000-07:00

I don't know what I really intended when I started writing these notes on Facebook, but I wasn't thinking serial when I started.

Or serial killer, which is what came to mind when I opened two e-mails this weekend. I'll quote some:

dude, everyone's lost someone. not all of us fill up the news feed like some attention hog. get a hobby or something.

Then there was ...

Your a nice guy but the God stuff is over the top. Talk about your wife and tell some jokes. Leave the sermonets to the preachers.

I'm no Scott Adams and my dog, Meeko isn't Dogbert or capable of responding to my e-mail (he's content chasing his tail at illegal speeds). But I will try to respond here fittingly:

Dear Dude,

Thanks for taking time to write me. I'm sure it cut into your time you usually spend each day at azcentral making sure every discussion thread has at least one reminder that illegal immigrants from Mexico are the cause of every known problem in the Western world. The time you spent sending me this note you could have kicked your cat at least three more times. Don't think I don't recognize your sacrifice.

Feel free to de-friend me. If you figure out how to do that in the maze of Facebook "how to" guides, please forward me instructions. There's this other dude I'd like to de-friend.

Regards ...

Dear Non-Believer,

I didn't knock on your door. I didn't leave a pamphlet on your window. I didn't scream at you from the sidewalk. I didn't even force you to read these notes, which are deeply personal and no one is at all obligated to read them.

So, stop the hatin'. Don't make me call on the she-bears. (2 Kings 2:23-24 ... look it up ... God provides a serious posse for his bald men).

Sincerely ...

And now for the rest of the note ...

These notes seem to be going viral and I'm getting third-, fourth-, even fifth-hand responses here and in my e-mail. I'm writing this for my own sanity, but if you think someone you know might benefit from something I've written here, you don't have to ask my permission. Just use your best judgment.

One of the responses has had me thinking about levels of grief. A man in Kentucky lost his little girl two years ago to cancer. I hear about things like this everyday in the newsroom and I feel for them, but the sentiment passes all too quickly. That this man wrote me and three years later he's still an emotional wreck, I am floored by the intensity of his loss. Even in my own plight I can't began fathom that kind of pain.

Losing my wife is the most terrifying, emotionally deflating thing that's ever happened to me, but somehow I imagine there are deeper levels of loss. I've seen it up close these past two weeks.

Losing a child ... that's the worst. My heart breaks for Jessica's parents. I fear they have an even tougher road to walk than I do, and I wish more people would focus their efforts on comforting them -- however they wish to be comforted. Out of personal consideration, I won't dwell here on their experience, but I shouldn't be anyone's primary concern. They should be Nos 1a and 1b, relative to how you know them.

Losing a best friend ... there's the single factor of time there. Jessica's best friend, Vanessa -- they've been attached at the hip since they were 10. They had their close circle of friends, but the bond between those two was forged over many troubles overcome, and many more good times shared. I mourn for Vanessa, but I believe she has at least discovered she has many more good friends than she realized. Jessica had many friends very close to her, in fact, and they are all struggling in uniquely painful ways in which I'm not sure I know how to comfort them. I pray for their peace because I'm useless otherwise.

That said, these weeks alone have made it clear to me what I've lost: My best friend -- my only close friend, a circle of two.

This is how much a part of my life she was: I gave her the TV remote the second day together and I never took it back. I have no bloody clue how to work it, I don't know what and when things are on TV (other than Lost), and I can't remember what it's like to sit down and watch something new on my own. I hate reality TV, but she loved it and I watched it with her. I give up on watching TV. It's no fun without her in control of it. It's no fun without having her to talk with after it's over.

I can stand to read a new book, listen to new music, rent a movie I haven't seen, because I know I won't have her around to share it with. Even the weak humor I offer in these notes comes up mostly empty to me because she's not here to tell me how lame I am (and then laugh about it).

I shared every last detail of my life, every bit of minutiae. As much as I want to, it's almost impossible to find joy in something new because I can't share the experience with her.

I have been unplugged.

I think this why I write these notes, that somehow this is going viral out there and they're being passed on to her. My theology doesn't allow for such an event, but the heart does what it does to preserve itself.

This is the price tag of a great and rewarding marriage -- that some day one will stand alone in pain. Almost all of us will pay that price eventually.

But was it worth it? Hell yes, and I'd do it all over again even knowing what I know now, even knowing I couldn't change the result and extend our time together. The pain is never so deep as to overtake the joy she gave us. The joy is untouchable, unbreakable, impervious, and as I absorb it more and more, I am enriched and feel strengthened again.

Life is not an etch-a-sketch and I don't get to erase my past just to put the pain away. But I'm trying to think of myself today as less of an unfinished book and more of an empty slate ready to be filled up with new experiences again.

Someday, once again, I will remember how to work that bloody remote control on my own.

Sad songs just make you sad

2009-04-26T22:10:00.000-07:00

I'm back in Phoenix tonight recovering from a whirlwind tour of ... well, OK, we were pretty much in one place, but it feels like I've been everywhere and back again after going through a second memorial.

Before I get going on my primary issue, I want to list two other things that made me very sad tonight:

- Airport WiFi. It's free. Yay. I would've gladly paid for carrier pigeons because I think they could've moved more information faster.

- My parking fee. $75. Turns out I don't know everything about Sky Harbor like I thought I did. I almost choked on that one. That's, like, a round trip ticket to LA. Just to park my dirty PT cruiser.

Anyway, there's an important element to grieving I think everyone should know: Sad songs don't really help. In fact they sort of heighten the pain.

At least they do for me.

I didn't know this about me until now. I had the iPod all geared up for the flight out there, weighed down with all my best reflective, melancholy piano tunes for reasons I obviously hadn't thoroughly vetted for logic and sanity.

It was a stupid @#$%)(*#$%)(* idea.

I used to love Elton John's Skyline Pigeon. I would play it on my Walkman on the plane as I was leaving Alabama each time after a visit. I'd play it to recognize the great heartache in my heart knowing I wouldn't see my family again for a long time. That I would miss them.

Memorializing my wife? It's just bloody depressing. Didn't make it three chords into the song and I had shifted over to watching Lost Season 3. Anything to change the subject.

On the way to the memorial some friends had their iPod going in the car not even thinking about what was playing. The music was ... folksy and pleasant for the most part.

Then Stevie Nicks' Landslide comes on and I was ready to spear that #A$%()*&#$5 iPod and chuck it out in the middle of a Butte County rice field.

Sad songs are what they are. They are great at emoting feelings for people who have nothing to be sad about, and we can sit around and say to ourselves, "Man, he/she was going through a real rough spot when they wrote this song."

But they are not for people who are actually sad. Anyone who thinks otherwise, well, I can only assume you're psychotic and need professional help.

In truth, I haven't been able to listen to much music at all. What's appropriate? Jazz? Classical? 70s AOR? Worship music has been helpful to the extent that it's music with hope and it gets me back to the right frame of mind, but I have my limits before I just want some silence again.

People have asked me what was "your song," meaning what song did Jessica and I share a love for so we can include it in the memorial. I wanted to offer up a meaningful song by a meaningful artist, like Al Green or Bill Withers, something deep and soulful. But it wasn't the truth.

What songs do I associate with Jessica? Two of them really, and neither belonged in a somber memorial:

- Dance With Me by 112. This was Jessica's favorite song when we met. There's this bridge part that mimics "If You're Happy And You Know It," only it's changed to "If you're sexy and you know it clap your hands," and it had this syncopated hand clap thing that she taught me out in the middle of nowhere. Since she had the CD, I must've listened to this song (and clapped along to it) a dozen times in a weekend. So, you know, I know I'm sexy. I guess.

- The Middle by Jimmy Eat World. The day Jessica picked me up at the Sac Airport years ago, this song was playing on the radio. In fact, it seemed to be CONSTANTLY playing on the radio, All Jimmy Eat World, All the Time. Now, the first thing I remember about this song is obsessively telling Jess this band was from my home town, Mesa, every single time it came on. It irritated her, and I took some pleasure in irritating her. The second thing about it is I was compulsive in air drumming the snare/cymbal hits on the chorus -- so much so that Jessica picked it up about the third time through and we had our instant shared musical moment. We would both play air drums in the car be-bopping along at Warp 12 (she was driving!) and she would do her best to imitate my dorky "drum face." It should have been a SNL skit or something.

The good news is neither of these songs make me sad. In fact they make me happy, especially the Jimmy Eat World song. It's one of these pleasant suburban rocker tunes meant to lift the spirits of teenage girls, but it's a happy song nonetheless. I close this note with those wonderful, meaningful lyrics:

Don't write yourself off yet.
It's only in your head you feel left out,
Or looked down on.
Just try your best,
Try everything you can.
And don't you worry what they tell themselves
When you're away.

[Chorus]
It just takes some time,
Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be alright. (alright)

Hey,
You know they're all the same.
You know you're doing better on your own, (on your own)
So don't buy in.
Live right now.
Yeah, just be yourself.
It doesn't matter if it's good enough (good enough)
For someone else.

[Chorus x2]

Hey, don't write yourself off yet.
It's only in your head you feel left out, (feel left out)
Or looked down on.
Just do your best, (just do your best)
Do everything you can. (do everything you can)
And don't you worry what their bitter hearts (bitter hearts)
Are gonna say.

[Chorus x2]

She gave life and she never knew it

2009-04-26T03:43:00.000-07:00

My wife was not a complicated person.

This is not to say she didn't lack sophistication. She just wasn't hard to understand. She made almost every decision in her life with her heart.

At times this was the source of great frustration for me, because she could have already made up her mind on big and small decisions, and there was no talking her out of it. Where her heart was, that's where we went most of the time, sometimes against my better judgment.

But it was this same emotional insanity that drew people into orbit around her life. She was so inviting for people who were just meeting her, this big ball of silliness and warmth that seemed at odds with the world. She was unusual and rather proud of it.

Imagine my frustration as we would move to new, unfamiliar places, and she was reeling because she felt so awkward meeting new people. It was some serious irony. She was intensely shy until she was pushed into meeting new people, and then her switch would get flipped on and the whole room was lit up and she would become the center of attention.

It was also ironic that Jess was an accountant. I mean, she was very good at it -- a genetic disposition for dealing with numbers, but a career not known for social butterflies. There were so many other things I thought Jess could have or even should have done based on who she was around her friends. She was simultaneously a crisis counselor, an actress (some would say drama queen), a clown, a life coach, a sage.

But if you ever wanted to really see Jess shine, you watched her around children.

Some people were just born to take care of children, and that was probably the one thing that came most natural to my wife. She could put to sleep the most colicky baby, put a smile on the world's most ornery toddler, completely captivate the imagination of any person under 10 years old.

She desperately wanted children of her own. We were prepared to adopt, but it was Jessica's lifelong ambition to carry her own child, to have that experience of bearing her own. She wanted my children. She wanted one of us.

But her body just wouldn't let her.

We spent 7 years trying to have children, even at times when logic said it was foolish for us to try, either because we were broke or she was broken or both. We kept trying, though, because if anything renewed her hope through the pain, it was this thought of bringing life into the world and caring for it.

It was one of her very first questions for me, not "Do you want children?" but "How many children do you want?" I said, "You first." She said, "Eight."

I was silent for a long time. I said, "Two," and the negotiations were on.

The pain beat her down to the point where a few years ago she said she'd just be happy with one, because she realized neither of us were in any condition to chase a bunch of kids around. She would have just been happy with one.

One of the few unexpressed angers among her friends this weekend was perhaps the one poorly-kept secret I know everyone is keeping to themselves. Jess never got that child. Every single one of her friends hurts today because of it.

Her friends, they all have kids, and Jess was Aunt Jess to all of them. She was an amazing Aunt Jess.

Her unfulfilled desires ... I know, this burns in the heart of all his friends, this disappointment. They all wanted her to have this gift. More than one friend offered their womb on loan if it meant Jessica could have her own flesh and blood brought safely into this world. That's how desperately Jess wanted children and it's how desperately her friends wanted to give them to her.

To some, it seems like a cruel joke. Who on this planet was better suited to be a mother than Jess? And she went empty handed while so many babies are born unwanted in this world.

But that just wasn't God's plan for Jess. If God has a job for Jess in heaven, I know where it's at, and it's caring for all those children up there. Heaven's nursery is not untended tonight. To those of you who have lost children, they're in good hands while they wait on you.

In the meantime, you all can take solace in this: Jess gave life to your children and she took ownership of them while she was here. She could always dig deeper than most and find something special in your children. She kept pictures of them everywhere. There are more pictures of Jess with your children in our collection than there are of Jess with anyone else.

Your children were Jessica's children.

I don't know how many of them will remember her and it's probably not important that they do. What is important is in their most formative years, Jessica would pick them up and give those kids a special bond, reassuring them the world is not a wholly awful, destructive place, that there is trust worthy of being gained beyond parents and even family.

When your children were crying, she made them smile.

When your children were lonely, she was their friend.

When your children needed to be reassured, she bridged the gap until you could get there.

Jess never got to fulfill her dream, but she was a giver of life in so many other ways, and it fulfilled her.

God save the survivors

2009-04-24T01:31:00.000-07:00

I loved going over to my grandparents during the winter time. The snowbirds would roll into Phoenix and more than a few of them would stop to say hello to my grandparents, usually people who met during one of my grandparents' many road trips.

But my Grandpa Willard was not one to suffer fools, and certainly not one for much small talk (or any talk at all). I'd go over on a weekend and sit on the back porch with my grandfather while we'd listen to any number of strange old men go on and on about how awful Phoenix drivers were or whatever subject had them ranting at the moment. My grandfather seemed to take a bit of pleasure in me goading these men into their rants, but that's another story.

One of these men was a WWII veteran, and he could tell stories that seemed to last all day. It was sometimes interesting and sometimes tiresome. But one day I got him to tell the story about how he lost his best friend in a shell blast. I didn't specifically request it. It just came up in a line of questioning and I unintentionally led him back to a place I understand now he didn't want to revisit.

It was one of those horrifying stories when told in person, you sort of regret the topic came out. It's not just a story anymore. That was a real person and real feelings and emotions were attached. At the end of the story I asked the man, "And your friend? I bet that makes those memorials something more personal than saluting a flag."

He looked at me and -- I've never forgotten this, even if I can't remember the man's name -- said, "Fred? He's a lucky bastard."

End of story. He would say nothing else that day. I was unsettled.

I had no idea what he meant by that and I am admittedly speculating on what he meant today, but I think I'm beginning to understand. That man had to carry the burden of that event, lived a life he didn't expect to live, received glory he didn't want, and was perhaps just a bit bitter that the roles weren't reversed.

Dying is the easy part. Surviving is the great burden.

I'm going to Memorial No. 2 on Saturday and there will be great stories told, funny stories, heartwarming. We want to remember Jess' life in all the ways that benefited us, and they were many. It's the way it's supposed to be.

But tonight all I can think about are those 15 minutes that I can't tell anyone about, the 15 longest minutes of my life as the emergency response team made their way to my house. It's woken me up at night. The images sometimes flash at me while I'm driving or sitting in my desk and immediately shake me.

Unlike that man, I will never sit on a patio someday in my old age and tell that story. I'll take it to the grave with me out of decency and, if nothing else, the sheer fact I don't want to willingly relive it. No one else should have to bear that burden with me.

But like that man, I know what it's like to watch -- to see -- someone I cared for taken from me in an instant, a flash, a blip on someone's watch, and if I shut my eyes I'm there all over again. It's not just a story to tell, and real people and real emotions were involved. Raw, unchecked emotions.

The loss of my wife is not what haunts me. I can cope with that, as awful as it is. It's the memory of that moment, almost two weeks later to the hour, and it's as fresh as a stab wound to the heart. I've never wanted to forget anything as badly as this.

I hugged the boss and got away with it

2009-04-20T19:17:00.000-07:00

There was nothing eventful about my first day at work, which is exactly what I needed. Sherry, my supervisor, had all kinds of funny and interesting things to catch me up on from the past week. Nino dropped by for a chat. The Midday crew had things for me to do. Suzanna 'saved' a project for me, a charity page for a promo later this month. Anita came by and smiled, welcoming me back to work. John Misner, the station GM, continues to show a warmth and personal concern that blows me away; he came by to shake my hand and we couldn't decide if we were going to keep it formal or do the fist/knuckles thing. It was funny and fitting. We laughed about it.

It was not at all awkward, which is how I felt when I greeted my co-workers at the memorial.

I went on "auto-hug" mode at the memorial. I had to, because hugging is alien to me. I have a 12-inch personal space field that hugging violates. But I go to church with huggers, and Jessica's family is just replete with huggers, so there I was at the end of service hugging everyone like a long-haired hippie at the end of a Grateful Dead concert.

I could see John, Anita, Emily from HR, and Bert Sass out of the corner of my eye, waiting for the people to clear around me to express their condolences. That was enough clout gathered together to have made many important decisions for our entire operation right there in church. They were being extremely respectful and courteous ... dignified.

I knew I needed to work my way over there so they could get back to work, but people kept coming at me like peacenik raptors, devouring me in their arms. Trying to be graceful, I returned their embrace for short and long periods.

By the time I made my way over to the group I was locked into a hugging groove. Couldn't shake it.

I'm sure John Misner has hugged many people in his life. His parents. His wife. His children. Close family members. Employees? Not really part of the job description, especially not with the HR director there. When he stuck out his hand for a formal hand shake and I threw my arms open like an old Army buddy, time stood still for an eternity as my brain tried to negotiate how to navigate out of my artless gesture. I certainly didn't walk over intending to hug this crew because these are professional people, but there I was in that no-man's zone.

We ended up in that half-handshake/half-hug zone that, in hindsight, somehow seemed appropriate. No injuries were reported after the incident. I wasn't reassigned to the signal tower to check for lightning.

I was honored that he and the rest were merely there. Memorials are intensely personal events, and I think it took a good bit of courage on their part going there knowing how foreign the environment would be and not knowing what emotional state I would be in.

These are the people I work for. I'm humbled.

Anita, my boss, was also there and was as kind and generous as always, as were Emily, Bert, Sherry, and her husband, Joe. Mark Casey, the news director, called me early last week to check in and to let me know they were ready to step in and help with anything I needed. It was jarring, because I know these people are busier and more stressed out than air-traffic controllers. I couldn't have anticipated that phone call or the response from my co-workers and superiors.

I work in a business that sort of caters to egomaniacs, to self-aggrandizers, to the self-absorbed, but somehow I found the one station full of real, genuine people. I'm often asked how I like my job, and when I consider who I work with, the answer is always that I couldn't imagine a better group of people with whom I could sling the mud -- or whatever it is we do these days.

Things I learned about marriage

2009-04-20T12:37:00.000-07:00

My inbox has been more active the past week than ever. I'm glad some people are getting something out of the notes because it gives me confidence to keep them public.

What's been interesting is the number of people seeking me for advice -- not in dealing with grief, but about marriage. This is what I would call dangerous territory. It's mostly women, too, wanting me to give them advice on how they can get their husbands to express themselves more.

I dunno. Have you ever listened to sports radio? Men are capable of expressing themselves with great passion. Maybe you just need to accessorize more with their team colors of choice.

If Jess were here I imagine she'd say something like, "They want advice from you? But I'm not finished fixing you yet. You're incomplete."

Then we'd both laugh. Then she'd pat me on the forehead three times to remind me I have no business giving advice on much of anything that actually matters.

Ask me about fulcrum points in traditional grip. Or writing a news story on deadline. Or the beauty of H-back motion in a one-back offense. Those things I can definitely handle.

Enough people have asked, or at least hinted at asking, that I thought I'd just put this out there for discussion. There's no shortage of instruction on marriage out there, but I never found much of it helpful. Maybe just people talking about marriage might actually help someone.

Let's not call it advice. Let's just call it things I've learned to value based on what was an immensely rewarding seven years of marriage. You can agree or disagree with me below. I'll put away the "God stuff" for a day and keep this simple and practical:

1. Show up.

It's my personal experience that merely showing up -- every day -- with the right attitude is the most proven method to succeed at almost anything, but especially marriage. Jess knew when I got home I needed about 30 minutes of quiet time to put my work day away, but other than that she could almost always count on me on being mentally and emotionally engaged. When I slacked on this it was amazing how many minor problems would become major issues. When I practiced this, consciously, it was amazing how little effort I had to put into much of anything else. Now, this meant being ready to turn off the football game if she had a burning issue to discuss. It meant taking an interest in things that by no means I would have cared about if it hadn't had been something she had been involved with. (Scrapbooking? Really? But she loved it). It meant paying attention even when she wasn't demanding it, because even those could be little tests without either of us realizing it. But I showed up, by and large, and she did, too. And that covered a lot of our other weaknesses. When we were together, she was my primary concern and she learned to rely on that. If you're struggling with even the idea of this, allow me to suggest you need to seriously reconsider your priorities; emotional zombies don't have memorable marriages.

2. Practice patience. Early. Often.

If there were a sub-title here, it would be "swallow your pride at every opportunity." There are eternal, universal things that deserve your righteous anger. Starving children, for example. But when your wife is going a bit wacky and starts nitpicking at you, that is not the time to defend yourself. Recognize underlying issues. Develop some basic intuition and learn to anticipate what's really bothering your spouse. But under rare circumstances should you ever engage your spouse in self-defense when it comes to petty things. In most cases, just agreeing works -- even better if you can do it in silence -- but be careful of condescension. Patience really starts with a sacrificial heart, anyway. If you've already worked out the concept that, in marriage, you're putting your spouse's interests before your own, you're already a few miles down the road to earning your patience badge. In my experience, patience in the face of irritation tends to deflate the tension and reintroduce reason into the discussion. That's where you'd like to live as much as possible. The goal is to avoid anything said in anger. Trust me, that stuff hits the heart dead center no matter how much you just meant to wing them.

3. Stop keeping track of the workload

There are burdens in life so unbearable that you have to stop and ask for help. Then there are burdens in life that seem unbearable because your partner isn't pulling their fair share in your opinion. If you know the difference, then you'll know the appropriate time to ask your spouse to pick up the slack. Most of the time, though, this is just reality: Marriage isn't fair. I would guess in most functional marriages, the women are doing about 70 percent of the daily work. If not more. I'm in no way justifying that model, but I think everyone should tread very carefully on this subject. Check your motivation for checking the spouse on this subject. The last three years of our marriage I would guess I did 90 percent of the workload out of simple necessity. (All those people out there who've done things like give their spouse a bath because they couldn't do it themselves know exactly what I'm talking about). My wife just couldn't do things like the dishes or laundry, at least not often. She did as much as could and sometimes that would anger me, because she paid for it days after. You just have to do whatever it takes to make things work, and you can't be sitting around thinking about the fairness of labor distribution in your marriage. If you dwell on that, there's a worm in the apple bin, and it's not going to make your marriage fun for anyone.

4. Learn their love language as soon as possible.

That book "The 5 Languages of Love" is brilliant. I know this now because I ignored it for much of our marriage. How you like someone to communicate their love for you is usually not the same way your spouse does. I just happened to marry someone who was fluent in all five languages. That was quite a challenge. She was especially fluent in "Gifts." She wanted them. She wanted them to be surprises. She wanted them to be spontaneous. I could have given my wife cheap jewelry the rest of our life and she would have been content, but the idea behind it communicated love to her. For me, I expected action. I wanted her to work as hard on improving our situation as I did, taking an active interest in our future. For the first few years I was working my backside off trying to keep us afloat. To me, this was my announcement to her that I loved her. She wasn't really getting the message. Then one day I came home with an inexpensive sterling silver necklace and you'd think I'd just handed her diamond earrings.

5. Express yourself.

You don't have to be eloquent to express a problem you have. It could be, "I will do the dishes, but I sure wish you could ask me in a different tone." And then it could be, "I shouldn't have to ask." And then it could be ... silence, because you're quietly agreeing and practicing patience. But seriously, take time to express difficulties you're having with the expectation there might not be an immediate solution. Don't suffer in silence. That's always worse, because it festers and ends up coming out at the most inappropriate times. "I'm sick and tired of cleaning your toothpaste goo from out of the bathroom sink. You are an evil, despicable person that deserves a horrible punishment ... and I'm going to set the house on fire the next time you ask me to wash the dishes in that tone!" (And her parents are sitting at the table wondering how soon they could get the waitress to bring the check).

6. Be quick to fall on your sword.

Jess didn't like to be wrong, and if I wasn't ready to apologize all the time, we could have had some seriously extended disputes. For the first year or so of our marriage I apologized for stuff I had no business apologizing for. I apologized for the economy, for sinking the Lusitania, for causing global warming. Anything to bring peace. She eventually caught on and would make me explain my error in detail, so she could be certain my apology was genuine. I became very good straining for explanations. Over time she just got tired of the process and became aware she needed to apologize when she was in error, and things became more balanced. I just never saw any purpose in dragging out our fights when 99 percent of the time they were over things that had no actual bearing on our marriage or anything else. Much easier to apologize whether I was right or wrong than to wait on justice to be meted out between two very big egos. Justice is never sweet if you spent the night alone on the sofa. The longer arguments drag out the more damage I think it does to the fabric of the marriage, and the less real issues tend to get resolved. You move from having an argument to being in a state of argument, which becomes self-perpetuating. I don't have any facts to base that on but experience, so measure it against your own.

7. Love each other.

Never underestimate a spontaneous kiss or hug. Be thinking ahead to the next time you're going to find a new and different way to let your spouse know how you feel about them. Be creative. These things are free and the return on investment is unlimited.

In hindsight, I guess I don't really have any profound advice. Everyone's marriage is a little different. Some have unique challenges. Some are unequally yoked. Some are abusive and dangerous, and I wouldn't know where to begin to help someone there based on my experience.

I wanted to be a good husband. Jess wanted to be a good wife. If there's no determination on that issue from both ends, there's really no advice that can fill that gap. You can't make a person be a partner if their heart's not into it.

But it seems to me when one person goes all in with a lifetime commitment, is patient, kind, loving, the other person usually responds in the same way. In their own way, of course, but I've noticed human nature tends to respond well to positive conditioning.

Your mileage may vary.

(A side note for all women: The best kept secret about men is they all crave an audience for their humor. I have no idea why this is, but when you laugh at our jokes -- and not in that "you're an idiot" kind of way -- some chemical goes straight to the brain and screams this message: "YOU'RE A ROCK STAR AND THIS WOMAN LOVES YOU!" So, you know, step down from the tower of seriousness every now and then and just enjoy your husband when he's in a playful mood. I believe you will be stunned at how much more attentive he becomes in general)

Singleness, the sequel

2009-04-19T16:27:00.000-07:00

I give it about three months and then the matchmakers in my universe will be unleashed. Everyone will see my depression isn't fatal and "it's time" to start looking for companionship again.

I know this: There are lots of people in this world who cannot bear to be alone, and seeing a friend who lost their wife is tantamount to witnessing the embodiment of their own feared loneliness.

So they will go about trying to "fix it" by finding someone for me.

The problem is I'm prepared for being single. I wasn't looking for a wife when I met Jess, and I won't be looking for one anytime soon now in my second life. Maybe never.

The gasp you just heard is coming from those who never quite understood me to begin with. It's not that I never craved -- or don't still crave -- companionship. I do. Jess provided me with lots of things, but most importantly she provided someone with whom I could share my life, share my thoughts, opinions, interests. It was the ultimate approval rating. 100 percent.

Make that 98 percent, because she rarely got 30 seconds into any of my favorite jazz tunes. Everyone has their limits.

That is something that everyone wants. Now having tasted it, it's a crushing blow to have it taken away from me.

It's just that I already understand the idea of being single is not something to fear. I never wanted to be single again, but now that I'm here, I know that I shouldn't be terrified. The challenge is maintaining perspective.

There are advantages to being single, not the least of which is being able to get up for Chinese food at 2 a.m. without having to explain what you're doing, where you're going, or taking a second order. But the greatest advantage is I am now available again.

Available to the late night phone call from a friend in need.

Available to volunteer in places where I have skill.

Available to pick up the slack for my friends with children who are overwhelmed.

I'm just available.

I used to counsel singles before I got married, and after I would listen to them worry about how they were going to fill the void of loneliness in their life -- how they were going to meet "the one" -- I would ask them a question they often thought was rhetorical:

"What do you plan on doing with your life until you meet 'the one?' "

This is not a difficult question to answer for those who aren't in church because the answer is, "I'm going to have fun!" Yet for those who've grown up in church culture where we've deified the institution of marriage and demonized singleness, the best answer is a tough one to accept.

In so many words they would say, "I'm going to spend all my time dating until I find the man/woman God has set aside for me."

If I had gone about my adult life like that, I would have spent 14 years in deep discontent, and that is wholly unBiblical. I didnt' meet Jess until I was 32! If I had spent 14 years dating until I met Jess, that would have been a lot of wasted time that I could have spent actually attempting to accomplish what God had for me in that day -- and it wasn't dating!

If I had spent all that time spinning myself into the ground over who God was going to bring me, I would have had nothing to offer Jess when we met.

In 1 Corinthians 7, before Paul launches into good reasons to marry, the very first thing he says on the subject is: "It is good for a man not to marry." I've heard this taught in many churches, and pastors are so quick to leap over this and jump into why people should be married.

He goes on to explain this unique perspective in vs. 32-35:

I would like you to be free from concern. An unmarried man is concerned about the Lord's affairs—how he can please the Lord. But a married man is concerned about the affairs of this world—how he can please his wife— and his interests are divided. An unmarried woman or virgin is concerned about the Lord's affairs: Her aim is to be devoted to the Lord in both body and spirit. But a married woman is concerned about the affairs of this world—how she can please her husband. I am saying this for your own good, not to restrict you, but that you may live in a right way in undivided devotion to the Lord.

I believe the best assessment of Paul's writings on this is to say marriage has a purpose, but first and foremost be concerned with the things the Lord, to live your life to please the Lord. The challenges of marriage can easily detract from that and shrink the mission field when God may, in fact, have other designs for your life.

I can attest to this. When I was married to Jessica, Jessica was my ministry and I was hers. We were blessed, but were so cloistered away from the world as to be fairly ineffective beyond each other. We were concerned with each other.

I grieve for my lost wife, but I am now released again to the challenge of practicing what I taught all those years, to live a life of purposeful singleness. I'm not privy to God's plans for me. All I can do is walk in the "right now," praying that I'm fulfilling His purpose, and trust I will be better than fine if that is all I do until the end of my days.

I can't even begin to fathom a life with someone else right now, but if that does happen, I have experience that suggests my current agenda will at least prepare me to offer something of value to that person the same way it prepared me to offer something of value to Jess. I will be more than an empty shell.

This is the path of being single and content. This is the path I intend to walk again.

Deep cleaning

2009-04-19T12:01:00.000-07:00

Whenever life started spinning out of control, Jessica would find something else she could control to make her feel better. One of her favorite things was "deep cleaning."

Admittedly, we didn't do it often. She threatened more than anything, knowing full well the only way it would get done is if it was my back, not hers, doing the heavy lifting.

By deep cleaning, she meant actually moving stuff around and cleaning all the spots I'd ignore with the vacuum or disinfectant. She meant cleaning stuff I didn't think was important to clean.

If it's out of sight, it's clean. That's what I say.

Anyway, that's more or less what I did today. Jessica's mother was kind enough to remove almost all of Jessica's clothes for me last week. I had to insist because staring at the closest full of her clothes was unbearable for me. They were just a screaming reminder of that awful night. I knew I had to get her clothes from my sight before I could do anything else in there.

Throughout the week I distributed photos, books, movies, and other personal affects I had no use for. Today, I had to deal with the left over junk scattered across the floor so I could reclaim the room.

I'm laying here in clean room. There's nothing on the walls. Pictures have been stashed away. Stray clothing has been bagged. Garbage has been taken to the curb. Furniture's polished. My mom even cleaned and disinfected the baseboards -- I didn't know that was something one did, but she did it.

If I didn't know better I'd say Jess never lived here, and the emptiness has deposited me into a pool of melancholy. It hurt to have all the stuff as a reminder and it hurts to have wiped out almost everything left that proved she existed.

There are things of her I can't erase, though. I still start out sleeping on the right side of the bed and it seems like an eternal battle to get to sleep without her familiar lump next to me. That cheap jewelry cabinet is still there, but what I can't shake is the memory of her thinking it was the most wonderful, unexpected, thoughtful gift I'd ever given her.

Any other time in my life I'd call this a good day. I woke up. Got stuff done. Dad made a great steak for dinner. Saw a worthwhile movie with Chris and Kristin. Came home and got ready for bed.

Perhaps in the back of my mind I was expecting to come home to a fresher place that didn't ache, but some places just can't be deep cleaned.

Retiring from the sainthood

2009-04-18T08:44:00.000-07:00

Contrary to rumors, the Vatican, the Greek Orthodox Church, and the Southern Baptist Convention have not been working together to build a monument in my honor.

That I was nominated for sainthood might have been the perception some walked away with after hearing all the glowing things people said about me this past week. It was something like confronting an American Idol panel of judges consisting only of Paula Abdul.

I have never done anything wrong.

Apparently.

Obviously, people say glowing things to you and about you in my situation because it's part of their grieving process and, in certain cases, some of it was actually true. In situations like mine, the sheer fact I'm not a Somali pirate is enough to warrant a pat on the back.

I accepted all of it not because I was comfortable with the assessment but because I knew it was my job to be graceful and allow them their own bit of comfort in building me up.

Now I would like to retire my crown before I annihilate any delusions with an inevitable false step. We need to complete the picture.

(I can already sense some of you rushing to my defense as if some alter ego has taken over to assail my reputation. I can assure you if Jess were here she would have been more than happy to list my shortcomings in light of all the excessive praise. With my blessing of course. I just would have preferred to not be in the room when she did it. hehe)

Why would I do such a thing? Well, first, it violates the very thing I believe about all humanity:

Jer 17:9 The heart is deceitful above all things
and beyond cure.
Who can understand it?

I know no one meant to glorify me or elevate me to such a status, but I am compelled by my own conscience to set the record straight. I was never the perfect husband. I made mistakes. I could be selfish. Prideful. I said things I regretted, immediately or later.

I am a slob, something I was perhaps a bit too proud of early in our marriage, and something I discovered is a habit very difficult to break so late in life. It was no small source of dissonance in our marriage, a sour note I believed Jess learned to partially accept as an accidental in the music we made. She had to accept because no amount of promises from me ever seemed to deliver anything but chaos in our house. I would stress her out by waiting until the last minute to clean for guests, often finding corners to cut in my rush to get the job done.

On the other hand, these are not actual regrets I keep with me. Jess and I resolved our differences. She forgave me. That was the brilliance of our intimacy -- not her infallibility and certainly not mine. If there were ever an instance I could remember that we didn't resolve something, I still would have no regrets because I knew her intentions and she knew mine. We always intended to forgive and resolve. I've read, "Love is blind." Well, we poked the poor thing's eyes out in many cases just to be sure because we were two very broken people.

It always been a little odd to me the way we turn survivors who lose loved ones into heroes. There is nothing heroic about it. As long as my brain keeps telling my heart to pump blood and the lungs to pump oxygen, that's pretty much all there is to it.

Well, OK, there's more to it. There's maintaining the will to live, and I don't just mean physically. There's finding the will to not seal off your heart and give in to numbness. But, really, how hard is this, given any nominal amount of time? I still have hunger and my flesh still has cravings, and even if I were truly a craven fool, my own worldly lusts would eventually draw me out from my shell, at least in some lesser, somewhat familiar form.

I'm a survivor. It means I escaped tragedy. The only merit in that is I live another day, and if my heart is right, I'm thankful for it.

It means the clock is still ticking on my life, additional time that will be judged by the Judger of all men. I'm not quite sure how this works out theologically, but theoretically I could still blow this. One of the ways I could do that would be to receive all this praise as my own personal tribute without pointing to the One who is actually worthy of all praise.

You want to give me merit? Quietly give my your trust that I want good things for you in this life.and I will attempt to help you obtain them.

You want to give me merit? Give me a credit in the forgiveness column for the day I will surely need it when I fail you. I'm not a saint, after all.

Doing the best impression of myself

2009-04-17T00:09:00.000-07:00

It's Friday and I'm tasked with regrouping myself and going back to work next Monday. I've been thinking about this day almost since the moment I lost Jess, because I don't remember who I was before she came into my life.

Your spouse changes you in so many unexpected ways.

For example, I vaguely remember a day when I could walk into Walgreen's and purchase only what I went to Walgreen's for in the first place. That is a distant memory. I have since learned there is so much more to Walgreen's than easy access to cold medication and it's not inappropriate to spend $100 or more on things you didn't know you needed until you walked in there.

Did you know there's a pill that cures gas? That's amazing. Modern medicine has found a way to bypass the most natural, biologically simple, and utterly hilarious way to pass gas. These doctors have no sense of humor.

Still no cure for baldness, though, and that's right up there with no flying cars and no food replicator in terms of personal disappointment with "the future." Although I'm not certain I want baldness to be cured, because I imagine there being strange side affects, such as Chia Pet head -- and certainly will cause weight gain, acne, bad breath, sweaty palms ... basically negating any improvements the new hair might have in one's attractiveness.

I digress because I'm avoiding the question that has ultimately terrified me:

Who am I if I'm no longer Jessica's husband?

This is a no-brainer for, say, Larry King, who apparently tries out wives the way most men try on a pair of pants.

For me? Jessica and I poured ourselves into each other until we were empty, let God fill us up again, and poured ourselves empty again. We did this over and over until we lost any sense of who we were before we met.

I had a minor freak-out moment after the memorial. I looked down at my left hand and realized I was wearing my wedding ring. I had FORGOTTEN about that ring, not even giving it a thought from the moment Jess put it on my finger in Nov. 2002 until last Wednesday afternoon.

It occurred to me that I never needed a ring, no stamp of ownership. God stamped my heart and I belonged to Jessica without needing a reminder. In all our marriage it never occurred to me I might someday have to face free agency again, no longer wearing the familiar team colors.

Now, I have gained over 100 lbs. since getting married to Jess and I couldn't take this ring off right now if I wanted to. It binds the back of my ring finger in a way no commercial degreaser could ever allow it to budge. But that's hardly where my thoughts are.

Do I leave it on, to honor Jess? Do I take it off, so people don't think I'm hanging on to the past? If I take it off, will people think I'm an emotional robot who callously cast aside the memory of his late wife?

And what would I think of myself? Am I capable of now living without this ring that I had forgotten about, and is likely seeping untold white gold toxins into my blood stream? (We did purchase it from Walmart, and I can only assume it came from a Chinese foundry located next door to the poisonous baby milk plant and lead-based toy factory).

It probably won't matter what I do with the ring. I'm not sentimental. The ring is just a ring to me, and I only agreed to put it on for the sake of tradition and for assurance to my wife. It's the seal on my heart that has me more perplexed.

I'm not concerned about someday finding another mate. I was prepared for a life of purposeful singleness before I met Jess, and I'm prepared for that now as I look towards the future. God will fill my needs. I'm just wondering about the process here of becoming an individual again.

I know what I don't want to be, and that's the forever grieving widow with nothing else to offer the world but an emotional black hole. I don't want people to treat me with kidd gloves. I don't want people to fear approaching me. I want to be every bit as inviting and easy in spirit as I believe I always have been, with something fruitful and hopeful to offer people.

Danny Mullins, a pastor at my church and great friend, had a wonderful metaphor for this and I've been dwelling on it ever since. He said when we lose a loved one, we don't discard their life. We absorb it like good soil for a plant, and their life becomes a permanent part of ours.

I've spinned this one upside down in my mind and heart with both hope and terror, but I can only come to one conclusion: Jessica will always be a part of me now and I shouldn't fear that.

The funny thing about grieving

2009-04-16T05:25:00.000-07:00

Five days as a widow and I feel a bit like tenderized T-bone on the grill.

Everyone keeps checking me to see, "How are you?"

Not that it's an inappropriate question for someone who just lost their wife -- the sincere concern with each prod is undeniably genuine -- but from my single vantage point I'm beginning to feel the bruises beneath the skin where I've been poked while people check for tenderness.

If they really knew me they'd be asking me, "Have you been able to laugh much?"

Of course I have. And it feels good. It's helped me heal in places crying can't touch, which makes sense considering what I told my late wife, Jess, when I first met her in response to her question what I was looking for in a woman:

"I just want someone to laugh at my jokes."

This, appropriately, made her laugh, and I proposed in the next breath.

OK, that last part came a month later, but laughter was a major theme in our marriage, second only to our faith. Laughter sustained us through impossible times.

Right now, laughter is sustaining me through the loneliness.

I can understand why this makes people uncomfortable. They put themselves in my shoes as good people tend to do, and the initial shock of imagining how they would respond to such a crisis is a sensation they quickly reject. It's too much darkness to process.

But many didn't know my wife like I do and even fewer know me so well. It took all of about six hours after the initial shock for someone to mention how goofy and silly my wife could be at the drop of a hat.

And I laughed. And it felt good.

I don't know the Kubler-Ross Method from the Keebler Elf Method, but I'm growing fairly confident that this is the right way to grieve my wife, the right way to honor my wife in these early days. Probably the later days, too.

I can understand why mentioning this might unsettle some people. Perhaps images of a padded room and heavy sedation are popping into your head as you consider my future. We just don't associate laughter with this type of life event.

I can only simply point out there's a difference between a sick joke and good grief, and I think I'm experiencing the latter.

This note is not an apology for laughing. Nor is it an indictment of those wonderful people who have tenderly checked in on me as they share my pain. I'm grateful to have so much concern expressed by so many people. I'm definitely not suggesting this is the road to grieving for anyone else.

But right now it does seem to be the path for me and I'm hoping this word spreads as I move back into "regular life," because I want everyone to know it's OK to laugh with me.

More importantly, I don't think straight jackets come in my size so perhaps I'm saving someone from a moment of futility.

My wife, her life, the future

2009-04-11T22:27:00.000-07:00

I'm doing my best to maintain my composure and writing always helps me gather my thoughts. Please bare with me. I want to be informative here so people who asked will know what happened (as best as I know it) and so you can rest assured I'm going to be OK. Thank you all for your wonderful words of encouragement and for so many who have generously offered their time and assistance. My family is so strong right now, Jess' family is so strong right now, but it's been a blessing that others have thought enough to offer their help, too.

At some point yesterday between 2pm and 11pm Jessica's blood pressure dropped to the point her organs started shutting down. She went into cardiac arrest. While they were able to get a weak pulse on the way there, they never could get her blood pressure back. It ended up taking her life. We still don't know what caused it. It could've been her new medication. It could have been another pulmonary embolism which she had once suffered in 2000. It could have been a number of other factors. We just don't know. What we do know is it was sudden and there was unlikely anything that could have been done once the factors were set in place.

For those of you who don't know, I met Jess in April of 2002. We were instantly drawn to each other because of our shared faith and goals, and our ability to talk until the wee hours of the morning. We were married Nov. 16 of that year and we shared an incredible, intimate bond until the end. We could talk for hours. Even earlier this week I came home and we had to cancel our evening plans because we laid on the bed just talking until it was time to go to sleep, laughing, telling stories, revealing thoughts and ambitions ... that was the constant, daily relationship I had with Jess. I wish everyone of my friends and family members could experience that kind of relationship -- where the person you love knows they make you happy and they delight in it. For those of you not yet married, I encourage you to make that your highest priority in finding a partner. Jess and I endured so many years of poverty, pain, and great need, but we were quite often oblivious to it because we were so grateful of having each other.

In April of 2003 her doctor discovered Jess had ruptured disc between her L4/L5. This led to painful treatments, bone fusion, opiod dependency, opiod treatment, more opiods, unbearable pain, deleterious loss of income, unpaid bills, a lesser quality of life, many trips to the ER, to doctors, to specialists ... it never ended. The past five years Jess lived a quality life I would never wish on anyone -- homebound, barely able to even leave the house. The constant requirement for opiods for pain management caused most of her teeth to fall out and periods of rapid hair loss.

Jessica had every right to be miserable and I'd be lying if I didn't mention there were days and even extended periods where she fell into deep depression. But she never let it stop her from being a great friend, sister, daughter, and wife. She went out of her way often at the expense of her own peace of mind to try and do little things for me to make my life easier. She desperately wanted to make others happy.

Most importantly, Jess maintained her faith. It never wavered. We didn't pray enough, we didn't attend fellowship enough, we didn't read our Bible together enough, but our shared faith was a constant topic, constantly building each other up and attempting to be accountable to each other in the eyes of the Lord. I know where she is today, without pain, without suffering, because I know what drove her to crawl out of bed each day: She loved the Lord with all her heart, all her might, and all her strength, and the Lord constantly renewed her spirit so she could go on.

Let there be no doubt: I am devastated. Before I met her I never could imagine being a husband. Today I am demanded the impossible task of no longer being her husband, something that had come to define my existence until this morning. I will eventually return to work. I will retake my life. But I am at a loss what I will do when there is nothing to keep me occupied. Even things I enjoyed were never mine alone -- she was quick to take an interest in all of my interests and allowed me to share all those parts of my life with her. Nothing right now seems to offer escape. Everything reminds me of her. All my stuff isn't my stuff -- it's her's, too.

But I know I will be fine. I, too, am leaning heavily on the Lord today. As the sun rises tomorrow and many of us gather with family and friends to celebrate Christ's resurrection, I can't think of a better "next day" to begin my healing: Reveling in victory over death Jesus gave us. I apologize those of my friends who are uncomfortable with this, but it is what defines me, defined Jess, defined my relationship to Jess. I know, above all else, she wanted everyone she knew to know the truth of this message.

God bless and see you another day, a better day.