Yesterday was the 17th anniversary of my wedding to Mary.
Somewhat coincidentally, our tattoo studio was closed and Kristen was in a decorating mood. She’s been working on this wall and I helped hang some musical memorabilia.
Although she was quiet about her choices, my heart was filled with love because most of these have connections to Mary. The Ziggy Stardust was a gift from her and the signed Rhiannon Giddens picture was from me to her. Mary never got to see Beats Antique, but they were a favorite listen.
Kristen’s capacity to hold space for Mary astounds me.
The recognition of a love cut short might be the most important component of romance in widowhood. Both parties must find a comfortable balance and be prepared for the inevitable uncomfortable moments.
Isaiah 9:2 KJV — The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.
This is how I feel as someone who came to discover Jesus in his heart in his late thirties.
I was saved less than a year before my wife took ill and passed away. We didn’t know it, but we were baptized in the shadow of death.
When my Mary returned to her home in Heaven, the full spectrum of Light shone down. My conversion had been calm, but this revelation filled me with a powerful Love that endures to this day.
Isaiah 9:6 KJV — For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.
My story is a mystery. Why Jesus found me that summer, I do not know. But He knew that I would need all of His counsel, might, and peace in the coming years.
I spent a lot of time in chapter 9 today, but don’t feel like I penetrated much into its meaning. I’m sure I will return here and be shown more.
The enormous magnolia in our front yard is a constant reminder that Mary is watching over us.
She always loved to bring the big blooms inside. I love going out each morning in May and June to look for ones within reach.
This one came with us to By Her Hand Tattoos. That’s where things get weird. Mary wouldn’t be surprised that I met a wonderful woman and started a business with her. Mary and I had similar dreams of working together to open a bookstore or cafe.
She would be surprised that I chose to open a tattoo studio. Neither of us had tattoos and I held them in disdain for my entire adulthood.
Losing Mary shattered many of the assumptions I had about myself. These six years have been the most uncomfortable. I’ve had to wrestle growth and change from a past Self that lived my wife-kids-home dream.
There’s a small part of me that still tugs toward the impossible nostalgia of that life.
Widowhood is fighting hard to ruin music for me. It seems like there are more songs that inspire sadness than happiness. Even the happy feelings are often intruded upon by, “Mary would have loved this song.”
After six years, a ton of widowed friends, dozens (hundreds?) of group meetings and therapy sessions, a billion words spilled here, and countless efforts to engage with my healing, this is the most persistent manifestation of my grief.
On this coming weekend, six years ago, I took my sons to our first music festival as a family of three.
We danced our asses off to Reverend Peyton’s Big Damn Band. Isaac was on my shoulders for most of the set and I don’t know how I didn’t slip and fall in the mud.
Their cover of “Lay Your Burden Down” broke me. I was drenched in sweat, puddle water, and tears, “Mary would have loved this moment.”
That musical weekend kicked off a roadtrip full of emotional release and exploration, maybe a lifetime.
Of course, I wouldn’t trade one moment of music sadness. Each one is a reminder of how rich our lives were together.
Mary, my late wife, visited me in a dream last night.
Yeah, Valentine’s Day, cool, thanks for that babe.
I’m a weird dreamer. I will slip deep into a dream state as soon as I close my eyes. I will often shake out of that state just as quickly. This can result in hyper realistic dreams that span more time than the few seconds I’m unconcious.
That’s how Mary chose to visit me. In the dream, I was leaving our tattoo studio and walking down the hall to our jiu-jitsu neighbors at Elevated Studios. She was there, coming out of another doorway to follow me. I didn’t stop, but my eyes were locked on her face. It was different. She has a twin sister, so I thought maybe it wasn’t Mary, but it was. It was different because she had aged. It’s been six years since she passed and it looked like she had been living those years somewhere else.
She wore a grey dress, an old Halloween costume. She smiled at me. She was peaceful and comforting in my confusion. I opened the door to the jiu-jitsu studio to let her in first, but we froze there for a moment, staring at each other.
Then I awoke.
There’s been a tension hanging in me recently. There’s a weight that I can’t properly articulate.
Mary reassured me. She was there at our new venture to let me know that I was safe and in the right place.
I believe deeply in signs and Mary hasn’t visited me this vividly in a long time. There were other small things too, it was an odd day.
This podcast episode fit right in to my intuition that a new chapter in my narrative is close. Jonathan Pageau and Seraphim Hamilton discuss divination from the Old Testament to Artificial Intelligence. The path I desire most is to align my attention as closely with God’s will as I am able.
Mary showed up to let me know she will be with me through every obstacle God offers me to master.
Music is the constant and everlasting reminder of the mother and wife we lost.
The emotional swell of a song can lead me to the narrow, indefinite space between peak joy and cavernous sadness.
I had to think about Westen’s question. I didn’t know Brittany Howard‘s name before I started researching the Bourbon & Beyond lineup. I was, however, familiar with her previous band, Alabama Shakes. Mary was too. They grabbed our attention in 2012 with a Daytrotter Session. Daytrotter was our only source for new music as we navigated the first years of parenthood.
They were on our list to go see, a list that only grew as we took little time away from the boys for other passions.
I get to keep working on that list. I get to introduce them to the bands and music Mary loved. I get to show them the camping and concert tricks Mary taught me. I get to weave her into their lives in conscious and subconcious ways.
This introduction was unintentional. Howard’s solo work is different than her earlier work with the Shakes and I didn’t expect the music Mary knew to be played. Even so, Mary visited Westen and put that question in his head. She likes the new material, she approves of Howard preaching Love from Him above. There isn’t a lot of that at these events. It moved Mary to show up and…I don’t know exactly. Maybe to let me know she wasn’t missing out on anything. That’s what makes me most sad about her passing. Even as my current life is entirely incompatible with the life I had with her, it is dreadfully sad to watch her boys grow up without her.
So she shows up and reminds us that they are not without her.
I haven’t visited Mary’s resting place in a couple years. Some of it was not feeling welcome by the church that houses her cremains. Some of it was not needing that place to connect with her spirit and memory.
For Mother’s Day, my sons wanted to stop by and I was also ready to return.
The courtyard was unkempt and I had a vague feeling that this place no longer held its previous significance.
There is melancholy in that. I’m notoriously rootless and I crave special places and rituals to ground me. There is also freedom. I have taught myself how to engage with Mary’s spirit wherever I am called to it.
Through all these thoughts I turned my eyes skyward and found a remarkable rainbow above us. Although I no longer need this place, it was the right place at the right time.
I have almost everything wrapped and the stockings are ready. I’m not going to know what to with myself Christmas Eve night!
There will be another first this Christmas Eve and morning, at least a first in four years. I won’t be the lone adult in my house.
Kristen will spend the weekend with us and her daughter will join us Christmas afternoon.
It will be the most full Christmas my home has seen since we lost our Mary. I’ve been proud of the last few years and taking on single fatherhood. The excited energy of holidays has been counterbalanced with quiet loneliness.
I’m blessed with a partner who wants to be an integrated part of our lives. Kristen isn’t afraid of our loss or my enduring love for my late wife. She doesn’t want to replace, doesn’t ask me to forget, and always welcomes my memories and tears.
Christmas was Mary’s favorite. I can hardly sort through all her decorations and photos each year, much less put them all to use. I think she would be proud of our scrappy little displays, less scrappy with each year.
It’s a special time in our lives to share her with the wonderful, loving people who surround us.
