Category: Memories of Mary

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Self Work: Faith

I don’t struggle with faith, exactly. I struggle with understanding, deepening, and living in harmony with my faith.

This conversation between Jordan Peterson and Jonathan Pageau is the first time I’ve heard Peterson identify as a Christian and volunteer the fact that he doesn’t go to church.

Jordan Peterson with Jonathan Pageau 

Perhaps my favorite thing about Peterson is the personal investment he brings to intellectual discussion. It can be painful, as important learning must be.

Attending worship services has never settled into routine for us.

Before we were Baptized, Mary and I sought community and stability. We thought we could find that in church. After we had children, Sunday mornings became more challenging. One Sunday, once we had two children and resolved to expose them to regular worship, Mary went to tears before they were awake. We never talked about it deeply, I gave her time. It was months before we started attending again. And then a few months later she asked me about faith.

Mary’s faith was easy. Baptism was a formal declaration of what was on her heart. I was, and am, the overthinker.

I took up intentional prayer, attended a men’s Bible study group, and dove into Peterson’s The Psychological Significance of the Biblical Stories: Genesis and commentaries by more traditional religious leaders.

I’m confident that Jesus moved my heart, but Peterson did a lot of work on by brain.

Worship as a widower has been different. It feels lonely, especially when one son would rather read Deadpool comics in the front pew than listen to the sermon (mind you, he ALWAYS choses the first or second row as his reading spot). The scripture and the message never fail to carry meaning for me, but there’s something out of place about our little family.

This past year has been especially difficult. I tried virtual worship, virtual Bible study, and virtual Sunday school. It all fell flat for all of us. When I was invited onto a Spanish league soccer team that played on Sundays, there was no conflict. I had begun a daily and developing prayer practice and was feeling closer to God, despite missing fellowship with my Christian brothers and sisters.

Soccer shifted indoors and to different days just as I was invited into a new fellowship. There hardly seemed to be a choice to make when I had the opportunity to meet new people and worship unencumbered by regulations that do not ring true to the way I believe Jesus showed us how to behave.

We are becoming a part of this new fellowship. We have been welcomed and I am leading a small in-person study group.

And soccer season approaches.

Not all the games will interfere with worship, but many will. My body craves the level of competition and comraderie of this league and team. My sense of loyalty and gratitude is activated by last year’s invitation to play “normal” soccer when nothing else was. That one invitation has led to dozens of hours of soccer in places where white people don’t usually get welcomed.

I thank God every day for my actively physical life. Mary knew better than I how important soccer is for me. I’ve embraced that somatic need and I feel closer to God when I thank him for my gifts.

There is an ego-driven piece of me that fears explaining to my Monday group that I missed service for soccer. I wonder if this makes me “less of a Christian.” There is comfort in knowing that Peterson has a similar disconnect in his Christian life. I also try to take heart in God’s Grace not being a thing that humans can sort out among themselves. Being Saved isn’t about works, but what is in one’s heart. God knows that better than we do ourselves.

It’s the aim that counts. I can love God and play soccer in an effort to honor the body that God gave me. I don’t worship the game or the body, I worship the Creator and strive to aim at His Kingdom every day.

Disclosure:  The links below are affiliate links, meaning, at no additional cost to you, I will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase. 

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Winter Magic

Mary wasn’t woo-woo, but she did practice occasional magic.

Snow in Delaware is rarely guaranteed. Mary grew up in central Pennsylvania and loved the white stuff, so helping it along with some fun has been a family tradition.

Last night the forecast was for anything from freezing rain to sleet to snow. Again, in Delaware, that means a messy, freezing mix. To combat the forecast, my sons employed our magic trick.

First, pajamas must be worn inside out. As unschoolers, there’s a 15 percent chance that’s already the case. Next, a candle is lit and a spoon is placed under each pillow. The last step is the most important part because it’s the silliest. An ice cube is placed in the toilet after the evening’s business is done. Approximately eight cubes were used last night for good measure.

A modest blanket of snow greeted me before I stepped outside for Wim Hof Method Breathing. Sleet gently pelted me through the practice and it fell like music through the branches. I felt a connection to God and His Creation, I felt the magic of the Holy Spirit move through me.

As I sit now, writing in the warmth of our dining room, the sleet has changed back to snow. Mary’s magic. This room has become the place I feel her most. The magnolia she loved so much stands through the picture window before me. Evergreen and beautiful all year, its deep green leaves collect the snow perfectly.

These moments may be the best part of grief, when the soul of a loved one reaches down from Heaven in comfort. I can smile and cry and feel her magic.

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Anniversary Ambush

It is almost three years since I lost Mary. Two days ago the TV digital date read “12 February.” I never had a need to set it correctly and now it’s reminding me of the upcoming anniversary.

And now a friend sends me pictures from January 30th, the day Mary first felt ill.

One of my dearest friends also lost her husband on this day, four years ago.

All here to remind me of the worst two weeks I have known. Two weeks that exploded in my brain, shattering who I thought I was.

Worst and best? How would I know myself so well now if I hadn’t had my mind dashed against the rocks, destroying the roles I had substituted for Self. How would I have this journey and a clear path to ever deepening self awareness without all that pain?

There’s a story I can’t find. A story I could swear my dad told me as a child that he doesn’t recall. It’s a story of a petulant god who went to his mistress, whining about having nothing with which to entertain himself. The powerful mistress smashed him into pieces and launched them toward Earth saying, “Go find yourself.” The pieces became the first humans.

This, apparently fake, story lodged in my brain. I wasn’t connecting with people for a long time. I connected deeply with Mary and then that connection was demolished. I started to reach out to people, largely out of loneliness. Mary and I communicated and shared with each other constantly, exchanging messages throughout our days. I felt that missing part of my life the hardest, at first. I connected with people from my past, strangers, and widows. It took time, but I realized that my loneliness wasn’t driven by fear of being alone, but by a love for other people.

Now, I’m much more comfortable with creating relationships and letting go of expectations. I embrace what is and allow what will be to come. I value each connection and see it as one step closer to wholeness.

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Embrace Me

I shook someone’s hand today. I hugged a pastor yesterday. I embraced family on Christmas. Why should these things stand out? Why must they be remarked upon?

I wasn’t raised with a lot of physical affection. My dad was breaking a cycle of abuse and my mom came from a reserved Anglo family.

When I met my wife, we had the physical passion of new lovers, but she introduced me to a casual affection that stirred a longing in me. I remember the first hippy camping festival we attended together: her friends, total strangers to me, hugged me and said, “Welcome home.” It was not comfortable, I hadn’t experienced that kind of openness before. It took me years to open myself to friendly, physical gestures like that. It wasn’t until I held my first son that I began to understand how important physical connection is for me.

This year has been a cruel reminder of how much I crave physical, mental, and spiritual closeness with people.

I didn’t need a reminder. Widowhood has meant plenty of isolation.

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A Christmas Miracle

It was a bad day. My energy, temper, patience, compassion…none of it was what I needed to be today. I was a shell toddling around in places I was supposed to be, present in none of them.

Somehow I remember that the greatest victories come out of these dark places.

My father gave my son and I books by Carl Jung today. A four-hundred page paperback of tiny type for an eleven-year-old.

That’s why I remember Jung, “No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.” I cling to these words as the roots dig deeper. I cling to this as I chase, battle, and retreat from demons through my dreams, leaving me unrested each morning for days.

Two hours left in this awful day and I’m on the floor with unwrapped gifts, acting out a solo version of an old tradition. Mary and I would stay up wrapping gifts, leaving evidence of Santa’s visit, and preparing for Christmas morning. Santa has left the stage, but I still feel the pressure to make Christmas morning special.

This will be my third Christmas as a single father. With all my carrying on, I’ve managed to not have a girlfriend each year at this time. Maybe Mary still occupies too much of my heart in this season, there may not be room for anyone else quite yet.

I thought the miracle might come today. This month has been indefatigably difficult. I know something wonderful is near. It will be a surprise and I am eager for it to arrive. I suppose that is why I must wait a while longer.

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Revisiting a Tradition

Every December, Mary would spend a full day making cookies. She saved takeout containers througout the year and filled them with her goodies to share with friends, family, and neighbors.

I’ve never baked and I didn’t intend on picking up this tradition. My sons loved helping their mom, but I didn’t know where to begin (I was/am lead dishwasher).

When I tossed the idea out to friends that my sons enjoyed baking, but I was inept, there was no hesitation in someone suggesting a cookie baking party. It came together in five days with two of my late wife’s recipes on the menu.

The music was wild and the grownups kept things rolling as the kids rotated in and out, eating and helping in turns.

We’ve cultivated this new group of friends out of a primal drive for community. My boys have videogame, wrestling, and troublemaking partners and I have found a group of unschoolers who value the strength we find in each other.

It was a thrill to revisit Mary’s tradition in a totally new way. I know she’s smiling on us today.

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Process and Progress

I didn’t want a tree this year. Lots of reasons, but I’ve never owned this tradition. Raised as a Jehovah’s Witness, it never entered my sense of nostalgia.
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I mentioned opting out of a tree to my son, Isaac, and the disappointment on his face told me we needed a tree. Now I dreaded it as it felt out of my control.
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Then my friend Julianne’s daughter mentioned that she wanted to surprise her mom with a tree when she got back from a weekend away.
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Julianne is as hardworking as moms come. She’s a widow who has been a support and inspiration to me for almost two years. I never turn down an opportunity to help her out as she spends each and every day helping other people live their best lives.
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That same day I picked up the McElroy children to find our trees. I love love love these kids. They’re the McElzerbs when we’re all together. Our youngest boys were born just four  days apart.
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Julianne’s daughter, Kay, is all business and the trees were on top of my car in no time. She’s as independent as they come, but let me help get the tree inside and upright.
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By the time I got myself home, I didn’t have the energy to get our tree off the roof of the car. It was down early the next day, but stood outside for a week as I prepared a space for it inside. Repeatedly that week, I thought how absurd it was that I was bringing this tree inside to die.
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But, as I rearranged, cleaned, and generally improved our living space, I remembered how much my late wife enjoyed seasonal changes. Christmas  decorating was her favorite. Her sweet joy at all of it fueled me out of indifference. Isaac carries an inordinate amount of her DNA and spirit.
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Now here we are. More than week after purchase, a dozen bulbs replaced, and ready for ornaments.
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Certain things move more slowly as a single dad. It’s hard for me to accept that and forgive myself for being worn out before a job is done. The funny part is that sometimes Mary and I would get this done a few days before Christmas. In my self criticism I almost forgot that I’m doing a fine job. I almost ignored the progress we’ve made. This is my process.
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Respect yourself. Respect your process. Merry Christmas.

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Thankful for Music

I could write 30 days of posts about how important music is in my life, but the Lockdown has drastically changed the way I listen to it.

Live music has been virtually nonexistent and there have been no big shows or festivals. In an effort to fill in the enormous void of cultural events and resources that make up our learning lifestyle, we have listened to many more audiobooks and podcasts. Akira the Don’s meaningwave has been there for when my boys are a little tired of speeches and stories, but that’s not like my old, playlist-obsessed ways.

I’ve also had technical problems with my music collection. Some of which I started to iron out today. I went first to the staples that have connected my sons to their late mother. David Bowie, Michael Franti, Parliament Funkadelic, and Iggy Pop carry strong memories of my married life. They are guaranteed triggers for my grief. The wave of joy and sadness that I cherish. Sadness for the loss and joy that, for all my growth and self-discovery, Mary still holds a special place in my heart. Somehow, she shares in my joy at hearing those songs and telling those stories. It’s not only a connection to our sons, but to all in my life who love and share music with.

I thought music meant the world to me before I was widowed. I thought I lived life to its fullest. In these nearly three years, I have learned that there is no limit to the joys that can be reached in this life.

Every day I am ready for new and amazing experiences, even if they are as simple as rediscovering forgotten B-sides.

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Grateful Tears

“I haven’t cried in a while,” feels like a weird thing to say.

At a certain point you learn to feel the swelling wave of grief as it approaches. You don’t paddle away or try to hide under the surface. “Time to ride,” you might say to yourself. You’re probably out there without a board, but this wave is inevitable, so you throw your body on top of it. It might speed you to shore, or it might carrying you away into bawling reminiscing.

This morning, the wave came in the form of a video of a flash mob performing Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.”

Mary had a brother-in-law, Rich, who loved Zeppelin. He also died too young and I think of them in Heaven together, laughing and having a grand time at our expense. Rich was the funniest one in the family. He was brutal and loving and could give no shits about convention. He was a mountian man who could fit in at a hipster wedding, Eagles game (as a Raider’s fan), fancy party, or anywhere you please. He was a hunter and master mason who would keep you up all night drinking and laughing.

In a family with a lot of in-laws, Mary and Rich were each other’s favorites. He was my favorite too. I often imagine them watching my crazy life. I’m sure Rich has plenty to say about me dating, “You gonna let your husband do that? You should haunt those fuckers.”

“He’s not my husband anymore, Rich. Remember we’re dead?”

“Damn, why are you always bringing that up?”

“Anyway, she seems like a nice girl and I trust him.”

I’m sure Rich responds with something too crude to write here.

Music isn’t a minefield of emotion for me, it’s more like watching witches throw ingredients into a cauldron. Sometimes you’re ready for the splash and burst of purple (favored color of Rich and Mary) fire and sometimes the dragon’s tear or frog’s tongue suprises you with an eye-stinging smoke.

I’m grateful for the concoction and the tears it inevitably produces. It grounds, cleanses, and heals.

Rest in Fun, Rich Williams and Mary Zerbey. I may not want you to see all that goes on in my life, but I hope this video reaches to Heaven.

https://youtu.be/iXEsCEOh2yc

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Grateful for These Strange Creatures

Of course I love my boys and think they are, objectively, the best humans. That should be a given with 9- and 11-year-olds who have had half decent parentage.

But these boys are special. They lost their mother almost three years ago and bring her spirit alive every day. Isaac, the younger, struggles with fading memories of Mary, but he has no idea how much he embodies her compassion and warmth. He’s a half-grump and slow to wake up, just like mama. He’s always thinking of little things to do for people. He gets overwhelmed by the nuclear energy that emits from his dad and older brother. He loves music and art and when he’s in the present, no one else is more present.

Mary and Isaac would have been best friends. They would have built fires and cuddled in front of them. They would have cooked and baked together. They would have slept in on Saturdays while Westen and I went on a morning adventure.

There’s sadness in those “would haves,” but I am grateful for the connection his existence creates with his mother.