Category: The Healing Journey

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Strength?

Betrayal. Language conspires against us as we strive to understand one another.

I met a new friend going through a similar grief journey of losing a spouse and struggling with a single-parenthood that had not been imagined. The word “strength” kept emerging. What does it mean?

I delivered a strong performance in soccer yesterday because I abstained from running and nursed an injury for three weeks. I was there when my son wanted to talk about his mother late at night because I had taken time earlier to rest. I bend so I won’t break.

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Temple

On Independence Day we took an uncharacteristic turn as full-on “tourons” in Washington, D.C. Mary introduced me to this term and we never used it as strongly as the Urban Dictionary describes. For us, it was just that unimaginative sightseeing and photo taking one does on holiday from time to time.

I plotted our walking route from the Metro station to the White House, Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, and finally a spot along the Potomac River to view the fireworks. I hardly expected my seven- and nine-year-old sons to make the journey with heat, crowds, and detours in our way.

Our saving grace came early in the day at Renwick Gallery, across from the White House. We love museums and an escape from the sun was already in order.

We found much more than an escape. No Spectators: The Art of Burning Man is an exhibit that recreates the other-worldly California desert spectacle. Within this world there was the Temple. A place of remembrance and introspection about those things that have been lost. It is simply composed of cut and sanded plywood, but the intricacies are unending.

Visitors are encouraged to take a 4″ by 4″ block of wood and write about something or someone they have lost. This could have been one of those “ambushes” you learn about as you grieve, but it wasn’t. I invited my sons to participate and was surprised at their reactions. Westen, the older and more vocal about his mom, declined and chose to quietly walk the space. Isaac has been much more reserved about losing his mom, but wanted me to transcribe something for him.

As he mentally created his message, a phrase came to me: We will gain more than we have lost. I can’t take credit for it. It was purely divine and seems all but impossible. When God asks you to do the impossible it’s because He knows it can be done. I hope my faith is strong enough to keep believing that.

For Isaac’s part, his message was all sweetness and love and compassion. It was also arms-outstretched broad for so few words. It speaks for itself.

God bless,
Jason

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The Wrong System Restore Date

During Mary’s final days, I was inspired to take my sons on a real adventure. Mary took every opportunity to spend time with her family. Not one vacation hour was ever held over year to year. She was present as often as possible and we are (literally) eternally grateful for the time we all had together. She would amass her paid time off and start rigging the calendar in January to prepare for her favorite two weeks of the year, and by December we would have her all to ourselves to close out each year. But we never took time for a proper road trip adventure.

It took me three months after Mary’s passing to pull out of the driveway in a borrowed 19-foot RoadTrek 190 with little idea of how long we would be gone or how far we would go. After nearly seven weeks and 3,000 miles of visiting with friends and family, wandering, and exploring, we rolled back into that driveway and we had gone far.

But I messed up.

In the three months between Mary’s death and the trip I had started to develop our new life. Laundry, dishes, meals, bedtime, church, play, rest, blogging, personal business sorting, soccer, jiu-jitsu, Facebook engagement…everything was different in small and large ways. I was watching the changes, analyzing them, and through trial-and-error and important prioritizing, I was internalizing and owning those changes.

I thought the road trip would be an extension of that process. A way to prove to myself that the Zerbey Three could love each other, adventure, and still get the basic practicals done. It felt that way for six weeks and three days. Then I got sick with a nasty stomach bug and was blessed to be staying with Mary’s parents. I know I’m not going to do this alone, but I was almost incapable of providing for my sons and lying in bed thinking about what was next. Going home. It was one of those changes I hadn’t faced. Mary wasn’t there to build the ready-for-the-car pile in the hall. Mary wasn’t there to negotiate our departure time. Mary wasn’t there to wrangle with her mom about how much food we’d take with us. All of a sudden, she was gone again. Driving home, I had that empty passenger seat and no one to figure out what “had to” come in the house tonight and what could wait. I lost all the rhythms I composed in those first three months. I didn’t have enough food in the fridge and the washing machine wouldn’t accept any quarters.

I’ve got to look at this reset as an opportunity to do things better. I made a ton of mistakes in those first months. I hadn’t elaborated a perfect system that’s now lost. I had a survival system that would not last and now needs a full rebuild. So, I’ve got my first pot of coffee and blog post going. I think that’s something.

God bless,
Jason

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Word Up

Mary and I started out slow. We had each been hurt, but refused to be damaged. It was the MySpace-to-Facebook-pre-social-media-insanity era and we didn’t communicate online much. Before our first date, an analog miscommunication led me to believe she wasn’t interested and I thought, “Oh well, another flirt bites the dust.” We didn’t have these tools to express every anxiety and emotional whim as they arose.

I didn’t see our initial attraction turning into something greater. A good, healthy summer fling with a pretty, kind girl who hardly got me into any trouble. A win, but alas, no more than that.

I invited her to an outdoor wedding for what I thought was our last date. A five-hour round trip in my noisy ’95 Eagle Talon on the hottest day of August, 2004, with a lot of people neither of us knew. I figured that would be it. At best it would be a tiring affair and a low key end to a low key romance.

We sat with my mother and grandmother and had a better time than, I daresay, anyone there. I don’t know how we did it, dabbing (read: mopping) sweat and laughing like mad hatters through the day.

We got to southern Delaware late, stretched out under the stars, watched meteors fly overhead, and at 25 I asked this 33-year-old to be my girlfriend. We weren’t in love, but we could see it coming.

Our relationship didn’t heat up, but it swelled and matured like time lapse photography. Ahead of the game, as usual, Mary felt and expressed her love first in early December. I didn’t come around until her birthday three days before Christmas. So I loved this gal and had bought her a DVD player. Forget the fact that she received one for her birthday, this was not going to cut it.

I wrote her a letter. I just found it and had all but forgotten that first Christmas gift.

It wasn’t a revelation or poetry, but no object could have come close to showing how I felt about Mary. I could have terrified her (and myself) and told her how I wanted to be with her forever, but I reserved myself to writing how this was something wholly different than I had ever experienced.

We were never apart long enough to exchange letters, but left notes for one another; expressed our heaviest grievances on paper before discussing; and constantly shared emails about new events to attend, my latest unschool win or loss, and her work day. I’ve even found emails from me that Mary printed to keep.

I’m blessed to have all those words. As that life with Mary gets more distant, the notes and emails and that most important letter are still here.

We have a lot of pictures, but the words interpret them, show us what they meant at the time, especially when our memory deceives us.

Blogging this journey through grief and into a new life has been vital, but there is so much more to share. I’ve been inspired to return to letter writing and send permanent pieces of myself into the world. Revive relationships, tell stories, and grow the joy I’ve always had in creating written works.

I feel a lot less alone when I’m scratching out a letter, I feel like I’m connecting to someone now, in the future when they receive it, and maybe again in a later future. It’s bigger than a moment. It’s taking a moment and recording it, translating it, and stretching it out over time and space.

God bless,
Jason

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Waking Up With Iggy Pop

I’m gonna break into your heart
I’m gonna crawl under your skin
I’m gonna break into your heart
And follow till I see where you begin

-Iggy Pop, “Break Into Your Heart”

Mary would not have liked to hear this first thing in the morning.

She broke into my heart at a time when I was completing construction of another defensive shield. She opened me up to a world that I was reluctantly giving up on. She introduced me to a big family and community of friends and showed me how to navigate all these wonderful people.

Mary’s death hasn’t broken my heart, but broken into it. It’s the excitement and possibility of a new love, the terror of being found out to be an unworthy sinner, and the adrenaline pump of being one goal down with four minutes to go.

Mary was the perfect concert mate, even when she wasn’t particularly thrilled about the artist. This show was something special. It was shortly after David Bowie had died and Iggy didn’t mention him once, but played almost all of The Idiot, an album he wrote and recorded with Bowie. He played his best material with the tightest backing band. Although I failed to turn her into a fan, she thoroughly enjoyed the show and I earned permission to play the cleaner songs around the house.

Life is different around here, nowadays you might find the Zerbey Three listening to this gem:

God bless,

Jason

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Where the Angels Ever Sing

This would have been Mary’s first Easter as a Christian and member of Aldersgate United Methodist Church. She was very patient with me as I took the long path to Salvation. She just led the way, showed me what it was to live like a Christian before we made any promises.

We had attended Aldersgate for a couple years and enjoyed the variety and energy of the community. We volunteered in small ways and engaged in their fun social events, but I had an obstacle that prevented me from being ready for baptism. I couldn’t identify my problem directly and felt stuck. Right around this time I was invited to join a new men’s Bible study organized through the church. As He had done so many times before, God offered me another baby step towards Him. Mary is the one who made it happen. She was our master scheduler and ensured that I attended as many of these weekly meetings as possible. She was naturally in tune with God and effortlessly did His work on Earth.

I finally spent time with God’s word: reading, listening, and discussing. I was surprised at the excitement I felt on academic, spiritual, and psychological levels. (If you’re unsure if “faith” is right for you, listen to Jordan Peterson’s Psychological Significance of the Biblical Stories lecture series.) It wasn’t real time, but at a certain point I realized that I believed in God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. I had seen God in the natural world from an early age. I had known I wasn’t just lucky, that the Holy Spirit had been working through me for some purpose for years. But I didn’t know Jesus Christ until I spent time with the Word. Seems stupid now, how in the world would I get to know someone without listening to him? However stupid I was, I’m confident I know less now. But, at least, I know a couple very important things.

Mary’s there with Him now. Free of this awful, suffering world. Being patient with me again, peacefully waiting for me to join her. I don’t know when my work here will be done, but I know the reward of eternal life will be that much sweeter knowing Mary is there.

Thank you and God bless,

Jason