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Written Saturday January 18, 2020 / Day 159 / Afternoon Of the many things that grief is - one of the constants is this pulling, tugging, clinging feeling to what is not. The loss is profound - the reality stark - the contention quite strong but in the end the unresolvable situation remains in the forefront - unresolvable while being unacceptable at the same time. Since this is a situation that is neither predictable or manageable in the usual sense - the ongoing struggle is just plain exhausting. I constantly ask the question “why” - fully knowing the answer. I ask it rhetorically I imagine - the absurdity of the present reality being quite obnoxious in it’s relentlessness. Like trying to find that elusive puzzle piece I ask the question in the sense of expecting some type of answer. The loss while being an event of titanic proportion leads to the aftermath of all the secondary losses. Some immediately visible while others have taken their time in appearing to remind me that they are also a part of the devastation. The ongoing pattern of the past life - as flawed as it was on many levels - is now gone. All that was associated with that pattern also destroyed. The elimination of every aspect of what the previous life represented is an unending contention. Unending because what made life what it was - is now absent. In that absence is now a void. Filled with the contentions and musings about the unresolvable. That boogey man of the outsiders view of “moving on” a constant taunting. They can not help but see the loss as recoverable. Even when they throw out a degree of affirmation, “Oh, that must be so difficult for them without…[whatever]” - the magnitude and effect the loss has on them is something they cannot (and dare I say would I want them to know) how overwhelming the situation actually is. For me, I regularly weigh and measure the unmeasurable. It is a fruitless exercise I know but it’s like looking for something you have lost in the house. You go to all the reasonable places - but after a while you just start looking in crazy places because you can not comprehend the loss cannot be resolved. This is the life of those of us in grief. Today the theme of my musings is the reason I do not see any way to “move on”. To me the concept says to embrace some type of life pattern, objective or activity. My very being was inextricably tied to my dear sweetie. As I have written previously in many essays - she was not only a companion in my life - we were woven together with a bond that connected us at so many levels. The cold-hard outlook on this would be that the person (me) needs to “move on” - get “used” to the loss and embrace “the future”. For me my only response to that is - “wrong!”. In the present state there can be no future without the one who was part of my reality in every way. My connection was not one of association nor convenience or just endurance - it was an actual connection. It was spiritual - it was based on commitment and love and giving. How to turn away from that legacy is the current mystery. I do not see how I could do it. Even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. There also is the issue of value in grief. We are witnesses to loss all the time. Unfortunately the media brings a constant stream of drivel into our consciousness (when we let it). Amidst this stream of information is news on countless dire, awful and outright horrible losses. We react to these as the detached outsiders that we are. How could we react any differently? While we are witnesses to these losses - their connection to us - emotionally - is quite distant. At times, empathy might well up in us for a particular story - but we have no deep reaction since these losses are not significant to us in any way. What makes the loss significant is quite simple - how precious was the loss? How much did the loss touch you in a personal way? And the big one - how directly did the loss affect your day-to-day life - how intense was the loss of something so precious to you? As I total up the grief I can quantify - the answer I arrive at is quite immense. There is not a scale that I can use on which to measure the result. I was blessed to have a relationship without peer - an irreplaceable relationship. I know that. The loss of that relationship is continually devastating. How could it not be? But what is the answer? Well, roll out the time metaphors. And yes, as humans we do adapt to anything. We can see that in history, in biographies of peoples lives - and in our own lives in certain situations. The answer is that despite our losses, we ultimately do adapt at some level. Perhaps that will be the answer. Because I do not know of any alternative. My prayers are for a future - a future that I cannot see nor comprehend. Yet, I do have a crazy hope that keeps manifesting itself. It is there amidst all of the contention and wrangling that is going on and it beckons to me that there will be some new life. We will see. Time will tell. Until that time - I still hold on to that precious part of my life that I cannot let go of. It will always be a part of me. God will show me how that will work.

Written Thursday January 16, 2020 / Day 157 / Morning The future and I have quite a relationship these days. We are both quite resolute in our positions. Each day the future comes to greet me and every day I tell it. “What are you doing here again?”. You see the future currently represents everything I do not desire. It’s biggest failing is that it does not have any provision for my sweetie. She is not to be a part of the future. It is that reality that I am not prepared to face. Of course, it is inherently in my nature to be analyzing things so this contention is no different. It is not that I am just blatantly dismissing the future because I don’t like it - well, actually perhaps I am. The problem with the future is that I have no concept of how to live in it. For responsibilities, obligations and physically necessary things I can exist in those aspects for a period of time. But once those reason are resolved, taken care of or met - I drift back into my, “Oh right, I’m in the future now…no thanks I don’t want any of this at all.”. If you take your life apart - which I am an expert at right now - you will find that you operate in different ways. Operate in the sense that you have a reason for embracing any activity in front of you. When you are employed, of course, your reason is clear. Then there are interests that you have, hobbies perhaps, other people you share experiences with or obligations you have chosen to take on. All these elements and more make up your operational life as you could call it. As I have unpacked my existence in these past 5 months one thing has been clear to me. It was not “typical” in any sense. I like the dialog where the statement is something like this, “Most people…..(and what ever the point is).”. The response is, “Well, I’m not most people!”. That would sum up what I have found. My pre-grief life was not a picnic on the surface especially for the last 5 years or so. But under the surface was something wonderful. If you have read previous essays you know of that special aspect of my life. That foundation is immense spanning decades of a loving and unique relationship. As the observers of those of us in grief would agree, “It will be so nice when we see [whoever it is] 'move on' with their life.”. This is really all they can see and as I have previously mentioned all that I saw when I was in the observers club. Now as a member of the grief club I can see how that perspective is so wrong. When you are inside you find that “moving on” means leaving the most important part of your life behind - because it is no longer there to be there. And perhaps in the ultimate sense of things that is what must happen. But in here where life is somewhat of an inextricably tangled mess - that future is just a fog. It is difficult to see because there is something in the way. What is in the way is our former life. So in the coldest, most heartless view it could be said that, “Hey, that’s over buddy, you have to leave it behind…and get going into the future.”. That is most assuredly what we do not want. I do go through the exercise of thinking - ok, what would that look like? And do you know what I find? Nothing. Nothing at all. Because in my case specifically, there is no aspect of my pre-grief life that I can re-work to not have some element of my sweetie as a part of it. And because of that - it cannot be tolerated or embraced. In my case my sweetie was my life. Our interests were together, our entertainment was shared. I did not have “my thing” that I went off and did. Some relationships are like that - separate compartments that each participant lives in before the participants come together to share the rest of their lives. I did not have any of that. Ok, my employment was in that category - because it had to be. But other than that - every other aspect of my life had a strong, powerful and obviously enduring connection to my dear sweetie. I am finding that I cannot execute the majority of the shared interests we had. I hardly watch television - which we hardly watched at all but what I do watch is nothing that we ever watched together. I do not even listen to music at the moment. Places we used to frequent are now off limits because the idea of being there without her is just too much to bear. So in unwrapping my life, I cannot unwrap the majority of it without finding a significant piece of her as a part that cannot be easily removed or replaced. Even if I wanted to. Which is what - when the future makes its daily appearance, I have to wave it on, “Please, move on to someone else who cares about you.”. All I know is that some new thing will come along and perhaps plant a new element or perspective in my life. I have no idea what that could be nor am I really able to project that reality. So until then, my view of the future will be through a fog, I will remain in that daze when the future shows up each day. I absolutely know that the fog will lift at some point and the daze I am now in will become something. Something only the future can tell me - when that time is right.

Written Monday, January 13, 2020 / Day 154 / Morning Everything tells me not to write this - but I am equally convicted to do so. Remember in life how we always seem to want just one more? As a child it is just one more cookie. Just staying up a little bit longer. Playing just for 5 minutes more (as if we could judge how long 5 minutes was!). If we could just stay out just a little longer. As we grow older we would just like to be with our friends just a little bit longer. Stay up to watch that favorite program. Have an extra helping of pie. When we become adults we have the same outlook. That vacation - if we could only stay one just one more day. The place is just so beautiful - it is so compelling. That special event that turned out to be so special - oh if I could just stay. Such is our attraction to what is good. Of course there can be selfishness in here. That is not what I am talking about. I am talking about relishing the best - the more enjoyable - the most wonderful moments that we are blessed to experience. I was just putting away items on Joann’s desk - just a clerical moment. Filing and arranging and disposing. Perhaps that’s where the thought came from. I never know. But I went back to our last moment. That last moment I try to “move on” from as they say. That “move on” phrase that haunts me. I was drawn to it and quite predictably started to resist the idea. But then I thought - do I have to go there once again? Is this necessary? I do not know. But I did. It was a mixture of so many emotions - ones I can list and others that are undefinable. My immediate thought was I wanted her to not be suffering. The previous afternoon I heard her mumbling. We were at the point where regular conversations were no longer possible. But I leaned in to hear what she was saying. She was praying - for everyone else who was suffering. Wow. That is just her. Her outlook was always that way. So as I could see that God was not sending us on our way to another miracle - my most deepest thoughts were that she would not be suffering. The essay in Volume 1 - “The Last Hours” tells that story completely. But at that last moment - when I knew it had arrived - there was relief buried amidst the moment. Peace had arrived. And as we left the room after a time - the thought struck me for which I will always be grateful - the thought to go back. Just one more time. So I did. Everyone had left. The room was empty. I went back. I went to her and embraced her as I always did. The thoughts pouring out into the empty room. I told her goodbye, knowing that she was already asleep and awaiting her new life in Christ. At that moment time seemed to stop. The moment was all there was. Then I had to leave. Perhaps this is the moment I have not been wanting to relive. But today I did. If this is a step I have to take - then I took it. I come back to that moment quite regularly. It was the goodbye I did not have the opportunity share in the way I would have liked - but it was the one I had. I will always be grateful for the opportunity. And it is not forever. I will see her again as we read in 1 Thessalonians 4:16. As Paul tells is in 1 Corinthians 15:51. For now I will relish the blessing of her in my life. And that I was able to have that opportunity to just have one more moment with the one who will always be everything to me.

Written Friday, April 10, 2020 / Day 242 / Morning As I contemplate what lessons my family has taught me, I am drawn to remember my mother. After revisiting all that my father’s life had left for me (Volume 8 - Essay #5 “Lessons from my Father”) I am now looking back at my childhood through the post-grief eyes of an adult. My mother was born in Iowa. Her father was a Methodist minister and had a wonderfully engaging personality. He was the type of person who, when he entered the room, changed the atmosphere to one of joy and love. He was just that way. She and her brother grew up as “preacher’s kids’. In those days, ministers lived in a “parsonage” - a home dedicated by the local church for the pastor and his family to live in. She did not have real roots in any community as the family would move as her father would be assigned new churches to lead. An interesting thing about “preacher’s kids” - the stereotype is that they often do not reflect their religious upbringing as strongly as you might think. When my mom was old enough to venture away from home - she moved to the east coast and pursued a life on her own. She moved as far away as she could from Iowa - taking a job as a switchboard operator in Baltimore, Maryland. As I can see, the stature of her fathers personality was so great - his family seemed to have missed the love that he broadcasted to those he served. Her brother (who moved to Kansas as an adult) was not affected either. Both siblings were were never overtly religious. They had that part of their upbringing in their backgrounds - but it was never something that became prominent in their day to day lives. To me, she was comforting. As a child, I always remember being loved by her. As in many families, when she raised her voice (or called me by my full name) you knew there was trouble waiting to be resolved - and I was usually the primary suspect. When I was older - that could have been around 8 or 9, she was in the hospital (as I later learned as an adult, due to a large benign tumor that had been discovered and had to be removed). In those days children were strictly not allowed to visit in hospitals and I was besides myself that she was not home. I remember my dad driving us to the hospital where she waved to me out of the window. I do remember being so upset and crying. It was so bad that I was not able to attend school for a few days. It is one of those memories - even now - that gives me a moment of deep reflection on what she meant to me. When I was ill, one of most lasting memories I have was of her rubbing my forehead for comfort. It was such a connection, so strong, that even today I can remember being comforted by those occasions. I remember also quite clearly, our eighth grade play I was a part of. I, never really being a part of the “in” group of kids, was assigned a part - actually that of an announcer. As the audience was coming into the auditorium I can still remember the other children telling me, “So that’s your mother? Wow, she is so young and beautiful!” You can imagine how proud I felt to have that recognition being the introverted child that I was. Like my father, she was a worker. When I was still in grade school - in the later years, 7th or 8th grade as I remember, she worked at the grocery store right around the corner from our home. The store in which the future jewel of my life would later be introduced to me. My mother worked, I’m sure for economic reason, but also as a contributor to the family. This of course, left me alone after school - a “latch-key” child way before society in general moved to abandon more of its children. I missed her being home. I’m sure our relationship suffered from our lack of time together. I missed her being home. Putting together the dinners we had. She was a wonderful cook. I was a bit too fussy in the way children are - but when she made something it was wonderful. As a working mother - those days of cooking diminished over time. Something I always missed. I remember us making fudge brownies together for some reason. They are faint memories - but wonderful ones that I hold on to. We were never really close emotionally although my affection for her would be something that would always be with me. She seemed superficial in a way. No doubt because of never being able to form deep roots with people. My father and her never really had close personal friends. My father associated with those fellow salesmen and their families - they became an extension of our own. Unfortunately, not anything deep that survived in the long term. They were actually a bit critical of others - something in the background I never really consciously embraced at that time - yet have found left over elements of that in my own life I have worked to overcome. But when I think of her, I know she cared. The memories I have are of that nature. I felt connected, wanted more but had to settle for what was there. She was a good mother to me. I always felt loved by her and although there was never a really deep connection - she did give me a solid foundation which in many ways I cannot quantify. That foundation made me a stable and secure person. I never doubted that they would be there for me. When I came home that night in January, 1973 and told my parents I would have to stay with Joann (Volume 2 - Essay #17 “Alone”) they were both very matter of fact about it. I had just turned 22 and had been planning on going at some point. But the suddenness of the event was faced with a very understanding outlook. I can still remember her saying, “Well, the little bird has to leave the nest.”. A bit of mid western wisdom that perhaps came through. I did not want to leave them so abruptly, but the new and overwhelming love that had grown beyond what I had ever had thought it could become and the utter emotional devastation that Joann faced were so compelling to me - I had to go to her. I do attribute my inherent stability as a person to my mother - she may not have exhibited all the traits I would have liked - but she did instill in me a commitment and rationality that has served me well. A stability that I know has enabled me to make better decisions. The examples that we have in our lives often are in the background of our lives. Those unspoken attitudes, often buried in the issues of our parents as they struggled with the lives they were leading. I had a solid, stable upbringing. My mother, I know, was a stabilizer for my father, as most wives are for their husband. Although they tried to have more children, I was their only one. I am so grateful for the strength they gave me. A strength given to me, in the midst of their weaknesses, that is something that I will always be grateful for and live each day as a tribute to that strength.

Written Wednesday February 19, 2020 / Day 191 / Afternoon As I reflect on what hurts so much - one of the biggest reasons that I am seeing is that I fulfilled one of the ultimate aspects of a relationship. I never thought much about it because it just was a part of my thinking. As I look back - perhaps it was more obvious to others than I realized. Perhaps it made others uncomfortable since the very idea of experiencing this seems to be quite rare. But to me - this was never odd - it was not unusual - it just was. I still had my “first love” for Joann. After all these years - it is still there. Certainly we had grown on each other over all of that time - we became “used to” each other. Human experience is just like that. Decades of being together does produce a but of predictability. And yes - habitual as we all are - we had our phobias, our issues and our ways. That was all there. Our relationship was far from perfect in many areas. That’s true for most of us. But I know - and I know that I know - that what was underneath it all - what held us together (from my perspective anyway) was this bond. This special connection. I still had it. It was still active. It still was. It still is. As a person - I came out overly affectionate. It seems to be my nature. I am a bit more sensitive in that way. But these are just attributes. What I am talking about here are foundations. This foundation was as solid as they come. If you look at the “Topical Journeys” link on the Essays on Grief web site - there is an entry for “Joann”. You will find on that page a picture of her from 1973. I always told her that when I looked at her - this was the person who I saw. It was true. It just was. I would make her laugh at times when I would embrace her and tell her that, “I’m crazy about you!”. And I always meant it. I’m just not a liar. So as the situation began to unfold in mid July 2019 - I extrapolated the data and feared I saw we were headed for a potentially terrible destination. That uneasy feeling never left me. In fact - it is the foundation of the uneasy feelings that are now a part of every day. Having that precious first love - now seems to come back and bite me with an intensity that is disarming and unsettling. Because all of the artifacts in our home - those artifacts of our life together - project that wonderful love back to me. Except without her - they are just taunting reminders of what has been lost in this life. That powerful, wonderful love that transcended 47 years - now generates waves of sadness instead of the love that was once at our relationship’s core. Then I struggle with God’s love. I proclaim quite regularly that “Your love is not sad!!!”. And then I question - “How could something so wonderful - now be something that is so sorrowful?”. My inner grief counselor tells me that this is part of what death brings. The end of a relationship. A rather traumatic end. The more beauty and elegance the relationship possessed - the more pain and suffering the destruction of that relationship creates. It seems to be a principle. Not a great one. Then my biblical training tells me that this is the “Sting of death”. And even though it stings - I relish the thought that I have that love - amidst the tears of the moment. If you read the essay “The Decision” (Volume 3 Essay #20) you will find out how such an extrordinary love began. In this time of significance - at least it seems to strike me that way at the moment - of the sixth month and one week of this journey - the disconnect I am experiencing is quite vast. Because it is. How to manage such a paradox - the remnant of this precious thing that seems to be at it’s very core destroying me in a way - is quite tiring. In the frustration department I also know that communicating my plight is a struggle. A struggle because my situation would appear to be somewhat unique. In grief we have trouble relating anyway - relating to those few who dare to engage us. And this story - one of such a transcendent love - is difficult for those who have not tasted of such a relationship - to be able to embrace it in all of its scope. I see the world in a larger context. It has always been a problem relating to others who only see the parts. There is nothing wrong with either perspective - it is only a matter of orientation. So to have received such a gift - such a precious thing - is now quite disarming in that sharing that immeasurable experience is difficult for those who do not relate to the situation. These puny words struggle to communicate such a love. Such a treasure. My prayer would be that you have in your life just some of this wonderful legacy I am trying to share. That you would experience a love that is beyond understanding. I pray that God would do that for you. If you let Him. Let Him.

Written Tuesday, February 18, 2020 / Day 190 / Morning In grief, time has no value any more. Time stopped for us at the point of our loss. The world, of course, moved on - but for us - we stopped. All the indicators of time that really were of significance ended. Certainly we continue on with the calendar as an awkward tour director. It tells us of our limited obligations. The ones we cannot ignore or refuse to acknowledge. The obligations that are necessary to even lead a shell of a life. In that same way - as we survey our past - which we are very good at since it is one of our recreational activities that we do participate in - we find an interesting observation. Looking at our lives - looking at yours as well - you can remember periods of time that just seemed like they would be going on forever. Patterns of our life that were “our life” for that time. In those periods it just seemed like time stood still in a sense. Everything we were doing just continued on. Continued on with a predictability that was constant. It was reliable. There it was - week after week - month after month - even year after year. Little did we realize - we were thinking life would just go on at that pace - at that level - forever. Knowing perhaps - in some deep recess of our being - that all of it would end at some point. But it did not end. It did not vanish. It did something worse. It changed. It changed into something else. Those changes were varied in their impact. Some changes were incremental - some were gradual. Other changes were dramatic. Sometimes they were systemic. At those times the entire playing field changed. Changed to a different game entirely. Those transitions were quite difficult. Some taking weeks, months and years to embrace. Yet eventually the new pattern would emerge. As the pattern. As the way we lived. As timeless. For a time at least. As I survey my world of 6 months past the end of my life - I am stuck in the snapshot of my pre-grief life - in this life I am now living. Like those residents of Pompeii whose lives ended quite abruptly as they were living their day to day - my world has been encapsulated in grief. Frozen. Held in limbo. I have noticed this as I reflect on the artifacts of our life together that stand as the testimony to what was. Like my granddaughter Hannah and her pacifier - I cling to those markers of the life I long for - fully knowing that life has ended. And then I ask myself - what do I do? It is not as simple as, “Well, get a hobby! Take a trip! Redecorate!” No none of those things are an option. Because those of us in grief face a simple problem - we have no life to lead without the one who was our life. “Getting past” that - as some would say - is quite impossible. If not downright offensive as an option. And yet - in this current pattern that seems to have no end and no clue as to what would be a “next step” - we know from the past that even the life as we now know it - as excruciatingly awful as it is - will also change at some point. It has to. Because it always does. And it will. But until then? Until that day - life is a game of survival. To overcome the anguish, the emptiness, the loss of everything that made us what we were on that terrible day when our lives changed forever. I look at these artifacts of the past and ask, “What am I to do with you?”. “What possibly could I ever do with you?”. Those questions remain. And for now so will the artifacts. They will remain. They must. They are at the worst - the remnants of our former life - a life now gone. They represent everything that was precious to us - tributes to what was lost. Monuments to the pattern of their day. Of that time when they were the day-to-day. Reminders of that pattern of life - that pattern that we thought seemed timeless. Until the day that a new pattern will arrive. That change will be more than difficult. Those changes have never been easy. But that has not stopped them from coming. They will arrive - and as crazy as it sounds - will become some new pattern that will in it’s own right - become the timeless pattern that we know life will bring. As it always does.

Written Sunday, February 16, 2020 / Day 188 / Evening Those of us in grief understand one thing very well. We live in two worlds. These worlds are separated by a great chasm. It is quite vast. You really do not realize how wide it is until you get here. By that time it is too late to tell anybody about it - except for the others of us who are already here. That chasm is the divide between those living with a loss and those who are not. At first - when our loss was the latest news - everyone was around us as if they understood. It seemed like that anyway. People were there - concern was everywhere. Activity was rampant. And then it wasn’t. The world started spinning again. The order of life was restored. Everyone went back to their lives. Except for us. We stayed behind. Everything then became rather quiet. Because no one was there. Or very few. There were the hangers-on. Some who had a link perhaps - a connection. Even those - if we were fortunate to have them - living with us on a day to day basis. But for those of us who are alone - there we were. Alone. And if that was not enough - the inventory of our loss ever before us. Loss of that connection that we had with another person. Those daily conversations. Those daily interactions. All that made up a shared experience. No longer shared. The connection forever severed. And there we are. As the remaining components of our life fall away, the contacts we had who just stop reaching out - those relationships that are now just a bit more awkward than they used to be - the silence falling over our life then becomes complete. The world moved on. And there we are - with nothing to move on to. For me, as has been written in previous essays - I have no context for a future without the one who made my life my life. So not only are we alone. We are also “stuck”. To the observers they just have no clue. They cannot have one. And I don’t want them to. It is just too painful a thing to share. So we don’t. Not that anyone is asking us at all. Even if they had the wherewithal to even ask - they would not know what to ask. “So how are you?”, they sheepishly inquire. And what do we say? Do we tell them of the ache? The hurt of every moment? The relentless pressure of the absence? The hollowness of what was our life has become after the storm? No, we don’t. We can not. We don’t want to hurt them any more than they want to hurt us. So neither of us say what we really feel. We do not hit them with the reality of our situation. And they do not try to bridge the chasm to see if they can reach us. We just share pleasantries. How’s the cat? How’s the dog? How are you doing? The ache just isn’t quenched. Not yet. Not in this life. The abject harsh reality of it all is that something new must come and fill the void. Something to fill the chasm. Something that will build a bridge for us back to the others. What will that be for us? No telling - but it will be something. In my case I do have a backup. Something to keep me from totally losing it. That would be God. He has been with me through all of this. It is not His fault our world is broken. That death is the enemy. That the sting of death is so relentlessly relentless. But He sent an answer. His Son has conquered death for us. And He will guide us in this life if we let Him. I’m letting Him. And He will fill my future with something. To fill the chasm - to enable me to come back. It is just a matter of time. His time. His way. Yet, I am scraping along knowing this. It does not take away any of the awfulness. For now. But it will because I know it is sure. It is inevitable. It is coming. Then I can take the window dressing down - that barrier that is keeping me from seeing beyond my world and know that He is leading me to the future He has prepared for me. And for all of those here in the state of grief who trust in Him.

This is Volume 7 of Essays on Grief. It is a part of my every day that I do not have any concept of my everyday. They can be sad, awful, contentious, calm, neutral or just plain plain. There is no predicting what they will be. After the tumultuous weeks chronicled in Volume 6, I now find myself in an even more upside down existence. Upside down because time is losing its cohesion. February 12th was sixth month since my life ended. So what does that mean? I’m not sure at this point. Surreal just doesn’t even cut it any more. What have I been doing for six months? Existing. Living. Writing. Experiencing every emotion known to man as well as an array of emotions that have no earthly definition. In the vast emptiness that envelops my days - only disrupted by the tasks and obligations that emerge to be addressed - is that vast emptiness. Relentless and yet empty. This is not just an empty room as I have mentioned in the past - it is a vacuum. There is nothing tangible in it as of yet. You will be coming with me on this part of the journey. There seems to be something surrounding me. I sense it but as of yet do not perceive anything inside the emptiness. I think it’s the future. The vacuum might have a chance of becoming filled with something. It might be close to being breached. There may be a small leak of something that may fill that void. It may be the future. Let’s read about what that will be. As of the date I am writing this - I have not written about what you will soon read in this volume 7. But as these essays have taught me - the future seems to leak through them at times. Not enough to emerge as anything solid. But you never know. This may be the time. We’ll see. Read on and we’ll find out.

Written Sunday March 15, 2020 / Day 216 / Afternoon One of the themes of my grief journey has been the fact that I do not really care about anything. I have been quite adamant about this perspective. Just as I had fought any concept of the future - the idea that I could possibly care about anything at all was absurd. I would routinely state, “I do not care about anything - and you can’t make me!.” Seems like fighting words. And they were. My response to the devastation of losing everything that was everything to me. To shut down the future and the possibility that anything would matter to me - ever. If it did not have my sweetie in it - that was nothing I would be interested in. Period. Done. Now, having made peace with the future (Volume 7 - Essay #12 “Cease Fire”) I find there is another element to consider. And this element has everything to do with having a future. The future would say, “I can now take you, but if you do not deal with your caring problem - once we arrive anywhere - what will it matter - since you do not care about anything.”. Oh. Right. Seem like this lockdown on caring will have to end. What sense does it make to continue this? The darkness has been immobilized (Volume 7 - Essay #11 “One Week”) I have been strengthened by this incredible change of events. The very idea that I can exist in some context without my dear sweetie is a miracle. It does not mean I love her any less. It does not mean that our lives together do not mean any less. I have seen - and God has shown me - that the future He has for me is waiting. That He has my sweetie as I have always known He has. And even though my current condition - call it my operational condition - is still a mess - there is hope. The future now has something to work with. I have stepped out of its way so that this next part of the journey can begin. We are on our way. I always knew this day would come. There just are not any words that can really describe it. Here we go.

Written Wednesday March 11, 2020 / Day 212 / Afternoon I had an unexpected visitor this afternoon. I really had no idea that we would be meeting again. I was sitting on the couch - trying to recover a bit from the spring time change and my extraordinary week that I recently experienced when all of a sudden there it was. Calm. I asked. “What are you doing here? Do I even know you?”. My reaction was quite a surprise to me. I do not think I have experienced this type of calm in at least the past 5 years. Perhaps longer. My pre-grief life was anything but calm - and for these last 212 days, well - calm is the last thing I would expect. The appearance of calm was quite sudden. I just noticed it as I reflected on the day and recent past events. The presence of calm - quite stunning. It was like going to a remote area away from civilization and then listening for any noise. In those situations there just isn’t any noise. It is so peaceful. So still - it almost hurts. Calm is just like that. As I recognized the appearance of calm - I marveled at it. Expecting as I always do - the ricochet of emotion that always accompanied a lull in the grief cauldron. This time though - there was none of that. No turmoil. No contention. No nothing. “What could this be?” I mused. It is like nothing I have ever experienced in recent memory. Wow. Calm. So that is what it is like. It seems like with the war with the future now over (Volume 7 - Essay #12 “Cease Fire”) that the constant turmoil that was baked into the background of my life has lifted. Will any of that return? No telling - but what I do know is that there is enough reduction in turmoil that calm finally had enough room to make an appearance. And it did. Calm is an entirely new aspect of my life. One that has been absent for so long. With calm now on the scene - who knows how my thinking will change? Along with the presence of a new person who has entered into my world - the landscape has certainly been altered in a profound way. The effects of these changes to assuredly be felt in the days and weeks ahead. As I assess this new arrival in my world, the question is - who else may be stopping by? Calm, as calm as it is, will not reveal anything as of yet. And that’s fine. I can wait. It is a bit easier - now that the mood is so calm.