His Eye Is On The Sparrow

I've made it through the first month after Glenda's passing.  I was dreading October 21st, which would have been one month to the day of her death.  I don't know if it was planned, or if it was the Lord orchestrating it, but my Pastor called and asked if I would mind going with him to Russellville, Arkansas to help him replace the alternator in his son's car. I gladly accepted because I was dreading being alone.  I'd thought about going to Little Rock Air Force Base for their annual air show that day, but it was just a little bit too much, too soon.  

I'm not going to claim to have this grieving thing down pat.  Unplanned moments are the worst. Yesterday morning I met with one of the young men from our church at our local diner downtown.  As I was waiting for him to show up, Lee Anne Rimes' song, "How Can I Live Without You?" was playing, and I lost it.  It's moments like that that give me the hardest time.  It was one of Glenda's favorite songs, made even more poignant after she passed. I wouldn't have given myself a snowball's chance in hell of making it past this month, but somehow I have.  

Everyone around me is trying so hard to make me feel better, but the usual platitudes just aren't working.  "Just give it time, it'll get better," or "She's in a better place,"  or "At least she's not suffering,"  just doesn't help.  I thought I would do better at the grieving thing.  Then again why should I?  She was my life and breath, and now she's gone. My love for her didn't diminish with age. We both put a ton of effort into making our marriage work despite our failures.  We were married for over 48 years, and I was hoping for at least fifty.  Just a year ago she was remarking about how well we were doing for our age. It's amazing how a year can make such a difference.

This last month has shown me how unprepared I was for all of the mess of losing my lifelong mate.  Some of my decisions have surprised family and friends alike.  The real stingers were when my kids would say stuff like, "Mom wouldn't have done that," or "Mom would do this," as if I was violating her memory somehow.  Little do they know that "Mom" was not an alone kind of thing.  We were both "mom" in so many ways.  Glenda was the 'idea' person, and I was the bankroll or builder. That's the hard part of being a widower, just trying to make people understand that what was awesome about the departed spouse was a together thing, and part of it is missing.  The worst part is, that I feel as if the better part of me is gone. I never wanted to be alone. I wanted us to die together like some sad movie. Now, I don't go a day without thinking of her and some of the wonderful moments we had together.  My children have all returned to their homes and lives, but they don't have to go to bed alone without their lifelong mate beside them.  So, what does this mean moving forward?  I don't know, I just know that I miss her something terrible.

I do know that the Bible says that his eye is on the sparrow, and he knows when one falls to the ground.  Then Jesus says, "Are you not more valuable than a whole flock of sparrows?"  However, I do know I will find my way through this grief.  In many ways I'm looking forward now instead of backwards, which helps. I haven't lost faith with God, but I sure miss Glenda.  I'm told that sparrows mate for life, and there isn't anyone I'd like to replace her.  I'm sure I'll eventually find peace in being alone, but I hate that I feel that way.  I enjoyed being 'David and Glenda'.  At least my precious, fetching bride, of 48 years will always be in my heart.  If God's eye is on the sparrow, then surely I'll make my way through this time of mourning with my dignity intact.  

  

Glenda, The Fixer

It's been over two weeks since my fetching bride of 48 years passed this vale, and went home to be with Jesus. Let me be transparent up front; writing this to you, whoever YOU are, is my coping mechanism. Glenda's death has rocked me in ways I wasn't expecting.  I've discovered that Glenda was truly my everything.  She was my friend, my lover, my motivator, my sounding board, and most of all, the one person who loved me despite me. The one person in this life who gave me grace, and loved me is gone. I've tried to be brave, and unemotional, but in the end it boils down to the fact that I miss her terribly. Anything else I say will be self-serving, so I'll just say that I miss everything about her. For 48 years of marriage, she was the one person that I trusted with...me.  For everyone else, she was "the fixer." 

My children gave her that name, because if they needed anything, or her grandchildren needed anything, she would move heaven and earth to get it, or do it for them.  There was never any question as to how much it cost, whether it was an imposition, or the logistics of doing it, if they needed it...it had to be done.  AND it had to be done now!! It didn't matter whether they could do it themselves, or had the money to do it, it, whatever it was had to be done.  Being as I was her live in  'handyman', I was the one who was usually tasked with the mechanics of doing it.  If I groused, or complained, it still got done.  If I tried to slow her down, or offer insight it was usually followed with the stinging accusation that I didn't care, or didn't love. Later on, after our Pastor gave a sermon on our being God's kingdom on earth, she would simply say, "That's not Kingdom, Dave."   To which point the conversation was over.  

Her need to 'fix' things wasn't just exclusively for family.  It usually found its way to co-workers, neighbors, friends, and even the occasional stranger.  If you were a stray, injured, or broken, she had to fix whatever was broken in your life. Over the course of our marriage, her legacy is the people she helped.  At one point in her life she thought she wanted to be a para-legal so she could work in a free clinic and help people fight for their rights.  Instead, she ended up working for a big law firm and quickly became disenchanted with the legal system.  Then she discovered she could help the mentally and physically challenged by advocating for their rights, and helping them procure the help they needed.  She did this for four years, and it was really the first time I'd seen her 'happy.'  There wasn't anyone too broken, messed up, or incomplete for her to reach out to. Heaven help you if you stood in the way of her desire to help someone.  When we had to leave that job behind, she went into a severe depression.  It was the worst time in our marriage, and I'm sure in her life.  

Everything else she's done has been a compromise from that wonderful time in her life until...the grandchildren came.  All of a sudden she had these helpless, defenseless, and needing babies to fill her every waking moment.  Nothing else mattered.  Our own children were just the means by which these babies came into her life.  I called it the 'grandmother anointing', and she had it in an endless supply.  Her mission was to make their lives as fun as she could.  Her greatest frustration was that she didn't have enough money or time to make it happen the way she wanted it to happen.  I can still remember her coming to me and asking me if I could make them a swimming pool.  For her, we had a backhoe, we had water, and I knew how to pour concrete.  SIMPLE!!  This became her mission for nearly two weeks, and no matter what I said, I simply didn't love them enough.  Finally I asked her to go online and see how much the pumps, filtration system, and chemicals cost.  Without explanation, the in-ground pool idea ended.  Reality is cruel, and she would sulk for months if she got defeated by it. Then shortly before summer she drove up with a huge box containing a big above ground pool.  Reality may be cruel, but it didn't stand a chance once Glenda made her mind up to something. Every one of her grandchildren were given what their parents denied them simply because it was a grandma's job to give them what they want.  This was her lifestyle to the day she died.

Glenda was the embodiment of grace. If you were addicted, busted down broke, mentally, or physically challenged, she was your champion.  When I would see people taking advantage of her grace, I'd try and warn her they were just using her. It didn't take me long to figure out that she needed to discover this for herself.  Her need to 'fix' things found its greatest expression in Operation Christmas Child.  Every Sunday morning they would play a video of children opening the shoe-boxes packed with toys and goodies, and our discussion over Sunday dinner was what did the church need to make this happen. This same attitude went to those she called her friends.  She'd grown up dirt poor, the daughter of a baptist preacher, and the granddaughter of sharecroppers in the Mississippi delta.  She knew what it was like to grow up hungry, destitute, and living in conditions that were desperate at best.  If someone needed groceries, she bought it.  If someone needed shelter she'd help them get it.  If someone needed money, she would give it. She never gave it in a way to make you feel bad, or that you owed her.

Glenda's grace was never more evident than when she was given the diagnosis of brain cancer.  Death didn't scare her, but leaving behind her loved ones terrified her.  She was good with going to heaven, she just couldn't handle knowing that she would be a burden upon those who loved her.  About halfway through her chemo and radiation therapy she confronted me with her decision to do palliative care at a facility in St. Louis. To say I was devastated would be an understatement.  I was ready and willing to take care of her till her dying day.  In her own simple way of putting things she said, "I don't want you or the kids wiping my butt."  I thought she was rejecting me, but she was actually being kind and loving.  It was her desire to go out in joy. So, she went on her joy journey, which sometimes didn't include me, and other times it did.  Then at the end of two months we capped it off with a trip to Mackinaw island, from the movie "Somewhere in Time."   On our last day there, she posed in front of the world famous gazebo at Mission Point as the sun rose on a crisp clear May morning.  It was romantic, and everything I wanted. Then the water sprinklers came on dousing both of us from head to toe.  She laughed as we headed back to the sidewalk and said, "So much for wishing I was a movie star."  Then without warning she said "Darling, kiss me."  Not because she wanted a kiss, but because she knew I was the hopeless romantic, and needed her kiss.

Glenda's last moments on earth were the result of her being a fixer.  One of her friends from work was going to meet us at Silver Dollar City, which she was looking forward to. I had to wake her up and remind her.  She told me she wanted to get a shower, so I went to my office to kill time.  She was humming as she often did, and suddenly I heard her stop, and then I heard a loud thump against the tub.  I got up and rushed to the bathroom to find her crumpled up on the floor having seizures. I'd called 911 on my way down the hall, and by the time I got her turned over I could tell she was in trouble. Somehow the phone had become disconnected while I worked to get her turned over.  I called 911 again and pleaded with them to get here as quickly as they could.  I pulled her up onto my lap and cradled her head because I thought that was the problem.  She softly said she couldn't breathe twice and then I felt her pulse stop.   I knew she'd died, but EMT people pull off miracles all the time.  A couple of minutes later they arrived, and did everything they could to bring her back to no avail.  Forty-five minutes after they began working on her, they declared her dead.  The fixer could not be fixed.  Years of diabetes, high blood pressure, and the ravages of chemo therapy had taken their toll.  The brain cancer didn't kill her, her heart did.  

So, now here I sit, that lone sparrow sitting on the telephone wire.  My mate for life is gone.  I'll go on, but less so for her absence.  I never was a fixer like her.  She taught it to me, sometimes with me protesting through the whole process.  The favor she gained with others has flowed to me in many surprising ways, and I've learned to take it in as a gesture of kindness to her.  In the end, the grace she gave to others was shown to her by the all gracious God above.  She didn't want to die an undignified death, with her loved ones 'nursing' her through the last days of her life.  God fixed it so that she could go quickly without being an imposition.  

Since her passing, I've given away her clothes, and the 'stuff' she gathered in her nest to people who 'need' them.  The other day I was trying to find a home for her many scarves, and walked into a local charity suggested to me by our Pastor's wife.  It also helped that this was one of Glenda's favorite charities in town.  As I approached the counter I asked the woman if they could use a mess load of scarfs.  Without warning the woman began to cry and told me that her sister had cancer and had lost her hair during chemo therapy.  She pulled one of the scarves out of the box and clutched it to her heart. "She'll love these." she said through broken sobs.  Glenda had once again fixed something, and I got to see it. My beautiful mate may be gone, but her legacy will continue.