A couple of months after Mike died, I read this quote by the Doctor Who author Jamie Anderson:
“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”
When I read it, I didn’t think anyone could have said it better. It truly described how I was feeling, suddenly without a husband to love. Or to love me back.
More than this, it made sense to me, why I was feeling so much, physically, after Mike died.
Over time, I learned to be better at functioning with my grief. I picked myself up, even whilst licking my wounds, and endeavored to move forward. Because my life demanded that I do so.
I also inadvertently found ways to spend my "unspent love," especially in the context of loss.
Loss, I have found, inherently brings with it a sense of intentionality towards the people and things that matter to me.
"Life is short" is not a tired old quote anymore; it is a thought that comes with great urgency.
I have read and penned enough obituaries; delivered and heard enough eulogies in the last 5 years to know that this "tired old quote" is actual fact.
I have been witness to friends and loved ones come close to death even just in this last year.
It is all enough to make me think more purposefully about what it is to love my life. What it is to love my people.
I have thought, a lot, about my purpose.
I have also asked myself, how should I love and honor those who have gone before me?
And a related question I have wrestled with: What on earth do I do on their birthday?
And so it was this time last week, as I anticipated Mike's upcoming 55th birthday. What do I do?
This time last year, we did many things that Mike loved (a feat on a weekday), culminating in one of his favorite dinners (meatloaf) and chocolate cake. It seemed appropriate.
But it also felt strange. A chocolate cake with an unlit candle (because none of us felt like lighting it).
And no one really felt like eating any of it either. Perhaps because of the stark reality of a missing birthday boy.
So this year, I wasn't quite sure what to do, although I was somewhat relieved that I didn't need to make dinner. This is because Wednesday night (his birthday) was Wednesday Works at our church. Incidentally, while I am the primary cook at Wednesday Works (a fact that is not accidental, but wholly orchestrated by Mike -- a story for another day), there was a guest cook for that specific evening.
What I did have was Bible study after dinner with a close group of women I have been studying with for the last 6-7 years. And it just so happened to be our fellowship & prayer evening... for which I was a co-host.
And so I did what I do best: I prepared a delicious dessert for my friends to enjoy. And because two of them are gluten-sensitive, I made a flourless chocolate cake. In my book, there are very few GF pastries that can top this.
That chocolate cake would have been Mike's cake of choice did not really factor into this decision, although this fact made my heart happy.
And so the making of this cake was a joyful endeavor, knowing that my aim was to delight my friends (which, let's be honest, is way more fun than making cake for a dead man).
And delight, it did. As I knew it would. Because, if nothing else, I am good at desserts.
But before we dug into the cake, I shared with everyone that I was sharing the cake in honor of my husband, who loved chocolate cake. I left out the part about how, on this occasion, I preferred making a cake for them than for me and my kids.
(I should add that my children did not want cake. This, or any cake, on this day. We honored his memory in more personal ways, which I choose not to mention here.)
It occurred to me, as we were partaking of this chocolate goodness, that this is how I want to honor Mike's memory on his birthday. Every year.
I want to make something he would have loved and share it with people I love. In honoring his memory, I am choosing to do for others what I would have done for him.
And this year, who better to celebrate than my sisters in faith who have held my hand, comforted me, and let me cry on their shoulders on my darkest days? These friends whose hands have been laid on me as they prayed over me. Who have prayed, and still pray, for me and my loved ones.
These women have been my companions in my journey through multiple losses. And I, theirs.
And so it was that October 4th 2023 drew to a close with my heart full.
It seems to me that part of my healing is in redirecting all this "unspent love" and in celebrating life. And in so doing, transform my grief.
May it be so.
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