I Light A Candle

Since last September, when I said forever farewell to my life's partner, I have lit a candle every morning while I have my breakfast. Since our retirement this was always our time together. We discussed articles in the newspaper, talked about past events and our plans for the day, made to do lists and had devotions. Most of our days began like this for the last fifteen years. I realize now, what a privilege it was to have had that time and those years together, and I cherish them.

And so I light a candle...and I remember... 

 

I remember how we laughed when we received this gift and hung it up where we could see it to remind ourselves that neither of us should be a grumpy weed, and that we were both guilty of it at times! I think I should gift it back to whoever gave it to us because I now live alone and I can choose whether I want to be a grumpy weed or a beautiful flower! No one will call me on it! 

I recently found this cuckoo clock in a box in the garage. It was a wedding gift from my Oma, who wanted to remind us of time and its passing. We took this clock to Congo with us. Its call frightened a would be thief at night. We had it hanging in our home in Ontario where it called out faithfully for 24 years while our children grew up. Just before our retirement and consequent move to Winnipeg a visiting child pulled too hard on one of the clock's chains and broke it.  Hardy packed it in a box and we took it along to Winnipeg, but never had it repaired. Maybe one of our children or grandchildren will have it fixed and keep it.

Just the other day I saw a chickadee at our birdfeeder for the first time this spring. It will probably make its nest in the birdhouse again like it did for the last several seasons. Last year Hardy spent time on the deck in his recliner. I often sat with him there and children and friends came to visit. We observed the chickadee partners as they flew over our heads while feeding their young. Hardy often whistled, imitating their call. 

We had an awesome team of palliative care workers who came once or twice a week to check on Hardy and inquire about his needs. They were wonderful. One day, out of the blue Hardy, a linguist, asked this question:

"How can I use my linguistic ability to help myself in this situation?"

It was a strange question, I thought, but the palliative care worker didn't miss a beat. His answer was: 

"Listen to what your body tells you."

I remember that advice and try to follow it! Below are a couple of books that I have found useful on my journey with grief. 

Elisabeth Kuebler Roth takes her readers through five stages of grief. They are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I have gone through several of these stages by now. 

Jerry Sittser writes about how, on a lonely road in Idaho one dark night, he lost three generations of his family: his mother, his wife and his young daughter, and how it impacted him. But "this is not a book about one man's sorrow. Rather, it is a moving meditation on the losses we all suffer and the grace that can transform us".

I recently read an obituary about a man who had an important government job. He is pictured in front of a table filled with rows and rows of marmalade he made himself. The final advice he gave when asked what his grandchildren might benefit from hearing  was:

Be a strong person. Be a fair person. And be a loving person. And talk to strangers.