“Grief is love with no place to go,” a friend said when my wife, Carolyn, passed away suddenly on November 11, 2018. Her death thrust me out upon an emotional frozen tundra. I had experienced
grief before, of course, in the natural context of losing grandparents, aunts and uncles who had lived well into their golden years, and my father who died at the age of ninety. But my wife? At age fifty-seven?
Anxiety. Depression. Guilt. Fear. Anger. I have run the gamut and more. I have
dreamed dreams of varying intensity, experienced seemingly opposite emotions such as
happiness and sadness at the same time, and have been drawn to look more deeply into my soul
than I ever have before. Grief has also demanded I explore my faith and question fundamental
beliefs I have held since childhood. Why would a loving God allow my father to waste away
from the ravages of Parkinson’s for the last seven years of his life, but suddenly call my wife to
him while she was vibrant and we still had daughters in college and high school? Before his
illness, at least my father had time to enjoy the third phase of his life full of visits with the
grandkids and pursuit of his favorite pastimes. But Carolyn won’t.
On this new website in this new year, I intend to blog about my grief journey. I am
not alone in my struggles with anxiety and depression, nor in wrestling with God about my
disappointments, and the perceived unfairness and injustice of my loss. Writing itself is part of the journey. It is an attempt to impose order and give permanency to the thoughts and feelings my
mind and my heart pour out in a never-ending stream of consciousness. If you recognize in my
writing a kernel of truth, if you see in my words an image of beauty, or they somehow ease your
mind in the midst or your own grief, then something good can come out of Carolyn's loss.
What does my grief journey have to do with my novel and Charlie? Everything. I know
Charlie has experienced grief and, as I wrote The Meaning of Home, I tried to imagine the
circumstances and his response to them. I tried to imagine the impact of losing not only a loved
one, but someone who has had a profound impact on your life unaware of how soon my fictional
experiences would become all too real.
Charlie is also comfort. He was there to absorb my tears. And he is love. Sometimes. . . no,
often there is nothing to say in grief, and yet the presence of unconditional love speaks volumes.
Thank God for Charlie. And through Charlie, in my grief, I sense God is still near.
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