Amazement, beyond

I let an uninvited guest stop by for a while this Christmas.

And that would be old Ebenezer Scrooge.

A.k.a my dark side.

Snarly as the dirty bangs under my cap, I still managed to throw on a sweater and jeans to wear underneath my longest parka Christmas Day to go for a drive.

Though the service at the local church was labeled ‘casual’, I felt some Lutheran lutefisk loving guilt about not dressing up.

Especially since the church is right across the street from the care facility where my devout church going Mom lived before she passed away.

My sister Nancy had been encouraging me to go to a service, knowing the one year anniversary of my husband Richard’s passing was the next day. Nancy was thinking a good round of “Joy to the World” was just what I needed.

“Come on, just sing away those blues, sister,” I muttered aloud in the car on the way over.

Reaching deep within for every ounce of perkiness I could muster, I pushed the heavy wooden church doors open.

The busy ushers directly outside the sanctuary missed my grand entrance and my only chance to get a program.

Or maybe, I scared them off.

Anyway, I spotted an empty pew halfway up the center aisle.

Perfect, I thought, until the parishioners began singing

And I stood there only humming.

The words were printed in the programs held by the ushers way in the back.

The sound of my humming was being quickly replaced by the grinding of my teeth.

Ok, this isn’t working for me I thought.

Maybe I should slip out? But how would that look?

Though I didn’t know anyone there, my guilt took over again for even entertaining the notion.

I should stay, I decided.

And just try to relax.

After all, there was the promise of a story coming in the service instead of the usual sermon.

The promise was fulfilled.

And the story began.

It was a true tale, one of a young couple who met as pen pals during World War II.

A sweet, young woman back home, and a brave soldier overseas.

The minister read us several of the letters. The words in each, reflecting first a spark, then a flame of the love developing between them.

The couple faithfully wrote to each other for four years before finally meeting in person.

And shortly after that special day, they married.

Living a rich and full life, the wife then passed decades later on Christmas Day.

I wept with every single word. The first time I’ve cried in years.

What a gift to each other the woman and her soldier were.

And what a gift the story and the tears were to me.

Walking out after, still blotting my eyes with a wet Kleenex, I felt a weight had been lifted.

I’ve often heard the first year of grief will be the toughest.

And I now believe it’s true.

Having finally shed tears and knowing my 12 months are up, I’m moving on.

And I’m proud that I’ve also completed most of my paperwork duties related to Richard’s passing.

With the exception of one, that I will be putting in the mail today.

I’ve just completed an obituary form about my husband for his college alumni magazine.

To help with the section on work accomplishments, I found an email this morning from a former co-worker of Richard’s.

At the end of the note, she shared a Mary Oliver poem read by the chaplain at my husband’s memorial service. The message was lost on me at the time, but having re-read it today I know this beautiful mantra for a life well lived will be sticking around.

And I am quite happy to report, Mr. Scrooge will not.

“When it is over, I want to say; all my life I was a bride
married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don’t want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular and real. I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up having simply visited this world.”

-Mary Oliver

Yes, I believe there truly is amazement beyond.

Some practice yoga, some practice guilt

Maybe it’s because I’m Norwegian.

And was also raised a Lutheran.

That I’m now a guilt practitioner.

Though we never kneeled at church.

I like to practice weekly.

Thursdays are perfect.


So you can bet I woke up guilty.

For staying up too late.

Then forgetting to feed the cat.

And leaving the coffee on.

So I’d catch my big, old bus.

And not be tardy at work.

Though I’m sure I already was.

Where I spilled tea on someone’s toes.

Messing up her sweet new sandals.

Then noticing my shoes didn’t match.

Later missing 3 morning calls.

As I was already late for a lunch.

Where I ordered a huge club sandwich.

Feeling embarrassed while friends chose salads.

Then feeling dorky after downing my dessert.

And also very sleepy.

Later tripping out of a meeting.

While rushing to get back to the bus.

Almost forgetting my leftovers in the frig.

Which would also be my dinner.

As I forgot to buy some groceries.

But I missed my bus anyway.

And stood out in the rain.

Till my makeup ran down my cheeks.

Right on to those bills I didn’t mail.

That as usual were late.

So once home, I opened those leftovers.

But that box turned out not to be mine.

Belonging instead to another co-worker.

And I don’t quite know who.

But I’ll bet this worker wanted leftovers for dinner.

So I’m feeling extra guilty.

As I discovered I took someone’s tater tot casserole.

Which in the midwest is practically a sin!

Or at least some kind of crime.

So I should probably add Fridays to that guilt practice.