Lately I can not escape the magnificence of the sunrises and sunsets. I wake up to gorgeous red and pink rays streaming through my plantation shutters. Invariably, wherever I am, at the end of the day, the sky is on fire. I am inclined to think the Lord is telling me, “Elizabeth, look up! See, life is still beautiful!”
My husband and I captured hundreds of sunrises and sunsets on our iPhones throughout the years. It didn’t matter what state of affair our day was in or what season of marriage we were in: mad at each other, agitated with one another, elated with one another: if the sky looked right, we hopped in a vehicle and made the way to the best viewing spot. We were diligent at chasing the spectacular sunsets the last year of his life.
This past weekend the whole sunrise, sunset thing overwhelmed me. Almost 19 months into widowhood my grief comes in waves now. It is no longer the daily put one foot in front of the other, praise God! But in some ways, this is worse. I don’t know when it will debut. On Saturday morning my daughter’s boyfriend put a picture on Instagram of one of our favorite places at the beach, at sunrise, and I was absolutely overwhelmed with grief. It was as if I was back to the first week of his death. Uncontrollable sobs that I had not had in months. This is the part of grief that I truly don’t like, and can’t figure out. And, yet, there God was with this spectacular sunrise right out my own front door, “ Elizabeth, I am making all things new!”
I called a friend of mine who lives over an hour away and she said come for dinner. I stopped at Lidl to pick up some tulips to bring as a hostess gift. As I was waiting at the light, the sky lit up the most beautiful orange. It was more than annoying. It also made me cry. Which annoys me more. “Elizabeth, I am near” (Psalm 145:18). There are few times in my life when I have heard the Lord. It is not an audible voice, people. But I heard Him in the spirit. Meanwhile, two annoyed patrons honked behind me not knowing I was communing with our Lord.
I arrived at Lisa’s beautiful cottage and it was like coming home. Lisa, is only one of two widow friends I have. We are the same age. Our husbands died fairly young. Our husbands illnesses were terminal and quick. We both have two daughters. We both have autoimmune diseases. We both have somewhat neurotic dogs. We both have extremely complicated family dynamics. We both married quintessential eastern North Carolina men, who we are sure either knew one another or had many mutual friends. We both loved being married. We both are writers. We both wake up every morning going ”How in the hell did we get here?” We have considered a live video or a podcast about our lives: we are fun, we can be hilarious, I am getting hit on by 70-year-olds on at least a tri-weekly basis. We have a lot of material! Alas, did you just read the above paragraph? We decided, on second thought, how the heck could we be a beacon of hope for anyone? Bahaha!
As I drove home last night I felt settled and that felt good. My oldest called me from “the normal bar” I didn’t ask, she’s a grown woman. And then Lisa called to make sure I got home. It’s not my husband. It’s not my parents or in laws or any other deceased people in my life but its people God put in my path. He is near. Look at the sunset this week. I promise it will bring you joy.
About Elizabeth Wooten
Elizabeth was married to her college sweet heart for over 27 years. She is the mother of two beautiful grown daughters, writer by degree, Eastern North Carolinian, learning to walk by faith as a widow post ALS with a Golden Retriever named Henry. You can find Elizabeth on Instragam @elizabethwwooten or on her blog www.thisgracefilledspace.com
I was married to my college sweetheart for 41 years when I lost him. I went to Meredith and he went to NCSU. I was from Kinston and he was from Statesboro, Georgia. I was at lake Gaston and he was home in Yorktown, VA, when I couldn’t get up with him all afternoon or evening. I called a friend to go check on him and she found him dead in his chair. He was 64 and had a pulmonary embolism. It’s been almost 4 years but I still miss him madly. Our son lives in Houston with his wife and it’s lonely. You are so right about it coming in waves. I’m struggling right now watching a very close friend’s husband dying. She helped get me through the death of my oldest son and then my Larry. She was the one who found him. My SIL told me about you and suggested I follow you. I saw that you are starting a podcast? How do I find it? I’m so sorry for your loss.
Thank you for this post it brings back great memories of my Paul. He loved to take photos of sunset no matter where we were. I have beautiful photos from the shores of NJ across the country to the beautiful beaches of CA. I still say that he speaks to me through the beautiful sunsets of the Carolina sky.
#widowstrong