35-Year Old Widow
I prayerfully hesitate writing this article. I’ve put it off. I’ve wondered how to put thoughts into sensible sentences. Yet I feel led to write to you about grief. My grief. Not your grief. Because I know the second I start trying to explain it, you may shake your head in disagreement because that’s not how your grief is or was. What I do not want is to define grief or act like some expert in the field. And I don’t want an applause of “You’re doing a great job, Debbi
Licking the Envelope of a Sympathy Card
This is part 2 (see “I Shaved My Legs”) Part of the guilt of grief is simply moving forward with life. The more forceful aspect involves the other gender. I had not looked twice at other men for twelve years out of respect for my husband. I didn’t want to. And yet here I was, with an inner battle brewing as I no longer carried the title of wife. I felt guilty for so quickly wondering how I would feel loved and important as life tumbled forward. Would I ever have sex agai
