“He is risen.” “He is risen indeed!” That is how we used to celebrate Easter in our home when we first started our family. Throughout the course of our lives together, Julie and I grew further away from organized religion, so that Christian greeting for Easter morning became a simple thought.
Now my sons and I awaken to our second Easter without my dearly departed bride. Their dearly departed mother. He may have arisen after three days, but she is still in Ashe’s above my fireplace.
The Christian view is that her absence from her body (and me) means her presence with the one who is, “risen indeed.” I never once thought about which one of us would see those words to be true first.
When we talked about death and dying, neither Julie nor I legitimately felt that we would have been dealt the blow so soon. I never thought I would be on this side of history rising not really caring since I can now see neither.
And, this is where it gets stuck. This is the place that needs pushing through. This is the fear. This is the déjà vu. Having to live on knowing that I will not ever be able to make another Easter memory with Julie Ann ever again. I do get to still make memories with our sons. So much being missed because I miss her.
So much being missed because I lost connections to a larger community. Daily service to two people might not be the best place to find wider meaning to why I am alive. I feel disconnected without Julie Ann alive. I dream of her almost every time I close my eyes. Time of day withstanding.
Those dreams usually consist of the two of us in a heated argument. Probably because as the cancer sped up, we found ourselves in more and more disagreements. The disagreements often over something that might have been more patiently resolved had I just slowed down and listened.
Since Easter is a season, and not just a day, am I going to be seasonally grappling with what is missing now that she is “present with the Lord”? I wonder why last year’s Easter didn’t hurt this much?
I wonder if I will ever be able to trust in the system of teachings like I did a few years back. I don’t know how at this point to begin to make amends with that walk of life.
Easter definitely means something different today than it did even three years ago. Back when it was just a balance to get her through the day as best we could given a life dismantling disease was devouring her from the inside. No amount of prayer would have prepared me for the Easters without her.
No amount of annual reading of the Bible would have positioned me to be able to joyfully proceed in life without my now-deceased bride. I don’t know if there’s anyone on the planet right now who would understand what this aftermath feels like. From the pit of my stomach still comes a low-grade dread that existence continues, and lives are but fuel for the inferno of that existence.
This Easter presents a new challenge. An opportunity to resurrect my hope in the ability for storytelling to bring me out of my darkest days.
The days that come to a grinding halt at my first remembrance of her missing presence. The moments where I can still feel her voice even though I can’t hear it. When I can see her face but can’t feel it, as she gets lost in the crowd of distractions. Self-created distractions to keep me from feeling the deep sorrow of her absence in the moments I think she’d want to be a part of the most.
This Easter has uncovered a menacing realization that I found most of my value in serving the people around me as husband and father. Half of my opportunities to show my gratitude for being on the planet have instantly ceased when my bride became deceased. And, most of my energy is expended on guiding our son through the days to not cause harm to himself, me, or the home we now share.
This Easter season has been one of new and often challenging experiences. Yet, I am still awakened day by day to continue having experiences. Some days I don’t see the point in the same way as I did the day before. Some days I struggle to pursue a point in life. It’s enough to make it from pillow to pillow.