The Whisper of His Name

“You are handling it all so well.”

“You are so strong.”

The words are usually said with soft eyes, almost like it’s a compliment.

As if “handling it well” and “being strong” is what I am most anxious and desperate to prove

– to myself, to others, about being a widow.

I smile.

A type of smile that reminds me of that thin layer of ice over a lake of water

– looking so real, so deep, but knowing it is life-changing, even life-threatening.

They don’t know.

They don’t get it.

They don’t understand.

So, I smile.

And nod as if I agree.

But when the day is done, the house is quiet, and the world stops pulling at my frayed edges –

I turn the lights off, and I whisper his name.

Again.

Just to hear it spoken.

Just to remind myself, and him, that he still belongs somewhere.

Just to prove that he, his name, our life together, did not disappear with all that I lost.

There are nights that the whisper of his name is like a prayer

– a cry from the depths of my soul and being.

There are other nights that the whisper of his name is like reopening a wound that has sealed

– just to remind myself that I am still human.

Still human.

Not some super-woman, with some ethereal strength.

Every whisper of his name is spoken to remind myself that grief has not hollowed me out completely.

The simple syllable of his name holds me together.

And somehow, heaven is a breath closer each time I speak his name.

People see the part of me that stands straight, walks and talks as if my life is normal.

They see the part of me that nods and keeps on breathing, keeps moving and going and doing.

They don’t see when my courage speaks into the silence, only hoping that God is somewhere in all of this –

And that He is catching every fragile whisper as though it is that sparrow falling from the nest.

The truth of my widow life is . . .

I don’t handle it well.

Just like Rick said I wouldn’t.

I am handling it – barely.

Breath by breath.

Just breathing.

Breathing in and breathing out.

No one hears the times I say, “Margaret! Just Breathe!”

Perhaps, though, this is what strength really is.

Not what others see and comment on.

But that quiet trembling that keeps showing up in the darkness, choosing to speak love in his name.

Perhaps grief is not what I assumed it was.

Perhaps grief is not saying I have lost everything.

Perhaps grief is the proof that Love once lived here so deeply that even silence cannot swallow it, darkness cannot make it stop shining.

Today, tonight, always – I will whisper his name.

Not to wallow in the grief as I have been told I am doing.

Not to even resurrect the past, which I cannot do no matter how hard I have tried.

But to remember.

To remember a Love that never needed the light to exist and was never afraid of the dark.

A Love that has lived inside of me since I was 10 years old.

A Love that will continue to live inside of me – now, always and forever.

And somehow . . . yet again . . . it gets me through.