It has been nine years since I went from being a wife to a widow in a lonely waiting room at the hospital — nine years of sleeping alone, reading in the evenings alone, taking long walks alone. Writers are often solitary creatures, since we need long stretches of unencumbered time to weave our words into lovely tapestries on the page.  

I’ve been writing for decades, so the experience of spending an entire day alone in my study, while pounding on the computer keyboard, is nothing new. But in the days before widowhood, these hours of solitude were followed by a delicious meal cooked by my late husband, plus a celebratory glass of wine on the back deck.  

Often, I would read my columns to Jef, and I could tell they had hit home when he smiled a certain way or perhaps had a tear in his eye. Sometimes he would say, “That’s good, but you need a stronger ending,” and he would suggest something that always worked.  

Since he was an artist, he also spent big chunks of time alone in his studio, wielding a brush against canvas, as he used oil paints to shape magical creatures like ents, elves and hobbits from Middle-earth, his favorite place. At other times, it might be Aslan, Reepicheep or Lucy Pevensie from Narnia. He always prayed before painting and kept a pair of rosary beads draped across the easel. When a painting was complete, he’d invite me into his studio for an unveiling. I loved being the first one to see his work.  

The first few years of widowhood cut like a knife through the center of my heart. I had no idea anyone could have that many tears. We had done so much together that it seemed, everywhere I went, his absence was palpable. In the grocery store, I wept when I saw his favorite Italian breadsticks. At church, I wept when it came time for the Sign of Peace and he wasn’t beside me. In bed at night, the tears ran hot down my face and drenched my pajamas.  

After nine years, the crying jags are no more. When I look at him smiling in the photos sitting jauntily on the table in my bedroom, I can smile at him. Sometimes I chide him for leaving me so suddenly. You see, he died of a heart attack while taking a walk. He used to joke around when I chided him in real life by saying, “It’s not my fault.” I imagine he is saying that now, because his death was certainly not something he chose. He was 12 years younger than yours truly, and he often joked that he couldn’t wait to become an “old geezer.” His hair turned gray long before mine did, and he didn’t mind when I kidded him about it.  

I can attest that my cross isn’t as heavy as it once was. I know Jesus had one person, Simon of Cyrene, help him carry his cross, while I’m blessed with dozens. It is humbling to ask for help as much as I do, but I’m learning to swallow my pride and become a beggar. Just yesterday, I asked a neighbor whether her husband would help me reach something on a high shelf. He was over in a flash, and the chore was done. I’ve also needed help with computer glitches, car problems, a broken water heater and tree trimming. Simon in his various disguises has always turned up for me.  

The suffering that continues, however, is the lack of a person in the house to share the big and minuscule events of each day. A hummingbird thought I was a big flower because of my pink shirt and hovered over me. A walking stick insect was on the porch, watching me with his eyes on stalks. I’ve learned to grow tomatoes in the front yard and the occasional glorious rose. These are all happenings I would love to share with him.  

Sometimes at night, before going to sleep, I tell him about the day’s events. He still shows up in my dreams, and we do the most ordinary things, like grocery shopping and planning parties together. When I had a terrifying moment in a nightmare and cried out for him, he showed up and hugged me.  

Jesus carried his cross out of love for the whole world. His suffering was inestimable, but he triumphed in the end. I’m carrying my cross for my husband and I pray that in the end we will meet again. I would love to have a celebratory glass of wine with him on a deck somewhere in heaven. I can’t imagine a stronger ending.