Prayer After Losing a Husband

God, he's gone. And the world kept moving. People went back to work.

The mail kept coming. The lawn kept growing. And I'm supposed to figure out all of it now.

Alone. He handled things I never had to think about. The car.

The furnace. The taxes. The strange noise at 2 AM that he'd go check while I stayed in bed.

Now every noise is mine. Every decision is mine. Every bill and every repair and every locked door at night is mine.

The silence is unbearable. I talk to him. Out loud.

In the kitchen. In the car. I tell him about the kids.

I tell him what happened at work. I ask him what I should do about the roof. And then I remember.

And it hits me fresh every time. People say I'm strong. I hate that word.

Strong means I'm handling it. I'm not handling it. I'm holding my breath and hoping nobody notices.

I cry in parking lots. I sit in the driveway for ten minutes before I go inside because the house is so empty. Our friends don't know what to do with a widow.

The couples invite me once. Then the invitations stop. Because I'm a reminder.

Because an odd number at the dinner table feels wrong. I became invisible the moment he died. Psalm 34 says you are near to the brokenhearted.

Lord, I have never been more brokenhearted in my life. Please don't be far. "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted."

I need you near tonight. Not in a sermon. Not in a sympathy card.

Near like a hand on my shoulder in an empty kitchen. I miss stupid things. The way he loaded the dishwasher wrong.

The way he snored. The way he'd say I love you without looking up from his phone. I used to roll my eyes at that.

I would give anything to hear it one more time. People tell me he's in a better place. But they don't sleep in a king-size bed alone.

They don't reach across at 4 AM and find nothing. They don't have to explain to a child why daddy isn't at the school play. Their better place theology doesn't cover my 3 AM.

I'm angry, Lord. At the disease. At the doctors.

At you, if I'm being honest. And I know I'm allowed to be angry because the Psalms are full of people who yelled at you and you didn't leave. So I'm trusting that you won't leave me either.

Help me learn to carry this without it consuming me. Help me be mother and father and provider and comforter without losing myself entirely. Because right now I don't know where I end and the grief begins.

He loved me well. And I will honor that love by living. Not just surviving.

Living. But not today. Today I just need you close.

Amen.